I don't think my mother knew how prophetic this poem was when she wrote it. Powerful - yes. But read it. It's a prophecy. Who could have predicted, back in the RodneyKingEsque NWAish 90s, that we'd make so many strides? Where we want to be? Nah. But at least we're talking about it.
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Ladies - and fellas too - you don't need a locksmith! Change those locks on those hearts and stop giving the key back to squatters. lol
Here is one of a few poems I will be sharing. Let it minister to you. If your faith is asleep, at least it's not dead.
My best crocheting happens when my nerves are bad. I started this during a hard conversation at work, and finished it during a situation where I stuck out like a sore thumb. Amazingly, I barely measured a thing. I let instinct guide my hands like I let wisdom guide my words. I put it on. It fit. I'm going on a date and I have the perfect red suede heels and Ruby Woo lipstick.
Likewise, my mother's best work came out of a divorce. A strange one. At a certain point you look at folks and realize they won't grow. It's okay to free yourself- and she realized that- and freed herself. That doesn't mean that the good memories and the thoughts of what could have been just disappear. In fact, they resurge like a rough tide. "You mourn what you never had," she said. In mourning, some people lash out. Some peopl try to get the person back. Some cry. Some drink. She wrote and prayed. I admonish you to read posts followig this one, for poems that represent the beauty that came from the ashes, like this dress. 1 Peter 1:7 tells us that our trials come as fire to refine us as pure gold. ❤️ This two-voice poem was born from my mother's reading of Stafford's works. To be read with two voices.
The Thread A Two Voice Poem (Inspired by “The Way It Is” by William Stafford) There’s a thread that you follow. Things will change. Tragedies Happen. In times of languor and creative desolation I crochet. I take a ball of yarn and draw loops again and again. Babies are born A fabric is born They grow into childhood And then into adulthood. It grows into a blanket, a hat, a scarf. While following the thread of life, People get sick. People suffer. They get old and eventually they die. Sounds simple, yes? No. There are too many shades and hues of yarn For me to think simple. And then there’s size, age and style This thread is the cycle of life and time. And Time and season. Time stands still for no one. Time is set, yet it continues Wait until time starts running out, And a precious life is gone. Then time becomes eternal In memories that live on. Making mittens in May Is a very sure way To make no money. Nothing you can do Can stop time’s unfolding Of life. But oh, how I am reminded that the yarn Im Exponentially looping Is akin to the spirit. You don’t ever let go of the thread. Hold on to it Through your journey. Some spirits run out too early And cant be replaced With a simple trip to the spinning wheel As long as you hold onto it, You cannot get lost. Spirits, like colorways, bond to kindred spirits. Others may never see the thread But all that matters Is that you see it. That you can connect with it. Most importantly However tormented or fulfilleld Spirits always bear the watermark Of their creator. It goes among things that change, But it doesn’t change. And that’s the way it is. And that ‘s the way it is. And that’s the way it is. Don't let the title fool you. She's not gone, nor has she gone anywhere. My realization that she has a life and I'm not always the center of it, is what waned and then re-appeared.
I'm sure you all are wondering when I will share a piece by William Stafford, or even tell you who he is. I'm still in exploration, and will be for some time, because this guy has done that much writing. I'll share when I've had my fun. Anyhow, as a student, I've always been the one to read ahead - not to ignore, but to make sure I know what I'm talking about before I start running my mouth. I happened upon a poem in the coursework packet called "The Way It Is." There's a thread you follow. It goes among things that change. But it doesn't change. People wonder about what you are pursuing. You have to explain about the thread. But it is hard for others to see. While you hold it you cant get lost. Tragedies happen, people get hurt or die, and you suffer and get old. Nothing you can do can stop time's unfolding. You don't ever let go of the thread. And then the reel-to-reel in my brain clanked, connected, and began to flicker and spin. The scene depicted a backyard party beneath a grape arbor that acted like a gazebo in the summer. The air smelled of lilies, barbecue chicken, mint, and sweet grapes. There were people mingling, music playing, and a call to attention. "TIME," the voice commanded. Everyone went quiet, someone turned down the radio. Time stands still for no one It heals all wounds, I'm told. Time possesses value More precious than refined gold. Wait until time starts running out, And a precious life is gone. Then time becomes eternal In memories that live on. Time is set, yet it continues As it has from the start. It takes time, yet, time can't take Sweet memories from the heart. I came back to my senses, and someone in class was sharing what they had written. I had missed an entire writing session reminiscing on a poetry reading my mom had hosted in our small backyard during some summer in the early 90s. "My mother wrote a poem that has the same theme, as 'The Way It Is," I shared. I always liked her writing. To be able to compare her work to that of an icon was so esteeming, that I knew what I had to do. It was time to get her writing again. "The next step was to dream up a project inspired by William Stafford. I thought it would be hard. Really, I had already done the hard part by showing up and showing that unconventional Black women like me belonged here." One talented Black woman who belongs in this venue is my mother. This piece is about that epiphany.
