My Grandma’s Biggest Gift To Me

When I was growing up, in the beginning of summers, my parents would drop me off at my dad’s mom’s house. She lived by herself in a village 12 km from the town where I lived. I have many memories hitch-hiking with my dad at the outskirts of the town, catching a ride with strangers and then walking from the outskirts of the village to my grandmother’s house. We would always meet new friends that I wouldn’t had a chance to meet among the apartment buildings – a cat, a dog, a duck, a goose, a horse, a cow or a donkey.

The village every time was full of new experiences for me. As a child who was growing up in an apartment building in the busy town these summers felt like freedom and exploration. When I was at my grandma’s house, I became one of the villagers. Grandma would take me to visit her friends and our extended family and to everyone we would meet on the street she would introduce me to and made sure they knew I belonged to her, as her granddaughter, and I belonged to the villagers, as one of them.

I have never realized until this moment what she really did. Grandma didn’t say I was vising her from the town. She always said I was there, with her. Thus, I have never felt like I was a visitor. And nobody would treat me like a visitor either.

During my stay there, at grandma’s house, she would ask me to go get things for her on my own. I remember going to get bread from the store one time, and everyone I had met greeted me with a smile, asked how my grandma was, inquired about my trip and wished me to be safe. As part of the villagers, I was cared for and protected by everyone.

But I was also a blessed one. My grandma was a modest woman who lived in a house that didn’t have a water nor a sewer system. It had electricity because I remember she had a small refrigerator that was half of the size of the one we had in our apartment, and she had a tv in one of the bedrooms that worked for a few minutes and then it would quit. Grandma lived alone because my grandpa, who I remember vaguely, died when I was really young. He was her second husband and she never re-married again. Her first husband had never returned from the war.

Grandma had only four years of school, because of the war, but she was the wisest person I have ever known. Yet growing up, I didn’t know that. What I did know, as a child, that everyone loved my grandma. People would stop by and come in for a few minutes to say hello and check on her well-being. On the street, people would greet her with a smile, sometimes with a hug, and the conversations would always be kind, loving and friendly. I felt her warm, her optimism, and her faith in every interaction. She didn’t have wealth to give, but she had an infinite wealth of kindness towards everyone. She lived in the present and was always present with people. I felt it at a child just watching her interactions. I have no doubt those who received her presence felt it, too.

One day this presence of hers gave me the biggest gift I could have ever received from her.

I was probably around 5 or 6 years old. I wasn’t in school yet, I remember. We were sitting on her couch that opened up and at night became my bed. We must have been daydreaming together or she was just finishing up telling me a story. I loved her stories. She didn’t have toys for me to play with, but I didn’t want them anyways. She would teach me about gardening, about plants, trees, flowers, and bees. She would teach me about how to feed the chickens, how to play with the dog, and so much more. But her stories were the best time of the day. I would ask her all sorts of questions and she would answer all of them – about her life, her childhood, her experiences with the war.

My curiosity was thriving when I was with her. She always listened to me and gave me her attention.

That day she turned towards me and said she had a question for me. I was eager to hear it.

“What do you think people will do after I die?”

I remember I didn’t think long nor twice about my answer. My face turned happy, my voice was cheerful, and I joyfully started telling her about how we would have a big party at her house, probably the whole village would be there and we would have good food and music to celebrate her and her life.

Grandma’s face was puzzled for a minute. I could see she was surprised by my answer. It wasn’t the “normal” or the “obvious” answer. Although I am not sure what she wanted to hear, but I remember her eyebrows lifting like she was ready to correct me.

But she didn’t.

She lowered her eyebrows and a smile started to be visible on her face.

Her eyes were shining, almost laughing and she said “Tell me more.”

And I did. I went on imaging all the details my young child’s mind was able to imagine.

I felt so much joy as I was telling her about her after life celebration party that I can still feel it every time I think about that moment.

I was young. I had no concept of death or dying or mourning. I only knew about what was in my heart. And what was in my heart was what I have experienced while being with her: joy, happiness, and celebration of life.

Why wouldn’t I continue to live life like that?

My grandma couldn’t have wanted for me to be sad, depressed and isolated. She would have wanted me to live a full life, filled with what I wanted to fill it with: my wants, my wishes, and my dreams.

For many years I didn’t even realize how significant this moment, this memory was for me.

I think my discovery came after someone asked me “Andrea, where do you gain your power of choosing to be yourself and believing in yourself, no matter the situation and the circumstances you have lived through?”

Through my inner work I uncovered my grandma’s gift. Like a hidden diamond in my dresser’s drawer that has been covered up with other painful memories from my past and one I didn’t dare to touch because of the fear of re-living those pains again, yet deep down in my heart knowing that one day the time would come to uncover it all.

What grandma gave me that day was the gift of seeing me for who I truly was. She didn’t judge me for being different. She didn’t scold me for being wrong. She didn’t want to change me.

She accepted me for who I was. She allowed me to be in that space of my very essence and invite my curiosity and creativity to imagine something that has not been created yet. She understood how important was to hold that space for someone – indifferent from their age – and listen. She knew when you listen like that, you can hear someone else’s heart sing. And that is a very special moment. Because when you are hearing someone else’s heart singing you don’t listen with your ears. You listen with your heart. This is how one heart can open another heart.

My grandma’s biggest gift to me was giving me this experience of my heart singing.

It sounds like such a small thing. Do we really need someone else’s help to hear our hearts singing?

I have been thinking about this question for a while and what I found in my heart, in my mind and in my body (the body is considered the part of our being that remembers most of our lived experiences throughout our lives) is that yes. We do. We need someone else’s help. How else would we even recognize this singing unless we hear the same song through someone else’s heart?

I was blessed with having had this experience at a young age because it created a memory I was able to go back to when I forgot about my heart and how it felt to hear my heart singing.

Many people, similar to me, have hidden such a memory in their hearts somewhere deep down and have forgotten about their gifts. Or, maybe some haven’t yet experienced such a moment in their lives.

I chose to believe that most people have had such an experience and they have just forgotten about it. I have been witnessing over and over in my work, in powerful conversations with my clients, friends and strangers that when I listen to them, like my grandma listened to me, they are able to remember.

But not just remember. They are able to hear their hearts’ sing.

My relationship with death has been shaped by my grandma’s gift to me.

I don’t see death as something to be afraid of. Although I wouldn’t choose to die either nor I wish it for others. Death is still an event that brings forth separation, sadness and many unanswered questions.

What has shifted for me was that a third option showed up. I can hold space for both sadness and mourning, and I can celebrate the passing person’s life. My third option is to be and do both. To allow myself to remember how our hearts sang and long for experiencing it again.

And what I discovered is that every time I listen to someone, like my grandma listened to me, and our hearts sing, I am reminded by all the moments in my life when I sat with my grandma and felt like the world was just us, there, between us. Yet, it was full of infinite possibilities for more joy, kindness and peace.