Rehearsing for Soil at the Botanic Gardens.

This weekend I performed at my favorite place to dance in Washington, DC, the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. I was thrilled when my dear friend and director of the Liberated Muse Arts Group, Khadijah Ali-Coleman invited me to be a part of her company’s presentation at the Page-to-Stage Festival. Liberated Muse presented a reading of Color in a Sphere of Monochrome, a series of poems and monologues adapted from essays written by different women exploring how to preserve their capacity to show up in the world as their full colorful selves, even as there’s so much pressure to just conform, blend in, and disappear.

I danced to a piece called Soil by mother, writer, and gardener Tichaona Chinyelu. This was my first time performing dance for an audience as a mother. Since giving birth 6 years ago, I’ve facilitated a number of workshops and presented interactive movement shares at conferences, but I hadn’t taken to the stage in pure performance mode in a very long time. I spent all summer preparing for my part, which was only a few minutes. But I was the only dancer, and everyone else in the cast was speaking and acting. 

I sat with the piece for a long time, just feeling for the mood. I wanted to feel for the story underneath the words. I didn’t want to choreograph literally to the text. I wanted to feel the writer’s story, and then extract movement phrases from the embodied emotions coming up for me from my interpretation of her story. To do this, I played around with lots of different music when I was rehearsing. I danced to house music, jazz, afrobeat, African drums, sonic soundscapes, gospel, and nature sounds. I didn’t feel I could only rehearse to the recording of the poem and its sound score. In fact, I felt I had to intentionally open up the field of possibility for the movement, by situating the story in a variety of moods. 

Sometimes I took myself—and the munchkins of course—outside to experiment with movements for the piece in the sun, or in the breeze, or in the grass, or near a body of water (read: next to the fountain at the National Gallery of Art’s Sculpture Garden because getting to the beach wasn’t always doable). And without words, and without music, I would just move inside of nature. Since the piece was connected to this theme of growth and all the writer is able to do with her soil, I thought immersing myself in the elements of nature was also a critical part of the choreography. 

As it got closer to performance time, I started to try out all the movement sequences I’d been developing to the actual recording of the poem. It was like playing around with puzzle pieces, but the overall picture could always change. Nothing had to be permanently anywhere. Sometimes during a run a particular movement would feel really good and seem to mesh with a line of the poem. But then the next day the resonance might have dissipated, and I would allow that to just be. I didn’t feel pressure to lock the choreography down. Just like the soil, my movement had to be responsive to the realities of the moment. Every time I dance, I’m bringing my full, mothering self to the process. Everyday I am a different dancer, and my movements reflect the ever-shifting nature of what it means to be always mothering and always creating. 

In the last weeks leading up to performance time, I’d identified a core sequence of movements that I felt most strongly connected to the emotions and imagery of the poem. With each practice, I felt more and more in tune with the narrative and felt my movements growing more seamless and fluid. I didn’t piece them together in the exact same way each time, but I did find recurring segments and markers that anchored the flow of the piece, and still allowed me the freedom to be present, authentic, and responsive to the moment. 

One of the best parts of this process of allowance and deep awareness as a mover was the continuous discovery of more layers to the poem and to the dance. The closer it got to the performance date, the more specific my embodied emotional narrative became. I felt that the undercurrent of the writer’s story was one of joy, a deeply sensual and abundant joy that fed her soul—and her soil—from the inside out. It was here that I rooted my own movement expression when showtime came. 

All the movements came together beautifully at the performance, a magical puzzle finally realized after months of processing, development, and experimentation. I felt my emotional narrative really translated through the movement, and that the audience could feel the joy exuding from the poem, my body, and the collaborative union between Tichoana, the writer, and me, the dancer—even though we’ve never met or even spoken to each other. All we’ve shared together is our art, mother to mother. And our sharing was enough to birth a performance piece that is truly amazing and lovely.

I love that my life as a mothering artist keeps me in close communion with other mothering artists, and that I’m constantly exploring ways to engage in intimate creative exchanges across time, space, distance, language, cultural backgrounds, artistic disciplines, and mothering paths. Each of us are abundant in our own creative powers, and when we find mutually satisfying points of intersection, merging, and expansion, our powers grow exponentially. 

This is why I’m so passionate about cultivating spaces for mothering artists to discover the infinite possibilities within our creative labors, both individually and collectively. Many of us have been trying to find our way inside the harsh corridors of the world’s frequently anti-mothering spaces, because we’ve been told that real art and real artists look and function a certain way—a way that is most often not connected to children, fertility, or motherhood. But here we all are, creating anyway, thriving anyway, finding joy in our art anyway. There is a whole universe for us to explore, just within our own vibrant selves as mothering artists. 

My whole performance journey this go around was facilitated through the loving actions of one mother to another. I am reminded that I don’t have to look outside of myself to experience the bliss and delight of my process as a performer. There is room for me as I am. There are opportunities for me, and my reality as a mother with plenty little folks to care for, to be on someone’s stage right now. It matters greatly how we feel and how we are treated throughout the process of performing. It matters whether or not our mothering selves have been honored and celebrated in the intensive work of producing our art. 

The actual performance was less than 4 minutes, but the three months I spent preparing for it enriched my life and my labors as a mothering artist. And my munchkins weren’t there to see Mommy perform (the logistics of getting everyone there for such an early call time were beyond what I could manage for the day), but they were with me for nearly every rehearsal, including my dress rehearsal at our home studio the night before when they all oohed and ahhhed over my dress that I was wearing for the show. 

I am grateful for all the sweet moments along the way that led to Saturday’s performance. Through every part of the process, I have become so much more of my mothering artist self. Just like a seed planted in well-nourished soil can grow freely into its fullest potential, so too does a mother who is loved on and treated kindly as she and her creativity are constantly evolving.

Words by Tichaona Chinyelu

Narration and vocalization by Khadijah Z. Ali-Coleman

Music composed by Ben Dawson, Jr.

Produced by Chez Soleil Music Group

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Bloom exploring how trees are living and breathing too just like human beings.

The more I deepen my process as the facilitator of our family learning lab, the more I keep coming back to how I want to feel inside these labors. Most recently, the word that stays with me is kindness. I want to feel kindness as I am learning how to create and hold this dynamic, creative, discovery-based, learning space for my family. 

This is also what I want for my children, to feel kindness from me, their family, and the many folks who will be a part of their world as they dive deeper into the magic of learning. I want their journey to be anchored by positive, gentle, encouraging adults, who support them in taking larger leaps when asking questions and seeking answers, when braving the unknowns that pop up when conducting an experiment, when stumbling through the inevitably difficult parts of their own transformational discoveries.

I am making more of an effort to acknowledge this intention of kindness as a core element of our whole family learning lab process. The truth is, I have not been treated kindly by some of the people in my family and my community when it comes to choosing to nurture my children’s education outside of the dominant “send your child to school” culture. Every time I have encountered a negative comment or incident, it’s been very hurtful, and it takes me a while to recover my sense of confidence and hope in my vision for our family learning lab. Mostly, I do this emotional restoration work alone, in the privacy of my own thoughts, or between the lines of my journal, or within my liberated, dancing body while the munchkins run circles around me in their own playful delight. Sometimes I have vented, and even cried, to other mamas in my village who have dealt with similar criticisms or mean things said to them about their homeschooling process. 

When I think of how a tree grows, how any plant grows, I think of it flourishing in an environment where it is treated well, where it has all it needs to expand and take up more space, where it is immersed in the forward momentum of its becoming. A tree would have a hard time developing into its full potential if when it was a sapling it was constantly kicked at or stepped on, its roots yanked from the ground before its foundation was solid, if in its delicate infancy it was denied adequate water and sunlight, restricted from fresh air to breathe. The tree, wired for growth, would indeed keep trying to become more of what it dreams to be, but after a while, the constant lack of support from the external environment would overpower even its will to live. It would gradually give up, its passion to live fading more and and more each day.

I don’t think we’re much different as humans. We need kindness, support, generosity, and protection when we’re in our most vulnerable stages. When we’re at the beginning of something—whether as the embryo in our mother’s womb, or as a little person holding the pencil to the page for the first time, or as a mother navigating the dense jungle of cultivating an authentic learning process for her children that dreams outside the lines of the society’s rules for what education is— when everything is newly forming and still determining its path toward sustainability, we need a lot of positive encouragement, space to grow and become, and an overall gentle, loving presence from everyone intimately involved. 

So many times I’ve pondered what my experience as a mother and as a learner would be if the people closest to me were simply kinder to me. I know I am doing my best everyday, and I know I’d be doing even better if I had more loving interactions with people in my family and community. It’s ironic that through their meanness about my choice to create a new reality outside of the school system, those naysayers actually reinforce my belief in my dream for our family learning lab. Through their words it becomes clear that their education, and mine too because I grew up in that system too, was tragically incomplete. If in their adulthood they have become so closed-minded, so fearful of new ideas, so hostile towards something that disrupts their notion of the truth—then what useful thing have they really learned to be able to thrive in this vast and changing world? 

Creativity, innovation, openness to fresh ways of understanding, conscious, deep listening skills, the ability to consider alternative perspectives even if they’re so different from your own, and an ever-growing passion for what we are learning are what propels humanity forward. To grow, we have to have room to come undone from what we are, and reemerge as something new, and likely something better. 

In our family learning lab I am daily searching for more and more opportunities to model these expansive qualities as the norm for a vibrant, heart-centered education. I want my children to seed their learning practices in the lush soil of a warm, welcoming, and loving environment. I want them to understand on a soul-deep level that their growth as human beings, while ultimately initiated from within themselves, is supposed to be unconditionally supported from the people around them, people who at the very least should have the capacity to be loving, kind, and gentle with them—and their mother—through the learning process.

