Dreaming with Ghibli and My Grandmothers
visits from my grandmothers ☼ notes on "the boy and the heron" ☼ a gratitude check ☼ an indie mag for the socially and radically curious
my grandmothers, the boy, and the heron
Last night my grandmother Ah-Mah visited me in a dream. She was seated at a brown wooden table and we were drawing, squiggles and shapes and rays of color bursting atop a wide sheet of paper. It was important that I drew the most beautiful pattern for her, that she was surrounded by color and beauty, because that was how she would feel loved. There are things you know in dreams without thinking them. The other was that she had been struggling with something, perhaps her health, but in the end she had surpassed it. I thought she had died, but she had not, for she was here. I had said goodbye before she was ready. And I had taken home the stuffed capybara I gave her several years ago, a soft, furry friend that accompanied her in her wheelchair during the day and along her dreams at night. I felt the immediate urge to find it and give it back to her, or to give her something else that could keep her company whenever I was gone, before waking up with my fingers clenched in a cramp around a blue marker that was not there.
Both of my grandmothers have been visiting my dreams more often than usual, though usual was never and often began a couple months back. It started with a vivid dream of my grandmother Miyo sitting on a bus. I did not know that she was on the bus—did not think I knew anyone on it—until an unknown woman in a purple sweater pressed the STOP button. The driver pulled to the side of an asphalt road. It reminded me of what I think about whenever someone tells me that they are from the U.K., something akin to American suburbs minus the space, more green, a little rain and less of that air that screams NEW, NEW, NEW! Buildings with vines crawling over them because they’ve been there long enough for nature to begin its reclaim.
The lady in the purple sweater became my mom. A few shapeless faces got up from their seats as my mother yelled out, “Miyo, it's your stop,” and there she was: She rose from the aisle with the same gray wig and cotton shawls I remember her wearing. She had the same face, sweetened with wrinkles, and said goodbye to my mother and gave her a hug. I ran up to her and almost yelled the name I knew her by—Mimi!—before mumbling words I do not remember. Maybe you’re here or where are you going or wait, stunned at the image of her so close to my eyes. She told me that this was her stop. I hugged her and watched her get off.
I woke up in a pile of tears, because waking up from a dream like that just makes you want to crawl back inside of it. My dreams are vivid and rich like cream. I do not question them, for I adore them. A Google search as to why dreams can feel so real would do nothing for me. Sometimes it is better to wonder, to believe in something like magic, for when you lose the people you love most, dreams are all you have left. Our memories inspire gratitude. Dreams inspire hope.
My partner says that when we dream of a loved one who has passed away, it means that they are visiting us. Perhaps they are stopping by to say hello or helping us in a time of need, reminding us of the things we should remember, things they wished they had remembered more often and with more strength. Watching my grandmother Miyo get off of the bus made me realize that everyone has their own stop, that this is how life goes: We enjoy the ride for as long as it lasts with the people who happen to be heading the same direction until they are not. Some get off and get back on later, some get off for good, some exchange places with new friends, family, and partners.
A bus ride can be many things, though usually it is associated with the boredom of a commute, the frustration of a long ride, or the stress of getting from one spot to another. A bus ride can be lovely, if we chat with each other. Fun, if we play games. Beautiful, if we look out the window. Precious, if we remember that we each have our own stop. That the ride is not forever.
This week I watched The Boy and the Heron, Studio Ghibli’s latest film about a boy who loses his mother and is introduced to a new one—his mother’s younger sister, whom his father begins to date. In typical Miyazaki fashion, the film feels like a dream. We are thrown into alternate worlds and inspired to see beyond its laws, its unlikely friendships and complex creatures, in order to draw parallels from one world to another and understand what the protagonist is processing—for the boy, the grief of loss and the acceptance of a new future.
We lose the people we love. We lose the people we love. We lose the people we love. This is a part of life that seems scary and uncomfortable, that incites fear in most of us: the idea that we have to lose anyone to begin with. But for the most part, it seems like we have them. We have the people we love more often than not. For the boy, an awareness clicks late into the film: that he has a new mother to love, that he loves the one he lost, and that neither of those things are mutually exclusive.
Loss and love are opposite sides of the same coin.
When my grandmother Ah-Mah passed away in January, a clarity swept aside my tears the same way fresh air follows a downpour. Ideas became lucid and ripe like fruit dangling from a tree, things I could pluck and live inside: that the most important thing in life is life itself, that the best thing we can do is sit in the joy of all we have, that our duty is to love the people around us. But eventually the air grew thick and the haze returned.
