Family Found
On becoming Canadian and a dream-blessing from the ancestors
The vision was a road trip to British Columbia to connect with my Canadian roots and meet my mom’s extended family. To spread her ashes.
What I found in the lake-dotted plateau of the Cariboo was much deeper and more healing than anything I could have imagined.
When my mom died in late 2024, I was crushed. Not just for her passing, but for the fact that we would never reconcile. I was heartbroken for the years we spent estranged, and for the wounds that made our relationship impossible.
I learned the hard way that we are meant to grieve in community. The pain is meant to be shared. It helps to say their names and tell stories about them. We are meant to cry together.
But because estrangement had spread through my family like a cancer, I found myself grieving largely alone. Isolation proved a bitter bedfellow for grief, and I spent the winter in the depths of a psychic abyss.
Oof.
But stay with me folks. It gets better.
Last week I went to British Columbia, a trip that was only possible because of my mom’s passing. In her pain, she had blocked me from having a relationship with her siblings, and her many aunts, uncles and cousins. I suppose she thought she was protecting me. But after she passed, my relatives reached out on social media and a door opened.
“I’d like to meet you all sometime,” I wrote.
“We would love that,” replied my great aunt Sheila. “We’re gathering next summer to put the plaque for your mom on the family monument. Please come.”
Apprehension bubbled up as old wounds and fears loomed in my psyche. But my heart and spirit were determined. This is something I had always wanted: Family.
My dad’s old saying echoed in my mind: Feel the fear, and do it anyway.
So I went.
The first night of the reunion I woke at 4 in the morning. The rich, inky blue of nautical twilight reflected on the silent lake, and I closed my eyes to replay the dream:
I’m at a huge family reunion in Canada. I can clearly see the forested mountains and the cloudy skies. Passing rain showers.
Dozens and dozens of relatives and ancestors are in attendance. I ask the spirit ancestors for their permission. To talk about them, to explore the family line, to be on the land.
They grant it lovingly.
Some dreams are projections of the unconscious, some are prognosticative, others are warnings.
This dream was a visitation. A blessing.
The next day we gathered and went up the mountain to see the monument and spread my mother’s ashes. It was a homecoming, in a way, for both of us. This place my mom came from, a place that lived in me. Although I had never seen it, I felt it.
Side note: I found out in April that if you have a parent or grandparent or even great-grandparent who was born in Canada, you are a Canadian citizen by birthright. I was gobsmacked. I’m Canadian?!
I immediately started gathering the documents to prove the lineage, and the Proof of Citizenship will make it official.
But it’s more than official. It’s spiritual. Meeting my relatives, hearing the stories of our ancestors, seeing the land where they all grew up, bringing my mom home, and discovering the love and loyalty of my family, receiving the blessing from my ancestors—these are what truly make me Canadian.
“We are your family,” they said. “You come from here. Come again soon, and often. We love you.”
I never thought I would get to connect with my family in British Columbia. I had accepted that the line was broken and I had long grieved the loss.
But I’m learning that the Universe has things in store for us that we never thought possible. That timing is everything. That courage and patience are often rewarded.
I am still wrapping my head and my heart around this treasure trove.
When I got home, I dug out my notes from the training I did last summer in Colorado with Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estés, author of Women Who Run With the Wolves.
In a packed conference room on a ranch outside Loveland, Dr. E spoke to us with the deep wisdom of a cantadora, a Jungian analyst, and a poet. She said:
“Don’t lose heart. We were made for this time. We have the oars. We have the strength to do it.
The stories that live in you probably haven’t been told in 200 years.
May you dream them back… up out of your unconscious.
May you go back in time to your ancestors.
They may visit tonight. Pay attention. Write it down.
What has been erased can be reclaimed.”
Our ancestors’ stories live in us. Some of the stories make you proud, some make you shudder. But knowing where you come from and whom you come from is essential to understanding who you are and what your calling is.
Each branch on the family tree is a tributary flowing in to the great river that is you.
I’ll be a while processing this, I’m sure. But for now, I know this: My story is my ancestors’ story. And what has been erased can be reclaimed.
I love this story! What a blessing. Thank you for sharing!
So beautiful ❤️