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It started out small like that. Just a little something for those moments when I couldn’t protect myself from scary memories long enough to walk to the corner and get some fresh air. It was harmless. Nothing I couldn’t put a lid on whenever I wanted.

When I would take a hit, it would just ease the rawness of everything. Make the rough edges of all these callouses not scrape so bad against my heart. It’s like, I could just breathe, finally. Hear my own self breathing, but without the hammer banging in my head, without the siren ripping through my blood.

With the drugs I could feel like a soft woman again. Access that lush, cloudy part of me that was able to give and forgive. The part of me not consumed with hate and rage, so easily set off by the slightest of triggers. To this day I still can’t sleep with any clothes on, no sheets neither. No matter how deep into winter it might be. Warmth ain’t nothing if you don’t feel safe. And I always keep at least one light on. I need to know that I can see and be seen, even when my eyes are closed. I need to trust I can find my body at all times.

So it began just with these little getaways for when I couldn’t go nowhere. And with it flowing through my system, I could dance again. And I used to dance all the time, you know. Before the incident. Before I couldn’t feel the fleshy part of my thighs without bursting into tears. And if you understood anything about what happened, you know it’s not my fault I lost touch with myself. Once a counselor told me that it’s the detachment I need to heal. It’s that’s need for connection leading me to abuse myself. But I tell you, it didn’t feel like abuse at the time. It felt like relief. Like something had to give, else I’d explode. I’d be dead. And what would you choose if you didn’t really have a choice? Dying, or getting high to make it through a long night.

Actually, it’s a miracle I could even become somebody’s mother, the natural way I mean. That I could even allow a man inside of me without shattering to pieces. I mean the nerve of some of these fake-ass people who want to hug up on my baby but talk shit about me. This baby came from some deep soul healing, from my own courage. I still can’t put into words how I made a way for any type of love to take root in me. But for Isaiah, I found a way. We found a way. A sweet and lovely way, and that’s where this baby girl came from.

And I did too stop when I got pregnant, before I got pregnant actually. Four months before she was conceived I had a dream one night of being surrounded by flowers on all sides. I was resting in a sweet field of pink and purple hydrangeas. Softness and beauty were all around me. My fingers seemed to be the petals themselves, my body a vibrant sea of stems. And I don’t even understand flowers like that, but in the dream I knew what these flowers were, and I knew what they meant. It was a sign that my daughter was coming, a message from my forward potential, a fracture of light in the dark that would never, could never, go away.

This is how I know motherhood saved me. I had this new urge inside of me, I wanted, needed, to feel again. To feel life for myself again. I didn’t want to escape reality anymore, didn’t want miss out on anything. It’s like I had a new tongue, new hands, new eyes. I woke up from that dream and could sense a greater life waiting for me beyond the walls of my addiction.

The next week I was in a treatment program my mother and aunt helped find for me. My mother dipped into her retirement to pay for half of it and my aunt covered the rest as a gift to me. They believed in me. And so I was believing in me too. I didn’t tell them about the dream or the baby that was coming. I knew they would think I was crazy and wasn’t ready to be anybody’s mother. But I knew. I was already communing every morning with my baby. Writing her letters. Talking to her about the recovery process. She became my strategy for temptations. I had a sponsor to call, but really, it was my baby that I called on first. Her sweet spirit, lifted me. Kept me safe inside myself.

I met Isaiah on the first Tuesday in April, at a tea shop I had discovered a few weeks earlier on one of my morning walks around town. I could feel our connection, our future, even before he told me his name. It’s like the baby nudged me forward, whispered to me, That’s my father.

There weren’t that many tables open, so I grabbed a seat by the window even though it hadn’t even been fully cleared. A few inches away sat a professor and his student, engrossed in the review of some document. Later Isaiah would tell me all about one of his students and how he was encouraging her to not limit herself because she was finishing an undergrad honors thesis. He would tell her to act as if even this paper was her doctoral dissertation. Go all out, be thorough, in all things. You don’t have to have a PhD to be an expert, he would always tell his advisees.

So absorbed they were in their back and forth, they didn’t know a stray paper that had slipped to the floor and under my table. I reached down to pick it up for them and my eyes fell on the cover page of her thesis. I read the title, and smiled at the one word that seemed to mean the most to me in that moment: Remontant Flowering Potential of Twelve Hydrangea Macrophylla.

I don’t care what anyone says. Nobody else was there inside my amniotic fluid but my baby, and she’d tell you if she could. She’d scream it from the mountaintop if she could: my waters were clean! I was eating all that damn kale. I was drinking coconut water, taking probiotics. I read stories to her, went to all my prenatal checkups, did yoga, rocked all around on that birth ball. And so what if her father wasn’t there in the end. He was there when it mattered most. The only time I ever made love in the dark and didn’t have a panic attack was the night she was conceived. Our daughter, Holy. The loveliest creation we could ever have made.

So all these assumptions that my baby must’ve been a drug baby are baseless and just cruel. Look how perfect my baby came out. Healthier than all the other babies. Her pediatrician told me so himself. And I breastfed her, exclusively, well past the recommended 6 months. She didn’t even start having a bottle until my mother had to take her for me. Until the day I picked up a needle again. But you go ahead and check if you don’t believe me. You go back and look at her records. You won’t find a trace of heroine in her system. They making this shit up as they go. Picking away at a mother who had a relapse. Like I’m the first woman in the world to ever lose her mind and mistake her devil for her savior.

But I am not going to let them just rewrite our history, and make me out to be some sort of unfit mother. I know who I am. I know I’m a good mother. I was not using! Soon as I felt her spirit coming I put that shit down. And she was almost a whole fucking year old before I felt like I needed my protection again.

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I first met Coretta as a child in a short story I wrote. I have been playing around with who she becomes as an adult, given the traumas she survives in her childhood. Listen to more about my character development process in “Finding Coretta,” a selection from our Library’s Sound Bites archive.

We weren’t going to make it to Valentine’s. Even before I lost the baby, the pulse of this thing had already quieted itself. He was such a good father, though, for those few weeks we started to dream that we were still alive within each other. Once, over a brunch of Belgian waffles with mixed berries and maple chicken sausage, we considered a name. Tambor. Because we had been talking about how early in the first trimester the heart begins to beat, and how that one rhythm is the seed of all other rhythms.

He always wanted to be a musician. He was so passionate about music, but really he had never found his instrument. And I knew all along it was dangerous to plant my garden of hopes with an artist so starved for his art. I really thought my love could save him, become the melody itself that he so badly needed to imbibe. I just wanted to believe that I could be that relief to steady his waters, hold him over until the music became something he could touch and breathe and make on his own.

It was good love, I gave him, but just not adequate to seal the gaps. He waited for the bleeding to stop. Ever the gentleman. We took a walk that last spring morning together, back to the park that was equidistant between his place and mine. We hugged in front of the tree where we had first farted in each other’s presence. He had the welling of tears, but my eyes were sober and dry. He mumbled an apology into my neck, and it suddenly dawned on me how cold the walk home would be. Half hearing, half denying it all, I think I heard him say something about not being whole or enough. Something about always loving our sweet Tambor.

It’s been a year, and I’m still not completely convinced there’s no hope for something to revive itself between us. I called him yesterday. Left a message. I don’t even remember what I said. I needed to lean into that void and place myself there just in case, at that moment, he was also there reaching out for me. Who knows? He might have found the music by now. It could be a whole new thing for us. I know, I know, it’s dangerous to stay in love with a possibility. But I like to think no one is getting hurt in my fantasy, really. Hope can be heartbreaking, but that’s my choice to make. It’s not like he’s giving me the run around or anything. My mother says it’s all in my head, that sometimes that’s just the farthest a love can go. Anyway, Love is resilient, like he always said. And here I am, still a believer.

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Sophie is a character I’ve been developing for a while now. Sometimes I play around with storylines to uncover her many layers.

It makes a difference in our everyday moments how much love we feel from those around us. This is always true. And as mothers who are navigating the unchartered terrains of discovering what family-centered learning looks like for our children, this love is necessary to sustaining a vibrancy, a joy, a hope in our work.

When we feel loved, supported, celebrated, and seen we function differently. We greet the day with more energy. We face the challenges, we find more creative solutions, we hold onto dreams with a more expansive and lasting faith in ourselves and our process. Love matters, and feeling deeply loved matters the further we journey into these unknowns.

I come from a family of educators, engineers, and business owners. Academic achievement was always praised. Sometimes my great-aunt in New York would send us money for getting good grades. The Honor Roll and other merits were the expectation, period. Doing well in school was just what everyone did. Getting into college wasn’t so amazing, as I was a fifth generation college student—something that is phenomenal for a black family surviving generations of racism, violence, and economic oppressions in the United States of America.

For me to have had such a privileged start, for all the sacrifices that were made for me to have a “good education,” my choice to nurture my children outside of that system, and instead within in family-centered learning model rooted in love, experimentation, and passion, is baffling to many people who had a part in raising me. Most often this is expressed as bewilderment. Sometimes its more hostile. It takes a lot to be present with the process. I spend long stretches of time allowing for the slow revelations of truth to happen organically in our family process. Many days I am practicing how to really feel my way through to what and how our family learning lab will be. And on days when there is no clear and tangible love shown for our efforts, it can be frustrating, even heartbreaking.

In my family we communicate on a seven-person text group about all things related to the family. It’s my parents, my husband, my brothers, and my sister-in-law all on one thread. It’s how we stay connected across multiple households. Of all the grandkids, my children are the only ones who are not in a sit-down school. (Yes, I’m experimenting with moving away from words like “traditional” to refer to the dominant school culture.) When my nieces and nephews get rewarded at school, or accomplish something exciting, or do something interesting, there is an outpouring of positive messages from the family. Their goodness, and the value of that goodness, is easily identifiable in the system of standardized education. A report card with As and Bs, an award from a school contest, a certificate from the principal—all of this is familiar to the adults in the family and so the expression of encouragement and congratulations for the children who achieve these things flows effortlessly.

