Each One Teach One

Dancer Junaid Jemal Sendi (Ethiopia) 2004/2005 protégé of Saburo Teshigawara (Japan)

Today I learned of the Rolex Mentor & Protégé Arts Initiative award that connects creative people of many genres. Masters like playwright Wole Soyinka, opera diva Jessye Norman, musician Youssou Ndour, novelist Toni Morrison and many others from all over the world passing along their memory, vision, technique and encouragement to a new generation is exciting, not to mention necessary.

How amazing it would be if there were to be a kind of structured linking of everyday grandparents, old guard community artists/activists, retired professionals with younger members of their tribe. Imagine!

In the meantime, check out this video of Morrison interacting with her protégée, Julia Leigh of Australia.

No Such Thing As a Still Life

I walk in harmony, heaven in one hand, earth in the other. I am the knot where the two worlds meet. "The Knot of Isis" from Awakening Osiris

I once heard a scholar named Beatriz Morales, when speaking on the Abakua of Cuba, say that her devotion to scholarship was not motivated by a desire to accumulate knowledge. Her probing, traveling, lecturing, documenting and the like were more a kind of spiritual practice. Morales is one of the only people I have ever heard to say this outright. And though I'd never made that exact connection between scholarship and spiritual practice, I'd say that in many ways the same is true for me.

Rummaging around in my books and papers, I recently rescued notes from a talk given by filmmaker/writer/scholar Trinh T. Minh-ha at Agnes Scott College back on September 27, 2007. At that time, I was still a (mostly) stay-at-home mother doing all that needed to be done to tend to the needs of my new baby and my new self, a self that had changed in some extremely uncomfortable ways. To make myself feel connected, I'd done number of things including start this blog, get involved with some online communities and sign up for newsletters.

One social connection that I plugged in to was Agnes Scott College's events calendar. They often brought in prominent artists and, even better for my SAHM budget, many of these events were free (Sandra Cisneros and Nawal el Saadawi were two that I had previously seen courtesy of ASC). The Trinh T. Minh-ha event was one of several that stood out on the calendar. I recognized her name from bell hooks’ Sisters of the Yam which I'd read back during the end of undergrad when I was living what I think of as my Magical Maiden phase of life-- mind expanding, blooming, curling tendril like in every direction it could fathom. Deciding to go to the talk was, in some bizarre way, like me trying to get in closer touch with an old self who completely believed in the power of art, beauty and culture to transform the individual and the community.

I prepared for the event kind of like others might preparing for a day trip, mindful to pack dinner for Jared and a snack for myself. I also bathed my baby (ignoring protests of having him out in the "night air") and dressed him comfortably in his pajamas, which my mother advised I do whenever I thought I might be out late, which these days meant past about 7 or 8 p.m.

I honestly had no idea whether my somewhat unpredictable little Jared would sleep or stay awake. If he stayed awake I didn't know how kindly he'd take to the two of us sitting still. Why didn't I get a babysitter? Likely, I couldn't find one. Despite the fact that Jared was born into a fairly large African family, they rarely volunteered. This made me often seek the help of a teenager who lived a couple of doors down from us. I would call on her when I really needed an extra pair of hands, had the money and when her schedule would permit. This was probably one of those times when she was studying or had volleyball practice or something. Part of me considered canceling my plans while the other (satisfied as she was with the blessing of getting time to spend and bond with her baby) stubbornly refused insisting that she was bound and determined to get some air-- city air!

I had become the poor soul so outing-deprived that she’d take her wailing or chattering baby to a movie or concert, trying her best to ignore it as others cast her dirty looks living, as I did, out in the burbs with Jared's father/my in-laws. For one reason or another it was hard to make face-to-face or telephone contact with friends. Though I did get out of the house it was usually to grocery or clothing shop for the baby, both things that I enjoy but both of which can also get old. And quick. Often, the baby and I would go for walks around the neighborhood, and we had begun hunting for good neighborhood parks. Sometimes I'd make a big deal out of taking us to the Fiesta Mall on Buford Highway hoping to catch one of those parking lot carnivals, a mariachi band or simply soak up the festive atmosphere.

What all of this amounted to was that I often felt seriously isolated and sought ways to do something about it. So, I took my chances as well as the advice I'd heard passed down from so many artist-academic elder mamas: wrap your baby on your back and tend to your business as women of color have done for ages. You serve as an example when you love, support and nurture your interests right alongside those of your child. (As it turned out, the baby fell asleep in car and ended up sleeping soundly in his stroller as I wheeled him across campus and to the auditorium. He slept through the talk and woke up, as if on cue, exactly at the end.)