The clarity of grief does not last forever. The rhythm of life thunders on and we forget to pick the fruit in the first place. I keep trying to remind myself that I am here, that I am lucky to be here, and that both of those things are true for all of us. Whether it is the sight of the side of a gray building or a woman handing me a bag of cacahuetes, everything becomes something that is missed. In the morning I look at the prints of my grandmother’s hands pinned to a frame on my wall. In the brief bright of dawn, I honor the life that she lived and acknowledge the one I am living.
These ideas are not strong enough to fix the world, but they are strong enough to help us be a part of it. Though gratitude is sold like candy these days—stamped across books and films and inadequate diagnoses for systemic problems—it is, and always has been, made of the same thing: joy, presence, and appreciation, necessary ingredients for the human spirit and its ability to persevere. Like sugar, it helps us get through harder days and magnifies the bright ones. We find things to be grateful for so we can help others do the same.
gratitude check: recent things i’m grateful for ☺
I am grateful—and trying to be—for many things. One thing that has surprised me recently is the gratitude I feel for the rain.
Rain: Mexico City is in a water crisis. Living in a city in which water is shut off at random hours every week—sometimes predictable, other times not—has magnified my relational awareness to the life force and the many functions it feeds. We need it to rain here. Most places around the world will need it to rain more. I have started to cheer when the clouds turn gray and sheets of damp scatter across the horizon, for it means that our plants are quenched and our people are saved (at least, for now).
The air changes, too. It becomes easier to breathe and sweeter to smell. The heat resides and a morning-time cool takes over—lasts the entire day. Blankets return and soups begin to boil and umbrellas pop out from the streets like dandelions. This may be the first year that I’ve realized I love the rain. I am grateful for everything it brings us.
Organic produce from Arca Tierra: Mijael and I have been ordering produce from Arca Tierra, an organic farm in Xochimilco, since the start of the year. Every time I receive a box of random vegetables, fruits, and, on occasion, regenerative meat, I feel like a kid opening a gift on Christmas. I had the privilege of visiting the farm with my family last year, where we learned about sustainable agricultural processes and farm to table systems. Since we do not have any outdoor space to grow our own produce, knowing where and how our produce is grown is something I am grateful for. I am grateful for the farmers, the people who manage the deliveries, and the soil that grows our food.
This week we received wild blueberries, which is the first appearance of the fruit in any of the boxes we’ve received. I may or may not have danced around the kitchen in celebration of their bright, tart, sweet taste. Sure, I am grateful for my friends and my family and Mijael, but THESE BLUEBERRIES!? Girl. I almost cried eating them.
Stack Magazines: This is a little secret for anyone who enjoys reading, culture, or the independent magazine as a form of art. There is a club that you can join to receive monthly independent zines from all over the world, chosen intentionally by a curator named Steve who focuses on a different theme and feel each month.
Stack Magazines has made every month feel like Christmas (I know I’ve already referenced Christmas, so I might as well confess that I started playing Christmas music last week—yes, I know that it is June, but the rainy season adds that tactile coziness that makes it not only reasonable but mandatory to play at least one winter song every now and then). Although I have become phobic of acquiring more physical items as a human being, I think Stack is a subscription I will keep for the rest of my life (at some point, I’ll have to donate old magazines, but that is something to think about for the future.). With each magazine, Steve includes a letter that details how they found it, why they chose it, and contextual info on the team behind the zine.
It is a labor of love, as is every independent magazine ever created. As is every Studio Ghibli film. As is every dream that brings you back to a loved one (look at them neurons working overtime!).
I would like all of the labors in my life to be labors of love, including the labors I put into my 9-5. Because why not? That sounds a lot more lovely, a lot more pleasant.
an indie magazine for the socially & radically curious
Last but not least, I wanted to include the most recent magazine I received from Stack—Crude Futures—because it is a piece of work that stands out from anything else I’ve ever read.
Crude Futures is a magazine focused on the art and design of collapse, how social structures, environments, and institutions disintegrate. The essays I have read so far contemplate many of the questions I’ve developed over the years, regarding the climate crisis, the genocides implicit in Western capitalism, and the why, what, and how of institutions that constitute our everyday realities (the internet, the economy, globalism). Although there are no answers, there is a semblance of clarity. It feels as if I am at a dinner party with journalists and researchers and open minds curious about the same things I am. And, to be honest, that is all I have ever wanted. ☷
With love,
Your favorite capybara ~ AKA Travis Zane
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