My Grandfather’s Hands Rest On The Gates Of Trauma

Never have I known such a wise soul and gentle — gentleman.

My grandfather, Delden with his kids, 1952.

When I woke in the wee hours last Wednesday week ago and rolled over, the head spinning gave me immediate nausea. Great, vertigo — I hadn’t drunk enough the previous night to warrant any hang-over head spin like this.

Upon fully waking a couple of hours later, I was accompanied with this drop-in:

My grandfather smelt of the earth and pumpkins.

It was the morning after the rising full moon labyrinth walk with some local women. I had taken a rose quartz angel that sits next to a photo of my mother — on an altar she shares with John. I placed her in the centre of the labyrinth and set an intention; asking the Universe and ancestors for presence — assistance with intergenerational trauma on our matrilineal line.

I have been literally off balance for this past week with an eddying flow of vertigo; accompanied by a cracker of a headache about my left eye that hinted a threat to surge into a migraine  — like the blinding ones that would keep me in a silent darkened room when I was a child.

That was until Monday afternoon when the thought popped-in again. Having taken leave from work and unable to do much more than rest, my thoughts wondered back to my grandfather — Pop, from hereon. Pop was a keen amateur photographer and fortunately I have hundreds of his black and white photos on my computer. Thank you Great Uncle Neville.

They are all numbered, so I opened the file with the task of labelling them. They are a snapshot of the early to mid 1950s; of my mother and her two brother’s somewhat unconventional childhood on a small farm — just pre and post the departure of my grandmother, Betty-Rita.

Tears unwittingly swelled as the photos triggered — something — many-things. So, I let myself sob without really being able to pinpoint anything other than the whole story. I didn’t overthink it; I let myself feel it and promptly took myself to bed. I woke up Tuesday picturing my grandfather standing at a white wrought iron gate, with this insight:

Your grandfather’s hands hold the ancestral gates to help resolve inherited, intergenerational — matrilineal trauma.

Thankfully my headache and vertigo had dissipated. However, staring into the bathroom cabinet mirror, my eyes displayed the red-ringed tell-tale signs of prolonged sobbing — that which speaks to those heaving chasms of expansive blackness — until reaching their depths of dormancy — to release —  with acceptance —  an understanding of the passing moment.

How does Pop hold the gate of matrilineal trauma? With this intention I slipped into a brief meditation before heading off to the teeny gym attached to our small town’s medical centre — some gentle pedalling and stretching — to catch up with a friend and test the vertigo.

On the short 300m return home I looked down and recognised my hands as Pop’s, despite mine bearing no physical resemblance whatsoever.

I had seen plenty of Pop’s strong, capable hands over the first 47 years we co-existed on this plane. He was always showing you something he may have — made — or read — or noticed. Usually, you were out in his garden — digging for potatoes, picking berries, admiring flowers — turning and learning about the importance of soil and seeds.

My grandfather instilled in me a belief and love of fairies.

Nearly all meals shared with Pop, as a child and adult, were on a picnic rug under a tree — in the mountains — on the shores of a lake — beside a river — on the rocky outcrop of a beach. Eating utensils — hands and a pocket knife. Preferred mode of transport — a bicycle or walking.

He was an artist of many talents; carpenter, instrument maker, painter, writer, photographer, gardener, musician. A self-educated man, he grew up on dairy farms near the rugged north-west coast of Tasmania. His farming forefathers emigrated from Pelynt; Cornwall, England.

My grandmother Betty-Rita’s clan arrived on these punishing shores as convict stock — Irish, English and Scottish miners. They too worked in the same lines as their forebears. That in itself, was challenge enough back then — never mind the finer details.

Pop was a vegetarian and hence when he married my grandmother, they settled on a small farm in the Forth Valley and established a market-garden.

Betty Rita with her kids. Probably Summer 1949-1950.

The shit hit the fan around 10 years and 3 children later. When Betty Rita escaped Tasmania, she fled with another man — absconding with my 9 year old mother Sandra. When Great Uncle Neville and the police pursuit caught up with them in Adelaide, my mother was promptly and dramatically ripped from Betty Rita and returned to Pop. Women didn’t do that in the early 1950s.

And when Betty Rita wanted to return to Tasmania, it was the patriarchy that refused a mother return to her children — not my grandfather.

My grandfather was also a victim of the patriarchy.

Pop was bohemian in disposition — 1950s conservatism condescendingly labelled him eccentric.

He was a man of the Earth, a nature lover and eco-warrior. He lived an alternative life-style that drew the ire of some. He was passive in his anti-establishment ways, and despite holding strong opinions he was as equally quiet and private — non paternalistic.

