Ancestor Wisdom for an American Paradox

Grounding and keeping hope alive

I time travel to find peace.

When I’m stressed about the state of the world, I hold my great-great-grandma Catarina’s rosary, close my eyes, and speak to her. Born in 1882 on a Native American reservation, to a Comanche-French mother and Spanish father, she surfed the highs and lows of life and passes on to me her lessons.

Catarina was born into a world where she would not get the right to vote until she was 38 years old. She married a Mexican, Eugenio, and birthed 16 children; only 9 of them made it to adulthood. She lived through the Spanish Flu, Great Depression, and two world wars.

But damn, did she persevere. She cleaned houses, filling her own house with nice furniture and hand-me-downs from the families she worked for. She was a midwife and a Spanish/English translator in the Texas Court System. She was known for taking care of everyone - taking in two orphaned children from Mexico and her sister’s kids. She was an entrepreneur, running a speakeasy during prohibition. She won a court battle to own property on the white side of town before segregation was illegal. She would live to see the Civil Rights Movement and Neil Armstrong land on the moon before she died in 1970.

I woke up seeing the election results and felt numb, not shocked, just numb. I went into a quiet space and did my ancestor meditation. As soon as I started talking to my great-great-grandmother Catarina, my grief opened.

She calmly said to me, “Mija, you will be okay. Life is long. This is just part of the cycles of life. Moments of life aren’t good, bad, right, wrong. They just are. The movement of time doesn’t stop.

You are here today carrying the weight of your immense privilege. Your existence is a paradox. You are a citizen of a government that committed a mass genocide against my mother’s Comanche people. You are a beneficiary of the American Dream, with an elite education, a successful business, and freedom to live where and how you want. In every curse is a blessing, and every blessing can be a curse.”

With her words, I feel my body soften, my breathing slows down.

I time travel to 2100, when my kids will be 78 and 80 years old. I call forth my future great-grandchildren who will be in their 20s. I imagine them meditating, calling on me for my wisdom to help them navigate the turn of the century.

They share with me their worries and their fears. I tell them, “You are here. You made it to this new century. I have left you a legacy of the emotional wisdom to navigate whatever life is throwing at you. You will get through this.”

I opened my eyes and feeling grounded and hope for the future. I walked into the kitchen, and Delia reaches out her arms for me to pick her up and rubs her yogurt covered face into mine. I let in warmth that spreads through my body—feeling a moment of joy.

I blackout media and go outside. Talking to people about our kids and gardens, I’m reminded that humans are more complex, messier and beautiful than what the media reduces us to. I write to make sense of my thoughts.

I will continue to be committed to my values of inclusion, which means including the voices of people whose beliefs challenge my own. I will continue to pour my resources into ensuring our species survive climate change so that my great-grandchildren can one day look to me for spiritual guidance.