The story is different for my kids. Yes, they get there share of accolades too, but learning-based praise mostly comes when I share something simple and concrete like a picture from them at the library, or sitting with a book in their lap. When I share other types of moments from our unorthodox family learning lab—perhaps an experiment of some sort that got really, really messy, or some dance game that they invented all by themselves— sometimes there’s crickets on the line. I’ll check back all day, and there will be nothing, no acknowledgement of their growth, their discovery, their work to learn something new. They are too young to care about the responsiveness of the adults in their family, but as the mother who is laboring so passionately to cultivate this richly immersive world for them, it hurts to be so unseen in this way. I put so much into shaping this happy, free, creative life for them. And even though I know their happiness is what matters most, I am still grappling at times with the emotional consequences of choosing a path not fully accepted by our larger family.

After almost four years of intentionally growing into our family learning lab process, this is the first time I’m accessing language to articulate how the silence feels. There is a pang of doubt reverberating too: Will my children miss out on being celebrated—on being loved in a certain way—because they are not being educated in the way that is deemed normal and appropriate by their extended family? What risk am I taking in walking this unscripted path with my children, one that is not fully understood or appreciated by others in their family? Is the love and labor I’m seeding into their their brilliant black lives enough to carry them, to carry me, through?

This week the munchkins and I stumbled into a hilarious interpretation of some fun facts about the planet Venus. Reading a book about space that Wonder selected from the library, we came to a page with an image focused on a red-hot planet enveloped in the dense blackness of outer space. Wonder looked at it and said he wanted to know about the “fire rock.” I thought that was such a cool and accurate way to describe what he was seeing, and I told him so.

As I read to them about why Venus is the hottest planet, even though Mercury is the closest to the sun, we started having a conversation about how the clouds are able to trap so much heat. I spontaneously thought up a way to illustrate this concept to them with something that they would love—their favorite super hero blanket that makes a daily appearance in one munchkin adventure or another. I thought if they could feel how being wrapped up in the blanket made them get warmer, they might have a better grasp of the idea that the clouds surrounding Venus made the planet maintain such a high temperature. At first I wrapped them individually, and they took turns getting to be Venus. But then they wanted to be wrapped up together—great, I thought, more heat! This is where the laughter got really good. Every time I wrapped them up they would try to move together as one hot planet, and this was a very comical (and perhaps slightly dangerous, but only one collision with the floor, so yay!) feat for sure.

Watching them laugh so full-heartedly was a beautiful moment. I was like, I LOVE this moment! This right here, this is why I keep trusting the evolution of our family-centered learning practice, for moments like this! It came to me that whether or not they choose to become astronauts or engineers at NASA, they’ll always have this random nugget of knowledge about why Venus is the hottest planet in our solar system. And that little bit of knowing will be anchored in this delicious memory of laughter, of touch, of play, of warmth, of sweet brotherhood, in a bright, spacious, sun-filled room, with their mother and baby sister.

This is what is so sacred to me, the ability to cultivate these lasting moments with such care and tenderness, without any limitations on our time or subject or methodology, and with a lovely and deliberate proximity to my children.

This personal celebration is what I have to hold onto when after 24 hours no one on the family thread has commented on the picture I sent—with a full explanation—of the boys being the planet Venus. When I finally ask my mother, the engineer, if she saw my message, she says she’s concerned I’m introducing things that are too complicated for them to understand. So then I tell her that they wanted to learn about the planets, and the whole thing just happened on its own. But that is the full reach of her interest with this learning moment that is so wonderful for me as a mother.

For a second I am quiet, waiting, longing for her to say more, feeling like the little girlchild who wants her mommy to see she’s doing a good job and to say so out loud. The brief silence is just long enough for me to realize the extent of all I’m wanting from this exchange, of all I’m asking for from my mother, whose definite love for me and my children does not fully eclipse the uncertainty she feels about how her daughter is raising her grandchildren. But even as I can grasp the totality of all that is impossible and imperfect with this moment, I am still holding out for a slight miracle, for a hint of celebration in her tone, for a recognition, a validation of my creativity, my genius, my innovative, on-the-spot, really-amazingly-clever-bringing-joy-to-my-kids idea to facilitate an embodied understanding of the planets orbiting the sun in our very gigantic and multidimensional galaxy! Isn’t that something? I want to ask, but I don’t.

Remember the love! The mantra plays inside my head, even as my mother and I continue to talk for a while about all the other family news. I have to remind myself, again and again, of me and the munchkins’ special discovery, of our complete and fulfilling experience of shared joys and expanding understandings of the world around us. This is the love, this is the LOVE! This is us making our own bliss, even if no one else can see it, hear it, touch it, believe it. This is us, having a really, really, happy encounter with some scientific facts about the “planet of love” itself. This is us, moving through these moments on our own terms, and embracing our connection to all things in this magical universe we call home.

When Teresa gets the call from Pastor Tollerson asking if she can go and pick Mother Ethel up from her job at Safeway and give her a ride to the school because there’s an emergency with Remiya, Teresa’s first thought is, Well where is Madam FIRST Lady? But then in the next instant she silently rebukes herself for being so rude to the Lord. She’s supposed to help when she’s able to. Period. Maybe Dorothy Tollerson is preoccupied with something more important. What that is, I couldn’t tell you—Stop it, stop it right now! Teresa takes a deep breath and prepares to respond when Pastor Tollerson seems to be reading her mind.

“And you know, Dorothy would do it, but she’s already out and I can’t get a hold of her. Don’t know when she’ll be back home. And this matter is urgent. It seems Remiya’s in a lot of trouble. They’re threatening to—“

“No, no, it’s fine. I can go and get Mother Ethel.” Teresa is embarrassed she’s got the pastor explaining himself to her. “Happy to help. What time—?”

“Oh great! Thank you so much Sister Teresa! Her shift ends at 3:00 pm. She’s at the Safeway over on—“

“Oh I know where it is.” We helped her get that job, she wants to remind him. “I’ll be there.” 

Reverend Tollerson thanks her again and then jumps off the line saying he’s got to get to a meeting right away. Teresa sighs and calls her mother to see if she can come by and be with the boys for a few hours. Else she’s going to have to wake her sleeping three-year old twins, Jeremiah and Elijah, and take them out on this unexpected errand.

“This totally messes up my day, Mama” she complains. But her mother is already throwing on her coat and grabbing keys.

“Teresa Yvette. Now I have told you, and I’m going to tell you again. You are the almost-first lady of the church. You can not be griping about these things. People are watching. Taking notice of how you are. How you are reflects on Theo—“

“Yes, Mama. I know I know. But I had other things to do this afternoon. And I don’t like how I get called but Dorothy is conveniently unreachable—“

“Stop right there, girl! Nothing good ever came from picking on the first lady. That will be you one day. You are going to need the people’s grace. You are gonna need people to not question everything about your choices. And besides, you know I’m happy to have a couple of extra hours with my babies. Remember to leave me that double stroller so we can go for a walk.” Teresa smiles in spite of her frustration. She’s grateful her mother is so close to them. “Now you just go and get yourself ready. I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”

Teresa leaves a message with Theo’s receptionist that he doesn’t have to get Tameka after school since she’ll be there, but if he could please pick up dinner that would be excellent since she’s not going to have time to go shopping and cook now that she’s been drafted to help Ms. Ethel and Remiya through the latest crisis. Well, she doesn’t actually say all that. But that’s what she’s thinking about as she pulls into the parking lot of the Safeway on Alabama Street. Right on time she sees Mother Ethel walk out of sliding doors at 3:01. She still has her bakery apron and hat on. She looks anxious. Teresa’s heart breaks when she sees the traces of flour on Ms. Ethel’s neck, caught in the folds of the gold chain she wears with the locket that has the picture of her deceased son, Remiya’s father.

“Hi Ms. Ethel. How are you today—?”

“Thank you so much, baby, for picking me up like this.” Ethel is overcome with gratitude and shame and the need to hold it all together too. She is so worried about Remiya. She tries to smile, to hide the shakiness underneath her words. “I hope I haven’t put you out too much. I know you got the babies—“ She turns to the back, realizing for the first time that the double car seats are empty.

“Oh the boys are with Grandma. And it’s no problem. Happy I can help. Is Remiya okay?”

“Lord, chile. I don’t know. I don’t know what mess they calling me up there about now.” She starts searching in her purse for a mint or gum or something to suck on. She doesn’t find anything and struggles to keep her hands from being so restless. “It seems like every other week they are claiming something or another. And that girl is smart. My girl is smart, just like her daddy—she just needs to be challenged. She needs the right person to challenge her.” Ethel’s voice trails off as they approach the bridge. Traffic looks to be moving. Both women are grateful for this. Neither one of them wants to make small talk right now. 

---

The first time Teresa meets Remiya is at her father’s funeral. Little Remiya is only 9 years old then and clings to her bereaved grandmother’s black shawl for most of the service. She has two neatly parted ponytails, glistening with Blue Magic, braided back, and landing on the tops of her shoulders. Teresa remembers how Remiya’s purple and red hair bows are the only colorful things in the sanctuary that morning. No one has thought to get flowers for the homegoing of Reginald Daniels. Truth be told, he has been such a terror in the community. His drugs have destroyed so many, including Remiya’s mother, who no one is expecting to show up, who is likely strung out somewhere close by and might not even realize she is now her child’s only surviving parent. Pastor Tollerson has to dig deep for something to say in the eulogy. Ms. Ethel is the only one weeping loudly for her son.

