In my heart,I hold a memory. My Grandmother is in her early 80’s. We have come across the state to see her, picking her up at her retirement center and driving her across the street for lunch at Applebees. She has ordered steak, and a margarita, and white wine. It is 11:30am.

Grandma’s hands are gnarled by arthritis, so I help her cut her steak. She weighs about 95 pounds these days, but she eats with relish. “Ummm.This steak is so good. Ummmm! Can I try your shrimp? ”

After the margarita and before I can surreptitiously chug most of her wine, Grandma picks up her glass and leans over to me conspiratorially.

“I got a tattoo, you know.”

This happened a year ago. Grandma, at 82, had been suddenly longing for a tattoo, and talked about it incessantly. Finally, my Aunt, in an uncharacteristic burst of caregiver frustration said, “Fine, Mom! Go get a tattoo!” My rebel cousin, Eric, was there at the time, and he and Grandma decided to take that as a go-ahead. The next week Eric and Grandma went on a field trip. When they got back, both cuz’ and granny had new ink.

“It’s an angel on my shoulder.” Here, Grandma paused for a dramatic swig of the house white, “I have my beliefs you know!”

Indeed I do know, though I’ve had to listen between the lines to find them. Grandma, always the spunky edge dweller, never towed the protestant line. Instead she knit together a spirituality that combined a little of big of Blackfoot folklore; a strong pull towards the mountains; and some affection for Jesus on the side. This angel — a small smear of blue-green ink on the soft wrinkled skin of her shoulder–this is her guide now, helping her through the drawn out years of her ‘final days’, and into the unknown and unknowable hereafter.

I take heart in my Grandma’s tattoo, in her love for the hillside she re-planted with pines after the fire, for her sudden insistence that all the great-grandchildren have leather-clad Bibles with their names embossed in gold. She has created her own path–godward, onward. In these, her final days, when stories spill out of her like down from a pillow, she has helped me to see that my gender, my era, and my distracted spiritual self can help me find the way to my most soul-felt home.

Me, Grandma Pauline, and Paul making faces for Eden’s camera.

Read more great stories about wise elders in this week’s column at BlogHer.com.

Next week I’m highlighting posts about the Summe Solstice. If you blog about the Light this week, send your permalink to moi at magpie dash girl dot com.

This entry was posted on Monday, June 16th, 2008 at 5:20 am and is filed under Soulstories.
Tags: Soulstories



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