My grandmother was born on the Spring Equinox of 1925. The first Aries of many to love me unconditionally. It’s funny, both of my grandmothers ooze artistic ability, both so arty and crafty, but this grandmother, my paternal grandma, would never in a million years call herself an artist. She would call herself crafty and fidgety and impatient. Her hands always had to be moving. She would say her husband was the artistic one, creative, intellectual. He had the patience to write and draw.

He taught me anything my little mind could absorb, from how to change spark plugs to swimming in the open ocean. From running a ban saw to understanding barometric pressure. He was a Gemini, as am I, so it was natural for me to keep up with his multifaceted interests. They made such a great artistic team, they were always working on projects together. They weren’t the kind of people to put much stock in astrology, but they are still my first example of the magical Aries/Gemini dynamic. Both were born on farms and neither went to college.

The night before I found out that I was accepted into a master’s program I dreamt about my grandmother. She passed away the summer before last and I don’t dream about her often. My grandma had a thing for eggs. She loved to decorate for Easter. She came up with this idea to crisscross wrap embroidery thread over a ballon and then dip it in sugar water to crystallize and harden, then pop the balloon, resulting in this structurally sound net egg. All different pastel colors, she would decorate them with ribbon and fill them with goodies. At this time of the year, early March, the house would be full of eggs in the hardening stage, balloons still intact. Like really pretty alien pods just waiting to hatch. I would sit and blow up balloon after balloon for her. I was the “air” supply in her operation, I could get them to be just the right size, though I never could tie them correctly. I looked forward to popping day, which was usually close to her birthday. She would check the stiffness of the thread and if it was sufficient, I got the go ahead to pierce the balloon with a pin. As she got older, she would turn off her hearing aid for popping day.

This was the setting of my dream that Thursday morning. In the dream I was in my 40’s. I know because I felt older, more calm, wiser, and I saw my reflection in the hallway mirror of her house, I had more laugh lines and the curls at my temples were swirled with sparkly silver. There was no talking, just the sounds of balloons popping and her clear blue eyes. Her eyes never diminished as she aged, never had the rheumy gaze, no cataracts, no confusion, deep sparkling blue.

When I woke up from the popping sounds of my dream, my grandmother was still staring me in the eye. It was that piercing blue determination she had: I am going to do this so that you can do it better. Get up Airial, make me proud, dress your sons in clean clothes, feed them a good breakfast, sing to them in your laughing off key harmony, get them to school on time. The rent may be late and you feel alone, but you are my granddaughter and you are amazing. Because I had not been feeling amazing; I was feeling afraid when I went to sleep the night before. Afraid I was wrong, about everything. Wrong to hope, wrong to ask for more. Wrong to look around me and say, “Nope, this is just not enough,” and believe when my friends assured me that I can do better.

The time between my grandparents birthdays March and May, my grandmother was older than my grandfather. He would tease and say he had a thing for older women. He would also say the getting old was Hell for men, but women, they just get better. Proof, he said, that even the random molecules of the universe had good taste. He passed away 5 years ago now. I wonder what he would say about the area of studies I am pursuing? I imagine he would be thrilled, but would not ask too many questions. “Human Sexuality? Human sexuality?” I can hear him repeating it with different stresses: first with the sexuality stressed, then again with the human being accentuated. “Now, why do we need to study that? We already know all about it.” I imagine myself offering up an answer in the most geeky, nerdiest way possible but him putting up his hands pleading with me not to finish the answer, “No, no, I’m sure if you think it’s important, it’s worth looking into,” and then turning back to the Weather Channel. That man loved the Weather Channel. You can force the farmer off the farm, but unseasonable cooling patterns are a worry forever.

Here is how duality works in my life: I was wrong about everything, which means I was right about everything. I worked really hard to be where I was, and when I got there, I found out I needed to be somewhere else. The recognition that change needs to happen is scary. The execution of that change requires a lot of support. I am grateful to say that the result of the process is a feeling of acceptance and belonging that exceeds the discomfort. I am pretty sure my grandparents taught me that. But it is easy to forget their wisdom while in the thick of it. So having people to encourage, validate, witness and demand that I take those risks, right now, this very moment is invaluable.

Spring is the season where the most change takes place for me. My summer will look nothing like the winter that just passed and we still have many weeks until the Solstice. And my mind is filled with the sounds of balloons popping.