Teresa is here to show support for her husband, who is not the officiant but who is reading several scriptures and has been helping the family, well that would be Ms. Ethel and her newfound (new to the members of the church) granddaughter. Theo is the new assistant pastor of this congregation. Teresa is still finding her way in this unfamiliar role of being, as her mother calls, the “almost-first lady.” Her black suit dress she scored from the sale rack at Macy’s fits her well, but she is so uncomfortable in these off-black pantyhose that have a control top. She hates control top stockings! And she should have known that asking her mother to run to the CVS and pick up stockings for her would result in this. Ruby believes pantyhose are the most important thing a woman wears. She thinks if it’s not holding you all in, then you are going to be spilling all out, and nobody, not even Jesus, wants to see that. 

Ethel Turner, Ms. Ethel to everybody, has been a member of New Bethel Baptist for more than 27 years. When she started here Reginald, known as Reggie to family and friends, was just a toddler. She was a young mother and his father was in and out of the picture. Ms. Ethel poured herself into the church and became one of the most committed and faithful members. She also makes most of the pies, cakes, and cookies for special occasions. She’s been like an aunty to all of the Tollerson children. She’s been an ear for Dorothy when the pastor had a little problem with a wandering eye and a loose hand. She’s been there for countless people. The church is packed because of her. No mother should have to lose a son, no matter how bad he turned out. Everyone is here to witness her grief, to show Jesus that even though they consider Reginald the scum of the scum, they still love his mother and are truly sorry for her pain. 

Teresa pulls up to the church just as Cordelia Johnson, Remiya’s other grandmother, is handing her over to Ms. Ethel. The two grandmothers embrace awkwardly and Teresa tries not to stare. Ms. Johnson has Remiya dressed very nicely in a dark purple dress with little red flowers and a red sash. Teresa realizes she’s relieved to see the child is not cloaked in black like all the other mourners. She has never felt children should wear black at funerals.

---

These scenes are from a novel in progress. Teresa and Ms. Ethel are the mother and grandmother of the two main characters, Tameka and Remiya, respectively.

“Then he gon’ ask me, in this sarcastic-ass tone, ‘would you rather be beautiful, or sensible—?’” Freeda yanked Chloe’s head back on the word “sensible,” her left hand leveraging two coarse locks of hair while the right hand fed the third vein into the train heading east from one ear to the other. The braids looped tightly back and forth over Chloe’s head, making her look a little older than her ten years and a little more interesting than the pervasive dullness that was ironically the most striking thing about her blackgirlhood. Chloe flinched with a nervous glee every time it hurt.  She had overheard Aunt Mae say many times that “being pretty takes work,” and so, she was very proud of herself for bearing the burden of becoming beautiful. 

Chloe had showed her cousin the elaborate basket-weave hairstyle in the Elle magazine and proceeded to beg for three weeks to have her hair cornrowed just like the girl in the picture, Amber Folade. Amber was the focus of an article about girls who had escaped female genital mutilation in Africa and were being given the chance of a new life in homes of American do-gooders across the United States. The program, SOSA—“Saving Our Sisters of Africa”—was started by a philanthropic, white woman in the Peace Corps. She was stationed in a place so far from civilization that she became outraged by some old women who subjected pubescent girls to ancient barbarism. Amber was a “success story” the article proclaimed, now thirteen and “doing well” in a small town in Connecticut where she was the “first African” to enroll in high school. 

Chloe hadn’t read the article or the captions under the crying face of the beautiful Amber who “occasionally did miss home.” She was fixated on Amber’s hair and how it made her feel like she too could become that pretty if only her hair was like that. Chloe had immediately showed the picture to Aunt Mae who glanced at the matrix of braids as she fried the Saturday morning eggs and told her to ask Freeda, who would do it for her if she asked nicely. Aunt Mae hadn’t seen the title of the article, so she couldn’t snatch the mature content from her niece and have “that” talk with her about vaginas and marriage, which was really not her job as “auntie” anyway. In actuality, Chloe could not conceive of female genital anything, and didn’t even know that she too had the same thing that Amber had run away to save. It didn’t occur to Chloe that Amber—so thoroughly pressed into Chloe’s fantasy of everything that was beautiful and wonderful with the world—longed to be reunited with her mother as well.

Freeda ignored the pestering for three weeks until Chloe walked in on her boyfriend licking her clitoris while her mother was at choir rehearsal. Of course, Chloe had not seen any action that she could give a name too. She didn’t understand what Julius could have possibly been searching for that deep inside Freeda’s belly button. In fact, she was so startled by the awkward shape of Freeda and Julius’ bodies against the rumpled floral comforter that she forgot about the spider in the tub that had nearly given her a heart attack in the first place.

“Get out!” Freeda had yelled. Chloe felt so stupid. She had the impulse to pull up a chair and some popcorn and watch the spectacle that she was certain she’d never get to see up close again. But then also, in a terrifically terrifying way, she wanted to run and scream to get help for Freeda, or maybe for herself she wondered. Eventually she did close the door and return to the tub to kill the spider herself. She decided that smashing him between toilet paper would be too messy. Instead, she lured him onto the edge of the toilet seat and knocked him into the water. Instantly, she regretted the murder and wanted to undrown him. But he died quickly, and she flushed the toilet to avoid the sadness of yet another loss. 

“What I tell you about knocking!” Freeda snapped from behind, reaching over Chloe to grab some q-tips for her ear. She was dressed in pajama clothes that she had thrown on in the process of rushing her boyfriend out the door, having lost track of time and the little cousin she was supposed to be watching. She was mad that her pleasure had been discovered by a kid. But really, she was more annoyed that the first thing Julius said after lathering his tongue in her wet pussy was that it was actually rather wasteful to spend money on pedicures, arched eyebrows and frilly panties when she was supposed to be saving money for a new car because he was tired of driving her everywhere. 

“What you want anyway?” Freeda dug out any inklings of guilt and flung it into the trash can with the soiled q-tips.

“I saw a spider and I wanted you to come get it...I, I just forgot to knock. I’m sorry,” Chloe’s eyes groped the floor for something sensible to stare at, something that would reasonably be of attention to a little girl who did not just see what she saw. Somewhere deep inside her pitiful life, joy bubbled up unexpectedly and she didn’t want Freeda to recognize it and take it away from her. She could not look Freeda in the eye with the telltale smirk tickling at her lips. She knew better than to ask questions. Her thoughts swung back and forth like a pendulum. On the one hand, she kept thinking that she had saved Freeda from something rather awful. This presumed heroicness made her feel good about her deed. On the other hand, she was traumatized by the unknowableness of the whole situation. She couldn’t understand how the dots would ever fit together. Even more bizarre and embarrassingly painful was the scorn from Freeda, who had seemed to not appreciate Chloe rescuing her at all.

“Look, whatever. Just don’t tell my mother you saw Julius over here.”

“You do my hair then?” Chloe asked with big, hopeful eyes. Upon realizing that the little brat had no clue about the orgasm she had intercepted, Freeda was relieved. She agreed to cornrow Chloe’s hair right then. “Get the grease, and come back to my room.” 

As Chloe searched for the hair grease, she suddenly started to feel cheated in a way that diminished the satisfaction of finally getting her hair braided. Of course, she dare not say anything because this opportunity at cornrows was, like so many other unfair moments in her life, a now-or-never sort of situation. She sighed as she paused to look at her thick tuffs of hair in the mirror over the sink. The joy that had gurgled mysteriously only a few minutes before seeped out, not like the air from a balloon that’s been poked, but rather from the giving way of a substance that was never quite strong enough. The assurance of impending deflation was oddly soothing. Her childhood pieced itself together around such paradoxes, and she waited patiently for the puzzle to someday bloom into a clear picture.

“I mean, the nerve of him! I mean, Sophie, am I crazy or something? You get me right! I mean...yeah, like he’s so out of line here! How he gonna trip off me calling him out on his shit, and then turn around and judge me!—” Freeda switched the receiver to her left ear, giving her neck a break. She dabbed her fingers into the Pink Oil Moisturizer-Conditioner-In-One and stroked a long passage of Chloe’s scalp. Pulling the phone away from her mouth she hissed at her cousin, “You need to learn how to grease your own head. That’s what’s taking me so long—”

“And you need to stop cussing, I’ma tell your muva—!” Chloe sang, bobbing her head side to side to feel how tight the braids really were.

Freeda pulled Chloe’s head back so that her eyes met the whirling blades of the ceiling fan. She put her own face over Chloe’s and said, this time into the phone: “You better stop gettin’ smart with me or I’m gonna leave your hair lookin’ like this! You want that?” Chloe winced and mumbled an apology so that Freeda would release her hair. The cornrows were already creating little stress bumps on her edges. Now a lonesome tear trickled out of the left eye onto her baby-fat cheek. She pouted and pulled her arms across her chest like the warrior-self she daydreamed about whenever she felt like a punk.

“I just wonder if he really loves me, or just the image of what he wants me to be. That dream of his mama he trying to recreate with me,” Freeda said, fingering through the rows of patterned hair and checking that both sides looked even. “I mean, what’s wrong with wanting to look good and feel good?” Freeda spun Chloe around to look at the top half of her work, but instead caught sight of the traitorous tear.  

“I know you not gonna sit up here crying!” she yelled into the phone. “I ain’t even get you that bad,” Freeda sucked her teeth in disgust, “Naw girl, I ain’t talking to you, this lil brat here...” 

Freeda ignored Chloe’s explanation that her tears were only because the braids were too tight and not because she had been snapped at. “Hold on,” Freeda told Sophie, pulling the phone down to her chest. “Look, I need a break from your head anyway,” Freeda said, her voice softening. “Go get some juice or something. Every little thing got you crying. You need a nap—!”