Pop was a gentle man and a gentleman. He never spoke an ill word of my grandmother and had the grace to meet patriarchal family criticism of her — with silence.

As my mother would attest; my great-grandfather Russell, was known to erupt from the milking shed with stock whip in hand to assert his authority. Russell; or Grandad as he was known, was a decorated WWI hero, having twice escaped from German capture and imprisonment. However, he and the family did not escape the impact of his post-traumatic stress.

As the oldest of four sons, Pop was expected to assist in the slaughter of animals for the family’s meat supply. His refusal drew punishment and was probably the catalyst for Pop choosing to become vegetarian.

Despite loving her father immensely, my mother left home when she was 15 — to evade the small town conservatism and judgement — of her mother, of her father, of her brothers, of herself — and joined a circus — dancing with snakes.

She never did share the vulnerabilities that encompassed this short term experience, other than to tell me Australian country music legend Slim Dusty toured with them for a while. Other than that she was taking the circus expedition to the grave. At least the venture prompted a swift reunion with her mother — Betty Rita whisking Mum to Melbourne in the late 1950s.

Their somewhat complicated and volatile mother-daughter relationship saw another 6-7 years before Betty Rita died a week before I was born; 4 months after her 44^th birthday. My mother was 4 months past her 23rd birthday. Needless to say, unresolved trauma begets more trauma.

In a previous post, We All Get A Welcome Home Death Party, I mention Pop — Delden — being at the entrance of my welcome home death party with my grandmother Betty Rita and my parents, Ivan and Sandra — before parting the way to reveal John. That was March 2020, just prior to lockdown. My mother died only 12 days after the death party meditation.

I have vivid memories of the death party meditation for obvious reasons.

Upon arriving home from gym, I returned to the computer to resume labelling Pop’s photos. I am sure I was nudged to recall a reading I had  during lockdown, via zoom with a Canadian medium. Pop had featured in that reading. My curiosity peaked when I located it on my computer, noting it was recorded on Nov 11th, 2020 — 8 months after the death party mediation. It was also the first reading I had since my mother’s passing.

So, I re-listened for the clarity it might bring. This time, I wasn’t having the vision — the medium described what she saw.

She reported that Pop was sitting in a chair ready before she connected with me online. Pop confirmed with the medium he was my grandfather, offering appropriate evidence for me to identify him.

She described him standing at, the white wrought iron gate of a garden — looking very debonair and dapper — in his 30s. My father was next to appear, placing himself next to Pop. He too presented in his prime. He remained present, though silent.

Pop was orchestrating and inviting everyone from the garden. My mother next appeared as her lifetime age of 77 before John made his grand-entrance as I knew him in his prime. My grandmother, Betty Rita was present, though she remained in the back ground, seated on the lawns of the garden.

Pop told the medium that Betty-Rita had met my mother when she passed and escorted her to the life review. This occurs before the welcoming gathering of others. Apparently, Mum had been quite shocked that it was her mother whom greeted her.

Pop informed me, via the medium, that there was a soul-challenge for Betty Rita and Mum to come in as mother-daughter in this lifetime. They had not met all of their soul-contract’s aspirations.

He said that they were still in discussions about future life roles — Mum had only been passed 8 months and she was on the fence. However, mum’s humour came through when she laughingly relayed; Thank Christ Betty Rita didn’t come to the review! There’s a mountain of humourous context I can give to that one line. Thank you Mum.

Pop reiterated that ancestors are benevolent in their guidance and Mum piped in with, take advantage of us from here.

With that, John made his entrance. The medium was quite taken with his sense of humour. He told her he enjoyed giving me, a good hearted fright. He was referring to the no other reason — loud clanging noises on the roof which sometimes interrupts my meditation — I have told you before about his quirkiness.

When the medium bemusedly inquired why John would be showing her blinds, I was able to laughingly give clarity re the confirming and playful ways he swings the roller blinds in both the loungeroom and bedroom.

John informed the medium he is able to communicate physically because our bond anchors him and thus it makes it easier to hone this ability. Moira, the medium who led the death-party meditation had mirrored this sentiment re John’s capacity to manipulate energy, He is quite powerful, Moira had noted in Circle when we were practicing techniques in pairs and John was coming through to a woman I was paired with — John’s energy was hurting her temples.

John talked of how he feels more complete as a light being in the transition phase of his evolution — as it is without the heaviness of being human. He mentioned that we take the essence of our personality with us — whilst having the benefit of seeing the whole of everything — through past lives wisdom.

