‘Om’ – my grandfather recites, the timbre of his voice both rough and smooth. Like his greying stubble and ageing cheek beneath it – rough and smooth. He sits by the window of our lounge room every morning, greeting the sun in meditative prayer. Knobbly fingers form a ‘mudra’ that does not break. A thin shawl covers his thin frame. I grow up in an air of fascination. When little, I would huddle in his lap, later sit beside him, and later stand in observation, looking from afar. A chain of light binds him to the eternal, within and beyond my mind, and across all time. ‘Shaanti shaanti shaanti’ – peace peace peace.
Years pass. A vision of my grandfather bathed in sunlight still glistens in the synapse of my psyche. It is chemical, electric. Echoes of his mantras resonate through the gum trees by our house in the Australian bush. Lathering their bark and running through their leaves – rough, smooth. They tell me trees communicate through electricity like neurons. A funny synchronicity. The trees now know Sanskrit. Roots deepen.
The scattering of families through migration gives way to this – a multigenerational network of language, life and story. We live in different worlds yet create one together. In my therapy room, a young client draws her own Greek grandfather recently resting in peace. What did you love about him most? I ask. That he loved me, she responds. She keeps on drawing, her mother shedding a quiet tear. Feelings beyond bounds, we communicate wordlessly.
Years pass, but time feels timeless. Curiously, I ponder: I have made a mark on many lives; who has made their mark on mine? I am called back to my grandfather, meditating by the trees. Memories return to the source like this, as a river runs home to the sea.
In recitation, in prayer, he held a quiet grace. You taught me many things: all to life and living is learned through merely being alive. So, hold patience with the darkness, and have a spirit that moves with the sun. Over 13 years since I saw you last alive. Yet you are eternal in my eyes.
Embedded within my senses, an echo pulses through the veins of time. And I hear a sound … your sound – Om
Data availability
Data availability is not applicable to this work as no new data were created or analysed in this work.
Funding statement
This work received no specific grant from any funding agency, or commercial or not-for-profit sectors.
Acknowledgements
This piece was developed and written on unceded Wurundjeri country. I honour the undying connections of First Peoples with Country and culture, and pay my respects to Elders past and present. I would like to acknowledge my family who breathe life into my being.
Declaration of interest
None.
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