My Grandmother is a mystic, of sorts.
She sorts the ways of the world, she see it for what it is, she sees (with clarity) the way things ought to be rather than the way they are.
They are not as they ought, she says.
She says the truth.
The truth comes to her by means of the clarity in which she views the world, the same type of way that has saved the world countless times over.
Over her table is an ornate, bright gold French table cloth.
French country table cloth, which is what my Mother has as well.
As well as I do.
I do not need anything else from her but to talk with her at this table cloth–talk over delicious food, a game of cards, black tea and some “nosh” (she’ll have her tea with milk, mine black, please).
Please understand, we could sit at this table cloth and talk for weeks on end, I’ll have you know that.
That is the beauty of my love for my Grandmother.
My Grandmother lets me watch the way her mind works, I get special privilege as a granddaughter to glimpse her great mind.
Her mind is made up of the stars, the archetypes, a vast knowledge of the fundamentals of the earth, and a love for connecting everything to one another (you see, everything is connected, nothing is alienated, the world is one great whole of many different things that effect one another).
Another thing I adore about my Grandmother is her talent at gin rummy, her skill at providing me the perfect amount of comfort and space, her elegant taste in food and music, and her sly way of sneaking humor into every conversation.
Every conversation is deeply meaningful but tempered with a dash of humor and a touch of things-I-still-don’t-grasp-about-the-world.
The world is a better place because my Grandmother has lived.