It's been happening more frequently. It goes something like this: "What do YOU think, Abi?" I respond then head backstage. Thinking and cleaning. Constructing and reworking.
Shortly thereafter, I watch my words lifted then regurgitated. I'm not sure if I should be flattered or offended when I hear them quoted back to me (but littered with malapropisms). At least he could have conjugated the verbs. Ugh.
"Look what WE did," another says. "I'll take it from here." And he does. So I return to my place behind the scenes, calling shots and pulling strings.
Here, I sit in a back room where I can think and then think some more. I chose this place, and I like it here. I work on my time, with neither critics nor comments nor credit. Here, I clean up messes no one wants to see. I take pieces apart and put them back together. I think and then think some more. I work with discards in search of meaning. Of order. In this dingy back room, I remember what I love and why I began in the first place. Then I put my head down and do it again. And again.
But this time feels different. This feels like fire in my chest.
This is not someone else's story. No, this is my work, a voice inside screams. These are my thoughts and ideas that are being packaged up, presented, and misrepresented. This afternoon I want to hold on tight.
And yet, I know my work isn't mine only. It's not a closed fist, but rather an open palm. When I step out of the shadows and sit down to write, I'm mostly just listening. I download, play in the sun for a while, and keep coming back as long as she'll have me. So whose words are those? she asks.
From here atop this mighty high horse, it's easy to see what isn't and difficult to see what is. But when I step down and place my feet on the ground--when I close my eyes, feel the fire, and remember--a different narrative unfolds. And a burning question remains, What do YOU think, Abi?
I think there's more than enough to go around, even amid those who tear down and take so freely. I think every character plays a part and I'd love to hear from more of them. I think there are others working in back rooms, and I can't wait to see what they come up with. I think presence, patience, and love are my wheelhouse, so I will continue to give them the time they deserve and make room for them here. I think there are more important questions to ask: What can I use? How can I grow? What can I give? How can I flow? So I'll continue to ask them and listen for answers.
And when the fire comes, I'll let it burn. Then put my head down and get back to work.
14 May 2020
09 May 2020
on mom.
I've been socially distant, distracted, and I realized much too late that tomorrow is Mother's Day. Snap. Since I won't get my cards out and can't pull together a gift in time, here goes...
On mom.
There aren't enough words for this three-letter word. Moms are relentless and crucial; they're the original essential workers. The good ones can make a world of difference. And unfortunately, the bad ones can too. Simply put, moms matter. And I'm glad for the reminder each May to celebrate them.
Anita Diamant wrote in The Red Tent, "If you want to understand any woman you must first ask about her mother and then listen carefully."
Yes.
My mom WRITES ENTIRE EMAILS IN ALL CAPS and sends page-long texts with more emojis than words. She leaves long voicemails that she begins by sharing the time in our respective time zones. She remembers birthdays, anniversaries, and she continues to send care packages to my siblings and me decades after we graduated from college. Now the grandkids get them too. I can pretty much guarantee that when I go out and check the mail today, there will be a pink card with stickers and my name on it—just in time for Mother's Day.
My mom makes Jollof Rice like a boss. She smacks her gum and drives inside the lines only some of the time. She worships and prays and can spend an entire day in bible study. She walks, gardens, and loves movies. She collects magnets and mugs and still has a postcard I wrote 25 years ago. She lost her mom when she was younger than me. She's a sister to more than her sisters. She has more kids than the three she carried. She treated patients for nearly half a century, and she supports ministries and missions on a retirement income. Now in her 70s, she's learning to rest and to be.
My mom takes her time. She uses her voice, and she's unapologetically herself. I see this part of her especially in my kiddos, my siblings, and myself. She has her faults, and no, she didn't get it all right. But she nailed a lot of it. And every so often, after I cry sloppy tears over the impossible role of mother to my newborn, to my toddler, to my teenager... I get to see another side of our story.
Along the way, I've gained more moms; my kids have too. And I could fill pages with gratitude for each of these women—for the way they shine, for the things I've learned, for the way they spill over into shortcoming and gaps... It's hard to tell where one ends and the next begins. They love fervently, give generously, and they continue. As I parent my children, I look to and see glimpses of all of them.
So to my moms, my sister-moms, and my kiddos' other moms, THANK YOU. I see you, and today, I'm celebrating you. And to Abiose, the OG, you're a class act, and I love you.
Happy Mother's Day.
On mom.
There aren't enough words for this three-letter word. Moms are relentless and crucial; they're the original essential workers. The good ones can make a world of difference. And unfortunately, the bad ones can too. Simply put, moms matter. And I'm glad for the reminder each May to celebrate them.
Anita Diamant wrote in The Red Tent, "If you want to understand any woman you must first ask about her mother and then listen carefully."
Yes.
My mom WRITES ENTIRE EMAILS IN ALL CAPS and sends page-long texts with more emojis than words. She leaves long voicemails that she begins by sharing the time in our respective time zones. She remembers birthdays, anniversaries, and she continues to send care packages to my siblings and me decades after we graduated from college. Now the grandkids get them too. I can pretty much guarantee that when I go out and check the mail today, there will be a pink card with stickers and my name on it—just in time for Mother's Day.
My mom makes Jollof Rice like a boss. She smacks her gum and drives inside the lines only some of the time. She worships and prays and can spend an entire day in bible study. She walks, gardens, and loves movies. She collects magnets and mugs and still has a postcard I wrote 25 years ago. She lost her mom when she was younger than me. She's a sister to more than her sisters. She has more kids than the three she carried. She treated patients for nearly half a century, and she supports ministries and missions on a retirement income. Now in her 70s, she's learning to rest and to be.
My mom takes her time. She uses her voice, and she's unapologetically herself. I see this part of her especially in my kiddos, my siblings, and myself. She has her faults, and no, she didn't get it all right. But she nailed a lot of it. And every so often, after I cry sloppy tears over the impossible role of mother to my newborn, to my toddler, to my teenager... I get to see another side of our story.
Along the way, I've gained more moms; my kids have too. And I could fill pages with gratitude for each of these women—for the way they shine, for the things I've learned, for the way they spill over into shortcoming and gaps... It's hard to tell where one ends and the next begins. They love fervently, give generously, and they continue. As I parent my children, I look to and see glimpses of all of them.
So to my moms, my sister-moms, and my kiddos' other moms, THANK YOU. I see you, and today, I'm celebrating you. And to Abiose, the OG, you're a class act, and I love you.
Happy Mother's Day.
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