After all of the effort it took to get there, I admit to initially being underwhelmed by the presentation. Trinh was not a dynamic presenter like, say, Robert Farris Thompson. He's such a showman that few can compare, so I don't think that that is what I expected. But I did come in search of a particular thing. Don't ask what. An anecdote or candid reflections on artistic process, maybe. No dice. Her manner was formal, and she read from carefully prepared notes that outlined complicated ideas that had me contemplating easing out of the door within the first ten or fifteen minutes of arrival. As is often the case, I wasn't in much of a mood to translate dense, lofty Academese. (Completely nonsensical seeing as how I was at a talk given by a scholar on a college campus, I know. Maybe I thought that her presentation would pitch a tent somewhere between the lands of Artist and Intellectual.) I also admit to being a little taken aback by what sounded to me like dismissal of a metaphor or image that is dear to me: that of earth as mother and giver.

What ended up being really cool and made the event well worth the effort was that once I really settled in and held my mind steadily in the moment, what Trinh had to say became more profound and absorbing, something like the gradual breaking of day. I found that she does belong to the sisterhood whose work blurs the line between what we know of the mind and what we know of the soul. I needed simply to be still to receive or witness what she was working up to.

She spoke about light and movement as they relate to her film Night Passage, film inspired by Kenji Miyazawa's late 1920s novel Night Train to the Stars as well as, she acknowledged, Antoine Saint Exupéry's The Little Prince. We humans lie somewhere between the machine world and the spiritual world, she said, and we live in a time when the crossing of boundaries of land and sea is so much a part of what we do. This kind of traveling is important yet should not be seen as more important thatn paying attention to what's going on in the space in which we're standing. We must take the time to "traverse the snare of illusion," or simply look at ourselves and at life in such a way that we can sort out what is real, and I would add, worth our attention. So much that we think is important is not; what remains here after we have traveled on is that which is intangible. She said that Night Passage speaks most importantly to the idea of time and asks questions: In the flash of emergence and vanishing, what will you put in the story space of your life? What will your pose be?

This tied in to her speaking about the dance of opposites and it being best to use opposing forces as complements to one another. She echoed a thought put forth by the Dalai Lama in his talk "Spirituality and Nature" when she eloquently cautioned that science without conscience does no good and that technology without poetry does little to empower. She named the middle, the place of neither extreme, as the true place of freedom. There was talk of music, which made sense being that it is essentially the child of light and time. (I later learned that she was originally trained as a music composer and taught at the National Conservatory of Senegal.) She gave something of an affirmative nod to notions of sound healing held by dancers, musicians, metaphysicists and even some hard-nosed acoustic scientists when she went on to speak about the importance of sound vibration, mentioning that the body that is out of sync takes a while to attune to its instinctive bio-rhythms.

Trinh spoke about the slow but steady "speed of the flowering mind" and called attention to the notion that, philosophically speaking, there is "no such thing as a still life" in Asian art. Life is always moving and changing, and if we sit still and mindfully observe it for long enough we see that even a mountain changes-- be it in the plant life that grows upon it, the animals that graze upon it and so on.

I took away from the talk what was useful to me and found that like so many teachers connected to ancient Eastern traditions, her very manner of presentation reminded me of something important: being fully present allows us to perceive the life that vibrates within us, through us, all around us at all times.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Abakua URL: AfroPop Worldwide "Voice of the Leopard: Ivor Miller talks to Ned Sublette"

Dance images depict traditional Balinese and Indian Bharatanatyam dance. For more on Indian story dance, see the 74 minute India Blooms: Stories in Motion , a program of the Chicago Opera Theatre.

Two from Rumi

Excerpts from Coleman Barks' translations from the Five Points journal:





SOUL HOUSES

He heals.
He enlivens...
He makes this dying world eternal.
His greatest alchemy is how he undoes the binding
that keeps love from breathing deep.
He loosens the chest...
Be silent now,
say fewer and fewer praise poems.
Let yourself become living poetry.

DISCIPLES

...watch the man beating a rug.
He is not mad at it.
He wants to loosen the layers of dirt.
Ego accumulations are not loosened
with one swat.
Continual work is necessary,
my disciples.
A carpenter saws and chisels a piece of wood
because he knows how he wants to use it...


Above image from Woven Souls Persian Rug image gallery

Hybrid Soul

I fished the piece below out of several hundred pieces of paper that fill notebooks, folders and spirals near my workspace. I wrote it back around 2001 or 2002 in response to a call for submissions for an anthology on modern, young women's perspectives on spirituality.

