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.