Our Grandmothers Were Green

On the original cover of her classic memoir-cookbook The Taste of Country Cooking, Ms. Edna Lewis stands, lithe and muscular, in a green field looking over the fruit shc's selected for making a meal. Her face is serene and contemplative. She's magnetic and seems to beam though she is not smiling. Her hair, perhaps lightly hotcombed, is as natural as the food she puts on her table. She wears the long, cottony silver strands brushed away from her face and tucked in a neat chignon gathered in back of her head. Contrasting with her simple, starched cotton dress Miss Edna's only flourish is a pair of dangling ornate silver earrings that lend a little of the Far East to her look.

Music. Food. Writing. It's said that all of these absorb all of the elements and energy that go into the making of them. When I see Ms. Edna's face and read what she has to say, it brings me calm because I get a sense of some of those things that went into the making of her. She is earthy and elegant, full of culture, memory and vitality. The kind that Alice Walker writes about in "Longing to Die of Old Age" (from Living By the Word). A foremother to ones like Dori Sanders.

A friend who knows how much I take to heart Jessica Harris' words that "There is history in the pot," recently sent me this "What is Southern?" piece, a prose poem/letter written by Edna Lewis and published a couple years back in Gourmet magazine. I'm sharing with the hope that we all enjoy, remember, preserve and do all we can to pass forward these traditions. Even if it's just telling the story that begins with the words, "There once was a time when..."

Changes, Changes

Inspired by Judith Gleason's Oya: In Praise of An African Goddess, I've put together a humble ode to one of the Yabas, or triad of Yoruba goddesses who survived transplant to the West, the fearsome one Oya/Iansa.

There are many spellings of her name, and depending on the vantage point the name might change all together. Some know her as Lady of Candelaria, Buffalo Woman, Sekhmet, Neb-het, Kali or Artemis. However you spell it, whatever one calls it, the energy is the same and it seems to speak directly to the (st)age we are now hobbling our way through.

I have much more to say about Oya being a kind of poster girl for the winds blowing across continents and shaking things up from where we stand to as far as the eye can see. Except, I promised myself that I wouldn’t meander too long online. So I’ll post the rest of my thoughts once I work through them. For now, I'll call out my salutation and toss my copper coins.


Oya, The Tempest

Lady of storms with sword in her hand
Dares all to guess where her blade will land.
She cuts away illusion, gets down to the core
Revealing those things that lay hidden before.

Great House mistress, Life’s keeper of keys
She tears, she rips, then sweeps away the debris.
This red woman walks with a thunderous step.
She twirls on the cusp of this life and the next.

She gallops, she rides about on horseback
With flowing skirt of rainbows, swift wind at her back.
Iyansan, the mother of nine daughters and sons
Ushers in the new day when the old one is done.

Dawn's Messenger

There are lots of books by my bedside. A little bookshelf to the right of the bed, and in front of that another stack for me. Then a stack for the little one. Happy Baby Things That Go. First the Egg. Earth Mother. Creation-My Father Loves Me. The Fortune Tellers. Look and Learn ABC. I must admit that having a book jones is both a blessing and a nuisance. If I'm not careful, I'll trip over them when I get up to go to the bathroom at night.

Fortunately, most of the books around here are ones we own. A few, though, are from the library. Any time I go there to drop off old books, I say that I'm not going to get any new ones. Not only am I trying to control this passion, but I'm also notorious for racking up fines since it's never easy for me to return good music or reads.

Of course, I always do end up getting something, swearing to self that I will turn it in by the due date. Art books, with their big pages and color plates, are especially luscious treats. One art book I recently checked out is Romare Bearden: The Caribbean Dimension. Back during college, professor Floyd Newsum's survey of African American art introduced me to Bearden's work. Bearden, Aaron Douglas and Lois Mailou Jones were some of my first favorites.

