December 10

My rather large, grown up son left for Portland Oregon today, a move that will separate us by more than three thousand miles. He stayed here for a few days, which renewed our sense of connection and shared origin. Strange to see my expressions on his face and to know that I'm seeing not only my "vernacular" as he calls it, but the body language of ancestors long gone—nameless and faceless except as they live on in us. Half asleep at 4 AM l  listened to my son still packing in the other room. By 10 we were saying tearful farewells. In the hazy period in between I thought about moving in with Joe when I was 20, leaving my family home behind. Looking to my future, which seemed then to stretch endlessly before me, I was heedless of what my mother might be feeling. I believed that I was my own invention.

Now I am the mother waving farewell.

At 4 AM I thought of another kind of ancestry. I thought of ancient practices long forgotten, except in the Yuletide season. Dances with candles, and deerskins. Watching the sun as it moves low on the horizon. This is our heritage. A slender thread woven not of substance but of light which connects us to the distant past. To mother spirits left behind. When we are very young, as I was when I left home, we are heedless. We think we are our own invention. But at Bran's age, we see ourselves in our mothers. We know where we come from and what shaped us.

I see the old religions as grandmother to my own spirituality. WIthout them, the new lacks substance.