A Movement in Every Direction: Legacies of the Great Migration

I recently had the privilege to be one of the first people to experience an exhibit at the Mississippi Museum of Art, in Jackson, MS. Intrigued, excited, curious to learn more, I accepted the invitation and hit the road. The entire exhibit left me speechless. 

The Great Migration had its first beginnings in 1915. A mass exodus of Black Americans from the South to the North, East, West sparked cultural revolutions and brought along series of histories and ancestral stories that have continued to contribute to the generations today. Many are steeped in heartbreak, tragedy, pain, confusion. Homes wrenched and torn apart, individuals and full communities terrorized by Jim Crow laws, lynchings, and systemic racism. Yet still then, even there, life still found a way. Beautiful stories emerged, new lives and reawakenings were grasped onto. Land was bought and roots were planted, family grown in a new era. 

For “A Movement in Every Direction: Legacies of the Great Migration,” 12 Black artists were given space and time to think about the lasting impact that the Great Migration had on the generations in their family, and also themselves. Familial research, conversations, access to archives led to previously unknown family histories, emotional digging and creative interpretation. 

The exhibit is stunning, overwhelming. None of these are my story to tell, only to share that you need to hear them, see, experience. I went in to be curious, soak in, learn from them in a classroom different than the desked walls of our youth. 

I got emotional, as one does. The one that got me was a series of letters and photographs from Larry W. Cook, his exploring of intergenerational fatherhood, and the impact of leaving. The line, “I needed you then and I need you now,” ripped my heart. I attempted to go find a quiet corner to wipe my tears and stumbled into the Carrie Mae Weems exhibit, her video installation of the story of her great grandfather who was attacked by a white mob, left for dead, escaped and his journey of following the North Star to Chicago, and how his leaving affected the entire family and generations to follow.

The genius, beauty, and haunting 3 part video series, A House Called Florida, by Allison Janae Hamilton, had me mesmerized, entranced with her portrayal of social, political and environmental issues captured in a surrealist imagery. 

And so many more. But I need you to go immerse yourself, once again, these are not my stories to tell. 

Each one had me in its clutches, losing time, eyes imploring over every detail and taking in each part of the story. Somewhere I could keep going back to and spending hours. Stories so varied from my own, my heart breaking as an empath only being able to imagine the emotional and continued cost. 

Before December, I had never heard of the Great Migration. Maybe it had been spoken about during a history class, but the gloss over was apparent. An entire section of history has opened, with resources available and stories told in achingly beautiful ways. 

Make a trip to Jackson, MS. Go to the MMA, visit its other museums, eat at the local restaurants and find a souvenir from a local shop or artisan. Make history move. 

ON FINDING A JOURNAL FROM 17

A journal entry from age 17. 

I sank to my knees. With each syllable, tears sprang to my eyes, so by the end the dam of emotion spilled over onto my cheeks, down my neck, cascading down my chest. Rivers of revealed devastation. 

 May 8, 2009

“Garrett (my brother) did very well at his track meet today, taking 1st in the long jump and the 400. I am so proud of him, he’s really starting to hit his stride. But I hate that I also can’t help to think about myself. I’m a failure. I’ve done nothing and it even feels like my horse training sucks and I’m not doing anything special with them. Garrett’s amazing at guitar, singing, track, cross country, has so many friends and girls always swooning over him, and I’m basically doing nothing. Once again, he’s the star and I’m just…his fan. I mean, what can I say I’ve done? I’m good at getting in car accidents and having surgeries and up-ending everyone’s lives and getting sick and causing trouble. Everyone has some kind of claim to fame in this family and compared to the rest of my siblings I’m just taking up useless space. I feel so gray, so boring and unachievable. I’m not jealous of Garrett, I just wish I had my own thing that I totally dominated, but it seems like everything I do and try is a losing battle, even with my horses it’s hard because of my injuries and I can’t stay consistent enough to get them to their potential. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll just be that loser sibling who never actually does anything. I feel sad. I feel sorry for everyone putting up with me. I hate pity and I feel like everyone pities me right now. Like, “she’s the Wolle always getting hurt and going to doctors and troubling her family”. Probably being dramatic, but that’s how it feels. I wish I could see into the future.”