This look into Bearden's life on St. Martin has a subtle but sure hold on me because of the roots culture and spiritual element that is strongly present in the work. The authors-- Sally and Richard Price, who have also written books on the maroons of Suriname, hence their draw to this phase of Bearden's creative cycle-- allude to the "natural mystic" but (so far) don't refer to Bearden's embrace of African notion of spirituality outright.
Such a holy communion there is between Bearden and nature, especially as nature reveals itself in the Caribbean. There is a breathtaking passage where Bearden gives an earth-reverant and hermetic description of sunrise at his home in French St. Martin. Imagine:

Just as it becomes light, a large black bird soars into view. Sometimes called the "hurricane" or "weather" bird by the people on the island, this frigate bird, with its wingspan of about six feet, glides effortlessly, a master of rising and falling...currents. The coming of the weather bird heralds the dawn. There comes a charging wind that this fine bird uses in his swift climbing spirals, and the dark purple, now graying clouds of night begin to take on new colors and the sun mounts. The clouds become saffron, then vermillion and many shades of red, especially a deep cardinal. Undoubtedly, the sun is the emperor. Observing this vast elemental change, I can readily understand how people worshipped the sun in ancient times.

Image: Romare Bearden, In a Green Shade (1984)

Writing Residency

As Ms. Celie would say, I’m here. Nervous about my decision, but I'm here: I made it to my first two-week residency for my Master of Fine Arts Program. I’m doing it.

There was a tremendous amount of preparation that went into my being able to come. I got a reprieve from some of my frenzied thinking when I arrived on campus (the frienzied thinking was replaced with an intense class schedule). I found the school to be as much a nature preserve as it is a place of higher education. The campus has trails and when walking along them you come across crows and cardinals, wolves and deer, owls and even a horse or two. A tire swing hangs from one of the walnut trees. Cicadas sound off at night.

One of my classmates joked that she was underwhelmed when she drove onto the grounds. I laughed, because it's true. Our school is understated. It whispers rather than shouts, being especially quiet since we distance learning/low res students, a skeletal admin staff, some construction workers and summer camp counselors and kids are among the only ones on campus. Just beyond the gates is a mall, many retail and grocery stores, a shopping village and the highway. But our school is kind of a world unto itself.

On the side of my dormitory, called the “T,” the resident students are cultivating a garden. Some of the things I recognize are oregano, rosemary, basil, onions, collard greens and kale. There is a scarecrow standing guard; the scarecrow is angular and thin, looking more like the resting sail of a boat than it does anything else. Many of the dishes that the kitchen staff prepare for our meals make use of some of these fresh herbs. Some people complain about the food, but I'm overall pleased with it. The cooks prepare many healthful quasi-gourmet dishes, many of them vegetarian. They always have herb teas and fresh fruit in addition to the standard soda and sweet treat desserts.

As for the buildings, the facades are uniform (great stress is put on uniformity) featuring a type of stone work that I saw used on a number of other homes when I was riding one of the MTA buses through Baltimore. The buildings seem to be inspired by a Frank Lloyd Wright's Fallingwater along with a Natural Home Magazine kind of aesthetic because of their sleek interior design combined with an eco-conscious elegance. The buildings make excellent use of natural light and feel comfortable and inviting. The seem like an extension, rather than a terrible intrusion on, the natural environment that surrounds.

It's a good place to re-charge and prepare for what lies ahead.

My Little River Jared

For lots of people in lots of places, giving a baby a good name is as essential as getting good prenatal care. And so, my "bone memory" told me that I had to pick a powerful name for my son.

I selected his middle name first, and there's no mystery about what it means. "I am with you." With all the challenges necessary to face down, I-- no-- we all needed constant reminders of the promise that the Divine has whispered from the dawn of time to now. "I am with you."

Eventually, the name Jared came to me. I kept it close to the vest, not entirely certain that it would make the final cut. I checked, double-checked and cross checked it in all of the baby name books which repeatedly told that in Hebrew it means "to descend" and "king." I took that "descend" part to mean "to be born of," period. The books were leaving me hanging and what they offered seemed to have implied ellipses trailing behind. To descend...To descend from what? Or who? A little more back story, please, folks!

At one point, I came across a very informative book that added a layer telling that in Greek Jared/Yared means "rose." It brought to mind that Rumi poem that says something like "that which God said to the rose he said to my heart." Not too many boys wanna know that their mamas named them after flowers, but I reasoned that Jared would be my rugged rose. Mighty like a Rose, that old plantation lullaby-- 'cept with an Oscar Brown, Jr./Nina Simone "Brown Baby" kind of feeling. I rolled with it.