The publisher was (is?) a West Coast press with a small list. The submissions were to be lighthearted, pop-flavored yet informative, hip and perhaps even a little glib and sarcastic. I sat down, thought and gave what I had. My truth.

My submission did not end up appearing in the collection, but I like it because it is one of my first attempts at composing a black and white concrete meditation on a topic that's actually more sterling silver and fluid. What appears below is a slight expansion of what I orginally sent in.

***

Most of the boundaries between traditions are artificial. Truth has no boundaries. The differences are mostly in emphasis. ~Thich Nhat Hanh, Reflections from Living Buddha, Living Christ

I am drawn to examine (and re-examine) the Old Ways, the Old Beliefs. To link up my own feelings with inquiries, faiths, passionate dedications which...sometimes startle me by popping up from deep in my subconscious. I think, irresistably, of magic, of blood memories, of God, even of Christ. It is a matter of roots, of place...a search for the essence of my people found in my own blood. ~Alice Walker, from the preface to Revolutionary Petunias and Other Poems

Not long ago, I decided to take public transport to work and happened to sit near two people who, before the end of my ride, would engage in something of a religious debate.

He was a middle aged African American Muslim dressed from head to foot in Eastern garb. He was a cool brother, Last Poets-type that I will call Abu. Directly across the aisle from Abu was a young woman whom I guessed was in her mid-twenties. She was also black. Their seats were the ones nearest the doors, seats with the backrests against the train walls so that Abu and the young woman sat facing each other. Sitting nearby in a parked stroller was the woman's daughter, a toddler engrossed in a story told in the pages of a large picture book. Young Mother wore glasses and was neatly dressed in a style very similar to Abu's. However, I doubted that she was Muslim; her head was covered, but her arms were bare.

Abu craned his neck so that he could speak around the bodies of the communters who streamed in and out of the canyon-like space, easing into conversation with Young Mother by commenting on Baby Girl's apparent fondness for "reading." I couldn't help but tune in as he used smooth sly-chology to begin to question Young Mother. He began by soft-pedaling and asking whether or not she was a student of Islam. Her polite reply was that she didn't follow any organized religion. Next Abu, apparently appauled, let go of a barrage of questions: Are you a Christian? (At this question, I wondered if he'd fallen momentarily deaf when the young woman said that she didn't follow an organized religion or whether he viewed Christianity as chaotic, as opposed to organized, religion.) Are you monotheist? Do you believe in God? Do you believe that God created all of the planets or that they just appeared through happenstance?

The interrogation ended with Abu offering that the Prophet Muhammed, peace be upon him, was quite liberal in his views of women and that Islamic sharia, as it related to women's dress, was a protective measure. It was only put in place to protect women from men's bestial nature. All of these were reasons, Abu pointed out, that Young Mother should strongly consider converting. At this final statement, Abu turned to a young Levantine/Persian/Desi-looking woman sitting across the aisle from me and asked, "Isn't that right, Sister?" The woman gave a polite, faint smile but looked clearly annoyed by Abu's attempt to get her to help in his mission.

Unruffled, Young Mother held her ground and gave matter-of-fact, pleasant replies to his questions: Yes, she believed in God. Truth is contained in all religions. She had no idea when or how the universe was created and dared not speculate.

I don't know exactly when and how their conversation ended, but after getting off at my stop, I realized that unlike Young Mother whose composure, wisdom and responses reminded me of Scheherazade of A Thousand and One Nights, I was irritated by Abu's aggressive nosiness. It called to mind conversations that a Muslim friend of mine with Louisiana roots would have where he'd laugh and say (in the very Southern way that he had) that minding one's own business is a full-time job as well as a gospel song that I used to hear as a child that advised folks to sweep around their own front doors. Abu's self-serving concern reminded me of numerous encounters I'd had with men, as well as women, who claimed to have the my soul's best interest in mind when they sidled up on publc transport, in elevators, at school or at work. I've been eyed warily and asked whether I am Rasta, Hebrew Israelite, Unitarian. I have even been accused of being a "witch" and can remember being warned by a West African evangelical Christian that despite my being a "good girl" I had a confirmed reservation to hell if I didn't start going to church every Sunday.

I think that for people like Abu, those of mixed spirit are as troubling as people of mixed bloodlines are to some, despite the fact that we're all mongrels. Within our families are some variaton of The Roman Catholic grandma whose rituals and practices speak to secret Jewish roots, the uncle who sold bean pies and Final Call newspapers back in the '60s and twenty years later converted again to orthodox Islam, the cousin who studied abroad in Asia and came back with an appreciation of Buddhism and tai chi. All of these people contribute something to our spiritual understanding.

