I’ve moved from northern British Columbia back to southern British Columbia. My father is buried in the north and my mother in the south. I went to visit her grave last weekend. As a grandmother to my children, life had worked her over and she had softened, she became more compassionate and kind. There was the feeling of when she held me as a child. I remember finding the “raisin” on her neck and gently pressing on the dark piece of rogue skin amazed at how soft it was.
For four years I’ve been working on a series of paintings of residential school survivors. There are a few pieces in my head, I can see the sketches but I haven’t taken pencil to paper yet. They aren’t pressing on their confines to force their way out. Maybe this time they won’t. Maybe this time they will remain standing in my mind until I usher them into this world.
A friend reminded me that transitions can sometimes be difficult. I was leaving a life of “trusting the process” with my everything and setting up house again. That is a big transition. For fifteen months I conversed with the Creator, asking what next and listening. The answers always came. Now to bring that practice into everyday life. Transitions are always happening. Sometimes we’re more aware of them than other times.