Near the time of baby's due date, his daddy's daddy-- a Christian evangelical pastor with Asante roots-- wanted to know my reasons for selecting Jared as the first name (actually, a lot of people wanted to know exactly why.) Grandpa Kwabena then set about combing the Old Testament looking for passages that told a little bit more about the mysterious original bearer of this name. What's this Jared's claim to fame? Was he wise like Solomon? A worker of wonders like Moses? What he found was one simple line mentioning Jared: he was the father of Enoch and Methuselah. That was about that.

We live in Atlanta. Now, anybody who lives here or somewhere like D.C., New York or Philly knows well the Five Percent types who take pride in peering into the deeper, obscure meaning of things. (Not saying this to 'dis, or in a disparaging way. Okay, I am poking a teeny bit of fun. But mostly wanting simply to draw a clear picture for those who know.) So there was this one Five Percent, break-it-down-to-its-very-last-compound kind of brother originally from New York and who works at one of the health food stores near our house. When Jared was about year old, the brother shared that my baby's name meant "The Last." Now, when Brother Man said this, the look on his face and the kind of hesitant way in which he offered his reading sounded a tad ominous. (If it was an old-time soap opera or bad movie we would have heard the grinding of a dramatic organ in the back-- da, da, DAAAAAHH) Who's to say that Jared is going to be my "wash belly? So, I shrugged the comment off and kept a-stepping, knowing that I'd cloaked my child with a talawah name.

Now, here I am-- not quite two years after selecting the name Jared. Being the forever-curious mama that I am I just happened to poke around a little and find confirmation of what Spirit whispered to me early on. Do allow me to share:

Jared in Hebrew is Yarod. Yarod relates to the Hebrew verb "Yarden," which does indeed mean "to descend" as all the baby books noted. However, this descend doesn't simply mean to be born from. In the much more poetic sense of the word, it means "to flow." To flow like a river, as in "Roll, Jordan, Roll." Like blessings or a cup running over.

Yar-Dan is the name of the Jordan River in Hebrew. Also, Yardenit means a baptismal place. Yar-Dan. Yardan. Yarden. Jordan. Think of the expression, "Where there is water there is life." A river being a place of cleansing, renewal and a source of nourishment. Rivers are also avenues of transport with important civilizations having flourished along river banks. And, incidentally, in Arabic the name Yardan also means "king."

Am I sounding a bit Five Percent? It's all good, because now this story is full. And as Bob says, it satisfies my soul.

Sacred Water

Image from Shinto and Jinja website

[One of pure-heart] will be like a tree planted by streams of water, Which yields its fruit in its season And its leaf does not wither; And in whatever he does, he prospers. ~Psalm 1:3


As the saying goes, "Where there is water, there is life. " Certainly, our physical life begins with us floating in the waters of the wombs of our mothers before our feet ever touch Earth's dry land. As I think about the struggle that we all must endure to remain in balance another proverb-- African in origin, I think-- comes to mind: "Where there is mud, there's water." I take this to mean that even in the messiest of situations there is the opportunity to grow. Before this can happen, though, we must point our divining rod into the direction of the Source. Set out on a sojourn to get to the hammam, or better yet, the Great Stream. The place where the soul thirsty for purification and rebirth can go to be cleansed. This is one of the reasons that the idea of river baptisms, especially ones of the old south, are beautiful to me. (It made me happy to learn that one of my relatives, Aunt Ora Lee, proudly recalled being baptised in the Guadalupe River near Victoria, Texas.)

In any case, listening to the radio yesterday, I heard a Jewish-Canadian neuroscientist and author named Esther Sternberg speaking about her book The Balance Within: The Science Connecting Health and Emotions. The main idea that she brought forward was that at some point there was a break between the once-unified domains of science and spirituality and that the people of today are slowly accepting that the split can (and must) be mended. Her outlook could not be compactly fit into the New Age category; instead her philosophy sounded as if it were inclined toward osteopathy.