“Please,” Chloe whined, “don’t stop. I won’t cry no more, I, I promise Freeda. Pleeeeeeeeeease finish.” Her tears now paraded southward to her spaghetti-stained, yellow I Love Miami t-shirt. Big drops of salt water meshing with the waves of a painted ocean. Chloe had never been to Miami either; this was another guilt-gift from her mother’s travels. Chloe, of course, wore it with pride even though the sleeves squeezed her arms and it was too short to properly cover her protruding belly.

“Stop whining! I said I needed a break.” Freeda had little patience for her cousin. She knew Chloe was just more on edge since her mother was gone longer than planned, again. Somewhere in California, or was it Nevada this time? Freeda knew deep down that Chloe was sad and lonely and scared, but she didn’t want to put up with a crybaby either. She looked down at her jagged nails, entwined with strands of Chloe’s black hair. She didn’t want to meet the waterfall on Chloe’s face; she’d only feel worse for having yelled at her.

“I’ll finish your hair after dinner. We can watch a movie in the living room,” Freeda sighed. “Happy?”

“You promise?” Chloe sniffed, wiping snot and tears with her headscarf. Freeda nodded, rubbing the excess oil in her own hair and shooing Chloe out of her room. “Yeah, girl, what was I saying,” as she went back to Sophie. 

Chloe closed the door and tiptoed in front of the voices coming out from under Aunt Mae’s door. It was her uncle speaking. She knew they were talking about her again; it seemed everyone spoke about her, around her, under her with whispers and behind closed doors, but in fact, said little to her. This baffled her, and yet still she became a wonderful detective putting the pieces of her mother’s whereabouts together after chronic eavesdropping. And the knowing didn’t bring her anymore peace because she had to pretend she didn’t know anything anyway.

“I don’t know, Mae. I mean, did she even tell you when she’d get the test results back?” Uncle Rafe’s tone sounded sarcastic and strained at the same time. Chloe imagined his eyes opening wide like when he made silly faces behind the newspaper. Uncle Rafe was funny, especially when he pulled her barrettes and pretended like he didn’t do it. Sometimes he took her with him on his business runs and let her be his assistant. She liked that he took so much interest in her ability to be useful for a change. Chloe wished she could always feel needed, but then again, what did she really have to give?

“I don’t know Rafe! You act like I know any more than you do,” Aunt Mae sucked her teeth. She was probably standing with her hands on her hips, holding on to the brim of her slip as she unhooked the girdle or rolling up the control-top stockings she’d just removed. Chloe didn’t know they had come home yet. She was happy, imagining how much a fuss they’d make over her new hairdo. 

“I mean, Mae, really. What kind of sensible woman leaves her child and then don’t even call on a regular basis?”

“Can you please lower your voice, damn!” Aunt Mae was probably now sitting on her big queen-sized bed that Chloe imagined was what your bed grew into when you got married. She figured that since you had to share your room with a man you should at least get to have a bigger bed. Chloe laughed, thinking one day her bed might grow too, but what would a husband do with her? Surely, he’d find something disgraceful about her boring life.

“Whatever, I’m going to the store. What you tell me to get, babe?” Uncle Rafe moved toward the door and jingled his keys. Chloe expertly ducked into the bathroom, closing the door so that she could reappear as if she’d not been listening. She fixed her face to look innocent and pleasant, a stark contrast to the anxiety she felt from the avalanche of questions she had about her mother. Every thought collided with the next and she fought back fear like the crazy woman on that movie who beat the man who was trying to help her.

When she opened the door, Uncle Rafe was going down the steps. She ran out behind him, “Where you going Uncle Rafe?” Chloe asked, pretending to not already know the answer.

“To the store my dear. You wanna come?” Rafe did love his niece and she was much more enjoyable than his moody, overly-dramatic, newborn-adult daughter who seemed offended if you asked her anything about her day. He sighed, thinking that if Mae’s sister was gonna be so flaky, it was best Chloe have some sort of stability in their house. 

“I can’t go, Uncle Rafe. Freeda still doing my hair. See,” she spun around so he could see the cornrows. It framed her face like something preserved for royalty.

“Wow! Look at you! How’d you get the Diva to do your hair?” He laughed, turning to walk down the stairs.

“Can you bring back some chicken nuggets with barbeque and honey mustard sauce. And fries too please?”

“Sure, baby. Anything for the Queen!”

“Me? A Queen?” Chloe blushed. The hair was working! She was becoming something worthy of indulgence and pampering, something beautiful.

“Yeah Chloe, you look real fancy and important with your new head. Like you oughta be in charge of something.” His voice trailed as he walked down the stairs and out the front door. Chloe was so excited to have been recognized that she wanted some more accolades. She ran into Aunt Mae’s room and found her lying on the bed with her eyes closed.

“Aunt Mae,” Chloe crept up to the edge of bed and folded her body into the gap of space so that she could lie down too. 

“Chloe!” Aunt Mae was startled by the strong fragrance of the hair oil and the new design on her niece’s head. “Well look at you! Freeda finally did your hair. Well it’s about time. Turn around, lemme see.”

“It’s not finished yet, we gonna watch a movie and she gonna do it later for me and then it’ll look just like the Amber.”

“The who?” Aunt Mae asked, scooting over so Chloe could have more room.

“The Amber girl. You know, you remember, right, from the magazine.”

“Bring it here and let me see it, girl.”

Chloe ran to Freeda’s door and remembered to knock this time. When she retrieved the magazine she looked for the article, but couldn’t remember what page it was on. She and Aunt Mae flipped through the images of tall blondes with skinny jeans and brunette dudes with jackets slung over their backs, as if life really was so fulfilling.

“You sure this the right one Chlo-boo? It wouldn’t be no little black girls in here.”

“Yeah, un-huh, Aunt Mae it is. I remember the cover—”

“Oh my!” Aunt Mae gasped, finding the article about female genital mutilation. The opening page was a spread of five girls from the SOSA foundation. 

“There it is Aunt Mae! This article. See, that there is Amber!” Chloe smiled broadly at her hero who’s hair had made her into a Queen. Chloe searched Aunt Mae’s face for a sign that she remembered the pretty girl’s picture, but all she saw was a fright that seemed to come from no where. 

“Chloe, did you read this?” Aunt Mae closed the magazine, looked into the child’s eyes, and tried to determine if she knew anything about private parts.

“No,” Chloe was disappointed. Aunt Mae hadn’t reveled in Amber’s beauty the way she had expected her to do. “Why, what’s wrong with Amber? Don’t you like it?”

Mae realized she had overreacted and if she wanted to salvage Chloe’s naïveté, she’d have to act like there was nothing wrong with her niece referencing articles about clitorises and blades for a hair style. When she assured Chloe that Amber was indeed very gorgeous, Chloe’s joy recovered and she skipped off to watch TV in the living room. Mae reclined on her back, skimming the article, while unconsciously pulling her thighs tightly together and tensing her vaginal muscles for protection against the harrowing descriptions. She wondered if Freeda had read the article, but didn’t want to ask, for fear of having to learn what her own daughter knew about becoming a woman.

As they sat in front of the television later on that night, Chloe and Freeda didn’t speak to each other. If she needed Chloe to adjust her head, she just tapped it down until Chloe’s neck gave way to the direction. The movie was something Freeda had seen bootleg at Julius’ brother’s house a few weeks ago, but Chloe hadn’t seen it. Some silly Martin Lawrence movie that was funny enough for a Saturday that no longer carried any potential for something more exciting like a party or sex. 

Chloe’s thoughts migrated through the images on the screen. Not because she was trying to follow along with the movie, but because she randomly inserted herself into the lives of the characters, reimagining how an alternate existence could benefit her. What if she were light-skinned like the lead actress? Or what if she were old like the grandma woman? Then she would have already figured out how all the dots fit together. By then, the puzzle would have become recognizable and she could finally relax into the knowing. 

Every time she tried to touch the ripples on her scalp, Freeda smacked her hand away. Freeda seemed to be nearing the bottom of her head, and Chloe wished she would slow down. Even though it still hurt a lot, Chloe didn’t complain because the gentle caress of Freeda’s fingers against her ears and neck felt so good. She wanted this moment of beautiful touch to last forever, and yet she knew it would have to end at some point. 

“This the last one. You want a barrette or bead or something?” Freeda smoothed her palms over her woven masterpiece. 

“Yeah, some beads please.” Chloe kept her eyes on the screen, so as not to show any sign of sadness that this ritual was coming to a close. When it was all done and the movie ended, Aunt Mae tied a scarf around her head and tucked her in the bed. Chloe had spent an extra five minutes in the bathroom after her bath looking at her lovely head in the mirror. Now as she lay her head on the pillow, she couldn’t get comfortable. Every way she positioned herself put too much pressure on her sore scalp. Finally, she rolled over on her stomach and propped her chin on the backs of her hands. This was an awkward position, but she persevered through her insomnia on her quest to beauty. When she did approach sleep, it was through a maze of jumbled visions. Her mother returning to a beautiful child. Platters of fries and nuggets on golden trays at her request. Her own face a lighter shade of brown, and then wrinkled and dark like a dried prune. The radiant, smiling Amber, who laughed heartily everyday because she was too pretty to ever lose her happiness.

---

Cornrows is published in the anthology of short stories Woman’s Work, edited by Michelle Sewell. Cornrows also received a Larry Neal Writers Award from the DC Commission on the Arts & Humanities.

