Just My Imagination

How We Recover Our Own Circle of Grandmothers

Imagination, says my psychic friend, is a psychic power. Whether we acknowledge it or not, the dead speak to us through our intuitions, our fancies, and our wonderings. My psychic friend said that many novelists were “simply” psychic—Dickins, Stephen King, Mary Stewart—and they were just tapping in. Poets, too, will often describe the muse or the duende that inspired them. The dead can help us know more than we know—and we can give back to them more of their stories than we think we have.

We know so little about so many of our ancestors, especially the women. Sometimes all we have is a single anecdote or even a single fact. She died in childbirth. Her child died young. Her husband was famous but she was not. Sometimes what we know feels like we don’t want to know it. She was the crazy one. She was a bitch. A single word become an epitaph and a legacy passed down across the generations.

How do we give our ancestors back their stories, their power and their lived reality?

It’s not enough to know birth and death dates and places of origin. We want to know who they were. We want to know, when we collaborate with them what they can do to help us. What are their gifts? What wisdom did their lives bring forth from within them. How do their failings and their sorrows become their superpowers? How might a single fact bloom into a real person that we can call upon in our hour of need?

I have recently been playing around with my own imaginings of my ancestral grandmothers. I’ve been creating a magic circle of them to hold me—that I am going to share with my whole family at my birthday party next weekend.

Often I have had very little information to go on, but I have trusted the little I know to lead me to what I need to know. I know nothing about one great grandmother except the set of her jaw in a single photo and her stance behind her three children. From it I have been able to draw a picture of who she was. Another grandmother seemed to be remembered only for her depression and electric shock treatments. Wasn’t there more to her? Of course there was.

I was inspired as I worked by a student who studied with me this past fall (The Stories We Leave Behind workshop which I will offer again in the autumn) who rewrote her grandmother’s narrative into a fairy tale about a woman longing to spread her wings and fly. She tries to do so spiritually and has those wings clipped as a nun. She flees into marriage and is trapped by children and chores. Finally she simply grows wings, climbs to the top of a building and flies away. A tragic tale of a defeated woman was transformed giving her back her dignity, her yearnings, and ultimately her power. I wanted to do that for my grandmothers too.

For a few of these women, especially, my mother, I had to distill all that I knew into an essence, a story so simple that my descendants would be able to pass it down generation after generation. No one can ever hold all of the facts, the complete biography with an index and footnotes, but fairy tales have been shown to last tens of thousands of years. I want these stories, and these women, to endure.

I’m not sure what I call this form but I invite each of you reading this letter to write your own hagiographies for the women who stand beneath you and behind you and around you. Who are they? How would you call on them? What does your imagination lead you to know about them? What do you intuit about who they are? Trust your creativity and know that in trusting it you are opening up your own psychic channels to the land of the dead. Please feel free to share your grandmothers in the comments.

I am making oracle cards of these women and inviting my relatives to each choose one to work with in the coming year. (It’s my birthday and my gift to them.) I am asking them to return next year to my party with stories of the miracles they have received.

EXCERPT FROM THE BODY OF MY MOTHER

The Circle of Grandmothers

Patricia Valerie Havens Finn

Sometime in early fall she’d ask, “What do you want to be this year?” You could say anything—a swan, a mermaid, a white Persian cat dressed up like a Victorian lady—and she’d buy the fabric and the ribbons and the feathers and the sequins and turn you into whatever you’d impossibly imagined. When you were older, if you got interested in something, she bought you ten books about it, clipped relevant articles out of magazines, and arranged the helpful field trips to obscure museums and set up conversations with people who just might have connections. Because of the times and her own desire to be a mother, she never got to be the costume designer accepting the Oscar she might have been but she will wave her wand, flowering with roses, so that every single one of your dreams will come true by Halloween.

Molly Ireland Finn

Having raised six children during the Depression she didn’t throw anything away. She kept old string, bits of wire, buttons, and rubber bands in mason jars on the steps down to her basement. In one glass jar were nothing but unbroken wishbones collected from innumerable chicken dinners. Did she have no need of wishes herself? Did she prefer her many grandchildren relied on common sense and hard work instead of magical superstitions? Who knows? But Molly has the wishes you need, an entire pile of them ready to answer all of your impossible yearnings. Go ahead. Pick one. Make a wish. Make another.

