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.
28 March 2020
unmoved
I've run variations of the same loop on most days over the last five years. One mile up the big hill I live at the bottom of. Another mile across a straight away. A mile or two (or three) through the Colony and across the lagoon. Just under a mile along the street that backs the beachfront homes. Around the corner with a quick detour to the beach. Then a quarter mile back home.
This run has become second nature. It's like brushing my teeth—something I don't think much about, but come back to daily to clear my head and start my day.
Today, a lazy Saturday, I hit the road later than normal. The wind was relentless and fierce, so my pace was noticeably slow. Over and again, I wiped tears from my eyes and snot from my nose with my shirt sleeve. I had to push hard just to move and turn up the volume on my audio book in order to hear. It took a while, but eventually, I settled in and found my stride—engaged in my book, lost in thought, and pushing hard into the wind.
Three-quarters of the way down the mile-plus stretch that connects the lagoon trail to my house, I noticed a slow-moving, elderly gentleman hunched over just ahead of me. Gruffly, he picked up a large rock from the road and threw it back into a rock bed that lined the Colony entrance.
As he turned and started coming toward me, I slowed down and lifted my hand to wave (as I do with everyone I pass when I run).
"You're not supposed to be here," he barked at me and advanced with a raised fist. "This is private property."
It is.
The stretch of road, I was running on is indeed owned by a Colony I don't live in. And yet, many people who live and work in our community run, walk, and bike along both halves of this long, flat street. But now, in the days of lockdown and social isolation, the neighborhood is eerily quiet. And for reasons I can only assume, this man—my neighbor—has singled me out. Not a word in five years, but for the second time this week, he's yelled at me.
My stomach dropped, my face grew hot, and my pace quickened as I realized his fury at the rock in the road was now directed at me. Paul's words from earlier in the week came to mind and soothed me in the heat of the moment and in the split-second decision to fight or flee. "Just ignore him."
I wish I could say more about my response—that I was a beacon of light and neighborly love—but alas, no.
"Go f*ck yourself," I muttered under my breath, silently seething at this man and his audacity. Yup. Though not loud enough for the hard-of-hearing to hear, that was my neighborly response.
With boiling blood and racing thoughts, I sprinted the stretch back home. Some of the more clever retorts that came to mind as I ran included:
I simmered by the time I got home. And have had a few more hours to cool down and reflect since then. So here goes:
We're all stuck at home, trying to deal and protect ourselves. Many of us feel vulnerable, unsure, lonely, sad, afraid, bored... For some these are unwelcome and uncomfortable emotions that, like that rock in the road or that trespassing neighbor, we want to push out of the way. But pushing, hiding, hoarding, fighting, blaming—these aren’t solutions.
Dear neighbor, here's the thing—
Passersby aren’t an appropriate outlet for your feelings and frustration. You don’t get to be a jerk because of how I look or because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
If I stopped moving forward every time an old white dude told me I can't do something or that I don't belong, I would have shriveled into oblivion and died an unfortunate death long ago. But by the grace of God and for reasons that continue to unfold, I'm still here. For my peace, sanity, strength, presence, and joy, I run. And for my contribution to a story bigger than either of us, I will continue.
We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting, and contrary to what you may believe, you don't know me. And you don't know where I live. Instead of coming to me with kindness or curiosity, you came at me in judgment and contempt. That sucks.
I apologize for my own anger and fighting words, even if you couldn’t hear them. I hope you stay safe. And I hope you find the peace you undoubtedly need.
But let's be clear: Your anger and fear are yours to keep to yourself.
Whether you like it or not, we're connected. Your house is situated along my path. But I'm OK with discomfort, and I will not be moved. There's too much life in these bones, hope in this heart, and love still to be unleashed for me to give you another thought.
So I will keep on running. And you will see me tomorrow.
This run has become second nature. It's like brushing my teeth—something I don't think much about, but come back to daily to clear my head and start my day.