I love that my children are very close in age, and are learning alongside each other all the time. There is a constant interplay of roles exchanged, a fluid and unpredictable shapeshifting amongst themselves. They morph back and forth, between teacher and student, leader and follower, at rapid speeds. Everyday, everyone gets to be everything. And sometimes, I get to be a kind of nothing inside their fantastic world, a grateful witness simply enjoying the opportunity to be in the midst of their boundless, learning magic.

I always tell people I get how those one-room schoolhouses could really work. Like, the older students get stronger in their skills by having to teach the younger ones. And the younger ones are consistently being encouraged to do more, know more, and grow more, because they see that children not much older than them are leading the way.

This lovely dialogic space of knowledge fosters trust, community, and a deep and lasting spirit of possibility for everybody. The whole of the learning phenomena is made real and tangible. A complete and visible transference of information and experience can be accessed by each participant, can be held and claimed in some authentic way as his or her own.

This interdependent dynamic is something I cherish about our family learning lab process. When everyone has frequent opportunities to be the “teacher,” new levels of understanding are brought to light. Listening to my boys explain things to each other in their own words gives me so much insight into what they really care about, what excited them most about a game we played, what they comprehended from the story, or what they took away from a conversation they overheard on the bus.

Between my children and those in our village, I am fortunate to have so many little teachers around me at all times. I learn so much about life, creativity, change, growth, risks, hope, faith, loss, love, passion, imagination, heartbreak, and resilience everyday. I am grateful to my munchkins for being so generous with their knowledge.

Even though it’s been a little over three years since I started consciously imagining and creating our family learning lab, I know we’re still at the beginning of our radical and beautiful experiment. It makes me feel really amazing that in just a short time I’ve given birth to all these amazing people, lovely people who are each becoming my most amazing teacher in their galactically individual ways. I also feel really good knowing that even 10 years from now, 20 years from now, we’ll always be at some part of the beginning.

“They call that one, Paradise,” the gorgeous one whispers to me as you come onto the stage. I play dumb. I recognize you immediately, but I don’t want anyone to know that. I’m good at pretending, kind of like you are too I guess.

“She likes that one!” he asks excitedly. “I knew this was the best place for her,” elated at his success once again. While giving my butt a strong squeeze, as if to say good girl, he leans over me and talks to his wife, the dazzling beauty on my left. They clearly approve of my interest in you, like parents pleased that their child wants to go to the school dance. I try to look away from you, but I can’t stop scanning your body. I am searching for remnants of normalcy, textures and features that you let me discover when we were little girls.

“That’s Paradise?” I mumble, to no one in particular. That’s not the name I saved for you all these years. Don’t worry, I know better than to break your cover. An alias is the safest way through change. I’d give anything to be someone else right now. Nearly a decade’s worth of living and I’m still me. I wish tonight that I could be someone new for you, Eden.

“Yeeeees…she’s a crowd favorite,” his voice drags, raspy like a pervert might sound. I hate it when he does that, but I don’t ever critique him. “Extremely flexible and very friendly,” he offers as if to sell me on your perks. But I am already a believer. The more I stare, the greater the flood of images. A kaleidoscope of expired identities explodes in my brain. The things we used to be, drifting far away from right now. He hands me some ones, tells me to relax. “Paradise will stay with us a while.” 

The only thing I can’t remember, is if we looked into each other’s eyes tonight—pilfering pieces of the time we lost in a wink, reveling in our innocent, fragile memories if only for a heartbeat.  Seasons past when we were sisters cut from the same cloth, born of the same third grade classroom all those years ago. We did used to play Down By the River and When You Put Two Lips Together and Twista-Baby on the playground near the honeysuckle. I would ask if I could touch your long, good hair and you would say un-unh if the boy you liked was watching. 

But in the bathroom all by ourselves, you let me comb my chocolate fingers through your soft, oil-sheened tresses. I traced the same path everyday, driving my forefinger down the part through your bangs, and then around to the edges behind your ears before finally committing both of my hands to the luscious waterfall of your mane. I loved those secret moments between us. I loved how you closed your eyes so that I could explore your perfection in peace, savoring your delicious Jergens cherry-almond scent that seemed to linger on my fingertips for the rest of the day.

Once when Mrs. Kendricks caught us after recess, she acted like she didn’t see us and left us alone. She understood you were just letting me try on your beauty, giving me a few minutes to escape my tightly coiled existence. I think she permitted us our sanctuary because she felt guilty about the laughter that tugged inappropriately at her own honey-tinged face, too weak she was against the jokes snapping at my dark brown skin and beady-beads. But it never bothered me because in the end, Mrs. Kendricks didn’t hold it against me for being less than pretty, and she didn’t make me write one thousand times on the blackboard after school, I will not play in Eden’s hair in the bathroom.

It might seem strange to hear this from me now, but we are connected more than you know. Even though we flowed down different rivers after junior high, tonight at The Gardens we converge in one complimentary ocean of wonder and horror. You got caught up in the currents of smooth-talking penises and circumstantial motherhood, opened legs and cluttered dreams. I always felt bad about not calling you, but what would we talk about? I didn’t know if you would feel like I was a show-off, with my scholarship and grand plans to go somewhere with my future. But honestly, I missed sharing my shames with you, and instead went by myself down a slow-to-bloom stream, winding through an awkward rites of sexual passages, a virgin at the end of the line, easily romanced by that older man restoring his youth in my beginnings. 

Sometimes when I was bored or confused or uncomfortable—my body pressed between his flaccid torso and its sour perspiration above, the sticky, soaked linens below—I would think of you. Eden would be so much more sophisticated about this sex stuff. She would be honest and tell a man his dick was too small or that his thrusts hurt more than they pleased. Eden would go home without looking back on a disappointing situation. 

You see, I really did imagine you to be this powerful woman all the time we’ve been apart.  And even though tonight your gyrations are dense with ancient rhythms and the extreme arch of your spine as it twists you around is an awesome feat, I can see that underneath the act is a hollow core of dry-rotted dreams. Some barren space in your belly where a happier spirit once grew. I recall fashion designs for that company you wanted to build. You used to sketch outfits on paper and slip them into my lap when no teachers would notice. What of all those things you wanted to create? Scraps of your genius faded and discarded on the floor of your potential, something like the crumpled money collecting around your feet when you dance.

There is something vacant in your eyes tonight, or maybe this is every night. But I know better than to feel sorry for you. I know that blank facade is a willful retreat from this dingy and musty moment. I know it takes great skill to dupe us all into believing you’re enjoying your career, expertly flexing and popping your buttocks up and down, open and shut. Amazing that no matter what, you are still the one in control of something. I am so giddy and nervous with envy, fumbling in my purse for lip gloss, giving myself something to do other than fantasize that I am you. 

It’s crazy, right? I finally have a beautiful face, a good degree, a man who’ll buy me anything, my own key to his uptown condo, two brand new dresses just for smiling and getting dolled up for brunch. But my ass has grown stiff from these cheap stools and I couldn’t give you one reason why I’m here. I feel like the idiot and I’m the girl with all her clothes on. See Eden, there is something still very fortunate about you. Something to admire about the woman who says, I’m not taking no shit unless it’s absolutely necessary for survival. 

Never mind the dirty floor and the dark walls, never mind the hungry crowd and its groping stare—you’re up there, and I’m down here. If we could commune for a spell, I would tell you the truth. I’m not judging you at all. I too know what it is to be on display, to wear a mask over my body and count the seconds until it’s all over. You have to be strong to live this freak show, because it wears on you if you’re not vigilant, makes those sturdy parts of yourself tenuous and threadbare. 

Do you cry sometimes? Do you want to lose your mind when Paradise comes undone? I can give you that hug if you want it. I get it, Eden. I really do. I know this life sucks you dry after last call, and you just want to go home to your own body, to your own hands.

It’s truly phenomenal when you swallow the whole thing—despite fractured passions and silenced protests—we’ve migrated all the way back to each other at this horrifically thrilling moment. The choices we made in our seemingly alternate worlds still led us to the same vulnerable reality. Oh sister, I really am another you, as the indigenous ones would say. By the time I found my exotic self, I put it up for sale too, in museums, in photographs, in paintings, in cold classrooms with charcoal-stained sheets. In fact, that sea of difference between us is just a matter of space and wages.

If I were as courageous as you Eden, I’d come up on that stage and dance with you. Take my clothes off so you wouldn’t be the only one naked tonight. I’d hold your hand through the circus, leap with you out of this soiled existence until we could find ourselves back in that sunlit toilet stall. That private space we used to frequent as little girls, where you would be my mirror and I would be your savior. Remember how you used to trust me with your naughty stories? Tales of freaky boys who popped your bra strap and tugged at your skirt, who jammed their fingers inside your underwear and squeezed your nipples too hard. And in exchange, you’d undo your braids, even though it meant you’d get in trouble at home, and let me live in the strands of your hair. I always cherished our times together, but when you had a baby in high school I had to move on. I grew out my perm and found out there were more accessible mirrors for girls like me. Singers like Lauryn Hill and India.Arie were my heroes after you.

But Eden, it is so good to see you! I am only embarrassed that you are catching me in this odd threesome. It wasn’t my idea to come here, but he likes his ladies to spend quality time together. The two of them come here to The Gardens all the time, but this is the first time they bring me with them. They effortlessly append me to their ritual, place me safely between them at our table, order me drinks I’ve never heard of and don’t even want, give me dollar bills to tuck into your crevices. They don’t know we share a childhood of decency, of choir rehearsals and honor roll, of loving parents and expensive summer vacations. They are merely delighted in your dance routine and want me to have fun. He leans into me, whispering that he wants you to spin with your leg raised up, show us that piercing one more time.

When it’s my turn to touch you, I take my time. After all, it has been so long since we last shared a breath.

“Don’t be shy, Paradise likes you,” the wife encourages, pushing my hand forward. “She won’t bite.” They laugh at me and I try to ignore them.

