I meditate frequently. I find it peaceful and soothing and it takes me out of my crazy, chaotic, Christina brain to places that are much more adventurous, much more exciting, and, sometimes, much more safe.
One of the meditations I learned begins with choosing a place—any safe place. The idea behind the deep breathing and thinking about this “place” is to find comfort--to go to that one place, or those places that we have often found soothing. A quiet forest, a tranquil stream, an open meadow filled with wildflowers and a soft breeze.
My safe place has always been and will always be Grandma Cora’s. Grandma’s house seems forever etched in my memory. And when I close my eyes and wait patiently, Grandma Cora comes to me.
She sits in her recliner, partially-crocheted mittens in her lap (always a mint green yarn), her Carlton cigarette burns in the ashtray next to her. It is always winter in my mind—the snow deep and dangerous and the wind fiercely swirling atop the mountain where she resides. The windows in the kitchen are partially covered in a thin layer of ice but Grandma and I are warm. The wood stove blazing hot, I am physically, spiritually, mentally and emotionally warm. Grandma’s house is like that. It warms me to my core. My breathing slows and I forget that I am sad.
My meditative mind wanders around the house. Faded yellow counters, a refrigerator full of outdated salad dressings (she will NEVER throw out), a variegated blue/green carpet, and Grandpa’s coffee Nips on the end table next to his rocker remind me that nothing changes at Grandma Cora’s. Here is where I can always find unconditional love, sour cream cookies, and a scolding when need be. I inhale deeply and no longer am I here in “this world.”
Grandma never wears shoes in the house—only open-toed, pastel slippers—blue or pink with rubber-soled bottoms which she isn’t afraid to use on your rear end when called for. Her soft brown curls amaze me—no gray—never any gray—I like that Grandma doesn’t have gray. I like so many things about Grandma. I like that she speaks her mind. I like that she is nosey—I get that from her. I like that she knows everybody and all the sordid and wonderful details of their past. I have come to find comfort in our conversations. My eyes closed I talk to Grandma. I don’t realize the chaos has left me.
We watch her soap operas together. I see her hands—olive skin, wrinkled with years of determination, and long fingernails I always wished I had inherited. I smell her roast cooking and potatoes boiling. I hear the tinkling of Grandma and Grandpa’s spoons in their coffee cups early in the morning when they think I am still asleep on the sofa. I taste her Spanish rice—always served in the Red Poppy bowl she left me. And I touch her. Grandma is here with me. She is always here with me. It’s as if she never left.
I miss you Grandma Cora.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Grandma Cora
I meditate frequently. I find it peaceful and soothing and it takes me out of my crazy, chaotic, Christina brain to places that are much more adventurous, much more exciting, and, sometimes, much more safe.
One of the meditations I learned begins with choosing a place—any safe place. The idea behind the deep breathing and thinking about this “place” is to find comfort--to go to that one place, or those places that we have often found soothing. A quiet forest, a tranquil stream, an open meadow filled with wildflowers and a soft breeze.
My safe place has always been and will always be Grandma Cora’s. Grandma’s house seems forever etched in my memory. And when I close my eyes and wait patiently, Grandma Cora comes to me.
She sits in her recliner, partially-crocheted mittens in her lap (always a mint green yarn), her Carlton cigarette burns in the ashtray next to her. It is always winter in my mind—the snow deep and dangerous and the wind fiercely swirling atop the mountain where she resides. The windows in the kitchen are partially covered in a thin layer of ice but Grandma and I are warm. The wood stove blazing hot, I am physically, spiritually, mentally and emotionally warm. Grandma’s house is like that. It warms me to my core. My breathing slows and I forget that I am sad.
My meditative mind wanders around the house. Faded yellow counters, a refrigerator full of outdated salad dressings (she will NEVER throw out), a variegated blue/green carpet, and Grandpa’s coffee Nips on the end table next to his rocker remind me that nothing changes at Grandma Cora’s. Here is where I can always find unconditional love, sour cream cookies, and a scolding when need be. I inhale deeply and no longer am I here in “this world.”
Grandma never wears shoes in the house—only open-toed, pastel slippers—blue or pink with rubber-soled bottoms which she isn’t afraid to use on your rear end when called for. Her soft brown curls amaze me—no gray—never any gray—I like that Grandma doesn’t have gray. I like so many things about Grandma. I like that she speaks her mind. I like that she is nosey—I get that from her. I like that she knows everybody and all the sordid and wonderful details of their past. I have come to find comfort in our conversations. My eyes closed I talk to Grandma. I don’t realize the chaos has left me.
We watch her soap operas together. I see her hands—olive skin, wrinkled with years of determination, and long fingernails I always wished I had inherited. I smell her roast cooking and potatoes boiling. I hear the tinkling of Grandma and Grandpa’s spoons in their coffee cups early in the morning when they think I am still asleep on the sofa. I taste her Spanish rice—always served in the Red Poppy bowl she left me. And I touch her. Grandma is here with me. She is always here with me. It’s as if she never left.
I miss you Grandma Cora.
One of the meditations I learned begins with choosing a place—any safe place. The idea behind the deep breathing and thinking about this “place” is to find comfort--to go to that one place, or those places that we have often found soothing. A quiet forest, a tranquil stream, an open meadow filled with wildflowers and a soft breeze.
My safe place has always been and will always be Grandma Cora’s. Grandma’s house seems forever etched in my memory. And when I close my eyes and wait patiently, Grandma Cora comes to me.
She sits in her recliner, partially-crocheted mittens in her lap (always a mint green yarn), her Carlton cigarette burns in the ashtray next to her. It is always winter in my mind—the snow deep and dangerous and the wind fiercely swirling atop the mountain where she resides. The windows in the kitchen are partially covered in a thin layer of ice but Grandma and I are warm. The wood stove blazing hot, I am physically, spiritually, mentally and emotionally warm. Grandma’s house is like that. It warms me to my core. My breathing slows and I forget that I am sad.
My meditative mind wanders around the house. Faded yellow counters, a refrigerator full of outdated salad dressings (she will NEVER throw out), a variegated blue/green carpet, and Grandpa’s coffee Nips on the end table next to his rocker remind me that nothing changes at Grandma Cora’s. Here is where I can always find unconditional love, sour cream cookies, and a scolding when need be. I inhale deeply and no longer am I here in “this world.”
Grandma never wears shoes in the house—only open-toed, pastel slippers—blue or pink with rubber-soled bottoms which she isn’t afraid to use on your rear end when called for. Her soft brown curls amaze me—no gray—never any gray—I like that Grandma doesn’t have gray. I like so many things about Grandma. I like that she speaks her mind. I like that she is nosey—I get that from her. I like that she knows everybody and all the sordid and wonderful details of their past. I have come to find comfort in our conversations. My eyes closed I talk to Grandma. I don’t realize the chaos has left me.
We watch her soap operas together. I see her hands—olive skin, wrinkled with years of determination, and long fingernails I always wished I had inherited. I smell her roast cooking and potatoes boiling. I hear the tinkling of Grandma and Grandpa’s spoons in their coffee cups early in the morning when they think I am still asleep on the sofa. I taste her Spanish rice—always served in the Red Poppy bowl she left me. And I touch her. Grandma is here with me. She is always here with me. It’s as if she never left.
I miss you Grandma Cora.
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What a wonderful story! How lucky you were to have her. She came into my life briefly. I will never forget the day she called and asked me if I did people's hair who had oxygen. She was such a special lady <3
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