All this being true, I do still recognize the necessity of giving due respect to one's spiritual roots and that these roots have a strong tie to ones history and culture. Spirtual leaders like the Dalai Lama have spoken to this point. As has Thich Nhat Hanh when he eloquently writes, "After one retreat, a young man told me, 'Thay, I feel more Jewish than ever. I will tell my rabbi that a Buddhist monk inspired me to go back to him.'" So, in a nutshell, it is best for seekers to come to terms with the spiritual beliefs of their ancestors, perhaps picking up tools and techniques of other traditions to shed new light on their spiritual inheritance. Ignoring one's roots puts the seeker at risk of having a kind of identity crisis of the soul. It's like being grounded by one's sense home, family and place yet still showing respect and receptivity to one's neighbors and larger community. As absolutely true as I feel this insight is, I know also that for people with complicated histories it is difficult to figure out what qualifies as being one's spiritual True North.

The particulars of the history of people of color is often convoluted (or fluid, depending on how one sees). I am, for instance, a black woman born in the American South during the 1970s to a common family of modest means. Many of aspects of my history have been obscured or forgotten. In some cases, the amnesia was forced. In other cases, memories and ancestral wisdom were thrown overboard because they were too heavy to carry forward. Most of my ancestors, as far as I know, came from West and Central Africa. Looking at the weathered pictures of long-dead family members makes me also see that we carry the blood of the Native American. In my pale skin, eyes and English name I see traces of the European. I am descended from recent ancestors who were mainly Baptist and Methodist with a few Catholics. I am also one who cannot forget those other ones who were taken from the "wilds"of Africa and hustled into stone-cold churches on islands like Goree, christened with new names like Adam and Eve, exported to ports like Charleston and New Orleans and Santo Domingo and Mantanzas and Salvador. I must honor the Native American whose ways I was never taught, the European ancestors who belonged to the peaceful bands that Marija Gimbutas and Monica Sjoo have written about because there are also insights to be gained through them.

My walk with God has involved holding fragments of truth to light trying to see the ways that the various myths, legends, stories and beliefs fit together and how they, in turn, hold me together. I know that dominant traditions are built upon smaller structures. What may have, for instance, been an ancient shrine or feast day for an ancient diety gets a few bricks added and becomes a cathedral, temple, mosque or in some other way labeled as a new tradition. The Old Ways are the silent spaces that exist in our lives without much comment, while the heralded religion is the printed note that is actually written upon the scale. We need both to make the song.

I was born to a mother who loved the seaside and the moon, who would burn incense after cleaning the house and who pays close attention to what her dreams tell her. Courtesy of my family members, I own at least three Bibles and keep them on a bookshelf beside my bed and take a lot of comfort from the Word written down within them. I came to understand these Bible stories as much from hearing my minister grandfather deliver sermons from his pulpit as I did from listening to long-memoried reggae musicians tell stories of faith, history, struggle and love. My ancestral memory begins to stir when it hears bata drums, muezzin calls and jubilee choirs. I have spent blissful days having outdoor Sabbath at the home of a friend whose yard brimmed with green things because he is a master gardener and true lover of nature. I appreciate goddess traditions (because I know that in order to beget any fathers and sons, mothers and daughters must be given due respect) and yearn for their to be a more solid connection between abstract spirituality and day-to-day education and action. And as uncomfortable as it may sometimes make me feel, I also know that there's a lot I don't-- and never will-- know or be able to explain about the mysteries of Creation.

I like what Jorge Amado once said about Brazilians being ones who revel in syncretism. He said, half-jokingly, that when comes to religion they believe in covering all of the bases. Brazilians also joke that God is Brazilian, probably meaning that there's no escaping the fact that contains multitudes as well as contrasts.

One of the many pictures that my mind holds of the Divine is that God is the grand story. We each hold pages of the mysterious and magnificent text and must use the scripture as the light by which we get to know our highest and most incorruptable Self.

Above image from The University of Arizona Spiritual and Community Resources page

Just Listen

God doesn't need our prayers. God needs us to listen. [We must] take care of ourselves by beginning each day with meditation. Honor your oldest, dearest and best friend: your Self.

~Susan L. Taylor

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)

It's Been a Long Time (Or a List of Excuses)

Depiction of the Goddess Durga

An intense job search + a part time job + hustling to get the household bills paid + tending to the needs of an adorable and turbo-charged toddler who wants and deserves attention + taking care of myself + keeping house + weathering blizzards of electronic and postal mail + getting caught up in the Facebook phenomenon * wondering what might be an interesting enough to topic to break what has grown into a long silence = few Blogger posts.

Laundry List of Childhood Memories and Dreams

I found this in one of my piles today.