Every cell in my body held its breath. Each vein in my heart was ripped and shredded. I have always had a perfectionism streak, a weird juxtaposition of being the oldest twin and youngest duo of the family. Growing up with a range of interests, yet nothing felt like it was mine to own except my horses, that of course was marred by a car accident. I was so harsh and severe with myself. A baby and felt like a failure for supposedly not having dominated something. So much despair. My poor, sweet girl. To grab her face, pull her to this year. Sit her down and have a powerpoint presentation. Smooth the worry lines in her forehead that I still carry. Tell her to soften. I want to release her from the comparison and mental games, the dangerous thoughts that come and go and sometimes stay longer than is healthy. To release her from feeling like she has to fit in and belong anywhere, that we end up creating that belonging and sense of home wherever we go. 

And I think it’s so triggering, because in my heart there are new ways that I still believe those same things, right? How have the circumstances shifted but my thoughts have remained the same? When I turn 40, what will I think while perusing my journals from year, age 30? I do acknowledge that I am quite a bit wordier now, so I will probably be breathing through and going, “oh my god get to the point, but….wow”. I hope I don’t have as much blinding me, paralysis of decision making, a block meaning I’m unable to see the beauty and unique perspectives, forgetting to live in the moments while I have them. I fight for it every day, am better about it now, but in what ways am I still that 17 yr old? 

Therapy has garnered healing inner child wounds, however, it feels like we haven’t made it that far, as much as I’ve gone. Thinking of getting to age 17 seems daunting, even getting into my 20’s feels insurmountable when there is so much to work with early on. My other childhood journals are back at my parent’s house and honestly, I am so thankful for that. I might never have been able to find my way back from that rabbit hole. 

How do we heal these wounds within us? Some so subtle we forgot they were there, hidden beneath layers and layers of scar tissue, glossed over and forgotten because of more adult items and situations. Acknowledging, going back, holding yourself at that age, asking what you needed and giving it to them, looking around now and opening your eyes to how you still keep those patterns in play. What do you need to do to make changes, to release. 

What are some ways the 17 year old version of you is still active in your life? Do they come out in romantic relationships, work situations, friendships? Do you see yourself through their eyes, still as 17 and craving so much more? The teenage film covering all of the amazing things you have done and experienced? 

I saw this TikTok about saving a compliment from a boss for a “work folder” to use then when asking for a promotion. Now I think I have to start a “Badass Folder”, where I save pictures or texts or things that I’ve done, from cool friend hangs, adventures, to work stuff and trips, etc, for the bad days, the gray, to look through the folder and remind myself/us where we’ve been, what we’ve done.

Because, baby, look at us go. 

Happy Valentine's Day

Happy Valentine’s Day 🖤 whether you are in a relationship, single, middle ground purgatory or simply complicated (le sigh), I really hope you savor the day. I mean, every day, but this day is a good reset for remembering to do it on the daily.

As a romantic person who has had a closed door on romantic love for, well basically forever, I knew quickly, young, that if I wanted those experiences I would have to do them myself. Hopefully with a partner one day, but if I had waited for that specific relationship to do anything in my life, I wouldn’t be here.

That’s why you see me being ridiculous on a Tuesday lunch, a cocktail at night, elaborations instead of quick and convenient. Cigars outside for hours to let the mind wander to the vast galaxies in my mind. I want the seconds to last longer and moments to fill my body until it overflows. Make the table. Invite the friends. Take the trip. Buy yourself flowers. Hike to the waterfall. Chase the sun. Read for hours in bed and run the goddamn bath. Follow the pings, that intuition. Make and do the things for yourself that you want to do with someone.

Say the things to the people when you feel them. Be scared and let them in anyway. Lick the wounds and embroider the scar when your light reveals the shadows they’re not ready to work through. Love your community. Let them love you. As much as it makes you want to vomit, keep your bleeding, bruised, godforsaken heart open. Make your life the one you’ve always wanted to live. And love anyway

The Houses that Built You

I am writing this alone, in the woods, sitting upon the remains of a once warm and active hearth. A forgotten homestead, its walls non-existent, the only nod to days past is the outline of a foundation and the brick fireplace, along with what I am sure are active ghosts.

As I trace my footsteps along the perimeter of what once was, glimpses of what it had been keep rising to my conscious, filtering in with reality. It is here. It is here because someone had the dream and vision for it. It is here because someone took what they had and made it into a physical object. Now, due to circumstances or situations, bones remain where walls once stood, memories have been passed down through generations or maybe they too, have been laid to rest alongside their hosts.

