What bagging groceries taught me about forgiveness

Ancestral wounds run deep

Photo by John Cameron on Unsplash

For a month or so now, I have felt the presence of all of the women on my mom’s side of my maternal immediate family. They have all passed on.

One night, not long after my cousin Pat transitioned, it felt like the four of them were at the foot of my bed, tapping their feet with their arms crossed, waiting for me to wake up; both physically and figuratively. My grandmother, Margaret Patricia (Pat), my mom, Margaret Gail (Gail or sometimes Maggie), my aunt—Mom’s sister Mary Lou, and my cousin—Mary Lou’s daughter, Pat.

I have carried so much anger and rage, and it lived in each one of them, us, for so many different reasons. Some of them spoken but most, almost exclusively, unspoken.

I’m not sure why I’m the one to speak it, nor if I will do it justice, but I know I need to try.

I simply cannot be silent about it anymore.

And part of it is my own journey, feeling the feminine rage I carry for all of them (and likely some of my female relatives on my dad’s side) and how I’m facing it and getting to the other side of it.

On the weekend is when my partner and I usually do a bigger grocery shop. This past weekend happened to contain both Valentine’s Day and Family Day, all rolled into one. (Family Day is a statutory holiday in Ontario, where we live.)

It seemed fairly quiet when we arrived at the grocery store (we typically go early to go and get out) but it began to fill out when we were heading to the checkout.

In front of us, was an older woman. She seemed timid and moved slowly. The cashier seemed quite impatient with her, even though the woman didn’t seem much younger than the patron. The customer had let the cashier know that something on the belt was on sale but wasn’t marked, so a price check ensued. We had a pretty full cart but weren’t in a hurry. The customer kept apologizing and I said it was totally okay.

She then asked the cashier if she could put some of her items into a separate bag. I had spied the goodies (candy and chocolates with a Valentine’s theme) that I suspected may be gifts. The cashier let out an audible sigh.

This raised my blood pressure.

The woman apologized again and being an empath myself, I could see there was something depleting her energy that had nothing to do with groceries.

After the sigh, the cashier moved like it was the biggest deal in the world that this woman had asked for assistance.

I could have kept watching this scene but I quickly asked the customer if I could help her bag her groceries. Again, she apologized. I said, we’re not in a hurry and I’m happy to do it.

I made sure everything was packed up, and that her goodies for the grandkids (she shared that with me) were in a separate bag.

The cashier thanked me, and the woman checking out her groceries told me I was a treasure and that it was a rare kindness. My heart sank thinking that perhaps it may have been a long time since someone was kind to this lovely lady.

When she said that, I got choked up and said, please don’t think I think you’re her age, but when my mom was alive, I would hope someone would do that for her. I said my mom would have done that for someone else, and I missed her.

My hubby saw I was getting choked up and I had to hold back the tears as the woman left the store, the cashier left her station because it was shift change, and we bagged our own groceries with a new cashier.

In the car, I couldn’t hold back my muffled sobs (and I’m teary now remembering). I said out loud, I could have been so much kinder to my mom when she was alive.

My mom lived by herself after she retired, with her somewhat wild dog, in the woods and she took care of her older sister, Mary Lou too, as she had some complex health issues. She healed their sister relationship before she left us. I don’t think I thought about how brave that was.

I saw my mom in that customer’s face, I saw how she would have wanted my brother’s kids to have something special for any special day. I saw how fragile, insecure and apologetic she was, for taking up anyone’s time, let alone her own space.

And I could have been so much kinder to her. I could have tried to understand why she could never talk about when we were children and some of the choices she made that affected us. She would get so angry when I’d try to bring them up. It was as if everything I witnessed and felt, she wanted to hide, move on from, definitely not acknowledge. And that only made me feel gaslit and that there was something wrong with ME. I knew I hadn’t imagined it.

But maybe it just would have been too painful. My mom never really talked about what she experienced as a young girl. Her mom, after her husband (my grandpa and Mom’s dad) died, sank into alcoholism. I knew my grandma loved me, she told me or wrote it in special cards (she called me her ‘dark-eyed beauty’ because I was the only grandchild with dark eyes and hair), but it’s hard for me to remember a time when my grandma wasn’t drinking or when she wasn’t scowling when we came to visit. And she would never say goodbye.

I remember Grandma telling me that I had to get an education and get a good job before ever getting involved with a man. She said I shouldn’t rely on a man for anything. Even at a young age, I sensed she resented men.

Grandma worked in a shoe factory when Grandpa was in the war, and she remained working there, after he came home. He drove a school bus when he returned.

Grandpa died in his sleep when I was 5. Mom would have been 26. I don’t remember him at all.

I feel so much heaviness and pain, so much that was never spoken, never acknowledged, never felt, not just by me, but by all the women in my family.

But I will feel it. I have done, and am doing inner work to hold it, process it.

And when something like the checkout encounter happens, I feel a little bit more, and I can forgive others, but mostly myself.

A little bit more healing happens and I believe that lightens our collective load.

When I share it, it connects us, on a deep level.

Tonight, I’m going to a gathering of women about the books and words that have shaped us and I’m very excited. I have so many stories about books, but many of the ones that light me up inside are as a result of other people either gifting me books or me gifting them a book.

One of Grandma’s favourite books was The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams and I love it too.

I always tenderly weep through it.

Here is a treasured quote:

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become Real.”

“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.

“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real, you don’t mind being hurt.”

“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out, and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real, you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand.”

Last night, falling asleep thinking about the books and words, I dreamt that my mom was outside the coffee shop where the event will take place tonight, looking in through the window. She was younger and so very happy and she smiled at me, like she was finally happy with the person I’d become.

Of course, she is me. And she is WE.

I woke up feeling a warmth I haven’t felt in a long time and I knew that she was with me.

Something else happened this weekend, something a little more personal.

I’ll save that for next time.

And I’d love to hear what your favourite books are.