“…and the wise women in their cerulean blue formed a circle in the center and held hands. They danced and sang in the surf by the moon’s light. As they smiled and reached out their hands in invitation, others began to join them...except for those who could not see the outstretched hands or hear the music.”

(Iva McAckley Frederick – Stories for my Great-Granddaughter)
 

Over 35 years ago, I found a leather journal in a dusty box in my grandmother’s garage. It was an eclectic mix – part diary, journal, autobiography and scrapbook. It was the heart and soul connection of its author – a woman who up until that point had been a rarely mentioned and mysterious enigma. Like the author, her journal was passionate, mystical,  earthly and ethereal.

About three quarters of the way into the journal was a page titled, “Stories for my Great Granddaughter.” There was only one story to follow, perhaps the author had intended more but never wrote them. The only thing written after the one story was an entry dated Aug. 14, 1963 which read simply, “Never, never, forget who you are.”

The author of that journal was Iva McAckley Frederick, and I am her great granddaughter – the one for whom the pages were designated, the one for whom the story was written.

There isn’t much of her I remember – the visits were infrequent and she died when I was young. But, I do hold a picture of her, sitting barefoot at the edge of the ocean’s surf - painting. She's wearing a scarf around her neck (in what I now know to be cerulean blue) and an eclectic combination of jewelry on her fingers, wrists and neck.  In the magical remembrance of a child’s mind – she sparkled and glittered. In looking back now, I know it wasn’t just the sun reflecting off her jewelry, but something else I saw. Something much deeper – something ancient and sacred and true I recognized.

My clearest memory is visiting her at the beach one August afternoon when I was about six. I remember thinking it was like being presented to the Queen - she stared at me, silently as we approached her and for several minutes after. Beckoning me closer, she asked if I knew who she was. I wanted to tell her she was magnificent and sparkled like a thousand stars, but instead replied solemnly, “Yes, You are Great Grandmother.” She looked at me intently for several minutes and then threw back her head in boisterous laughter.  Lowering her head to look me directly in the eyes again she said, equally solemnly, “No, princess – I am an artist.”

I remember the sound of the surf crashing behind us.  The call of the seagulls, the wind in my hair.  I can almost taste the sea spray salt on my lips.  In that exchange, something passed between us - a connection that surpassed the earthly bond of the blood between us.  I never saw her after that day but her presence has never left me.

Never forget who you are.

My great grandmother never sold a painting, and yet she never stopped painting. Her canvasses filled her house, hung on the walls, propped in the corners, stacked on tables.  Eventually what didn't fit inside found a place outside, hung on or propped against the trees. The neighbors thought she was crazy and avoided her.  The children made fun of her.  Even her own family was embarrassed and tried to hide her eccentric 'craziness' away.  She fascinated me, and I never thought she was crazy, even as a child listening to the stories. 

I think she was a woman ahead of her time.  A woman who scared people because she never forgot, even for a second, who she was. An artist. And she lived every single second of it - fully, passionately and without apology. As an artist, a pilgrim, a visionary and a warrior.  True to herself and her heart.

I wish I could have known her better in this lifetime. I wish I could’ve grown up spending summers at the beach with her. I sometimes imagine us, digging our bare toes into the sand, dancing in the spray of the surf, sitting in her backyard - I writing my poetry and stories while she painted her canvasses.

I wish I could have heard her stories for me directly – I wish there had been more of them left behind. Yet, I know the story she left me was the most important one that she leave me, 

and the blank pages left in her journal were for me to fill in. 

There have been times in my life when I have forgotten, even if only momentarily, who I am.  Times when I wasn't completely sure whether I was one of the women dancing in the circle with outstretched hands, or one of the ones standing outside, unable to see or hear.

But one thing I know for certain -  it is her blood that flows through me, her passion that inspires me and her voice that carries the wisdom of intuitive knowing to me. I know it is her who has followed me on my journey, and her eyes I feel looking into my own in the times I question who I am.

The little girl at the beach that August afternoon is now the woman who would, if asked, “do you know who I am?” have a far different answer today than I had then.

If nothing else, I would tell her she was magnificent and sparkled like a thousand stars.

And I just know she would throw back her head and laugh.