But the courage to build it stays.

This made me think humans in terms of houses. The houses we build, friendships, projects, or own internal awareness, houses built for love, adventure, care, healing. The house we present today, as now, maybe it’s brand new, paint still drying, perfect lighting, shiny appliances. I like this house, am excited for you to walk me through it, giving me the guided tour of all the things learned and seen. Yet, I want to see more. Not the finished basement or the four car garage, I want to see the remnants of the houses that have burned to the ground, the ones you have abandoned in parts of town no one goes. Show me the shaky foundations or the walls you took sledgehammers and the beams that crashed when everything fell apart.

I want to see the charred remains of the houses you have been, the homes you have built for other people. Because the house you are building now? It will all make sense. Why you chose the oak over the cherry, the brass pulls instead of the silver. The fenced in yard versus the open back that butts up to the forest. To know you now means more when I know your past. I want to revel in the houses you can’t wait to show me, that you are so proud of, as well as the ones you left condemned.

I want people in my life who have started over and over again. Rebuilding over and over again what they thought they knew and becoming who they are meant to be.

I want to know a thousand structures of you.

Stolen Moments

This post had me writing late last night, unable to sleep, beats pumping through the pathways in my body. It feels like these little electrical pulses that radiate through to my hands, at the same time making me feel strangely powerful and also concerned about my circulation. The hum? Has anyone else felt that? An energy moving that has to be explored and it won’t let you rest until it manifests. This gentle ebbing of something needing to break the shoreline, crash into the rocks and ignite upward.

I’ve been deep diving into vintage photographs recently, mainly due to discovering the trove of vintage National Geographic archives on Pinterest. Something I grew up on, the rare treat my parents actually bought and the stacks that lined our shelves, certain issues dog-eared, coffee stained, what the pages contained setting free imagination, yearning for foreign lands and strangers, exotic cultures and customs. But there’s also something else to the photographs, it stirs something, breathes something..

Pictures mean a lot to me, yet while my friends have been able to grind past the barrier, I’ve rarely let lovers or boyfriends take pictures of me. Like, regular pictures, no nudes or sexy-ness (sorry if that’s disappointing). It’s happened occasionally but even now I cringe thinking they have those memories on their phone (or maybe not and I’m being super vain). I keep trying to dig into the meaning and background of this and don’t worry, my dear therapist who is probably reading this, we’ll be talking about this as soon as we finish EMDR on that other thing. I choke, freeze, turn into the most awkward object in the room and feel like something is being stolen from me, without permission. Maybe it’s because I knew that we would never last or it was a passing fling, maybe it’s because there are legit only 5 photographers in the world that I actually trust to take my picture. But it makes for the innocent, relaxed, uncensured moments to be few and far between. The stolen moments where we aren’t faced with the split second decision to be real or a manicured version of ourselves.

It’s so strange. There is Native American folklore about pictures that also share similar thoughts with mirrors. Certain tribes (specifically from the Great Plains) believed that to let your picture be taken, that meant your soul was stolen by the camera and it disrespected the spirit world. So they were terrified when the white settlers started rolling through with cameras and wanting to document. Eventually though, they came to view photographs as cherished possessions and ancestral heritage.

It does, though, capture a part of your spirit, and soul. It captures you in a moment either of vulnerability, of happiness, perhaps caught off-guard and unprepared or inviting because you want your image captured.

But I see these pictures and they make my heart ache. I want to know everything, I want to be there with them, I want to know what they were talking about, loving, hating, worrying, what stirred them with passion and what left them wondering. Because, inevitably, most of these humans captured are either gone from this world or older and in a phase of life that is in a different realm. And, you never know. You never know the last time you are going to see someone or experience something with them.

And I am living in the era of the magazine, I’m in the era of vacations with friends and a body that usually cooperates (minus past injuries but hey, can still ski, barely). Pre Covid, hopefully soon somewhat post, the dinner parties and birthdays and days at the lake, the nights at the bowling alley, the bars we haunted and the land we ran across to the lakes we skinny dipped in. They were living for the time and memories, not the picture, not the gram. It happened to be captured, it wasn’t captured to say that it happened. They didn’t take the picture and then stop what they were doing to post about it, something that I’m quite guilty of doing, although I try to be cognizant of those kinds of actions.

