Tuesday, April 2, 2019

The Ancestors



Mom always said we came from a long line. In the village, we had unending numbers of cousins to roam the ancient paths with, and to play along in the orchards and olive groves planted by our kin.

I never paid much attention to her and grandma’s chattering about the ancestors and genealogical lines. Yet, perhaps by osmosis, some of that precious history infused my soul and filled my head with stories of castles and Reginas.

Pappou Konstantas, Father’s father, an imposing giant of a man, whose palm could crush a newborn’s head, yet gentle in his toothless grin, recited old folksongs to me in the night and whispered superstitious stories.
“There’s the diamond-headed snake in the ravine,” he would say to me every time we hiked by.
“Really Pappou? Have you seen it? ” I would ask wide-eyed.
“Yes,” he would nod.
As much as I searched for the glint of the diamond on a slithering snake’s head in the reeds, I never managed to spy one, but in my mind’s eye where I still see it.

Stories ran across the fabric of my DNA and I snatched as many scraps as I could gather and folded them deep in my heart. 

When that fateful day when clocks stopped and the war separated me from my storyline, these became my inspiration and my lifeline that connects me to my severed past. The child of war held tight to the red ribbon of the ancestors and thirty years later reunited with the adult me. No longer fractured, I now write, unspooling the silk my grandmother spun at night when she talked with my mother by the light of the kerosene lamp. The long shadows danced around the room, a puppet show of our souls, and I sat, without cellphone, radio or TV, mesmerized by the lullaby of their stories.
Oh, what I would give to be there again, on the land of my ancestors, soaked with the sweat of generations before me.
The fullness of knowing the stories of your people shines a warm light in those corners of the heart where loneliness lurks.

It became strikingly clear to me while traveling in South East Asia, where people worship their ancestors, that my history makes me whole. It’s not a worship like for a god. It’s an acknowledgment and gratitude for those who paved the way.

Enjoy!

Maria