Today, a lazy Saturday, I hit the road later than normal. The wind was relentless and fierce, so my pace was noticeably slow. Over and again, I wiped tears from my eyes and snot from my nose with my shirt sleeve. I had to push hard just to move and turn up the volume on my audio book in order to hear. It took a while, but eventually, I settled in and found my stride—engaged in my book, lost in thought, and pushing hard into the wind.
Three-quarters of the way down the mile-plus stretch that connects the lagoon trail to my house, I noticed a slow-moving, elderly gentleman hunched over just ahead of me. Gruffly, he picked up a large rock from the road and threw it back into a rock bed that lined the Colony entrance.
As he turned and started coming toward me, I slowed down and lifted my hand to wave (as I do with everyone I pass when I run).
"You're not supposed to be here," he barked at me and advanced with a raised fist. "This is private property."
It is.
The stretch of road, I was running on is indeed owned by a Colony I don't live in. And yet, many people who live and work in our community run, walk, and bike along both halves of this long, flat street. But now, in the days of lockdown and social isolation, the neighborhood is eerily quiet. And for reasons I can only assume, this man—my neighbor—has singled me out. Not a word in five years, but for the second time this week, he's yelled at me.
My stomach dropped, my face grew hot, and my pace quickened as I realized his fury at the rock in the road was now directed at me. Paul's words from earlier in the week came to mind and soothed me in the heat of the moment and in the split-second decision to fight or flee. "Just ignore him."
I wish I could say more about my response—that I was a beacon of light and neighborly love—but alas, no.
"Go f*ck yourself," I muttered under my breath, silently seething at this man and his audacity. Yup. Though not loud enough for the hard-of-hearing to hear, that was my neighborly response.
With boiling blood and racing thoughts, I sprinted the stretch back home. Some of the more clever retorts that came to mind as I ran included:
- Get off your rocker and come stop me.
- Oh yeah? Well you'll be dead soon.
- I hope you get Coronavirus.
I simmered by the time I got home. And have had a few more hours to cool down and reflect since then. So here goes:
We're all stuck at home, trying to deal and protect ourselves. Many of us feel vulnerable, unsure, lonely, sad, afraid, bored... For some these are unwelcome and uncomfortable emotions that, like that rock in the road or that trespassing neighbor, we want to push out of the way. But pushing, hiding, hoarding, fighting, blaming—these aren’t solutions.
Dear neighbor, here's the thing—
Passersby aren’t an appropriate outlet for your feelings and frustration. You don’t get to be a jerk because of how I look or because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
If I stopped moving forward every time an old white dude told me I can't do something or that I don't belong, I would have shriveled into oblivion and died an unfortunate death long ago. But by the grace of God and for reasons that continue to unfold, I'm still here. For my peace, sanity, strength, presence, and joy, I run. And for my contribution to a story bigger than either of us, I will continue.
We haven’t had the pleasure of meeting, and contrary to what you may believe, you don't know me. And you don't know where I live. Instead of coming to me with kindness or curiosity, you came at me in judgment and contempt. That sucks.
I apologize for my own anger and fighting words, even if you couldn’t hear them. I hope you stay safe. And I hope you find the peace you undoubtedly need.
But let's be clear: Your anger and fear are yours to keep to yourself.
Whether you like it or not, we're connected. Your house is situated along my path. But I'm OK with discomfort, and I will not be moved. There's too much life in these bones, hope in this heart, and love still to be unleashed for me to give you another thought.
So I will keep on running. And you will see me tomorrow.
31 January 2020
big dog and a pickup truck
It was a cool morning. I think I must have been about 10.
I could see my breath and feel the cold of my hands beneath the warmth of my gloves. I was humming along my walk to school--lost, as I often am, in my thoughts.
I could see my breath and feel the cold of my hands beneath the warmth of my gloves. I was humming along my walk to school--lost, as I often am, in my thoughts.
A stray dog just ahead brought me back to the sidewalk.
He was angry and dark. He growled and barked at me. I don't recall who started running first--him or me. But in the biting cold of morning, he chased me.