What happened to living and not simply existing, existing to post or show a perfect life. To not immediately looking at the angle of my thighs or the bend in my arm, correcting immediately to take five more pictures and choosing one minutely distinct from the rest. I want to talk about the things that matter and don’t, to talk about memories of past trips and upcoming events, theories of the universe and stories of the sky. What is inspiring and dumbfounding, boils our blood and stupefies us in wonder. To be so curious about something to go there without a perfectly planned trip or itinerary and least of all, cell service. When did we, when did I, stop living like that.

But, I do want the pictures to remember it. To recall the times when my body was young and nubile, my cares were less and laughter came easy. When the get-up-and-go was simple and awe was easily attainable. When my worn, wrinkled and sun leathered hands pick up the picture of my girlfriends and I, flashes of the dance parties, awkward encounters, beautiful meals, shared moments and the stunning joy of youth plays through my mind like an old movie reel.

I’ll get lost in a daze, the summer nights that felt endless, cigar smoke blowing, laughter ringing, drinks sloshing, and the conversation flowing like honey. Closing my eyes to the sound of my friends voices, both comforting and devastating. That velvet humidity slipping over my skin like a dip into water, the honeysuckle riding the occasional breeze like a perfume accompanying Mother Nature gliding through the door.

I don’t really have pictures from those nights, or many nights and days. I do want them though. Even just one. One picture. To fill the albums my daughters and granddaughters will comb through one day, looking for evidence that I was once like them. I will slyly tell them stories of past lives, as they get older adding more details and audaciousness, maybe even causing a gasp or two. I’ll smile because for the boundaries and barriers, the things and rules that I held onto for too long, thank god there were times I just didn’t.

Let your spirit be stolen, just for a moment. Then let it free again.

love your life

“your life. love it. from the hurt to the wonder. from the bone to the flower. love it. with everything you’ve got. it’s yours.” - Nayyirah Waheed

Many people see what I post and think my life is this beautiful, carefree, magazine editorial full of stunning dinners and beautiful art, and it is. I love my life. I love what I’ve created and the collisions of beautiful circumstances that has led to the humans who are my loves and community and friends. But I also choose to love my life. Because it’s full of dark, trauma, scratching to survive and pulling myself up from the depths of things I thought I might never recover from. I’ve been exhausted since the day I was born. My life is beautiful, because I know the other side. If you’re jealous, know that I work every day. Infants have more money in their bank accounts because everything I have I pour back into my business or collaborations or friends. I haven’t shut off my email or not worked on a trip or vacation in 3 years. Networking, promoting, dreaming and scheming is constant for all aspects of my jobs. At the end of the day, I have no one to rely on, my parents don’t financially support (as they shouldn’t) or partner who has a stable job or health insurance where if my own work falls away it’s ok because there is backup. My life has never been safe or secure.

But I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ve always had that insatiable feeling that has me running towards it, towards more and knowing I’m creating something more. Chase the light. Creating it.

So, love your life. Love the way your sheets feel as you crawl into bed, the way the light filters through your bathroom window. Love the way therapy wrecked you this week or the hard decision you had to make for your family. Love delving into the dark depths you keep shutting away so that the light can shine brighter. Love the fact you can leave your desk job at 5pm on Friday and not think about it until Monday morning, or the way you work on your passion project every chance you get. Love letting yourself play, create to create. Love your life. It’s yours.

Beneath.

The water called, like the siren myths of sailor lore past. Beckoning me with this overwhelming need to slip beneath the silky surface, to wash away the parts which were no longer serving, those parts that had been breaking the skin already and needed this last bit of effort to fall free.

So I went down to the water.

Fear pricked the back of my neck as I stood staring at the dark, unknown body. Not unlike times I have stared into the mirror, not recognizing who lay beneath the blue waves of my own eyes. Fearful to go past the surface, to ask the questions, to wonder out loud, to declare. Because the things I wanted to say didn’t sit well with my upbringing and that’s what happens “when you let girls go off to the city”, the ones who go before us are portrayed as weak and suggest-able and, “come back with all these ideas in their heads”.

I love the ideas in my head. I love the friends and encounters who have put them there and am grateful for the bad experiences who have too. When I say “no”, it carries weight and when I say “yes”, it paves the way. When I make a decision based on the right things instead of what people will think, that’s my being “high and mighty”, but maybe I don’t want to be shackled to the minute ideas in other people’s heads.