As a child in the '70s and '80s, I wanted to:

...be a ballerina

...be a model
...to look like Jayne Kennedy or Jeanne Moutoussamy-Ashe
...be a writer
...live near my extended family in Galveston
...live by the sea
...be better in gym class
...be a leader
...be a cheerleader
...wear makeup and pantyhose
...always protect my younger brother
...be a singer
...play the flute
...to play the daughter of the onscreen superhero, Isis and hang with Samantha of Bewitched
...to visit far away places like England and France
...to spend more time with Daddy
...to have a rabbit fur jacket
...to change the world-- especially South Africa
...for us to have extra money to spend on going to places like White Water, Sesame Place, International Wildlife Park and Malibu
...to travel back in time like people travel to cities

Things I actually did as a child:

Collected stones and sea shells

Listened to "black music" and "symphony music" on my big, blue pair of transistor headphones

Roller skated on the sidewalks in the neighborhood and at Starlite skating rink

Played jacks, Uno, concentration, Crazy 8's and Boggle

Bossed my little brother around

Drew pictures

Wrote notes to cute boys

Read Laura Ingalls Wilder, Encyclopedia Brown, Scott O'Dell and Mildred D. Taylor books

Savored every summer and Christmas vacation spent with my extended family in Galveston

Wrote simple books and songs

Babysat a couple of kids named Talisha and B.J.

wore cornrows or an afro jheri curl

Played in mama's makeup

Got in trouble for playing in mama's makeup

Went to slumber parties

Watched a lot of television-- especially loved Fame, Gimme a Break and The Cosby Show as well as soap operas like Dallas, Dynasty, All My Children and the Young and the Restless

Played clarinet-- badly :)

Taught myself to ride a bike after getting over the fear of falling off

Got chased by dogs

could identify familiar songs after hearing a few notes

Experimented with making culinary concoctions

Made sock dolls, doll clothes and quilt patches

Collected Archie comics

Had a good sense of direction and could help visiting family members navigate their way throughout parts of the city familiar to me

Jumped rope, played hand games, freeze tag, Stop and Go and Simon Says with the other kids at Mrs. Ola Mae Giddings daycare

Drooled over Taimak, Tony Dorsett, Todd Bridges, Gregory Harrison, Ralph Macchio, Joe Montana, Rob Lowe

Plastered my bedroom walls with every Michael Jackson poster I could find

The Constant Struggle

Let me go on and admit it. I have recurrent fantasies of keeping an orderly, austere work space like something out of Real Simple magazine. Chalk it up to me being a Virgo, but I often sit at my desk giving sidelong glances to piles as if to warn them: "You're next!" and I truly wish I could surrender to my urge to indiscriminately toss stuff. Sadly, friends, this is not me. I've spent too much time writing down my words and collecting those of others. My altruistic aim is to string these ideas together like little beads of light and, in one way or another, share them like a devotee of Sophia, I suppose.

And so, I horde. (Sigh and weary smile.)

To my credit, since moving in to this new space I've tossed and shredded God knows how many pounds of paper. But it doesn't take long though for a flood of new paper to replace the paper I have heroically banished from my space. The mail man and my own compulsion aid in the conquest and get the better of my Real Simple fantasy. Still, as Jesse Jackson used to say, I am keeping hope alive!

Today was fairly productive. Though I have not yet done the laundry or cooked a quick meal for the week, what I have done is added to a piece of creative nonfiction that I'm writing about my grandmother and weeded through some of the paper I have crammed in binders, filling up journals and the like. In the midst of it, I began thinking: what better place than a blog to serve as home to some of these thoughts? And so you should expect to see periodic posts from this archive, beginning today.

Paper dragon, I may indeed slay you!

St. Elmo's Village

While browsing through a book on unique living spaces I learned about this Los Angeles based community center and arts space called St. Elmo's Village. I'm loving what they're about and can't wait to visit.

Check out Something Out of Nothing, a Current Channel video about them.

Cabbage and Black Eyed Peas

I'm about a day late as far as the Gregorian calendar goes, but I figure that as long as I post this message before Chinese New Year, then I'm doing okay...

I love experimenting with food and filling up on food history. Jessica Harris, Vertamae Grosvenor, Edna Lewis, Leah Chase, Dorinda Hafner, the Darden Sisters are some of the sheroes who speak about and look at food in ways that I entirely appreciate.

Though I do not consider it to be a truly new year until the arrival of Spring, like my mama and grandma, I maintain the black Southern tradition of eating cabbage and black eyed peas on January 1. Cabbage for prosperity, peas for good fortune.

