Nearly eight years ago, I closed my eyes and summoned an image of the grandmother I never knew.
I saw her sunny kitchen, warm and comfortable as I sat on the floor, watching her feet dance from the oven to the sink, from this corner to that, busy with cooking, busy with life.
I summoned her because I wanted to know how it was possible to have a husband, children, a job, homecooked meals and handmade divinity like she did, and still be funny and persevering and passionate on top of it all. How did she live with such vigor to defy the convention of her day and graduate with a master’s degree the same year my father graduated with his bachelor’s degree? I wanted to know the identity of this woman who shared my DNA because I wanted to know more about my own identity, too.
The truth is, eight years ago, I wasn’t entirely sure. I had two young children, ages 1 and 2.5, and for the first time since the days of my childhood when I began dreaming about the profession I would one day follow, I felt my feet starting to walk down a different path. I was staring down the long mouth of the future and this new reality I was in, wondering if I could ever again belong where I began as a full-time reporter, yet knowing from the instant my daughter entered this world, it would never be the same.
I felt like I was moving into the departure lane off the freeway of what I had always known, of what I had come to call my identity — writer, reporter — to a destination I didn’t really know. That’s when I felt inspired to look to my grandmother, as a part of me wondered how it would breathe when its source of oxygen was gone.
This column came at a divinely inspired time, just as I was putting on my signal and heading over to that exit ramp. It became the lifeline that connected me to my grandmother — Fleeta Choate, who died before I was born — and to writing, and most powerfully, it connected me to you. As I told stories of my grandmother to you, it brought her life more vividly for me. Writing this column allowed me to process my own experiences through a community lens. In times of grief, or joy, or parenting bewilderment, or ancestral discovery, I knew my words could reach someone, somewhere, and give voice to their unuttered thoughts. I believed that somewhere, someone could relate to the time I failed at my 4-year-old’s birthday party or the realization I had seeing my son’s face in my grandfather’s photo or the lesson I learned when I forgot the family tent and my children actually relished sleeping under the stars.
On their own, those stories were moments in my history, but shared with you in this column, as a connection from one stranger to another in this tapestry of life, they had meaning. One of the lessons I learned from studying my grandmother’s life is that connections to people are powerful, and connections to ancestors and relatives who have gone before have the power to shape the lives of the living.
As I have told Fleeta’s story — that she was essentially orphaned in The Great Depression, had multiple miscarriages and suffered the effects of experimental anti-miscarriage medicine that ultimately caused her death from cancer, yet through it all she still she managed to be a force for good — I have wondered how much of her magnificent spirit resides in my DNA. However small that calculation may be, I’ve had the sense that the spirit of who she was is near me anyway, and it’s helped me in moments when I don’t know exactly what is coming next.
This is one of those moments. As I received news that this column would no longer be published, I again felt the oxygen leave my body, as it did nearly eight years ago when I wondered, without that lifeline, how will I breathe? This column has become so much a part of me and the way that I think, losing it feels like the human equivalent of being deleted.
And yet, if I’ve learned anything during these years it is that stories, and identity — and people — are enduring. In the process of writing this column I uncovered stories from decades before my birth — like the one of my great-grandmother who never got any housework done because she loved to write all day, or the one of my great-grandfather who paid to support all of his siblings when his parents abandoned them — that still resonate with me. Each of those stories was a gift, and every column I wrote was a privilege.
As for the question of my identity now that I can no longer say that I am a columnist for the Deseret News, I have to dig a little deeper. There is an ancient yoga teaching that warns one not to fall into the trap of “asmita,” which is the mistake of aligning your identity with the outward parts of you that are susceptible to change, from job status, to appearance, to academic prowess. The true self, deep inside, is unchanging. That is where identity lies.
As I move forward in life, that is where my focus will be. Sometimes my inner self might draw strength from the picture I see in my mind of Fleeta hurrying around that imaginary sunny kitchen, busy and happy.
Other times, I might open my eyes to see my own kitchen surrounding me. There may be dirty dishes on the counter, or the cooking of dinner is still under way, but as I move from the sink to the stove, from this corner to that, I notice my youngest son sitting on a sunny spot on the floor, happy and content, and suddenly I know what he sees.
My feet are dancing.
Amy Choate-Nielsen has been a writer for the Deseret News since 2004, and author of this bi-monthly column since February 2012.