So. I slipped beneath. It terrifies me, that outward action of an inner war, fought valiantly maybe not even well, never far from peripheral. Letting the surface close over your face like a funeral shroud. There was a time when I was scared of never letting myself break the surface and see the light again. The reason I am always chasing. Chasing the light so I don’t commit the mistake of thinking I don’t deserve it.

I thought of all the monsters swimming around me in the lake. The slippery serpents that darted between my ankles and poked at my calves. The ones that lay in wait underneath the boulders that darted the path and the toothy grinned demons that wanted me to swim, further into the deep so they could take me to the bottom in one fell swoop.

I slipped beneath the surface.

The seaweed slid around my ankles, reminding me of the chains I’m breaking free from. The darting kisses from sunnies around my legs tickled and made me laugh. The boulders tripped us and I couldn’t blame the fake monsters for sticking out their legs in jest. And the thing saying not to swim further is the lie in my head that’s scared of expansion and change and vulnerability, because what if it doesn’t work. But what if it does and instead of a tiny lake holding me hostage I’ve found that I can swim in the middle of the entire ocean.

Photography: Ashtin Paige

In response. A memoir.

Sean. Sorry for the long delay but since I’ve had a busy day of hustling (what you have to do when you won’t “just pick a guy to settle down and marry to take care of you”). But I wanted to really see what you were saying and respond, not react, in a respectful and gracious manner after your responses to my sharing of the Gillette Ad on Toxic Masculinity, and interpret my use of emoji of course and if Tennessee if fueling my seemingly man hating feminism.

The fact that you see feminism as male hating is sad and part of the problem. The feminists I know aren’t male hating and a lot of them are men as well. The ones who are married or dating are in some of the most healthy relationships I’ve witnessed and their friendship in kind emulates a healthy and mutual respect for both parties. I love, respect and find great friendships with male friends. I’d love to marry a man some day. They are intuitive, intelligent, caring, empowering and loving. But feminism isn’t about hating on the male gender, it’s about fighting for equal rights and opportunities for women. It’s fighting for the woman whose husband won’t let her get a job even though she wants to work and needs that outlet, it’s for the woman who makes 19% less than her male counterparts and who “works harder because she has to prove herself more” – an actual quote from the CEO of a company I was talking to. Being able to choose between working, staying home with their children or doing both. Having an equal household. Being able to wear what you want without being judged. Empowering instead of tearing down. I was raised around great male figures (so lucky) but also have experienced first hand and witnessed the repercussions when a male has had less than stellar examples for how to treat a woman, or even when they seem to be “raised the right way” and use that as an excuse or an advantage. How many “Christian” guys I’ve gone out with who claimed their faith as “so important” when then expecting something else “so important” and throwing a temper tantrum when I said no. The thinking that because a girl is wearing a tank top or shorts means she’s asking to get hit on or raped. Listen, my favorite fashion genre is Elevated Amish and you should have heard some of the things I’ve been told and I absolutely refuse to take the crushing responsibility for an entire gender’s thoughts and actions on the thought that my appearance makes them think and do things that are sins but instead of it being on them, it’s my fault for being who I am and those ill fitting grey pants I got at Goodwill really turn a random guy on but it’s not his fault because I’m the one who chose to wear them. Hard pass.

When, after going on a few DATES and corresponding back and forth,  “Dan” told me that after we got married I was going to stay at home with the kids where I belonged and not work and take my place there. While trying to tell him we weren’t going to be seeing each other any more he flew into a rage and told me that “God told me that we are going to be together so I’m going to have you one way or another.” Constant innuendos, ass grabs, wandering hands, expectations after they’ve paid for a few drinks, snide remarks about waiters once they leave, them telling you that the career and passion path you’ve chosen is basically just a placeholder until “we” get married. You make sure you are rapt with attention while he talks so that he knows you are listening and validating his story but the minute you start to talk his eyes wander and check out the waitress you can hear moving behind you. I’ve let my guard down and had the worst happen thinking I could trust someone. The fact that at every moment of my life outside of my house, (well, inside too), I am constantly formulating an escape plan if things get to a Threat Level: Midnight. Walking in a parking lot, down a sidewalk, through a building, in a bar, constantly uploading and adapting. I laugh because as I say all of these things it’s no wonder why myself and women in general are utterly exhausted.

