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| Hózhó (17" x 14" - approx 64 wefts/inch) |
I might have made up the snow. But we slid off the road.
I don't think I made up the snow.
I don't think I made up the snow.
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I've heard this story a few times growing up, and each time I think, "Wow. If I hadn't been swaddled and secured into a cradleboard. . ."
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When I was slightly older than a newborn, my parents were driving to my grandma's. My mom had just picked up my father from jail. Before this, in some alcohol- and jealosy-fueled rage, he set our home on fire. He set our home in the city on fire while we were sleeping next door at our neighbor's because she knew he'd been drinking heavily and was all too familiar with what that led to. When he found we weren't home, it led to his setting any nearby thing that would light onto the burners and turning up the heat.
I know I'm mixing stories together.
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What I learned about trauma and memory is sometimes, the person who has undergone trauma experiences every painful thing as a sort of soup. All the messy parts from long ago and just yesterday simmer alongside one another with no real order, getting more and more stirred and melded together each time they're regurgitated by the post-traumatized brain. Which is why I don't blame anyone for leaving out the left out parts of the early story version. Sometimes, it's the only way the story can be told or heard until it's ready to be told or heard another way.
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My young mother was exhausted and hurt and fearful.
On this drive, with me sleeping soundly in her lap, she told my father of the things that needed to change or she would leave. He pressed the gas hard, gripped the steering wheel harder. He rolled us off the road, and after they found me a distance away safe in my cradleboard with the triangle feet stuck solid in the ice,
she stayed.
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It was difficult for me to feel at home anywhere after that.
We lived several places--with shimasani, in the basement of my uncle's, in a hogan at my nalii's, and finally into our own home again, which we outgrew almost as soon as we moved in.
I think about those first years living with shimasani. But now instead of focusing on my pre-school self, I try to feel what my mom was feeling, carrying more than her share of the work of raising three children under the age of three. What I learn by doing this (and I'm being kind to myself in saying it this way) is that I was too hard on her.
I know I'm mixing stories together.
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What I learned about trauma and memory is sometimes, the person who has undergone trauma experiences every painful thing as a sort of soup. All the messy parts from long ago and just yesterday simmer alongside one another with no real order, getting more and more stirred and melded together each time they're regurgitated by the post-traumatized brain. Which is why I don't blame anyone for leaving out the left out parts of the early story version. Sometimes, it's the only way the story can be told or heard until it's ready to be told or heard another way.
++++
My young mother was exhausted and hurt and fearful.
On this drive, with me sleeping soundly in her lap, she told my father of the things that needed to change or she would leave. He pressed the gas hard, gripped the steering wheel harder. He rolled us off the road, and after they found me a distance away safe in my cradleboard with the triangle feet stuck solid in the ice,
she stayed.
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It was difficult for me to feel at home anywhere after that.
We lived several places--with shimasani, in the basement of my uncle's, in a hogan at my nalii's, and finally into our own home again, which we outgrew almost as soon as we moved in.
I think about those first years living with shimasani. But now instead of focusing on my pre-school self, I try to feel what my mom was feeling, carrying more than her share of the work of raising three children under the age of three. What I learn by doing this (and I'm being kind to myself in saying it this way) is that I was too hard on her.
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| Hózhó (17" x 14" - approx 64 wefts/inch) |
"As humans we straddle the border between health and sickness, good and evil, happiness and sadness. According to hózhó, the purpose of life is to achieve balance, in a continual cycle of gaining and retaining harmony."
~unknown
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This weaving had me thinking of what hózhó looks like, in particular, as it pertains to the individual and to the family.
It had me revisiting the moments of my life that I have yet to make peace with and do things like list for myself those factors that I had no control over and own those elements that I did, and also know that how well I did or didn't handle things was largely due to how equipped I was at the time.
It had me tell myself that maybe I'll never gain peace over everything, but that didn't mean I couldn't still move forward. It had me allowing myself a dose of anger to be kept, and in doing so, allowed me to rid myself of way more, making space in me to fill with hopefully goodness.
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Hózhó is recognition of the healing/destructive power that is you--ownership of how your words and actions create your part of this world we all share. It is starting anew each day with a more grown perspective that builds upon the previous day.
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Which brings me to my post script.
I love my father. This and these are moments my parents have moved past and grew from. The ideal for everyone would have been that our safe place did not ever become a place flooded with disharmony. But things did, and as they stand now, my father is 40 years more settled and more patient and more kind. He laughs easier, at himself and everyone else. He isn't just dad anymore, but also grandpa, and his children and grandchildren are lucky to have him.
