The Love We're Made Of

I was digging around in our basement last week, looking for some stamps to send out my pen pal letters. I did end up finding the stamps BUT I also found one of the few memento totes that survived the many moves of the last six years or so since the divorce.

Memento Tote: A tote bin with the special things I was privileged enough to have and keep over the years.

In it there were old love notes from school crushes, an old rusty locket my dad gave me as a child, and so much more that to any adult would look like clutter and junk but are really an absolute treasure to the inner child.

I also found a red binder. I froze when I came upon it in the dusty basement; even the dust around me seemed to freeze in place. I knew that binder; I knew what was in it.

My mother and I are not speaking at the moment, for many reasons to be honest but the most recent being the one that broke me and gave me the strength for more stern boundaries (though having a child too, will give you the courage to do things you never thought you were capable of as well) being that she is in favor of Trump.

My sibling and I are both Trans, as well as so many people we know and love. That, amongst an entire lifetime of other reasons, led me to draw my line in the sand and then work it to concrete.

And look, I am not here to slam my mom. Quite the contrary actually. Generation trauma is real, and it's killing us. I've found compassion in my healing work, not just for my mother but for all who came before her. It's an ongoing process.

I stared at the red binder. I knew it was a book of poetry written by my mom when she was younger. I'd never, to my memory, read it. As I stared at the binder, courage flickered to life in my heart. I have done the work, but there is always more to be done. It was time to travel back in time and meet my mom.

I took it upstairs, and as my sick little one napped in the other room, I read the words my mother had written. I read the entire thing.

I could tell you what it was like, but I felt a compulsion and a drive to write my sibling a letter right after reading it, and they have given me consent to share it. The letter says it better by far.

My Dearest Sibling,

My Love.

I committed myself last Yule that I was going to give the gift of sending letters to all those I love. I knew it would take me a while, and for the first time in so long, I was ok with slow.

What I didn't expect was what would come with your gift...because it turned out to be a gift for me too.

I will warn you, it will probably hurt, a bittersweet ache as it has to do with Mom. I wanted to warn you so you can choose if and when to open this gift. Times are hard, you and your partner have a monumental gift of giving comfort and safety with merely your presence. It is a beautiful and much-needed gift...and...it is a heavy one. Rests are necessary. So please open this if and when you are ready my love.

I found a tote of odds and ends I've kept over the years downstairs today. I was looking for stamps lol, but this called to me so strongly it was damn near audible. I looked inside and found an old red binder. Mom gave it to me years ago, it was a book of her old poetry.

I've never read it. I don't think I was ready, but I was today. It was a little surreal, to be completely honest, yet it softened me.

I think I was hoping to know her before the pain and cruelty of this world took root in her heart.

It was always my experience that she never could quite let me in. Not out of malice, I think she just simply didn't know how. And I suspect I also subconsciously reminded her of Dad. I'm not sure she has ever forgiven me for that.

But in reading this binder, for the first time in so long, maybe ever, I felt her true light reach out of time itself to connect with mine.

It healed me, not all the scars I bear from her, but enough.

I'd be more than happy to share the rest of the binder with you if you'd like. This poem was the first page, and it enthralled me in bittersweet joy. Mom wrote this to or about Dad. Before our family became so broken.

I had to share it with you because I think this must be the love you and I are made from of. I see your reflection in these words just as much as I see my own.

It brought me some comfort, albeit bittersweet.

I believe that you and I made a promise to each other before we came to this life, that even through rough terrain, we'd always walk each other home.

Thank you for being here with me. Thank you for being you. I give you the gift of a poem, but every day you give me the gift of you. You are absolutely one of my best friends, bonded by blood, yes, but even stronger in love.

Yours Always,

Aspen

Now, I can't share my mother's poem with you, it's not mine to share. But the sentiment is the same, people are people.

Being a parent to a neuro-spicy little one (who, for not having any of my actual blood, acts suspiciously a lot like I did growing up), I can much more appreciate how difficult being a parent is. Especially in not having the tools or resources I am privileged enough to have.

That does not erase the emotional scars my sibling and I share. It does not stop me from cutting off contact to protect myself, my little one, and those I love.

And.

I can empathize. With empathy comes forgiveness, with forgiveness comes healing, and with healing comes a break in the cycle of generational trauma. And a whole hell of a lot of emotional fodder to burn for fuel in the revolution and decolonization for a better world.

Both can be true. We can hold two different, difficult, and sometimes contradicting truths at the same time. We are capable of this when we are taught and nurtured on how to do so.

We can be mad and hurt by someone and deeply love them at the same time. We can draw a line in the sand and have tears running down our faces as we cement that boundary in place.

We are humans.

We are messy, and we are walking contradictions.

We are our choices, yes,

AND.

We are also a culmination of the choices of others.

Oppression maims us all.

It's a disease that plagues our existence and does the same to everything and everyone we come into contact with.

And still, we resist.

We plant community gardens, because everyone deserves healthy food.

We breathe Life into and give a pulse to public libraries because everyone deserves education.

We build authentic and accountable communities, because it's in our gods damn DNA.

We make mistakes.

We learn.

We grow.

We sing.

We dance.

We live.

And we write poetry that echoes through time to light a torch in the next generation, long after our own heart fires have dwindled, barely kept a flame.

And that is the love we are all made of.