What had to happen for you to be here?
On ancestors, time, and the thinning veil.
I was sitting in my hammock the other day, listening to the wind pick up power and whip through the leaves that still remain on the trees. They were falling to the ground in big sweeps—forces of yellow twirling towards the earth and ricocheting off the sides of houses.
I stretched my legs and looked down. And for some reason, I was taken aback to consider: whose legs are these?
Back up with me for a sec. I know they’re mine, literally.
But really: where did they come from?
Which great-great-grandmother walked through this same world on these very same legs? What brought her peace? What regrets or unfulfilled dreams did she die carrying?
There are so many ways I feel afraid to show up in the world. It’s so unfair that I must do things like leave the house, earn money to live, and say “you too!” when the waiter tells me to enjoy my meal.
But when I look at those who came before me, I can see where my own dreams first got their beginnings.
Like the generations of businessmen who struck out on their own on my mom’s side, even during war and the Great Depression. Or the whole branch of the family tree that funneled into the clergy, where they dedicated their lives to spiritual pursuits. And artists—so many artists.
Like my maternal grandfather’s brother, an accomplished painter who died after falling off a bridge in Italy. His work still hangs in my parent’s dining room. Or my paternal grandmother Selma, who’s given me drawers full of her hand-sewn creations, including a slinky evening gown and a 70s halter top printed with sailboats.
What I’m trying to say is: it can be scary to look forward. I think that’s because it’s so easy to feel all alone—as if I’m standing on a cliff looking down into the abyss.
So it helps to look behind me and see all the hands and feet that have toiled to get me to this point. The one in a billion probability that would put me here on this earth, at this time, with access to these resources.
Which isn’t to say it’s easy. I don’t need to tell you that we live in a broken, sick world. But maybe like me, you need reminding that in some ways, it is so much less sick and broken than many iterations before it.
So how do we remain thankful for this chance to be here, while still demanding something better out of our future?
I think about the seashells my late grandmother collected, each smaller than a nickel. She painted them with clear nail polish so they’d always shine from the windowsill overlooking the backyard.
I think about my late uncle, whose rough edges disappeared when he’d gingerly dip shrimp into tempura batter, frying them to a crisp as we sat like baby birds around the kitchen counter.
I think about the ways my family who came before me found beauty while they were on this planet. It’s all I can hope for, to do the same.
Reality feels especially fragile right now in the US, as election season is upon us. It helps to look back at all the people—in particular the women—who came before me, who gave life to my ancestors so that I would one day be born and be able to choose my own calling and follow it to the very end.
I imagine how my great-great-great-great-great-great-grandmother would feel to see me working for myself, making a career out of my words, paying my bills with my creative skills.
Through a certain lens, nothing looks good. Our society is moving towards collapse every day.
Through a different lens, to be here in and of itself is nothing short of a miracle.
Many years ago, some woman with my same blood walked this same planet on these same legs.
Her footsteps stretch behind me like a path through the generations, urging me forward. And so, I walk onward too—carrying her dreams and my own, laying down stones for a future she once dreamed of but couldn’t yet see.
I am here because she was here. Perhaps someday, someone in the future will stand on these same legs, look back, and feel the strength of my steps guiding them forward.
Honey’s Toolbox is your weekly go-to for filling your creative cup and putting your ideas into action—from prompts to spark your imagination to gentle nudges that get you moving. Grab a few tools my friend, it’s time to start tinkering alongside your creative spirit.
1. Investigate your ancestors
I found the Ancestry.com tree my brother made his pet project during the early days of the pandemic. He had collected over 600 individuals spanning back to the 1500s. Not going to lie—seeing my great-grandfather’s Ellis Island paperwork made me weep.
Here’s my advice: find an ancestry service with a free trial and go all in. According to my brother, the easiest way to build your tree is to focus on moving backwards as quickly as you can—the farther you go back, the more you’ll connect to other people’s family trees, which will unlock more recent ancestors.
***
2. Journal under the New Moon in Scorpio
New Moon in Scorpio today, November 1st—and the veil between worlds is thinner than ever. It’s a powerful time to feel the presence of those who came before us—their dreams, resilience, and wisdom woven into our lives. With Scorpio’s depth and daring, this is a chance to give thanks for their gifts and to set bold intentions, calling in the transformations that ripple out beyond ourselves.
This New Moon, I’m considering:
What lessons or qualities have I inherited from my ancestors that have shaped who I am today?
If I could sit with an ancestor for guidance tonight, what would I ask them? What wisdom do I sense they would offer me in this moment?
What do I wish to leave as a legacy for those who will come after me? What seeds can I plant today that might bloom for future generations?
***
3. Watch an old school scary movie
Modern scary movies are just too much for me. I don’t want the guts and the gore. I want some classic spooks that’ll still let me fall asleep at night. If you’re a fellow scaredy-cat, might I recommend:
The Thing for chilly Antarctic vibes
The Fog for immaculate Pacific Northwest coast vibes
The Lost Boys for immaculate PNW vibes and vampires
That’s all for now.
Talk soon,
Katie
I love The Lost Boys - it's one of my dad's favorites, too.