Nelly Laycock Havens

Because she got pregnant so easily Nelly couldn’t get out of her unhappy marriage—and had to leave her home, England and her beloved parents and her cousins and all her many friends behind. She left behind, too, a brief love that ended in the trenches of WWI. Everything inside of her turned gray and cold but somehow, despite the fog and the mist clouding her psyche, she kept making things grow. In the spring rhododendrons, azaleas, and forget-me-knots turned her gardens into a riot of purples and blues. The air was fragrant with apple blossoms. In June the roses began to bloom—crimsons, apricots, yellows, and tiny pink tea roses that climbed up along the walls. She raised bunnies and chickens and dachshunds. Even her children thrived and flourished. Everything she touched blossomed. Reach out your hand and she will touch you, and you, too, will begin to bloom.

Catherine Murphy Ireland

Her grandson will remember that she was no prude and nothing made her anxious. If you wanted a knife or a bb gun, she bought you one and winked that maybe it was better not to let your mother know. Not only did she teach you how to swear, but how to have fun with those bad words and let the curses roll. Jesus H. Fucking Christ that dog just shat crap on the rug! So her husband was a bit of a drunk—she loved him, didn’t she, and had four daughters in four years because they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Check in with her when you feel a little embarrassed about who you really are and what you really want. She’ll laugh, that raucous laugh she’ll bequeath to all her kin, and take you to the store to get it.

Bridget Casey

Everybody died. Her first husband, her second husband, her daughter and her husband. She ran a popular saloon that became a meeting place for everyone coming off the boat from Ireland. She made sure the dead all got proper burials and each one of them got special cemetery stones to boot, but when she died no one thought to put a marker on her grave. In the midst of it all, she raised her grandson to be a good man, a father and a fighter, who’d take care of the kids coming off the boats and working in the mills. She was tough Bridget Casey and she didn’t give up. Her folks, after all, had got to America during the Hunger. She’s a survivor. If times feel tough, she’ll show you how to find a way. Pour yourself a beer, raise her a toast, and pour out your troubles to her. When she comes through for you, and she always came through for everyone, give her a special marker in your heart.

Catherine Harrington Finn

She died in childbirth in a hostile country far from Galway knowing none of her children would have anyone to look out for them when she was gone. Who would nurse the baby just born? Who would protect her boys from her second husband who did not love them? She knew even when she was dying, all of it gone to nothing, everything she’d tried to do for them, they’d end up on the streets and they did. But her boys were never alone. Catherine was there with them. Getting them to America. Keeping them safe on the boat and in the new world. She was there with them as their business thrived. She was there with each of their wives as her many grandchildren came into the world. She never got to be the mother she dreamed of being alive, but when you need a mother, Catherine is there—with a soft hand to put you to sleep at night, with a reminder that she sees you and she loves you just as you are, that you are hers, always and forever, and she’ll never let you go even so, even so.

Ellen Falk Laycock

Life can be filled with love—enough money, a good husband, doting parents, cheerful cousins, even a twin sister who knows your every thought—but to lose your child is to lose everything. Ellen named her little boy Tristan never imagining that he would die at two and fill her life forever after with an abyss of sorrow. She clung to her daughter but eventually lost her, too, to a faraway land. Everything vanishes. She died far from home of a heart that no longer could beat. Ellen can be with you when your own heart is breaking. She knows how to listen, how to hold your hand, and what gestures make a difference when all hope seems lost. Ellen will grieve and mourn with you and show you how to awaken to another day.

Marie Leston Murphy

At twenty she left Brittany, by herself, and got on a boat to America. We don’t know if she could speak English. We don’t know what she was leaving behind or what she was heading towards. We do know that when the boat docked in Ireland to pick up more passengers, she got off, by herself, to go to a pub. There she met Joe Murphy and his friends and spent the night eating, dancing, drinking, singing and falling in love. She missed her boat, but it didn’t matter. She caught the next one, and she was married now to Joe and she’d convinced him to come to America with he, all in a single night of wild revelry. Marie is brave, impetuous, impassioned, intuitive, and your traveling companion on the path of love.

Lily Murphy Havens

Not only were her children smarter than the other kids, they were gorgeous, charismatic, irresistible. Her husband Edwin died too soon but she’d gotten from him what she wanted most—these strong-jawed boys who were champions in the classroom and on the field, this vivacious blue-eyed pixie who could get an entire city to do her will. Lily will push you, it’s true. She won’t take second-best, or good-enough or she certainly won’t listen to any of your excuses. But she’ll help you rise to the top, get that grant, and win that prize. And when you do, she’ll give a brisk nod, acknowledging all you’ve done (with her help of course.)