In exactly one month, I will be 35 years old. I'm in a transitional phase - new job responsibilities, a child grooming herself for college, one for high school, one smack-dab in the throes of pubescence, and one begging for Kindergarten. My young adult narcissism is finally taking its rightful place in the backseat. A husband with whom time has grown the most beautiful garden of love, and speaking of my garden, I'm glad that it's raining on this midsummer day. Because I am busy. Sometimes too busy. I forget all that I have in my mother. How can that be when she's sitting at my house before I even get there, drinking tea, making pies or giving my 3-year-old boy junk food? How can I forget her when she's asking 129 questions about a reality TV show while I'm trying to watch it? And talking trash about every single person on the show? Geez, ma. How can I forget when my kids' faces brighten up as they see her coming up the walkway with bags. "What's Gramma got today?" I tell you how. I'm too busy. So much of a busybody that, when she's with me at my house, I'm constantly moving, while she's sitting. Drinking tea, making pies, or enabling Joshie's junk food habit. I'm so busy, I forget that my mother is much more than my mother. Anyone who's the youngest child in a birth order can agree to this: Nobody had a life before we got here. Right? We've always been carried, catered to, soothed, fed, piggybacked. But the truth is, she was someone before I came into this world - and she's someone now, someone much more than a helpmate when I'm too tired to cook. My mother is a wise woman. One of the wittiest people I know. A connoisseur of music. A teacher. A doer. An evangelist. A comic. A fairytale romantic. The slickest hair-presser in Portland, and the best pie maker on the west coast. And my mother is a writer. A god-gifted one, at that. Sitting my behind down somewhere and taking a class, slowing down to read poems and prose from a famous author, whose tone and command is remarkably similar to that of my mom's writing, helped me to remember. So, yesterday I called her and asked for her to meet me at my house, and bring her poetry book. What ensues from this reconnection with my mom in an artistic role has humbled me to grateful, cleansing tears. For 5 decades, she has given of herself - to her younger siblings, to her children, and to many others under her tutelage. I get it. I'm a mom too. But she's more. Life circumstances have delayed some of her opportunities to write - illness, family death, divorce, losing a home, raising children, and re-raising some adults who needed it. Delayed - but not denied. For it was in the midst of difficult circumstance that some of her most prolific pieces were born. You know how you get a revelation and you just want to go tell everyone you see? That's how I feel. She's my mother. But, y'all, this lady is an author. We're grown - sure. But there is so much more to learn from older people. Not only is this the most busybody era in history, but we also live in an ageist society where old people, who have given and given again, are put out to pasture to make way for us, when all we're going to do is get old too! We've quit engaging. We are not done learning, folks, and the elderly are not done giving. So I'm gonna quit asking my mom for peach cobbler and steak every day, and maybe ask her for a few written words a day instead. Well, maybe both. She's my mommy and I need to eat, and I'm tired. WHAT ON EARTH DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH CROCHET? People call me an old soul for crocheting. There you go. Just follow me, and let her words inspire. When I was solicited for interest in this course, I thought "Who in the heck is William Stafford?" Then I was responded to like I was the square kid who was the last to know everything. Being as that he's a who's who in the literary world (especially having taught at the same place I'm writing this), I decided it was time to stop looking stupid and figure out who he was. After all, I am a Language Arts teacher. Besides, it was paid for. And y'all remember the right reverend Tom Peterson preached the word and said "Free is a very good price." Amen? And up I signed.
