Stones and Roses

In the name of The Mother,
and of the Grandmother,
and of the wild place inside –

Kneeling by your grave, crying. On the grave stone, NANA, in a carved heart. Carved into my heart, your presence, my grandmother, found, finally. Years of searching bring me to this once unmarked pauper’s grave in the poor Irish section of St. Joseph’s Cemetery in Roxbury, Boston, a grave now marked by the stone I had carved for you.

Ellen Agnes Flatley,1875-1930. My own, own grandmother, from County Mayo, Ireland. We have the same middle name. I never knew you. My mother only knew you for 4 years, before you gave her up for adoption, but she could remember nothing of you. Yet you must have loved her, for that inheritance was passed to her, who in turn passed it to my brother and to me. I am grateful for you. We are carved in the heart of the cosmos.

I will never know your story, and can only piece together what little fragments I have. There will never be a whole cloth, never will these patchwork pieces come together to make a quilt I can fold over me. But in finding you at last, a part of me comes home.

You gave birth to my mother, your daughter, in the Talitha Cumi Home for first time unwed mothers in Boston, July 29, 1907. Then you disappeared from all records. 4 years later, you appear once more in the records, this time to give up my mother for legal adoption. Reason stated on the adoption certificate: COULD NOT TAKE CARE OF CHILD. Why? A mother could not give up her child who had been living with her for 4 years unless there was a reason beyond reason. I will never know. But my mother knew love, was full of love, kindness, gentle understanding: you must have imprinted that in her.  

After the adoption, you again disappear from all records. My beloved brother, Gustavo, before he became ill, dedicated many of his days to searching through every record possible, trying to trace your existence. But you seemingly vanished. Yet you haunted our lives, calling to us, wanting to be found. We never stopped wondering, hoping, believing someday, somehow we would find you.

In 2005, a close friend, who knew of my continuing search, called to say she had met a private detective at a woman’s group who might help me find you. I immediately hired her. After 2 years searching, she too gave up. Then, in 2007, I heard again from that detective to tell me she had met another detective who specialized in cases such as mine. I contacted him immediately, and, after a 2 years search and another seemingly dead end, at last he found you.

You had, in fact, disappeared. You had been committed to the Boston State Hospital for the insane. Diagnosis, dementia. I now have a copy of your death certificate, but your records are sealed, and I do not know more. Did you have “the sight,” the gift of clairvoyance that those around you could not accommodate and labeled crazy? I do know many women in your era were wrongly institutionalized with the diagnosis of hysteria or dementia, a convenient way to get rid of problem women, especially an unwed mother from an Irish Catholic family in Victorian New England. Your sister Nora signed the death certificate, and bought your pauper’s grave, but did not mark your grave with a stone. Nor were you buried in the cemetery with any of your very large immigrant Irish family. I will never know why your family deserted you, as by the time I found you and tracked down your distant relatives, none of your siblings were alive, nor did any of their children and grandchildren from what became an extensive, prominent family, ever hear of you. I have told them of your grave site, but I doubt they will ever visit. And why did not any of your siblings adopt my mother, whose photograph right after adoption shows an engaging, smiling child with auburn curls and big blue eyes, frankly adorable, certainly appealing? Obviously, you were meant to be hidden away, buried in all ways, surrounded by a conspiracy of silence, the shamed family secret. But truth does eventually, graciously, reveal itself, and here I am to tell your story, and embody it with healing.

Hear me, Nana, I am here, I am here, here by your grave, kneeling. I sing the "Ave Maria" for you, as loud and as resonant and as heartfelt as possible, filling the sky of a damp, cold, February Boston morning with prayer. By my presence here, I bear witness to you, your life, the gift of my mother, and thus the gift of my brother and my very life. I can hardly sing through the choking tears. But here I am, with my brother and mother in spirit beside me, and 2 loving friends, one on each side, supporting me like angels.

Nana, here I am, with you, see me now, right here. I am your guardian angel. I will guard your gravestone and the bones that lie beneath Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb. Most of your story I will never know. But this I do know: this gravestone says you are respected, you are acknowledged, you are honored, you are remembered: “alive by reason of remembered love” *. I bear witness to your life on earth. I bear witness to your presence in my heart. Your Irish mouth, chin, and freckles live in my face. Did you give me my love of Irish verse, my clairvoyance, my celtic longing? This you did give me: you.

True healing can only take place beyond judgments of right and wrong, deeper than the dichotomies of human existence. And any distortion of the past, both personal and historical, can truly be healed by actions and realizations of unconditional love in the present. As I allow myself to lift beyond paradox into “the love that moves the sun and the other stars” **. I take into healing your entire life, allowing a pure energy to clear the past and bring it into love through me.

Nana carved in a heart in granite. Nana carved deep in my heart.  We are carved in the heart of eternity. “What one lovest well remains: the rest is dross” ***.

In the name of the Mother,
and of the Grandmother,
and of the wild place inside,

Amen

*   John Haines
**  Dante
*** Ezra Pound