Cabbage is not my favorite food, but I will eat it. I much prefer collard greens or kale, especially when prepared Brazilian style (couve) . What I do very much enjoy is black-eyed peas and know a few really good ways to cook them. Like West African bean stew made with tomato sauce, curry powder, spinach and sardines or tuna. Or black eyed pea patties baked or lightly pan fried and topped with salsa. Once I even tried my hand at making acaraje/akaras, one of the signature recipes that the bahianas of Brazil inherited from their Yoruba foremothers. (Before the batter puffs into those fluffy, luscious fritters the cook has to peel off the skins of the individual beans. While in the midst of this tedious process-- that, frankly, made me want to pull my hair out-- it dawned on me that the only way these sisters have the patience to make this dish is that they must work in a group, turning the food prepping ordeal into a gumbo ya ya session. )

In contrast to the complicated but delicious acaraje, the recipe below is simple, nourishing and makes me feel good when I serve it to my son and self. Especially when I add coconut milk to the rice cooking water, it fills my apartment with savory, yummy smell and makes me feel like one of those old time mamas padding around in house slippers, listening to soul-blues. You know the ones with their weekly rituals that involve cooking up a mess of greens, wash day beans or fish and spaghetti.

Here are the ingredients:

* small bag of fresh black eyed peas soaked and cooked without salt (beans soften better this way) or about four cups of frozen black eyed peas

* a few medium carrots, sliced

* four or five tomatoes, diced

* a few sprigs of fresh thyme

* about four cloves of minced, fresh garlic or a few cubes of Dorot frozen crushed garlic

* about a third a cup of fresh cilantro, chopped

* small can of tomato sauce

* about a half cup onion, bell pepper and celery frozen veggie medley

* Spike no salt seasoning or similar herb mixture

* Salt to taste

* about a third cup olive oil

* drizzle of blackstrap molasses

* a few shakes of Liquid Smoke

* tablespoon of vegetarian Better than Bouillon No Beef base or one smoked turkey neck cut into rounds

Add as much water as recommended on package of dry or frozen beans. If you have some time on your hands and want a traditional flavor then put all ingredients in a slow cooker, go on about your business and expect to be comforted as the home cooked aroma gains strength. If you're in a rush, then use your pressure cooker, keeping in mind that cowpeas, like lentils, cook pretty quickly. So don't keep them under pressure for any more than about twenty minutes. (Note: If using the smoked turkey neck for flavoring instead of bouillon slightly reduce water you cook beans in, place pieces of turkey in medium saucepan and fill about half way with water. Add fresh thyme and gently boil turkey until water turns light brown. Add this broth to beans.)

Ladle the peas on top of steamed basmati, jasmine or brown rice and serve alongside a bit of sauteed cabbage. Next, pour yourself a glass of champagne and lift your glass to health, wealth and prosperity in 2009 and beyond.

My Son, the Singer

When I began this blog, I had in mind that it would be multipurpose, one of those being to help organize my thoughts as well as some of my memories of Jared as he grows. I've got so many piles of photos, cards, keepsakes and calendars as well as little scraps of paper with notes jotted down, notes that I say to myself I'll write down all neat and orderly like a good mommie should in an album or scrapbook one day when I get time. (Meanwhile, the piles keep growing taller. )


One memory that I don't want to forget is his fondness for music. While he seems to for the most part think he's too cool to dance, my son has been singing since he was two or three months old. Some of the photos of him during his naming ceremony back in October 2006 do, in fact, show him with his cottony hair and velvety skin and mouth frozen while holding the note of song. During his first year, he and I would be out shopping and he would be singing at the top of his lungs in such a way that other shoppers would track us down in our aisle to get a look at the child whose voice carried from one corner of the store to another (which made me sometimes call him O Puxador, like Neguinho da Beija Flor and other singers who stand on top of floats bellowing out carnaval theme songs, no need for a mic). Granted, the stores where this would happen were always small stores, but still I thought it was funny. Even more funny was that when I enrolled the child in Music Together he spent more time investigating the room than he did actually singing or playing instruments.
When some of these people would, perhaps innocently, say to me that my son is destined to be a singer, it seemed laden with restrictive assumptions about the heights a black child should expect to reach. So, in response I would say that he could very well end up being a singer but might also be an orator or a host of other things that require vocal expressiveness.

In addition to his own original tunes, Jared's Fall 2008 repertoire includes:

Old MacDonald

The Itsy Bitsy Spider

Yes, Jesus Loves Me

Yankee Doodle Dandy

Take Me Out to the Ball Game

Twinkle, Twinkle

Frere Jacques


Of course, mommie can't wait to see what comes next in the little boy's songbook.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Playsuit image from Stardust Kids

Peace

"Icon: Ethiopian Orthodox Style, c. 1750-1855" from Ethiopian Icons: Faith and Science online exhibition at the

National Museum of African Art.

l

Joy to the world.