Edith Havens Goodrich

Even in the most private recesses of her mind, she thinks you are fabulous. Just first rate. Oh, just looking at you and who you are makes her brim with pride. Really, you are just terrific. She writes this all down in her diary noting how much pleasure it gives her to be with you, even for a moment. She hopes you can feel her confidence in you and all that you’ve set out to do in the world. She’d love to help you make your dreams come true—and she’d also love to take you to that five story toy shop and ask you, sincerely, what you would like her to buy for you today. She also looks great in hats and would be happy if you wore one in her honor. Oh, really, she gushes, you are tremendously wonderful. You know that, right?

Margaret Ireland

Growing up in a grimy mill town, it was hard for Margaret to find the beauty that she craved. You were naturally elegant, a chiseled beauty, a catch. But no man ever caught you. You weren’t going to end up pregnant every year, washing dishes and diapers, and waiting for your good-for-nothing husband to get home from drinking with the boys. You got yourself to the city and surrounded yourself with the finer things. Eventually you’d end up traveling back and forth to your beloved Paris, the main glove buyer for the fanciest department store of the era. You lost your rough-and-tumble accent, you became ever more refined and attractive, and your home was a haven of good taste, order, and loveliness. Margaret wants you to remember to take care of yourself and fill your life with joy and beauty. Light a candle. Buy the expensive sheets. Put flowers on the table. Take yourself off to Paris. You deserve it.

Elizabeth Bartlett Havens

Your husband got all the credit. His name is on the house, on the museum, and in the record books. Fair enough, he did do the actual smuggling back and forth across Long Island Sound for Washington. But did he cook the meals for the army and clean up after them? Did he listen to you when you told him not to take that stupid loyalty oath to the King? Obviously not. “What will it matter in the long run?” he said to you. “It’ll save our hides if England wins.” Men! Of course, it mattered! Your descendants would be denied membership in The Daughters of the American Revolution in perpetuity because he played both sides. All those networking teas where your grandchildren could have made invaluable connections. Lost. All that social standing. Lost. All those scholarships for your descendants. Lost. But you are used to putting on your apron and getting to work. You’ll make it all happen on your own. You’ll create the synchronicities and opportunities we need to get what we want. And you’ll ensure we don’t put our names on documents that might get us in trouble later. Just listen to her, okay? And give her some credit at the end of the day.

Lois Ellis Walker

Lois lived to 105 and had five husbands and innumerable lovers. On her 100th birthday her granddaughter found a recently published book on her bedside table, How to Supercharge Your Orgasm. Lois lived her life to the fullest. She may have began it cleaning up her murdered aunt’s remains in a shotgun shack but she worked and fought back and married her way up the social ladder until she was the most powerful woman in her whole community. If you cross her, she’ll make sure your body is dug up when you are dead and thrown out of the graveyard. If you please her, she will give you a nest egg to buy a house, start your career, go to Europe, pay for grad school, get out of that bad relationship, get into a better one. She’ll help you take care of that body and she’ll also help you enjoy it. And if you need revenge, she’s standing ready.

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This was originally shared to my paid subscribers—but as I am teaching a class (Mothers of Magic with the Shift Network) I though they might enjoy reading it and that I would share it publically. To join my Monthly Magic conversations on Zoom and receive excerpts from my upcoming books do join my paid subscribers.

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Perdita Finn is the co-founder, with her husband Clark Strand, of the feral fellowship The Way of the Rose, which inspired their book The Way of the Rose: The Radical Path of the Divine Feminine Hidden in the Rosary. They are currently at work on their next book together Circles Not Lines: Spiritual Community Beyond Patriarchy.  To find out more about her devotion to “ecology not theology” visit wayoftherose.org

In addition to extensive study with Zen masters, priests, spirit workers, and healers, she apprenticed with the psychic Susan Saxman, with whom she wrote The Reluctant Psychic. Perdita Finn now teaches popular workshops on Getting to Know the Dead. Participants are empowered to activate the miracles in their own lives with the help of their ancestors and recover their own intuitive magic. Her book Take Back the Magic: Conversations with the Unseen World is an intimate journey through her recovery of these lost ways. She speaks widely on how to collaborate with those on the other side, on the urgent necessity of a new romantic animism, and on the sobriety that emerges when we claim the long story of our souls. Her next book is The Body of My Mother.

She lives with her family in the moss-filled shadows of the Catskill Mountains.