I had no idea what I was in for. I was the only Black person, and the only one with no greys or receding. I was the new kid that came to the school mid-year. We know that kid. This piece of writing I did on the first day - within the first couple hours - will explain it much better than if I had to go revisit it. But it was through learning and exploring Stafford's daily writing routine that the shackles called bad nerves were unlocked. I began to type, and this came out. Like Magic: What I got from Stafford’s Method of Daily Writing. When I walked into this class, the hairs stood up on my arms, like a cat. I had something to crochet. That was fortunate for everyone there, because I would have said things I didn’t mean. Keeping my hands busy and my ears alert, keeping a mental tally of every microaggression while keeping a physical tally of how many rows I had left to finish my dress. Tension prevented me from being able to fully function in my creative capacity for writing. I usually fill a page in two minutes. I could hardly write a sentence that morning. Thank God for a writing assignment over a working lunch, using Stafford’s method of daily writing entries, because I was able to spew what I needed to spew: Abracadabra Hocus pocus I feel so hypervisible I cant even focus Everyone here is White And I’m already late Because the instructions told me To drive through the wrong gate Walking in 30 minutes After the scheduled start My hands are cold and clammy I can feel my heart I walk in, he says Hi And I ask myself why Why they all have anxiety Peering out of their eyes? I settle in to conversation And I start to crochet “It helps me to focus…” …or at least that’s what I say. I’m a professional “other” in this town Called Portland. Since I was 3, I’ve devised many methods To take the focus off of me. Crochet is a deflector A security blanket A rhythmic soothing outlet When my nerves just can’t take it And just as suddenly, I disappear. As I look around, Images of people who look like me Are nowhere to be found. Lewis and Clark are everywhere Their portraits are prominent. Chief Joseph’s picture is in an unlit corner Behind a TV, near a vent. And where on earth is York? I teach history, I know well That exploration without this brother Would have shot the whole mission to hell. We happen upon a photo Of Primus St. John And everybody looks at me Like I have his t-shirt on. I sink into my writing Foot is shaking A woman asks me What it is that I’m making The ice starts breaking I decide to converse These folks are kind and safe It could be much worse. Like magic, people of color here Can very easily disappear Until people hear, in their ear That theft, rape, or basketball happened here. I’m the writer who tends to say What other people won’t – Now you see me Now you don’t. I got that out of my system, and was able to get back to my regularly scheduled program of being able to sit down and fluently spill words on paper. Writers need uninterrupted space to write, with no obligation to cater, tailor, or explain. The next step was to dream up a project inspired by William Stafford. I thought it would be hard. Really, I had already done the hard part by showing up and showing that unconventional Black women like me belonged here. I know this is a crochet page, but I'm turning it into a sappy relationship blog for just a second. If you will indulge me, I have a story to tell. In the classroom, this is where the kids get to the edge of their seats... ...There was one Christmas where we struggled. I mean, the food-pantry-toy-drive struggle. I was in college and my hubby was working hard to take care of us, but with kids, sometimes there's too much month at the end of the money. Hell, THIS month has more days than dollars. Anyhow, I digress. The only thing under the tree was what we had bought for our kids. The day before Christmas, there appeared a big, full gift bag. I paid it no mind until the following morning. I assumed it was for one of the kids. But it wasn't. Inside of the bag was 8 skeins of Red Heart Yarn and 3 hooks. I was happy and grateful. I gave him a kiss. For the rest of the day, the kids played with toys. I crocheted. ALL DAY. And the next day and for the next week. I was grateful back then, but now I'm simply amazed at how well he knew me. Crochet calms me. It makes me happy. I needed that. I immediately made him a scarf and hat. The next day, I tried to make a pair of socks. I started crocheting again and eventually started selling my pieces after a LONG hiatus- so long that I thought about giving it up altogether. Does crochet and marriage go together like a horse and carriage? No. If it did, my husband and I would be worry-free. But BEING MINDFUL does. And I think this is my favorite gift memory. Look, I didn't even know they had time for alladat. But I guess that's how ignorance works- we're in the dark about situations we have never been in, so we assume on the people who are there. Never dawned on me that our troops could use something to do in their downtime. And I see why knitting and crocheting could be just the thing. I do my best work when I'm sad, lonely, pissed, or perplexed... Or my house is so junky I don't know where to start, so I don't. Lol. So it makes sense that a stressed troop would be soothed by keeping their hands moving. I'm thinking about puttingn together some care packages of a skein, a hook, and an instruction leaflet, and sending them over. Why not? I have the yarn stash to spare, believe me. And I can get plastic hooks from JoAnn for $2.75 for 6 hooks. Anyone wanna join me? Or donate? $4 would have a troop making 2 hats. :) Here is a link about a soldier in Afghanistan who made an afghan for his boo-thang back home. His name is David Muir and this pic is courtesy of Lion Brand. https://www.facebook.com/LionBrandYarns/posts/10152626461969918:0 |