So take our inside joke that you make every year about why I don’t just pick someone to settle down with because I’m one year older and my uterus is getting dusty and growing cobwebs. We both have laugh, I do too, because now it’s tradition and still sort of funny but the thing is I start to wonder the same thing.  Because so far I haven’t dated anyone who has wooed enough to make me Marie-Kondo-clean-out my uterus, but I do see literally every man around me falling on his knee throwing a diamond ring at his girlfriend. I work so hard for so little and think sometimes how nice it would be if I didn’t have to worry about paying for my bills solo and could just worry about having dinner on the table at 6:00 and a martini in hand when he walks in the door at 5:30. But going on dates reminds me of who I don’t want and those that spark, well, there just wasn’t enough spark to catch on the lint trailing out of my uterus to start the final bonfire. It’s also that question that makes me keep searching for my feminist husband who is out there, picket sign in one hand and waiting with a broom in the other. 

The video I posted, I captioned with a heart and hand clap emoji. The video made me cry. It made me feel. It gave a call to action. It was beautiful. It touched on bullies, the paper cut comments meant to bring someone down, physical abuse, treatment of women and the “boys will be boys” mentality that only gets worse when boys become older and then are dads and bosses and people in power who have say over other peoples’ lives. It then showed the empathy some men already have and others need, the acts of kindness and it ended with a call to action. It’s asking men to be better, not just to women but other men as well. Yes. I hearted it and hand clapped it. Creative directing that idea was brave as well as genius and I wanted to give props to those people. It also makes me so proud of my siblings and friends and the way they are raising their children, both boys and girls. It gives me hope for the next generation and even more hope for the one following.

So, no. I wouldn’t say it’s Tennessee.

Fire Starter

A taste of spring came yesterday, unexpectedly, in the middle of December when usually the days are short and nights are cold. A Sunday morning spent baking Christmas cookies seemed like we forcing a lie upon ourselves and conjuring feelings and cheer. Over 60 degrees, sun shining, friends walking through neighborhoods and paying house calls, it was a pretty perfect day.

After doing some work in the afternoon and not getting to really play outside all I wanted to do was sit in the fresh air. Told my roommate to not plan dinner, grabbed firewood and pizza from the store and headed home. The night was settling into the perfect evening, a caress of a breeze, a coolness preceding that with a clear sky.  

For all of my best intentions and fire starting capabilities, that wood was just a mite damp and my efforts for an organic start were futile and I had to trudge back to the house for the back up fire starter. Much to my chagrin that also took about three tries to actually get that wood to burn and then it was good to go. My roommate commented as we were bringing dinner outside “Wow, that fire is really going!” To which I replied, “I used the fire starter, it had no choice!’  

It was  a perfect night filled with deep conversation, connecting, laughing and overall enjoying the company of a friend who knows you so well. The stars were so beautiful and clear that we got out our star gazing apps and were looking up constellations and letting the awe wash over us as the realization of how small we really are set in during those moments you can only ever fully stop to realize.  

As the fire was dying down Becky had made another comment about how well the fire did after the starter was used. Thinking about it for a second though I replied back, “the fire had started before, it alive and going, it was hot, but it needed some encouragement, it needed the fire starter even though it was technically hot enough if the wood wasn’t damp.” Then I grabbed the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes and muttered out “hold on, there’s an analogy in there, hold please”.

How many times can we feel like the fire before the starter? We’re alive, doing our thing, going along, but we’ve lost the spark that kept us ignited. The flames are slowly fading and maybe every once in awhile you get a whiff of oxygen to keep going but it isn’t enough to sustain. Maybe a slew of bad things keep happening and we feel like it’s going to completely go out, our embers are dying one at a time. But then a fire starter comes in, a friend who so completely believes in you, what you are doing, speaks to you heart and soul and reignites that flame.

I feel like I am, but I always want to be a fire starter. I am surrounded by amazing humans who are and I’m not sure if that’s luck or if we’re all drawn to the flames but I am so grateful. But then it’s taking what you’ve been given, the encouragement and empowering and belief and pouring that into someone else who needs it. Because if we are all pouring into someone else just think of the light that shines from that, how tall is that fire. Think of how mesmerizing a bonfire is, people can’t help but stare into the flames and get lost in the wonder, the power, the sheer breathtaking nature of the light. Then think of those people who are the same, their light and energy invokes awe and think of them taking their energy and giving a portion of that to someone who needs it. Because when that happens, they literally don’t have a choice, their fire can’t help but become ignited even in the smallest amount. Then someone else will do the same until your fire is fully stoked and you can, in turn, empower someone else. So, whose fire are you going to help re-ignite this week?