May peace shine within you, be upon you.

Shalom. Salaam. Salem.

Amen.

l

New Day

(Wednesday, 5 November 2008)

Jared and I woke up at about 6:45 this morning. He'd fallen asleep in the car at about 6 p.m. on our way back from running errands and slept through the night, waking up only to have a couple rounds of milk. So, he was up and at 'em before the sun came up.

One of the first things I did after dragging (or, more accurately, being dragged by a two year old) out of bed was to was hurry to turn the television to CNN to find out the election results. Any who know me are aware that news as a backdrop to my morning routine is a-typical for me.

My grandma Maggie followed a regular news watching regimen: one broadcast of the local broadcast followed by one dose of the national news. On Sundays there was 60 Minutes (which later became somewhat bearable to me because of the suave, intelligent and handsome Ed Bradley.) Grandma tuned in to the news as faithfully as she did her soaps, or "stories," and The Price Is Right. My mother has a similar inborn reverence for news and can take in an entire paper in a day, extracting and absorbing all of the key stories from it, a feat which leaves me awestruck. For my family watching news ranks high among one's civic duties and is the best way to keep informed.

I did not inherit this trait. My general aversion to news comes from its heavy emphasis on conflict, horror, negativity with little given in the way of solutions or hope. As a child, news either bored me to no end leaving me with a dull throbbing headache, frightened me or both. We live in a news-on-steroids era very different from the time when it was relegated to one hour segments scheduled at the beginning or end of the day. I find the endless repetition, the hype, the ticker tape that slides across the bottom of the screen to be too much. I'm much more of a big picture, historical context kind of gal. For me, stories must maintain optimism as well as retain the personal narrative.

Today was different, though. The endless stream of news about the Obama victory was a welcome refreshment. I had the chance to get my fill and still get breakfast cooked, lunches packed, clothes ironed, baby and self washed and groomed and stand in front of the TV for five minutes here and two minutes there as the news cycled back to the parts I missed.

In the coming weeks, I will probably be watching more news than I have ever cared to. When listening to the Obama victory speech today, I was moved to tears because he seems to mean what he says. I search Obama's poetic oratory for the truth and sincerity that has helped him win the trust of so many. He's talking loud, and as far as I can tell, saying something. Who knows what the the Great Change that Barack Obama promises will look like in the final analysis. I agree with the many who say that the most important change might not even be overtly political, but could lie most strongly in his reminding people about what is possible to acheive. Obama is waking up people's spirits in a way that reminds me of this amazing video for the song Sun Moon Child.

The main point of this post was supposed to be my linking to an open letter that Alice Walker wrote to Barack Obama, and so I want to make sure to conclude with that. Like Mama Alice, I often think of Obama's family-- the brilliance of Michelle and the legacy that Barack will leave to his children. I wonder about the way that his power and position will both positively and negatively affect his family. I think of the demands that will be placed upon Obama's mind, body and spirit. I pray the best for them and us all.

That said, I think I'm gonna turn off the radio and TV news broadcasts. No additional posts or e-mails about the election. At least not for today. I've had my fill, and life continues. There's work to do. Tomorrow's another day.

Good Music: Jazmine Sullivan

Okay, a lot of people are probably already up on it, but just yesterday I learned of Missy Elliott's very young and talented protegee, Jazmine Sullivan, and the song "Need U Bad." As the bredren-them used to say-- it's a wicked piece-a tune! It reminds me of Gregory Isaacs, Dennis Brown and the real good stuff they used to spin when I first fell in love with reggae. I'm totally feelin it!

I saw the "Need U Bad" video while in the company of a fifty-year-old elder, and we stopped our conversation tranfixed by what we were hearing. (The elder happened to be the owner of a veritable audio museum of black American music, some on 8-track in fact. She proudly identified herself as a discriminating music fan and disciple of Black Moses, aka Isaac Hayes.) The two of us kept nodding our heads and repeating "Mmmmhumm," "That sho is nice!" and "That's music right there."

Truly, young sister Jazmine's voice goes toe-to-to with the strong roots bass line that carries "Need U Bad." Sir Coxsone would be proud to hear youth like her carrying the old sound system vibes into the future.

Two More

Just thought of some other things I want to add to my tagged list below.