It’s because I know you that I am so delicate with you. I gently lift up the silver band of your thong, my lone dollar snug against your hip. I am careful not scratch you or dig into your sweaty flesh like the others sneaking cheap pinches and penetrations when they give you money. Really, I only want to catch your eye for a moment, a split second for you to recognize that I can see you—amidst smeared glitter, flawless wig, and diamond-jeweled clitoris—the real Eden.

Perhaps it’s my imagination but I swear you wink through your eye’s shadow. Maybe I tarried too long placing my dollar without realizing it. I think a smirk comes across your face. 

“Ooooh, look at that!” The gorgeous one pinches my side and teases me, “Paradise is hot for you,” she slurps the last of her drink and he goes to get her a refill. I am annoyed that she notices anything, and brush her off, stirring my ice nonchalantly. But I am curious now. Did you see me too? Did you want to let me know that you are in fact happy, relieved, that I am here?

When he comes back with glasses for all of us, the gorgeous one tells him, “Paradise winked at our girl here. I think we should call her down for a special treat. She’s been such a good sport and all.”

“Excellent!” he yelps, as he plunges a fat tongue down her mouth and hands her the blue-tinted liquor. Next, he motions for the floor manager to come over to us, pointing at me as he speaks to the stocky man. I can see all the while their eyes are following Paradise’s dancing form. When the big man nods and walks back toward the stage, the wife pulls a hundred dollar bill from our lover’s inner coat pocket.

“Oh, I don’t need a—” I don’t know what I’m trying to say, but it’s too late. Paradise is already being escorted down to our table by the big man. Our lover stuffs the hundred note into my palm and seals my fingers around it.

“Now sweetie, you make her work for this, okay. This is an early Christmas gift for you. Have fun!” He raises his glass and his wife clinks hers against it. All eyes are on me as Paradise straddles my lap with her back to me. My legs grow tense under the weight of her thighs, but I try to stay calm. I can feel her moist skin through my stockings and I realize a peculiar fear I have of getting her sweat on my hands. 

This is not how I wanted to reunite with you—.

“Slap her ass, sweetie!” The man and his wife coach me on how to enjoy a lap dance. I’m failing them, I know. I am frozen, terrified that you’ll turn around and hate who you see. Now, I just want everything to stop—the heavy bass music, the roaring crowd happy to see woman-on-woman, the violent clatter of ice falling to the bottom of empty glasses. I want them to turn the real lights on, end this charade, cease this hoax. I just want to see my old friend and caress our history in peace.

In a split second you pivot around to face me, the spiked heels propelling your legs around in a daring somersault. I feel restrained under your pressure, like I’ve been strapped down for a rollercoaster ride. Shimmery breasts plop around my jaw and cheeks as you bounce up and down, rotating your pelvis aggressively the whole time. I force myself to look up at you, into your face, but damn it, your bangs are in my way.

“Eden?” I accidentally sputter, barely audible over the ruckus. You don’t hear me so I reach for your face to move your hair. You slap my hand away without missing a stroke as you ride me even harder. The onlookers lick their lips, grab their crotches, hoot and holler that they like it rough too.

“NO TOUCHING THE FACE!” the big man barks. I don’t even see him standing guard all this time, so shocked I am that this wild thing is happening on top of me at all.

“Oh Jackson, man, she didn’t mean it. She’s new to all this,” my coach defends. “She won’t do it again, promise!”

“Sorry,” I whisper to no one, my hands limp by my sides. I will not shed one pathetic tear under your Paradise. I stare at your belly button instead, a small ring with a silver cursive letter “E” poking from your outtie.

I lose my sense of time in all the chaos. It’s a whirlwind of tricks that you do with your body. At some point I realize I am gripping your back. No familiar lotion scent, no soft, human hair on my fingers, maybe it’s not—.

 Abruptly, you reach for my head, forcing my nose into your chest. The club bursts with cheer. It seems we are gladiators in a coliseum, vying for the kill, but I don’t want to win. I can’t play this anonymity game anymore. I yank my head back so that our eyes can meet.

“Hi, Eden!” I say directly to you, louder and more deliberate this time. I finally get my chance to look into your eyes. They seem dark, but maybe it’s the light. They seem so smoky, but maybe it’s the life. Either way, I am praying that you can see me too. “It’s me.” 

This is where everything gets fuzzy each time I replay the scene, so I keep rewinding it over and over in my mind. I don’t know what really happened, if you saw me first, and then jumped off of me, or if you simply heard your girlhood name and your instincts sent you into flight mode. Running out of the emergency exit, the big man chasing after you. My guides laughing drunkenly to each other that they should get to see some more pussy for a $100. 

Maybe you thought I was trying to unmask you, but no one could have heard me over all that noise. You must know I would never violate our secrets like that. But really, what aches most of all is that I never got to tell you, I’m proud of you, Eden. People might look down on you for making love in filthy places, but that’s only because they’re afraid of you. Beautiful. Naked. Free. Out of their control. I’m glad I slipped you the money before you ran away. It would have surely gone to waste otherwise.

---

Eden This Time received the first place prize from the DC Commission on the Arts & Humanities Larry Neal Writers Award, 2010.

I decided to start calling myself an author now. This process has been years, decades in the making. In the past few weeks I’ve started drafting the raw material that will at some point be my first book. It came to me that I don’t have to wait until the book is published to begin calling myself an author. I am already inside the heart of the process of authoring this work. I am already performing all the labors it will take to bring this book to life. I am already what I am also becoming.

I asked a dear mommy friend, who is also an editor, to work with me on this project. I have my first due date for a rough draft to get to her. It’s my birthday, coming up in a few weeks. Every morning before the munchkins are awake I try and write something. I don’t worry about it being cohesive, fully fleshed out, or even really good writing. I get words on the page. I know there will be time to transform these words into a strong, compelling narrative. For now, my job is to just write, and write, and write.

Recently I located and organized all my journals spanning the 20 years of my life from young adult, to woman, to artist, to invisible mother, to birthworker, to mother, to mother mother. This collection of pages journeys through major and minor life changes, relationships, travels, creative projects, pregnancy, losses, recoveries, births, career advancements, life partnership, familymaking, mothering stories, dreams, and the root motivations of characters I am constantly creating for short stories, novels, and plays. Having all my journals on one united shelf feels like a fullness I’ve been needing to experience for so long. The journals have been with me all this time, but they’ve never lived so intimately as they do now, gathered together in the shared celebration of their contributions to my evolution as a mothering artist.

Most of what’s in these journals has nothing to do with the content of the book I’m writing. But the accumulated magnitude of all the words, my words, in close proximity to me supports this knowing that I am already an author. The words, the sentences, the poems, the paragraphs, the scribbles in the margins, the pages, the bound volumes and spiral notebooks and loose papers of life documentation offer a sort of proof, and act as a loving witness to my process. It’s like situating my words so near to me helps me make new words. I am never starting from scratch, in this way. I am always building onto more of my practice. The foundations of my format, and tone, and flow for this book are readily available to me. I can trace my beginnings seamlessly, even as I push passionately forward into new literary worlds.

This writing process, more than anything, excites me. Even when I feel like I don’t know all of what I’m going to say at the start of a new essay, or whether what I’ve spent the precious, pre-dawn, pre-munchkin circus hours writing will actually make it to the final draft—I feel a deep satisfaction in having poured myself into my practice anyway. I love that I have added in some way to the larger becoming of my authorhood. Every word matters, because just like steps, it brings us into the next word, and the one after that, and the one after that. The process for creating my first book is showing me, over and over again, the magical, limitless nature of writing. It is bringing me into more intimate communion with the art of crafting my own narrative, and connecting it to the broader human story of life. For this, I am already so grateful. Everyday, I look forward to stretching and growing more and more into my words. This book is happening. Here we grow!

Today I take the munchkins up the street the big open field that I’ve claimed as our “outdoor” classroom. Conveniently just 5 blocks from home, it’s magically all I ever wanted it to be: accessible, safe, abundantly spacious, clean. And even though it’s not fenced in, it’s so, so big that they can run long distances and move freely without ever getting too close to the street.

I pack the usual stuff: some snacks, some books to read, a blanket to sit on, a water bottle. But then, I also pack something new this time: my wireless headphones. Yes, I intend to get my dance practice in while they run around and do their thing. I am looking forward to a much larger studio, with the fresh air, endless floor, and outstretched sky.

I dress in a single layer, even though they are more bundled up. I want to be comfortable. I plan to break a sweat. I love how I’m preparing for a real dance moment. I am taking great care to insert my creative practice into a moment that is usually all about them. Everyday I ask myself, how can I take up more space inside our family learning lab? How can my creativity and my process as an artist be visible and integrated into all we do?

My joy matters. As the mother, the artist, the primary facilitator of our family-centered education, I am the pulse of this whole dance. I am quite certain that the happier I am, the more connected I am to my own passion spaces—which for me is in the dance, the writing, the community building, the village making—the more engaging, liberated, and adventurous I’ll be when holding the space for my children and their learning journeys.

As I get deeper into these experiments with integrating my creative labors into our everyday learning lab moments—impromptu counting games while I’m dancing in the middle of a circle they’ve created around me, wall-mounted collage art while breakfast is being made, reading these blog posts aloud to my children for storytime—I see that my kids really are learning all the time! Every single moment, no matter what we’re doing, is ripe for some deeper understanding, for more tangible discoveries about how they shape and are shaped by the world around them.