Another of the profound, yet simple things she said was that in ancient times, healing temples or sanctuaries were usually built beside fresh water sources with sloping banks. The slope made it so that people who were too ill to immerse themselves could be eased in with the help of others. A beautiful vision. During her interview Dr. Sternberg spoke often of Asklepios, the Greek god of healing (known in Egypt as Imhotep, to whom temples were dedicated in Memphis, on the west bank of the Nile River.) During the writing of her book and the healing of her body from painful arthritis, Dr. Sternberg said that she visited Greece. One of the things she did while there was visit one of Asklepios' shrines.

She did not imply that the water in and of itself had any magical properties. Simply, the idea was that something unexplainable happened-- an awareness sparked or epiphany occurred. A Jungian kind of thing, I suppose. As a result, she was able to access a power that helped move her toward healing. (Another resonant point that she mentioned was that there is a center of the brain reserved for the meditative, read: hypnotic or trance, state. This made me think of Eknath Eswaran continually pointing out the importance of the personal mantra)

As I type, another image comes to mind is that of the master teacher Yeshua/Issa/Jesus taking a moment during his secret Passover feast to bathe the feet of his disciples. Most of the time we think of this gesture as being a lesson in selfless service, humility. Could He also have been saying, "There's more where this came from." In the same way that he was but a small sample (the Son) drawn from the vast Source (the great Mother-Father), the small bowl of water that He used to perform His act of outward purification was a sample of the guaranteed mind-body-spirit healing available to the disciples if they continued to walk along what Buddhists refer to as the Enlightened Path or The Way?

Green Collar Jobs

Yesterday while driving and running errands I was listening to News and Notes on one of the NPR stations and heard an interview with a man named Van Jones who works with the Ella Baker Center for Human Rights in Cali's Bay Area. His interview centered around a Green Collar Jobs bill that he and some others are working to push through Congress. If accepted, it will allot money to teach the poor/working class about environmentalism and train the people to work in the "green" jobs sector. He raised some really interesting points about the feasibility of the idea and the way that companies are choosing to send the majority of manual labor, blue collar jobs (once avenues that people of color took to escape poverty) to various overseas countries. Since green collar jobs are being phased out and there is such a push for all things "organic," "sustainable" and "eco-friendly"-- especially on the West Coast of the U.S. -- green jobs can occupy the place that blue collar jobs once did.

VJ also spoke about the ways that environmentalism has typically been the domain of the privileged and that they often have goals that seem abstract or remote to people who have concrete economic and health concerns related to the here and now (cuz it's all about the money, ain't a damn thing funny...). When environmentalism is "broken down," spoken about plainly (solar panels as a way to decrease grandma's electric bill, cleaning up the air so that little sis won't have to walk around with an inhaler in her pocket) it opens environmentalism up to a wider audience of people willing to work toward its ends.

Of course, I must say that this attempt to rally such interest is ironic being that most "people of color" are descended from ones for whom there was no name given to environmentalism; it was simply a way of life. Think of truck gardens from back in the day. Or Alice Walker's observations in In Search of Our Mothers' Gardens about rose bushes sprucing up the weathered rural shacks. Even recently it was common to pass by housing projects and be uplifted by the sight of the container garden of a ghetto grandmama (herself a vibrant trans-PLANT from some country locale). And Latinos are still, by and large, landscapers and gardeners and migrant workers. In my neighborhood, many Latino families keep beautiful home gardens. As a matter of fact, just before I gave birth last year, I begged/bought a few tall sunflower stalks (my Oxum side couldn't help herself) from a Mexican family whose yard was filled from one end to the other with them.

In any event, there are lots of little (actually major) sidebars and environmental justice corollaries to this Green Jobs bill, the most obvious and exciting being that such training would be a benefit to the overall health of the workers, their (our) families and communities. Rather than take any more detours allow me to direct you to this Green Options Interview .

(Housing project image at top from The Welcome Project website)

On Silence

As I hustle to align the physical, mental and spiritual aspects of my life to channel all of the Power that I possibly can, to become one who is "fully realized" I think about what is written in Ecclesiastes 3:1 (and certainly elsewhere): there's a time for everything.

Dormancy must eventually tip its hat to fruition. As well, there is a time to speak and be heard and a time to do the opposite.

Common sense, huh (?) yet still things we/I need to often be reminded of. Some Thoughts on Silence and When the Pause is Part of the Process are two pieces that drive this point home.