"Are You a Teacher?"

“Are you a teacher?” Question asked on a flight back from a weekend Girl’s Trip to Vegas to celebrate a friend’s birthday. On my right hand side sat my friend Andrea and then to my left sat a younger guy who had his head resting on his arms while I got myself situated. Andrea and I talked for a few minutes while taxiing off and then she settled into a movie while I pulled out the book I’ve been trying to work through.

 When I read, I READ. Words are so very powerful and it feels like I am constantly writing quotes or ideas from books down to remember for later. I have a small black notebook that I write these down because there’s a tugging that pulls me to write, if I don’t I feel as if I’ve forgotten something and it will drive me bananas. My parents are avid readers and writers, my Mom is a published poet (I’ll say it even though she dismisses that fact), and my Dad is eloquent in his letters, sermons for volunteering and his short verses he sends in packages (which I always look forward to). But the power, value and knowledge that written word could give us was sought after in my family. When I was younger and going through hard times with bullies, friendships and feelings of isolation while being sick and seeing doctor after doctor I sought solace in books. My vivid imagination came into play because I could literally leave my circumstances and be transported to other worlds with new people, ideas, and adventures. Books were my friends, escape and savior. Which is why I always used weird words or phrases that my friends would always laugh at and roll their eyes.

 So I whip out my book, which is thick, heavy and pretty intimidating, and start the process. The thing is, this book takes forever to read because every other line introduces subjects, facts, topics that are new or heady or something I need to ponder and I was whipping back and forth from my notebook to my book constantly.

 My seatmate next to me awoke from his nap and started off the conversation with asking about my shoes and I tried not to roll my eyes all the way back into my head because it was obvious after a couple of questions he was trying to flirt and I was just not at all in the mood (sorry). Then he goes into this.
“Why are you underlining and writing stuff down? Are you studying for something?” No, and then “Are you a teacher?” No. I explained that I love reading, whether it is fiction or non-fiction and that whenever something strikes a chord I usually write it down or underline it so that I can think about it later. Have you ever read a sentence that you can’t get out of your mind or that resonated so much with you that you felt a light go off inside you? 

He looked at me like I was crazy. Tried a different tactic.

“So this book is about the author’s deduction that being exceptional is at the core of the human condition and that difference unites us. After interviewing hundreds of families who are all conceived to be different (autism, deafness, prodigies, criminals, etc), he delves into the question – to what extent should parents accept their children for who they are, and to what extent should they help them become their best selves. Also, with/without the struggles that those individuals endured would they have given them up since it made them who they are and to what extent did they become who are they are now because of those said struggles, alienations, discriminations, etc? 

So, lots to think about. Paragraphs I have to read over and over. Concepts I might not think about on a regular basis and stories that keep breaking my heart over and over and triumphs that are exhilarating to read for the people involved.

I’m fascinated by people; the inner workings of their mind and the human condition, which is also why I’ve loved learning about the enneagram. I strive to know more about myself and about other people because there is a vast abyss of information, we can really never know enough.  A dinner party should never be silent because of the lack of questions. On any given day you will meet a new person who has a lifetime of experiences and knowledge that you can ask about.

Everyone is curious about something, even to a small extent. I’m the type of person who loves to glance at houses while walking by and see people living their life and wonder what it’s like for them. How their day went, what they are doing that night, what they do for work, what their family is like, how do they spend their time, etc. So maybe it’s not that far off that I’m drawn to a book where he tells you exactly how some people’s experiences are in a set of circumstances that are completely different from my own.

He looked at me like I was crazy again. 

“You do this for, fun?” Oy. Without sounding defensive, but also a little defensive, I threw back that this isn’t the only thing that I did for fun and as I was answering I did a virtual face palm to my own forehead because while I was being super annoyed and not wanting to answer his slow, fishing questions, literally there was an opportunity in front of me like I talked about above. I also firmly believe that if you don’t want to talk to anyone or they are making you uncomfortable you do not have to give them the time of day, as a woman if a man is trying to guilt you into engaging with him, saying rude comments or making you uncomfortable, you know exactly what to do and trust your intuition.  