Basically, I don’t have to force the learning. It’s already always happening! I can totally have fun everyday with my children and be deeply immersed in my creative practices as an artist. There is no war here, no separation, no conflict of interests. Being their mother, their teacher, their caregiver, is not in opposition to developing my dance methodology, and writing my books, and devising workshops, and running our family business. In fact, the more rooted I am in my passions as an artist, the more joy, creativity, and positive energy I can source as I navigate all the demands of mothering a band of little people. And when Mommy is more joyful overall, then everyone else is expanding in their joy spaces too.

Mommy’s joy really is contagious. When we first get to the big open field, the magical moment I’ve been dreaming of is not fully coming together. People are whining about this snack not being that snack, people would rather nurse continuously than run around in all this space, people are complaining about not being able to go barefoot in 40 degree weather like they did in the summertime. At first I am annoyed that my children haven’t seamlessly jumped into their happy place, and let me just enjoy my insta-groove, personal dance party. But then, I remember I am free to begin my practice, as is.

It catches them by surprise when I just start running around them, dancing in a circle, jumping side to side, shaking, gyrating, spinning my torso, waving my arms like wings toward the sky. I am getting in plenty of booty rolls as the beat blasts from my pink headphones, headphones that are slightly off my ear so that I can still hear everything they’re saying and be, you know, visibly responsible-parenting in public space.

Bloom keeps asking me, “Mommy, why are you so happy dancing?” I just make sure to keep moving every time he asks me. I want this part of his childhood to be remembered so clearly, all these beautiful moments with his joyful, dancing mother.

They are all paying attention now. I dance with more intensity, kick up my legs, twist and jerk and bend and leap, slide to the left, to the right, back it up, shake shake shake. This makes them laugh more and more. They start to chase me around, imitate me, make up their own moves. Before I know it, they have abandoned the snacks and no one is pulling on me or complaining about something. They are finally running around, happy and free! They are making their own fun, getting into their own adventures, individually and collectively.

This moment is really nice, how it’s all come together. I see it has been up to me all along. I have to be the one to get the party started. I have to center my joys, and in doing so that creates an inevitable momentum of vibrant energy that enlivens the moment for my children. My example inspires them, makes them want to seek, to play, to explore, to grow, to ask new questions, to have big fun, to access more of their own joys.

This ability to tap into what truly brings them joy will carry them very, very far in life. It is sort of like a superpower I have cultivated over the years, and I’m glad they are getting plenty of good practice with it while they’re so young.

If motherhood is slowing us down, we might find we finally have the time to do what it is we really love with this one, precious life that we get to call our own. The decelerated pace that motherhood brings is honestly a gift that most of us have been told not to open. The more we allow motherhood to take up its full space in our lives, the more access we have to the abundant, transformational, and lovely realities of being a mother.

We live in a speed-addicted, “snap-back” obsessed, do-it-for-the-selfie culture. As many of our families and communities have forgotten how to tenderly love and care for its mothers, we are often left to fend for our rights to mother slowly all by ourselves.

The pressure to go faster and faster, to grind, grind, grind right along with the machine, no matter the costs to our still bleeding bodies, to recover the totality of our shattered selves in the first, blurry weeks of postpartum so that we can get back to the race—a race designed to intentionally exclude mothers— this pressure is haunting. When left unchecked, it obstructs our receptivity to our intuition at the most critical moments of our lives.

Lurking like a pestering mob, this pervasive pressure takes up residence inside every salvaged breath when we’re supposedly having time to ourselves, but are really worrying evermore about our productivity. It robs us of the gentle beauty that is most attainable when our motherhood is not trapped inside a sprint to the imaginary finish line. It blocks us from understanding how our dreams, passions, and creativity are vitally connected to our happiness, to our survival. It keeps us convinced that motherhood itself—and not the profit-driven systems exploiting our labors at every turn—is the real problem.

The truth is, going slowly saves us most of the time. It prevents us from causing more harm, from colliding with someone or something else, from acting on inauthentic, externally-motivated impulses, from making irreversible mistakes, from tearing ourselves apart in ways that can never be mended. Take your time, is something we hear again and again as children, the value of really becoming familiar with all parts of a thing being emphasized from early on. But the immense and constantly evolving labor that is motherhood, but birthing a whole, entire human being, but raising little brilliant people with every part of your soul, but navigating uninspired, unimaginative, sterile, cold—and at times extremely hostile—spaces that are purposely inaccessible to mothers and families, but figuring all this out without adequate support systems or tangible, generational wisdom, but sustaining our children’s physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual wellness, but centering ourselves and our sanity inside of everything else we hope for our families— is supposed to just happen? Just like that?

As mothering artists, we use our art and creative practices all the time to disrupt narratives and patterns of oppression that deny our humanity. Slowing down as a mother is an act of resistance to centuries-old, systemic erasures, and a radical form of personal and communal liberation. By slowing down, we are saying that our labor, our work as mothers, is real and deserving of the time it takes us to find a peaceful rhythm within our motherhood. We are insisting that our children are worthy of whatever time, resources, and spaces it takes to honor their needs, to support their growth, to encourage their passions, to nurture their freedoms and the sensitivity to use that freedom conscientiously. We are expanding our capacity to be meaningfully engaged with the many dimensions of our hearts, our visions, our fertility, our wild imaginations, our deeply magical and creative selves.

Going slowly makes motherhood sweeter, because we have more opportunities to experience the fullness of our labors. Sure, plenty of days are loaded with dizzying chaos, and it might feel at times as if our children are growing through stages in the blink of an eye. But when we are free to shape our time, to determine the intention and application of our seconds, of our minutes, of our hours, of our days, then our moments truly become our own. It is this ability to choose what we’re doing with our moments that brings more sweetness, and loveliness, and bliss to our lives. In this way we are able to really savor motherhood, and give more mothers room to do the same.

It’s a process, I say over and over to myself. Motherhood fractures time. Those luxurious moments of creation that used go on for hours, for days, weeks, months even, are now fragments of themselves. In almost six years of making and raising babies, I have learned how to gather the scattered seconds and the lost minutes found in, around, under, and between my daily mothering labors. I nourish my mothering artist self with these loose pieces of opportunity. If I did not know how to do this, if I did not know it was possible to construct a new relationship with time, my soul would hunger for itself. There would be no reconciliation between all my selves. Like so many mothers I know, motherhood, more than anything else, would seem to be the biggest obstruction to my expansion as an artist.

Still, I am coming into greater appreciation for the slower evolution of my magic making with each year. Because I am mashing together bits of time, the progression of an essay, a story, a dance might stretch, drag, lull, swell, quiver, and then sag again before recovering its momentum. Sometimes I am growing so slowly through a process that it almost feels like nothing is happening. But even the subtlest of motions is movement in some direction. It’s a process, I remind myself. 

The process doesn’t have to be linear, scheduled, rhythmic, or predictable. It moves as I move. Ultimately, I am the creator of all my time. This is not a reality mothers are encouraged to explore. From the moment we are pregnant, we are inundated with fear narratives about how we won’t be able to “get anything done with a baby,” and so even before our little humans are born we are hardwiring ourselves, steeling our nerves for the never-ending battle to have time to ourselves. There is an overemphasis on adhering to a set schedule, on protecting our ephemeral solitude, and very little attention given to emotional cues, intuition, and a mother’s need for a peaceful, supported postpartum in community with other mothers.

The artificial acceleration, the pressure to go, go, go—and alone at that—no matter the cost to body, sanity, or wallet, soon becomes a rigid norm that is scripted for survival. This is how so many mothers, despite their most diligent efforts to sustain their creativity, lose the war. Tethering themselves and their time to a system where they are just as invisible as their labors, their once vibrant artist selves become dry, brittle remnants, shadowy memories from a time before birthing and babies. In a society addicted to going faster and faster, mothers wallowing too long in the rubble of dreams deferred are then made to feel shame for their failure to thrive at this manufactured speed. So many brilliant, amazing mother-artists succumb to the bullying to just let go of their fragmented, creative sparks, to surrender their art and just fall in line with the script. 

But true creativity can never be completely suppressed. Everywhere on this earth there are bright bits of our potential flickering and beckoning to the mothers who can still feel something of a creative pulse. It is by way of these lasting strains of light that we mothering artists are able to find each other, and begin the labors of restoration and re/connection to our creativity and our passions.

It has taken many cycles of practicing, stumbling, recovering, and reimagining to realize that despite all the directives to accelerate, I am actually more fulfilled moving at a pace that is natural to my reality as a mothering artist, and one who is homeschooling three munchkins and running a family business. I have fresh, mother-centered eyes now. I see the development of a text, of a song, of a movement sequence amidst the lovely chaos of life with my little people. While chopping potatoes for breakfast I am singing loudly, composing a song for a new performance piece. While scraping poop off of a cloth diaper I am hearing the opening lines of a character’s dialogue, the way her hair falls over her face as she laughs coming into focus in my mind. While setting up a water and temperature experiment, the music is blasting and I am dancing back and forth from the cabinet to the table, arranging our supplies and giving my children some movements to play with as they run circles around me.

I wish I had come more gently into this understanding about how the interplay of time and creativity would be radically re/discovered in motherhood. Instead, it has been a turbulent, heartbreaking, exhausting, and at times bitterly discouraging, journey toward awareness. It was only after the birth of my third child that I finally, graciously, identified and embraced this language around slow mothering and saw its vital application in how I engage with my artistry. 

Now I am breathing through my process, celebrating the access to the unexplored depths of my creativity that working slowly fosters. I rarely experience creative blockages and slumps as I am always engaged in some aspect of my creative process. My children, having splintered every sense of what is time and what is mine, have helped me embody more tangible and transferrable realities of what I can do with every second of the day and the many ways I can create as a mothering artist. I am so grateful for our evolving collaboration, and that I can see the beauty in our gradual progress. The world around us continues to move swiftly right along, but this snail’s pace is deeply generative in its own magical way.