I grew up in D.C. and one of my jobs every time my grandma would visit from Memphis was to troop down to the museums on the Metro with her and trail behind her all day while she basked in the art. I don't actually know how much she knew about the artists themselves, but she could spin a story like nobody's business. And she would spin such seemingly authoritative stories about what the art meant, what the artist was going for, that people would begin to trail along behind her, assuming she was a docent. Once I had to get her out of the museum before she got herself in serious trouble because she kept stepping WAY too close to an abstract painting, tracing shapes that she saw in it with her carefully painted pinkie fingernail, telling everyone that would listen about the bunnies and faces and whatever, telling stories, and practically sending the security guards into apoplectic fits. They threatened to arrest her if she didn't step away from the art. My little Southern grandma.
But it must be said that my grandma was also a woman of deep faith. She got up every morning at dawn and "said her prayers" for at least an hour, which involved an entire conversation with God about all the people and things that she needed Him to help her with by holding in His hand. Her relationship with God was deeply personal and deeply imaginative in the best way, and I always envied that, honestly. My relationship with God feels direct and personal, but my conception of the Divine too Universal for *conversation*. I could use, at times, the vibrancy of my grandmother's imagination-- both in the way I interact with the wider world, and the way that I interact with God. It was deeply comforting to her, and I struggle to find a sense of comfort as I move through my days.
I grew up in D.C. and one of my jobs every time my grandma would visit from Memphis was to troop down to the museums on the Metro with her and trail behind her all day while she basked in the art. I don't actually know how much she knew about the artists themselves, but she could spin a story like nobody's business. And she would spin such seemingly authoritative stories about what the art meant, what the artist was going for, that people would begin to trail along behind her, assuming she was a docent. Once I had to get her out of the museum before she got herself in serious trouble because she kept stepping WAY too close to an abstract painting, tracing shapes that she saw in it with her carefully painted pinkie fingernail, telling everyone that would listen about the bunnies and faces and whatever, telling stories, and practically sending the security guards into apoplectic fits. They threatened to arrest her if she didn't step away from the art. My little Southern grandma.
But it must be said that my grandma was also a woman of deep faith. She got up every morning at dawn and "said her prayers" for at least an hour, which involved an entire conversation with God about all the people and things that she needed Him to help her with by holding in His hand. Her relationship with God was deeply personal and deeply imaginative in the best way, and I always envied that, honestly. My relationship with God feels direct and personal, but my conception of the Divine too Universal for *conversation*. I could use, at times, the vibrancy of my grandmother's imagination-- both in the way I interact with the wider world, and the way that I interact with God. It was deeply comforting to her, and I struggle to find a sense of comfort as I move through my days.