He was angry and dark. He growled and barked at me. I don't recall who started running first--him or me. But in the biting cold of morning, he chased me.
My heart pounded and my lungs stung. With hot tears streaming down my face, I ran as hard and fast as I could. I was terrified and screaming. I ran all the way back home.
My dad was there, but he didn't understand my fear. I don't recall if or how he consoled me, but he sent me back. I had to go to school.
Reluctantly, I left my house and retraced my steps back down my street. How could he send me back?
Just then a red truck approached and pulled up beside me. I saw a friendly face inside. He handed me my backpack, which only then I realized I had dropped.
This man I didn't know drove me to school. He asked nothing in return, and I never saw him or his truck again. But in that most important moment, he mattered in a way he'll never know.
I wonder now if my dad made a mistake. I don't think so. I know he loved me like he knew how. "There's no need to cry," I'm sure he said. Then he sent me back to face the dog. He loved me like he always did--constantly reminding me that I was more than enough and I could do it. He pushed me back into the arena.
I know that's how it needs to go sometimes: I need to face my fear. And other times I need to wait a while before I get back to it. I need to run, hide, and cry hot, sloppy tears to feel OK. Even still there are times when I need help to feel safe, warm, and brave again. To feel my feelings, get back on my feet, remember who I am, and find the peace I lost along the way.
Most of the time, that's when love shows up. That day, love showed up for me in a red pickup truck.
In a random act of kindness, a perfect stranger met and cared for me. He neither rescued nor eclipsed me. But instead, he created space for me to feel safe and seen. He picked up what I dropped and returned it to me--without expectations. I don't remember what he said--he must have said something. But I certainly remember what he did and how I felt. I feel it now.
Today, love showed up for me again. In the midst of sadness and uncertainty, I came across an old, unfinished essay about a dog and a red truck. It brought me back to the page for a while, reminded me who I am and what love can do.
I know that's how it needs to go sometimes: I need to face my fear. And other times I need to wait a while before I get back to it. I need to run, hide, and cry hot, sloppy tears to feel OK. Even still there are times when I need help to feel safe, warm, and brave again. To feel my feelings, get back on my feet, remember who I am, and find the peace I lost along the way.
Most of the time, that's when love shows up. That day, love showed up for me in a red pickup truck.
In a random act of kindness, a perfect stranger met and cared for me. He neither rescued nor eclipsed me. But instead, he created space for me to feel safe and seen. He picked up what I dropped and returned it to me--without expectations. I don't remember what he said--he must have said something. But I certainly remember what he did and how I felt. I feel it now.
Today, love showed up for me again. In the midst of sadness and uncertainty, I came across an old, unfinished essay about a dog and a red truck. It brought me back to the page for a while, reminded me who I am and what love can do.
01 January 2020
three years. sixty stories.
Man, I guess I haven't written in a while.
It's a new day, new year, new decade, new font. And just a bit ago, I got cozy with my laptop and a blanket and sat down to publish my 2019 good reads list--only to discover that I failed to publish my list from 2018... or 2017. The horror! First intention for 2020: I plan to get back here more often. But for now, here's my better-late-than-never list of reads from the last third of the last decade.
And you? Surely you've read a handful of good books in the last couple years too. Recommendations? I'd love to hear them. In any case, Happy New Year. Happy reading!
It's a new day, new year, new decade, new font. And just a bit ago, I got cozy with my laptop and a blanket and sat down to publish my 2019 good reads list--only to discover that I failed to publish my list from 2018... or 2017. The horror! First intention for 2020: I plan to get back here more often. But for now, here's my better-late-than-never list of reads from the last third of the last decade.
