Dancing with the Seeds of Change

Trauma defines an emotional response to a psychological event reflecting a distressing experience such as a natural disaster, illness, or injury. However, trauma also encompasses the far extreme.

Dancing with my grandmother became a whimsical after-school event. Each day she would be waiting patiently by the front door holding some homemade baked goods. Her arms are wide open, just waiting to wrap them around my neck to give me that “bear hug,” squeezing all the air out of my lungs. Her smile lit up a room with joy as her soft hands reached for mine. Our hands touched as our fingers would lock around one another like a glove. It was like a puzzle that always seemed to fit. With each twirl of a spin, we gained momentum faster and faster in circles as if we were a helicopter ready to take off. The quicker we spin, the louder our voices would go; eventually, this high-pitched giggling would bring us to our knees, tumbling onto the floor with laughter.

       Dancing felt good to move my legs; grandma introduced me to different dance styles. I enjoyed learning how to two-step and square dance. Some moves were more accessible than others. My favorite was the Waltz. I recall stepping on the tops of her two feet; it was like her feet were my shoes. Tightly, I would hold on to her arms; we would glide around the living room in this sweeping motion, counting; one, two, three, and four. Her sweet voice would whisper in my ear, only reminding me that one day, I would be dancing this dance without braces on my legs. I could not imagine that day, but I did believe. She always reassured me that there was no wrong way to dance. Life is constantly changing, and so are our steps.

    Being a farmer’s wife, she was stern but gentle. She drove an old 1943 Ford pickup truck called “ Daisy.” It was grandpas’ old truck that he left behind when he passed on. It was used daily for feeding the cows, hauling hay, and making weekly purchases from the local market. Grandma used it mainly for her garden work truck. She spent most of her spare time in the garden. It was known that when grandma was in the garden, let her be.

     I recall watching her from the kitchen window. Her soul would light up as she danced around the garden, singing her favorite song. It was as if she sang the universal peace lyrics to all living things. Her true beauty shined when she connected to nature. I can still hear her voice echoing with the words she recited to me; “The one thing constant in life dear is change.”

  I reflected on my childhood memories of the challenges of trying to walk with braces on my legs. One leg was shorter than the other, with both hips turned inward and both legs undeveloped. The props were made from heavy metal brackets that strapped around my legs. My foot was placed into a leather boot style of shoe with a metal rod that lay against my inner calves. A leather strap was wrapped around my knee as a metal clamp latched over the top.

     The pain was intense, but it allowed me to find a balancing point so I could take a step. With help from the brace, it allowed my feet to be turned outward rather than falling over each step with the feet turned inward. I wore it for most of my childhood years.

      My grandmother reminded me that all things are constantly changing; there is a time when you realize things have changed, and it went unnoticed. She was the inspiration that encouraged me to question everything. As a child, she would hurry me out of the house, enabling me to dance with life, live it, and become all it has to offer. Most importantly, she encouraged me to find my belief system, not ones adopted by others.

     The only thing that was constant in life was her handwritten notes which she would leave around to be discovered. It was a treat to open a drawer or a lunch bag and find an inspirational quote by one of her favorite Philosophers. Allen Watts had a quote that made me recognize how quickly life can change and go unnoticed. He quoted, “The only way to make sense of change is to plunge into it, move with it and join the dance.”

   Now, I sit behind the wheel of this old Ford. My heart begins to race as I recall our extraordinary times. Heavily covered in dust, Betsy had been sitting in the barn for ten years. There were signs of being weathered with paint chips exposed to rusting. Each dent held a story, a memory.

      Slowly, I opened the door. I hadn’t driven the truck since she passed. It’s now time. The door creaked and crackled as I swept away the spider webs. I patted off the seat and slid behind the wheel. There was a faint smell that lingered of musty old rain. My hands grasp the steering wheel as if it was my first day learning to drive. I glanced around only to see an old Pepsi bottle on the floorboard. It was a moment in time that flashed back to that day, the last day we rode together. Grandma drank a soda on the way to the hospital.

     As my eyes scanned the dashboard, I caught a glimmer of a note in the ashtray. The paper was faded by the sun and covered in dust. It was folded into a small square. As I reached my hands outward toward the note, I could feel my palms sweat and my heart beating faster.

  Gently with my fingertips, I carefully pulled the note from the tray, unfolding the weathered memory once scribbled in my grandmother’s handwriting. It was a quote from Alan Watts, which read, “The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.” I love you my little angel Sheri, go live life as life is waiting for you to heal the souls of those suffering. My dear little one, the light is within you, never forget your truth.

       I held the note to my heart as the tears streamed off my cheeks, tiny droplets of my soul making their mark on the paper. Her presence was missed. I folded the note and placed it back in the tray. With a smile, I reflected on the first day I sat behind the wheel when “Daisy” got her name.

      I was 10 yrs old and confident in showing off my driving skills. I drove us right into a ditch on a warm sunny day! Calmly and with a gentle smile, my grandmother made a jester with her hands that motioned us to get out and walk towards the barn. Unscathed from my reckless driving, we walked back to the barn. We arrived and untied our milking cow, Daisy. Although she was a milking cow, she seemed to act like an ox. Daisy was that extra “man hand” after grandpa passed away.

     We wandered back to the truck, and I listened to grandma explain to Daisy what she needed to be done. When we arrived, she tied Daisy to the bumper; grandma then whispered into Daisy’s big, floppy, fly-swarmed ear. It was as if Daisy and grandma had their animal language. She’d smack Daisy on the rear end, then belted out a big heehaw! And sure enough, Daisy pulled the truck out of the ditch. After it was over, Grandma would tell Daisy to head back to the barn. Daisy would turn and slowly mosey back to the barn.

   Grandma motioned me to get behind the wheel as she spoke sternly to follow Daisy home. And with a smile, I slapped the steering wheel and gave out a yelp. “Let’s go home, Betsy!” We both smiled at each other as Daisy guided me home.

     My grandmother seemed to have the magic remedy for my pain and suffering. Her kindness resonated in her words that expressed notes of change.

     I took a deep breath in and let it out. I wiped away the tears, started the engine, and headed down the road. We’re going home, Daisy, we are going home.

    “Do not look back. No one knows how the world began. Do not fear the future. Nothing last forever. If you dwell in the past or the future you will miss the moment” ~ Rumi