8. Gilmore Girls is one of my favorite recent tv programs. Started watching during my pregnancy and early days of Jared's life. The rapid fire dialogue and cornball humor initially made me wonder "What the...?" but I was all in after about three or four episodes. Some of the many reasons that I like it are that it deals with family love alongside generational conflict and ambition alongside simple, basic human values. Also, it inverts the stereotype of what/who a teenage mother is and what she is able to ultimately achieve.

9. The tejana negra in me would love to have a well-cared-for, early 1970s GMC truck (with a new engine) as a second vehicle.

Tagged

My Hurston-Wright Writers' Week classmate and e-mail buddy, Isunji Cardoso, tagged me and so I'm posting seven trivial facts about myself:

1. I was born on a Sunday.

2. My shoe size is 6.

3. I was once a debutante.

4. One of the best gifts I ever gave myself was my Declaration of Independence Road Trip. It actually happened during Christmas of 2003 and I drove solo from Atlanta to Houston, with a stop in New Orleans in between.

5. I find it hard to throw away keys, even if I've forgotten what they unlock.

6. I One of my all-time favorite meals is gumbo-- with okra, please, cher! On the flip side, I detest the smell (not to mention the taste) of beets!

7. Though I sometimes use it to clean, the smell of bleach (especially mixed with food aromas), nauseates me.

Integration

Putting one of my old poems into the play pen--

Integration

In my wildest, craziest dreams
I am the blue-green Atlantic
hugging the Cabo de Sao Roque;
Billowing cluds of Georgia red clay
kicked up at a sanctified tent revival;
Southeastern sun warm
like the tejana negra that I am;
Polaris guiding
Annie Christmas down the banks
of the mighty Mississippi;
A samba sonata,
A reggae riff,
bebop blues guitar,
Flute and violin
Lilting in an aria,
Nyabinghi drums
and soca-lypso punta rock;
In my wildest,
Craziest dreams
My name is Pangea.

(Spring 2000)

Accounting for Life

I agree with that well-worn metaphor of life being a journey. This space on which I type is a white oasis, a place at which I cannot stay for long. Even if any cared to hear it, I cannot possibly re-tell all that I have seen and felt. No one can. Words pale in comparison to experience. But once any moment is gone, abstractions are all we have to offer. The skin is all that is left behind. The substance has moved on. We make some footpaths here in the world of words hoping that others like us will care to follow and join us for a moment of communion. We must soon trod on, get on back to the adventure, the journey.

This thought is sparked by my feeling that I do not write as much as I would like. Months can pass and my writing might amount to countless to-do lists, e-mail correspondence, scribbled fragments of ideas searching for their completion. My ideas are frequent and would, I'm sure, be more so if I could/would regularly create space and time to not only listen to them but play with them, arrange them, allow them to congregate...

Blogging is my idea of a gathering space for some of my ideas. A kind of play pen. I show up for play rather infrequently, though, since my life (especially in its current state) says that anything that does not yeild cash is a luxury. My basic nature is taken aback by this idea, but its how I'm livin'.

I wonder how others find the time to write about life and attend to all the details of it.

There is no way that I could succintly blog about all the things that have demanded my focus and energy ,seemingly overshadowing the importance of writing. Paradoxically, it is important for me to create something of a personal narrative of how I have spent my time, so that the warmness of words can remind me of what the cold numbers of the calendar and steady marching of time won't: that is how my time was truly spent and how I felt about the spending it.

Here is a basic ledger of my summer and early fall:

• Ended a romantic relationship that spanned most of my adult life.


• Found and set up a new residence.


• Decided whether or not to proceed with a years-old-plan to get an arts degree.


• Decided to proceed with my plan to earn an MFA in Creative Nonfiction and saw to all of the details necessary to attend my first residency in Baltimore.


• Did coursework.


• Figured how to balance new homelife with work (still figuring).


• Hunted for better job and pay (still hunting).


• Hired a lawyer and sought government agencies to iron out visitation, custody and related matters regarding son-shine.

Not to mention cooking, cleaning, playtime and keeping in touch with extended family and friends and that just about two weeks ago we took son-shine in for minor ENT surgery. (Anyone who knows me is aware of how I feel about how emotionally high strung I get about such matters; me being somewhat of an urban-bush type means that I prefer to stick as close to nature as a modern woman possibly can. So, it took a minute for me to be okay with allowing my 2 year-old to go under the knife. And any who may be inclined to point to "bush" practices of ritual scarification and circumcision please, don't even go there...) Then there's the practical end of post-op nurturing and home care of son-shine and attending to my own physical well being.

So, I will repeat the question often asked by modern writers: how do others find time to both live life and as well as write about it, or otherwise preserve moments, with detail sufficient enough to help us to remember or be of help to others (including our children) later?

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.