Anyhoo, he asked me about my work, my passion projects and he then began a long, sometimes painful, sometimes funny but all the way interesting conversation about his life in CA, how he can’t get his drinking under control, he used to work in finance but now he’s working as a machinist at a manufacturing plant because the hours are better, doesn’t know what to do with his life, is so bored at work, is trying to learn Japanese in all of his down time, doesn’t know how to make friends, etc. It was a lot that I wasn’t fully prepared for but could only give him advice in some places, encouragement in others, and an open ear for the rest.

At the end of the flight we exited the plane and went our separate ways and he reminded me again that we are all looking for connection. Through this book I’m looking for ways to connect to people who have gone through things I never have and he saw sitting next to a stranger on a flight as an opportunity to practice something he didn’t feel comfortable in and engage in a random conversation. I eventually did get to read more of my book and shared with him some of the things I was underlining and why and we both left.

Once again, books for the win.

Mamsie and Me

I feel the weight of having a Mother I love. I feel the weight because her age is now something that doesn’t seem to match her. I feel the weight because I do not live near  her so the making of memories is far and few between and I have begun to have anxiety that I won’t have enough stored by the time it is too late. I begin to feel a murmuring panic that I don’t have children who get to experience all that she has to offer at this age when she is still her own and in all transparency I feel a small vein of jealousy for my unborn children because of their cousins’ who get Mamsie in her glory days. I feel everything to the bone and I feel her, in ways difficult to express but churning just below the surface.

I feel the years of toil in her hands. Her strength in posture perfect back, watching her navigate life with an innate gracefulness I wish could be taught. The joy in her eyes when engaging with another human who was formerly a  stranger. The beauty she sees staring at a face wrought with more wrinkles than hers. The tiredness as she sinks into her bed and whispers a poem she wrote about such an action when I was 7.

I can hear her voice reading aloud or telling stories, instructing life lessons in what I thought was just an evening spent baking a pie. I feel the afternoons of trudging off the bus with tears streaming down my face because of a nonchalant insult that sliced more deeply than the deliverer even knew and her waiting with open arms and never ending advice of “stand up straight and ignore them…inner beauty shines through more than outer beauty…even if they are unkind to you, you need to be kind to them.”

I recall her silhouette, in that early pre-dawn getting ready for the day. Darkness flitted through my dreams so I was never one for sleep, her grace letting me wander through the jewelry boxes on her dresser, asking questions and being intrusive or sleeping in her bed in hopes my imagination would quiet and a few hours of rest could be had.

I can feel her gentleness with the spirits of everyone she has encountered, no human has withstood their own barriers in her presence and I shudder with shame the number of times my eyes rolled as she thanked an aging veteran or told another elderly woman she looks just like her mother. Her ease of laughter, that gasping, breathless laugh which eventually turns into a cry and I think makes her the most beautiful woman in the world.

Her faith is palpable because I can feel it; see it. Every morning on her knees, reading her Bible, tending to others, praying in those hushed moments when stillness emanates throughout the house. Her patience like a blanket, enfolding around me even as mine wears thin. 

Her curiosity is an experience shared, whether it was stopping by the side of a road to see what kind of flower was growing there or her allowing us to do “experiments” in the kitchen or try things we had never done without so much as a “it probably won’t work, or that will get messy.” Her penchant for cultivating and growing leaves of green also extending to the people around her. Her denial is sweet, but a resounding truth is that she has lived an intentional and brave life.

I yearn for and ache for her nurturing, the innate essence of Mother bestowed to anyone crossing her path. Human or animal, her ability to see beyond the shell that encases a spirit is grounding. The hierarchy in the animal kingdom made no impression on her as a snake deserved to be nursed back to life as much as a baby kitten or rabbit. Her hands brushing my hair and back as I need comforting, her body intuitively forming to mine for a hug that neither of us chooses to break.

Never one for demanding luxury she certainly has never received it and her grace in that acceptance is in itself humbling. The “make do” and “there are people who are living in worse conditions” mantras were always given a seat at our table, her defending that she will be in heaven one day and it all doesn’t matter. But sometimes it seems closer, in stolen moments and light that only those on the receiving end can see.  

What if I see glimpses of heaven now?

Photography by: Ashtin Paige - Nashville TN

http://www.ashtinpaige.com/