“We’ve all witnessed the power of a moment when an elder holds a newborn babe. There’s this unique bond that connects these seemingly disparate ages. However, there is nothing more profound than these two ages witnessing one another.” - Mary DeJong
On Sunday, I held my son’s newborn babe for the first time. “Who are you?,” I asked. Expecting my grandson to be a carbon copy of my son when he was newly born, I was surprised instead to encounter a whole new being who was not my son, but entirely himself. Clearly, we were witnessing one another as we gazed into each other’s eyes. Did he know me, my voice, my touch? Or did he also wonder, “Who are you?” I expect we will spend the next several months and years learning who we are to each other.
So many people have told me that I’ll be a wonderful grandma, but I’m not sure I even know what that means. I never expected to have the chance to be a mom, let alone a grandma. And now this unexpected gift. I saw my own grandmas only on rare occasions – a trip to visit my dad’s parents once a summer, and the usual Christmas and springtime visits of my mom’s mother.
Grandma
My grandmas were very different from each other. My older brother, who had many more years than I with Grandma, my dad’s mother – I was only seven when she died – describes her as the quintessential grandma – just a soft bundle of love. Her house was magical. We entered on the upper floor of the bedrooms and walked downstairs to get to the living room and kitchen. We slept on the big sleeping porch with the huge wide beds for all the grandchildren. The house was filled with Hummel figurines and a cuckoo clock and always the candy jar filled with M&Ms. I mostly remember her as soft, and soft-spoken, in her old-fashioned grandma dresses with eyes magnified by her cataract glasses and a little wobbly in her walk, nearly always in the kitchen and giving us cookies. Sweet, tender.
Nana
My mom’s mother, Nana, came to our house by bus from Detroit. I remember her violet hair from the bluing older women used on gray hair at that time, and the lemon water she drank every morning, and can still hear her voice. I have pictures of her reading to me, but mostly I remember her teaching me how to play cribbage. We spent hours pegging; counting -- 15 -2, 15-4, and a pair are 6; and seeing what surprises the crib held. In her later years, she suffered many small strokes, and taught me patience as I learned calmly to repeat my answer to the questions she asked over and over and over again. Nana was a teacher, and I felt like we related to each other in the same way as my teachers and I did – kindly, even affectionately, but with a certain reserve.
My mom
I don’t see myself as being like either of my grandmothers, though I can certainly see myself as the grandma who is feeding and baking cookies and quick to offer a comforting hug, and I’m looking forward to all the books my grandchild and I will read together, but my son will undoubtedly teach his son cribbage before I ever have a chance. If anyone, I imagine myself a bit like my mom was to me when I was a child – the fun parts, yes, and she could be great fun –laughing uproariously, playing games, taking us on picnics and cookouts and to the shores of Lake Michigan, speeding around curvy roads singing “Around the corner, and under a tree . . .,” racing home to be at the cabin in time for the sunset; but also nurturing my mind, body, and rebellious ecofeminist spirit – teaching me to love the earth, question everything, and never blindly obey; and always being a source of security, comfort, and unconditional love.
My son never knew his grandmas. My mother had died years before he was born, and my husband’s mother was actively dying of cancer when Paul was born. I remember the sadness in her eyes when she held him for the first time. How difficult for her to greet the long-awaited firstborn of her own son, knowing that her first glimpse was also probably her last.
But my son has wonderful aunts. It is the role of aunt that I know best. I’ve loved being an aunt – the playmate, confidante, companion, comforter, buddy, friend. How will it be different to be a grandma?
I remember little of what was said at keynotes at academic conferences over the years, but I will always remember Rayna Green talking about being an Indian grandma in her keynote to the National Women’s Studies Association in 1988. “To be an Indian grandma is probably the nicest thing that could ever happen to anybody . . . , “ she said. So many of my friends who are grandmas say it’s just the best. But it’s also a responsibility. As Green continued, “To be an Indian grandma is an extraordinary role . . . The role of grandma to teach, to be wise, and bring that wisdom to bear upon the teaching of young people is enormous” (66). A few months ago I witnessed my friend, who is an Anishianaabe ookomisan, teaching her grandson a basic life skill of how to cook an omelet, but also giving life lessons of how to be respectful — to turn down the music — and how to be loving, through her own kind and generous, affirming and loving words and actions toward him. All of this in less than an hour. Perhaps it is as simple and basic as that.
I’ve envisioned times with my grandchild -- passing along those bits of wisdom I didn’t know in time to pass along to my own child, sharing the wonder of woodland wild flowers and mosses, of stars and sunrises, delighting in waves and first snowfalls, and late night (or more likely, early morning) laughter and conversations when his parents are asleep. All that is yet to unfold.
Spiritual writer Malidoma Patrice Somé wrote of how in the Dagara culture of Burkina Faso, children spend the first few years of their lives with their grandparents. Because grandchildren come from the cosmos to which the grandparents will soon return, the grandparents need to learn all the news that the grandchild bears quickly, before the child forgets. In the first few months and years of my own child’s life, it was clear to me that he came bearing great wisdom. By the time he was four, the memories had faded and he would need to spend to the rest of his years re-learning all that he knew when he was born, just as we all do. I may have been close enough to the end of my life at that time to have learned some from him, but now I will have another opportunity.
“Life beginning and life ending merge in the connection of young and old. The wise ones see what others do not,” said ecotheologist Mary DeJong in her reflections on winter. Wisdom bearers – is that what grandparents and grandchildren are to each other? Surely. But the words of Brian Swimme echo most in my mind – “ . . . the primary deed of a parent is to see the beauty, and grace of children” (32). So even more must it be the deed of a grand- parent “to feel and cherish [the child’s] beauty. . . . fall in love with this magnificent creature . . . celebrate its splendor” (32). What better role in life could there be?
Who are you, dear Martin? I look forward to our getting to know each other, to our growing loving connection, to learning all that you have to teach me and passing along what wisdom I’ve gleaned in seventy years, and in delighting with each other in all the wonders life holds — in other words, to becoming grandma.
The picture on my April calendar. “Ganawendiwag” - meaning “they take care of each other.” Artwork by Chimakwa Nibaawii Stone, Lac de Flambeau Ojibwe.
Sources
DeJong, Mary. “Wild Winter.” Waymarkers.
Green, Rayna. 1990. “American Indian Women: Diverse Leadership for Social Change,” in Lisa Albrecht and Rose M. Brewer in conjunction with the National Women’s Studies Association. Bridges of Power: Women’s Multicultural Alliances. Philadelphia, PA: New Society Publishers. 61-73.
Swimme, Brian. 1985. The Universe Is a Green Dragon: A Cosmic Creation Story. Santa Fe: Bear & Company.