Twenty Seventeen
- Emotionally Healthy Spirituality | P. Schizarro (2/17)
- Alexander Hamilton | R. Chernow (8/4)
- The Storyteller | J. Picoult (8/28)
- I Love You More | J. Murphy (8/29)
- Fates and Furies | L. Groff (9/5) *
- Parenting with Love and Logic | F. Cline + J. Fay (10/5)
- The 5 Love Languages of Teenagers | G. Chapman (10/20)
- Growth Hacker Marketing | R. Holiday (10/24)
- Born a Crime | T. Noah (11/19) *
- The Couple Next Door | S. Lapena (11/23)
- Hunger | R. Gay (12/16)
- Little Fires Everywhere | C. Ng (12/28)
My favorite book of 2017 was:
Twenty Eighteen
- Everything I Never Told You | C. Ng (1/7)***
- The Power of Moments | C. Heath + D. Heath (1/22)
- Daring Greatly | B. Brown (2/17)
- I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings | M. Angelou (3/11)***
- The Alchemist | P. Coehlo (3/13)
- Still Me | J. Moyes (4/8)
- The Happiness Advantage | S. Achor (5/20)
- The Four Tendencies | G. Rubin (6/11)
- The Power of Habit | C. Duhigg (4/27)
- Marketing Multiplied | Moore + Thomas (6/19)
- The One Thing | J. Papasan (7/6)
- Mom and Me and Mom | M. Angelou (7/21)***
- Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine | G. Honeyman (8/15)
- The Hate U Give | A Thomas (8/21)
- When | D. Pink (8/21)
- Love Does | B. Goff (8/27)
- The House on Mango Street | S. Cisneros (8/28)*
- Man's Search for Meaning | V. Frankl (9/17)
- The Conscious Parent | S. Tsabary (9/25)
- The 1-Page Marketing Plan | A. Dib (10/7)*
- I Can't Make This Up | K. Hart (10/20)*
- Talking as Fast as I Can | L. Graham (10/15)
- Why Not Me | M. Kaling (10/27)
- Crazy Rich Asians | K. Kwan (11/15)
- Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me | M. Kaling (11/19)
- China Rich Girlfriend | K. Kwan (12/4)
- To Shake the Sleeping Self | J. Jenkins (12/19) *
My favorite book of 2018 was:
Twenty Nineteen
- Rich People Problems | K. Kwan (1/10)
- The Awakened Family | S. Tsabary (2/2)
- Just This | R. Rohr (2/16)
- Love Wins | R. Bell (2/23)
- Becoming | M. Obama (4/13)*
- A People's History of the United States | H. Zinn (4/24)*
- You Can't Touch My Hair | P. Robinson (4/29)*
- The Dance of the Dissident Daughter | S. Kidd (5/12)
- Atomic Habits | J. Clear (5/14)
- A New Earth | E. Tolle (6/16)**
- Normal People | S. Rooney (6/28)
- Marriageology | B. Luscombe (7/1)
- The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks | R. Skloot (7/30)*
- The Untethered Soul | M. Singer (7/31)*
- The Enneagram | R. Rohr + A Ebert (8/5)
- Dare to Lead | B. Brown (8/11)
- Untangled | L. Damour (8/17)*
- Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Fat Girl | M. Awad (10/31)
- Give and Take | A. Grant (11/23)
- Where the Crawdads Sing | D. Owen (11/29)*
- Tell Me More | K. Corrigan (12/28)*
And my favorite book of 2019 was:
And you? Surely you've read a handful of good books in the last couple years too. Recommendations? I'd love to hear them. In any case, Happy New Year. Happy reading!
10 September 2018
enough
Not poised enough
Not polished enough
Not posting enough
Not smallish enough
Not smart enough
Not witty enough
Not woke enough
Not pretty enough
Not thin enough
Not stacked enough
Not Island enough
Not black enough
Not patient enough
Not kind enough
Not righteous enough
Not refined enough
Not silent enough
Not psyched enough
Not social enough
Not liked enough
Not seasoned enough
Not paid enough
Not compelling enough
Not portrayed enough
Not swank enough
Not thanked enough
Not fall-in-rank enough
Not fill-in-the-blank enough
Not soft enough
Not tough enough
Not enough enough
Not…
Enough.
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