When I close my eyes in meditation, it is the hand of grandmothers I see in mine, whispering wisdom into my veins.
They are the matriarch forgotten as we age and they have their stories to tell.
I didn’t get to know my paternal grandmother, though I carry her name. I knew my maternal grandmother when I was far too young to call her by her name.
Yet as I traveled to Bosnia to meet my husband’s grandmother, something was born in me. In a house war torn and livable only on one floor, I sat at a table with his “miaka” who had brewed coffee so black a star couldn’t shine through it.
Cup after cup she ladled into my glass as I bit homemade sugar cubes to ease the transition of its heat down my throat. And I was whole.
So now, I bring this kind of wisdom to you. Stories from your grandmother as only they could tell me. Filled with love, reckless in adventure and honest in their truth.
(please check under the short stories menu to hear some of these tales)