He showed the medium that we have had many life times and that for our soul growth our roles are better suited as romantic partners — our experiences as each other’s parent has not always seen the best outcome for our soul agreements.

Pop finished with, Yes, death is an ending — though it is just a transition to a different dimension. Pop was the last to leave the reading. Having escorted everyone back into the garden; he offered his elbow to me, telling the medium he would escort me to wherever I wanted to go.

Re-listening to that reading nearly 4 years later, I am able to better understand the messages of light with regard to my other subsequent experiences of knowing.

Essentially, our ancestors work across the veil as our spirit guides — a collaboration they have with our angels, guardian and otherwise — to help us address intergenerational patterns embedded in ours and other’s trauma.

In the wholeness of our essence as a light body — a soul — we are not male or female. Our energetic-signature is not an assigned a sex; our sex is attached to our physical body, in relation to our soul group contracts — the roles we have chosen to play in each incarnation.

Therefore we may be our mother’s daughter in one life, her husband in the next or a biologically unrelated friend — a multitude of combinations for a plethora of human lives.

When our deceased loved ones present to us as physical visions; this is so we can recognise their energy. So, when I am speaking with a medium, I also know it is John they are speaking with because I am familiar with the vibrational frequency of his energetic-signature. Hence, I can feel his presence before they state they can see him. This also explains that sometimes when I pronounce, I can feel you, are you here?, the blind may start to swing in affirming his energetic presence.

Thus, the notion of resolving female and male patterns of intergenerational trauma is a human concept. From the realm of our origins — across the veil — familial lines of trauma are intrinsic matters for the soul-group.

The capacity to see the dynamics of all relationships, in all incarnations confirms that we collaborate and navigate in soul groups — an interconnectedness that involves swapping roles — including human experiences of being both male and female.

Needless to say, our soul - contracts can be thwarted, distorted and unmet due to our human-egoic choices — our free will. We are not compelled to repeat soul-contracts that were not met. A soul has self-autonomy. No one soul is greater than another — a soul does not enter an incarnation without its own permission. Nor does a soul exit without its permission.

Our physical bodies therefore hold memories of past-life and current traumas. In better understanding and recognising this, we can work towards resolving our current trauma and repeat patterns of ancestral behaviour through body, mind and soul awareness.

Working towards addressing our own past and recurring trauma triggers can simultaneously cleanse ancestral past life traumas thus breaking intergenerational behavioural patterns — for us and our soul-group.  This may indeed take many life times of free-will choosing.

Our ancestors across the veil are benevolent, because as John stated — we have the benefit and insights of our complete light being, capacity to access Source wisdom with which to guide those of us still living in  the heaviness that being human can entail. In serving ourselves we are serving our ancestors, and vice versa.

Our teams are cheering us all on!

With love and gratitude, my learning continues.

John and team, thank you for the guidance. I love you.  

Pop, thank you for leading the ancestral team of spirit-guides. Bless You.

And so it is.

My Grandfather’s Hands

My grandfather’s capable hands

smelt of the earth

and the pumpkins

that lined the wall

below the front window.

It framed an unusual front yard

adorned with an assortment

of vegetables and flowers.

My grandfather’s dextrous hands

gently cupped the trumpeting

yellow and red nasturtiums.

Crisp mornings offered their reveal —

diamond jewels of dew drops

pooled on the broad green leaves

for waiting fairies to bathe.

Whose cascading decent

swept a softening caress

across the row of onion tips

standing to attention

in their uniforms of green.

My grandfather’s skilled hands

threw a plaid picnic rug

amongst the cool glades

of grassy wilderness —

an enticing view under

the canopy of a flowering gum.

Lying back — still and silent

to spy a slumber of fairies

cocooned in their gumnut —

lulled to a dream state by the

garnishing drone of honey bees

whose methodical waggle

heralds — the waiting bounty of nectar

to their sun bleached swarm.

My grandfather’s pragmatic hands

release his feet from his

leather bound shoes

so that he might sink his toes

into the suctioning powdery sands of

the wind whipped shores

of our Island beaches.

My grandfather’s chiselled hands

turning fallen trees into

modern pieces of furniture —

chairs in which to whittle the keys

of his walnut wood clavichord.

My grandfather’s learn-ed hands

teaching me how to

respectfully turn the pages

of a book so that I might

forever visit my imagination

with the lightness of a child.

Digging up spuds

With Prince the Clydesdale

The flying fox he made

A family outing

Oops. The selfie version 1.