It is full moon tonight. It was long to rise and I’ve come out twice to look for it, before I noticed it, partly covered by the thick branches of the tall fir in the neighbours front yard. It was pale yellow, shiny and beautiful. I’ve been thinking about the moon all day, trying to tune into my mood and emotions. In the end, it’s probably what made all the difference: it was like a day-long breathing excercise. Be kind, take it slow, walk away from the triggers, take a walk. I am listening to Margaret Renks on my walks and this itself is the best anti-anxiety remedy I could find.

I have noticed the first green sprouts of spring garden flowers peeking through the mulch in the front yard that I remember for its annual spring display of flowers. I have noticed the red buds in clusters on the branches of two old trees. I try to remember which trees, so I can identify them once the leaves are out. I am also obsessing over a bird song I hear every morning and evening, when I go to pick up the kids. Thus, five years since I moved to the town, I am learning the land, its habits and its inhabitants.

I think my grandmother would know the names of the birds and the trees. I am thinking about her today, since it’s the full moon and in the Hadenausaunnee traditions, the moon is our Grandmother. I am thinking of everything my grandmother taught me, although I was too young and careless to learn. I am learning it now through my memories. My grandmother taught me singing. Since I am lacking talent to actually sing, she taught me to perform and have confidence. When we went to her dacha (a tiny plot of land on the outskirts of the city with a ramshackle one-room cabin and a toilet outside) she would gather all our neighbours and ask me to perform. I could sing (very out of tune), declare poetry or act – everything went with the appreciative neighbours crowd.

My grandmother taught me to love tulips and peonies and everything that grows in every season. Her garden was full of flowers, despite the shade from the trees. My grandmother was able to grow almost any fruit, vegetable, berry or flower.

My grandmother loved birds and cats, although these two loves seem incompatible. Kyiv has pigeons and stray cats in abundance. Every day, my grandmother would lay out a feast for both species: grain and soaked bread for pigeons on the windowsills, food scraps for cats under the window. She had special containers to keep those food scraps.

My grandmother taught me waiting. I would come to visit her from time to time, mostly out of obligation, because at that age I didn’t appreciate the privilege of being able to speak to my grandmother, who survived a genocide and lived through a world war and still remained simple and kind, never complaining. She always waited for me. When my father had his accident, we didn’t tell his parents. The grandfather was still alive, but he had a weak heart after four infarctus, so we preferred to lie. Now I understand that it caused them pain, not knowing why their youngest son disappeared so suddenly, why he called so rarely (back then my dad didn’t even have enough money for regular calls), why he never came back. My grandmother waited for him until the end. In the end, after grandfather died and my grandmother succumbed to dementia, she started waiting for her husband. She would say: “Misha will come back from the market in a minute.”

And spring, she always waited for spring, always. I don’t know for sure, but I think that spring was her favourite time of year. When she spoke about death, she used to say that she didn’t want to die in winter, she would wait for spring. To my shame, I do not remember the exact date of my grandmother’s death. But I think it was in spring. I remember getting the news from my mom and crying and saying “at least she made it to spring.”

I don’t know if I believe in heaven and hell anymore, but I do believe in joining my ancestors one day and I am looking forward to seeing my grandmother and meeting my other grandmother who died before I was born. I am looking forward to finally knowing and understanding who I am and where I come from.