Becoming The Oldest Generation – Page 2718

The Ugly Nursing Home – Excerpt from end of Part II

At least she couldn’t see the metal lockers in the rooms or the people tied into their wheelchairs, safe and vacant. Did she smell the antiseptic? Could she hear the TV blaring the English language sitcom that she never would have watched? Of course she couldn’t see the crowds of bored patients who were drawn toward the noisy distraction. Oh Mom, I tried to save you. This is what you feared the most. Now you are there and I must leave on Sunday.

My Mom and Jack 1996 – From Part I

Shuffling more slowly

each day, matching

the pace of my Mom and Jack

as they age, My fears

rise and fall as their voices

do, struggling to hear each other,

to see each other, even

to walk on

the broken sidewalk,

up cracked curbs,

through the sand

on the beach, past

the rocks … How rocky

old age can be.

***

About the Author

Biography

Born in 1944, Marianna Mejia is a writer, Flamenco dancer and teacher, Psychotherapist and Shamanic practitioner. She is married with a grown child and a granddaughter, step-children and great grandchidren. Although writing books is her passion, she also enjoys dance and music, nature, gardening, shamanic work, and people.

She enjoyed an alternative lifestyle in the 60’s and continues to live life on her own terms in her 70’s.

A Shamanic Journey – from Becoming the Oldest Generation – Excerpt from Part II

On Mom’s dresser live a black metal whale and a green jade fish. I carried them up the narrow staircase lined with famous paintings and small pieces of antiquities.

Emerging into the large open room with its plush Oriental rug covering the marble floor, I placed pieces of old Roman glass, translucent blue, in the whale’s open mouth. I arranged an altar in the center, with the candle and sage, the whale, the fish and the enameled box where the panther spirit who is helping Mom resides temporarily. Found feathers from here grace this altar too. I have lightly saged the room and have placed pillows for everyone in a circle on the Oriental rug. My elk skin drum, rattle and beaded leather medicine bag wait, ready for this ritual to celebrate Mom’s birthday.

When we gathered together, I lit the candle and called to all the directions, entreating the spirits to help us. As our intention, we asked for help and guidance for Virginia. If people wanted, I said, they could also journey for me, but I stressed that my concern was for Virginia. With that intention as our guide, while everyone lay down on their backs and covered their eyes, I picked up my drum and began to play the trance inducing monotonous beat for the journey. Finally I played the callback rhythm, bringing the journeyers back into their bodies. One by one they opened their eyes and sat up.

Marianna in the yurt — The author doing shamanic work in her yurt in California.

[contact-form][contact-field label=’Name’ type=’name’ required=’1’/][contact-field label=’Email’ type=’email’ required=’1’/][contact-field label=’Website’ type=’url’/][contact-field label=’Comment’ type=’textarea’ required=’1’/][/contact-form]

Excerpt from Becoming The Oldest Generation, Part II: Question

Excerpt from Becoming The Oldest Generation, Part II:

I guess, my real question is how do I keep my own center here and not get so bent out of shape! My impatience will not change the world. My frustration will not change the world. What will change the world? I wish I knew.

Excerpt from Part II: Shamanic walk on the beach

In the afternoon I took a little time off and walked Sami to the beach. The sun was shining on the water in a column that looked like a bridge to the sky. Was this what my Shamanic friend saw in her journey? In the morning the sun shines differently on the water, more sparkly and diffused and not as blinding. I asked the spirits for help again, just in case. Although, I do feel they have been helping immensely already.

Virginia walking along the beach below Nof Yam

Excerpt from Becoming the Oldest Generation: Part I

Poem of Description

Shuffling more slowly
each day, matching
the pace of my Mom and Jack
as they age, My fears
rise and fall as their voices
do, struggling to hear each other,
to see each other, even
to walk on
the broken sidewalk,
up cracked curbs,
through the sand
on the beach, past
the rocks … How rocky
old age can be.

Another Excerpt from Part III – Becoming the Oldest Generation – Flying Back to Israel for Mom’s Funeral

… Part of me still thinks I will see Mom when I arrive. I imagine her in her room, the room I sleep in when I am there. She is changing her clothes. I see the deep green jade fish on her dresser and the small light green jade statue of Quan Yin. I think of greeting Sami the dog. I imagine the dust on the white stone tile floor and the cool marble top of the dresser that was Mom’s mother’s. Will it be passed on to Lainey and to me in its third generation of women? As Lainey said, we are now the oldest in our female line. Nothing stands between us and our mortality in our female lineage.

And my feelings seem to be on hold, in the air as I travel between these realities, a reprieve from the storm to come. I can’t quite grasp the vision of burying Mom, of Mom really gone. I know that my last trip prepared me, but still I feel unprepared. I am strangely calm, yet there is an odd excitement in my belly and my chest.

I am part of the human experience, part of the cycle of life and death that all beings experience.

Excerpt from Becoming the Oldest Generation Part III – Her Burial

When we arrived, the gravedigger was standing in the grave. Immediately I thought of Hamlet –this scene was so strong. His presence felt knowing and powerful as he stared at us, his gray-black beard and wild, frizzy white hair framing his radiating intensity. Mom’s body was slipped from its bag, and still wrapped in a white shroud she was lowered into the grave. No ceremony, no fanfare, she was just quickly lowered diagonally into the grave. Lainey wailed and we all cried. Next they put Styrofoam squares over her, over half of the grave. The gravedigger climbed out on them, and then he put Styrofoam squares over the rest of her body. Finally, everyone who wanted to, started filling the dirt in. I threw in a handful. Some people took turns with the shovel, including Lainey. When Mom was all covered in a mound, people placed rocks and stones on top, signifying permanence, of both death and memory of the departed. Margalit, Judith, Deena and Shlomo had brought shells from the ocean and placed them on top of the burial mound. Someone handed me a rock and I put it on the pile. I hadn’t known about that custom beforehand or I too would have brought a shell and stones. But Margalit told me that she piled on enough for me too.

Then it was over.

Becoming The Oldest Generation – A Memoir by Marianna Mejia

This is a book about my reactions to my mother’s decay, her death, and the mourning period. The story takes place in Herzlia Petuach, Israel in 1996 and 1997.