Love, again.

Today is the anniversary of the death of my beloved Aunt Joan, my mother's oldest sister. It seems auspicious, in a way I don't understand, that she died on 10-11-10 and today is the eleventh anniversary.

Growing up, we didn't have many extended family members around, but we always had Aunt Joan. When I was 8, after my grandmother moved into a nursing home, my parents, three siblings (another yet to be born), and I moved into the house where Aunt Joan was living alone. My parents still live in that house, built in 1844 for the French Consul for St. Pierre and Miquelon. The first thing Dad did after we moved was to dig out space in the dirt floor cellar and install a furnace.

Aunt Joan was a devout Catholic. When we first moved in, there was Mass every morning and she would rise early to say her prayers, mix and set bread, walk the 2 kms to church, attend Mass, walk home, have breakfast, and finish making the bread. She always wore a scarf or a "bandana," as she called it, over her head, tied under her chin. It makes me chuckle a bit thinking about that in light of all our current debates about Muslim headscarves.

Before we moved in with Aunt Joan, we lived about a 5-minute walk away —along Meech Ave, over the train tracks, and down the path. As a kid, maybe 4 years old, I remember twice being really mad with my Mom and deciding I was going to "run away from home." Where would I go? to Aunt Joan and Nana's, of course! (Though I wasn't going to tell Mom that!) One time, I packed my doll suitcase with some clothes, but as I was heading out the door, my clever Mom asked if I would do something for her before I left. By the time I had all the buttons clipped off the worn-out shirt, I had forgotten why I was mad and I unpacked my suitcase.

Many times we would head out for Aunt Joan and Nana's place after the bread had just come out of the oven. The margarine would melt and the molasses would sink into the warm bread. Mmmmmmm.... molasses dripping down my hand..... eating one more slice of warm bread with butter (margarine really, but we called it butter) and molasses. Probably there wouldn't have been much bread left by the time we returned home.

I remember one time when Dad was also going to Aunt Joan and Nana's, and we took the car. Mom wanted to know why I was bringing my piggy bank. I explained that I was going to give it to Aunt Joan and Nana. I don't remember, but I suppose I must have overheard a conversation that they didn't have any money, so I decided I would give them what money I had. Mom gently persuaded me to return the piggy bank to my bedroom and reassured me that she and Dad would look after Aunt Joan and Nana.

Aunt Joan had an intense devotion to the Virgin Mary, Mother of Jesus. (Aside: There is one meaning of "virgin"... there is a deeper meaning too: "she who is whole unto herself.") A few years before she died, I did confirm with Aunt Joan that she had seen a vision of Mary as a teenager. When I asked her about it, she explained as if it had happened yesterday: Mary had appeared to her at the window. She couldn't say much about it but mystical experiences are like that.

In talking with my sister about this, I realize we have wildly different understandings of the broader circumstances of Mary's appearance to Aunt Joan. There was definitely an asylum involved. And electro-convulsive shock therapy. (Think 1930s asylum.) Did Mary appear before the trip to the asylum or in the asylum? It doesn't really matter. Aunt Joan was ever after dedicated to Mary, and prayed to her regularly.

After Aunt Joan died, I brought her plaster statue of Mary back to Kingston with me. It was made in Italy, and I had purchased it for her on the Danforth in Toronto. Even though I thought I had packaged her well, the statue was damaged when I got back: her right cheek had been chipped. I put her on the little shelf by my kitchen sink, where she watched over my kitchen activities. Part of me was embarrassed to have this symbol of my Catholic heritage in my kitchen, on full display. I had been taught a particular, patriarchal version of Mary that was poorly aligned with my idea of myself as a feminist. But as Mary stood silently by my kitchen sink with her chipped cheek, I got the message to look deeply than the surface story. Eventually I found paint that matched, but the scar on Mary's cheek is part of my story about her now.

Probably Aunt Joan hadn't ever learned about Kuan Yin, the Buddhist bodhisattva associated with compassion, but I think she would have appreciated her. In the Buddhist tradition, a bodhisattva is a being who could escape the Earthly bonds of reincarnation because they have attained enlightenment, but they choose to continue to be reincarnated to be of assistance to others, until all beings are free. There are many representations of Kuan Yin, but I love the statute of her holding a vase in her left hand. I was told that she collects the tears of human suffering in the vase and uses the pure water for healing.

Today, I have been thinking about Aunt Joan, Mary, Kuan Yin, and the ocean of love that I am steeping in. My doctoral supervisor, Ann, drove from Ottawa today to have lunch with me, and we had—oh—I don't even know how to describe it—such a heart-connected conversation and time together. (Aside: apparently, in the German tradition, your academic supervisor is like a parent. I like this idea. My graduate students are Ann's academic grandchildren. Maybe we should have a family reunion so she can meet the amazing people I've had the privilege of supervising.) Two friends delivered parcels. Another card arrived in the mail. I had a quick FaceTime with my dear friend in BC who is also undergoing chemotherapy. I got to see her with her newly shaved head and she looks gorgeous.

All this to say that I am living in a new frequency of love—at least for now. (Aside: part of the Buddhist understanding of the world is that nothing is permanent; things always change.)

Thank you for all the love you are sending to me, and into the world.