letters from home
an isolation series.
letters from home was a bi-weekly offering during Virginia’s pandemic lockdown in spring 2020. what began as light-hearted escapism, the series became an informal, raw, and vulnerable outpouring of emotion in a tumultuous and untethered time.
no. 9
antiracism work is saving Black lives is environmental justice is relinquishing Indigenous lands to Indigenous hands is ancestral honor is consciously interrogating self is breaking generational trauma is freeing children from fucking cages is emancipatory education systems is healing is falling in love is safety is housing justice is 40 acres is bodily autonomy is reproductive justice is raising the minimum wage is anticapitalistic restructuring is making art is queer liberation is criminal justice reform is defunding the police is social support systems is childcare is community wellness partnerships is block parties is now, now is sankofa is decolonization is cultivating patience and presence over rabid consumerism and ableism is saving trans lives is feminism is self-care is a riot is unshackling is love is love is love is love is joy is magic is Saturdays spent by your side.
no. 8
I think of the mothers.
when I wake, and when I go to bed, and when I walk through this world. I think of the mothers and the mothering. so often we write a script that motherhood belongs to those who birth babies. we make exceptions for some kinds of birth, and a little room for those who take babies in. ok, and then the ones who take not-quite babies in. or, sure, the mothers with grown children who keep on tending to grandbabies. every once in a while, we think to say sorry and nudge over a bit more for the ones who lost babies, or who can’t have babies, or for aunties. on rare occasions, we call folks ‘second’ mamas. oh, but we always make sure to equate mothering with the raising of children.
as if we are not all invested in that work.
as if community building and healthcare and education and corner stores and libraries and parks and moments of joy and family meals and postal workers and acts of terror are not working, in concert, to raise our children.
as if the news with its despair and politicians with their vitriol and neighbors with their hate and the streets with their blood stains are not the very threads with which a child’s life is woven.
mothering is an investment made on behalf of the future. not some idealistic pristine world we might create, but the tangible mess we are building before our eyes. each moment, every one of us are paying into the trust fund of our collective future, and the children are watching us with reverence and disbelief because we bankrupt their tomorrow with our today.
we do this easily because, in truth, we place no value on mothering and motherhood. matriarchal joy, nourishment, achievement.. these are inconsequential in a society that prioritizes capitalistic gain, ownership, power, and prestige over all else. and the further your maternal status from the dominant narrative, the more minimal the scraps we throw.
I am a Black mother. I am educated, gainfully employed, articulate to the point of eloquence at times, creative, hilarious, snarky, stubborn, beautiful, insightful, a decent baker and a good cook, well read, loving, and empathetic, too. but in this society, I remain a Black mother, and my worth in this world is summed up in three little words every time. those are the boxes I check, despite my unwavering, fierce, even dogged devotion to mothering the children of our world — through art and literature and community and conversation and love and championing. the work amounts to little knowing it can be snuffed out in a moment.
who will hear us? who will sing a mother’s song? who will hold her was she grieves a world too caught in its march to power to pause for the life of a mother’s child? who sees a mother’s ache and casts it aside as unfamiliar? who cannot find themselves eye to eye with the mothering folk and beg for forgiveness?
I weep for the mothers who know acutely the agony of loving your own breathing, beating, seizing heart-in-human-form as it pumps and soars before you, a sparkling delight bound for excellence. each day of mothering brings the twin flames of aching beauty; so it is to love and slowly leave a creature you’ve nourished into existence.
but dear god: I mourn for the mothers who can no longer hold their children whose futures and lives have been stolen.
and we are all those mothers.
we owe society’s children the lives they have been given.
breath is a birthright, and none but who give it may take it.
there is no crime large enough, no body Black enough, no fear valid enough, no day dark enough, no leader slimy enough, no hatred deep enough, no excuse worthy enough.
it serves no one to feel guilt and shame and embarrassment or even angry. our jobs as mothers are not to be in our feelings about the state of the world or the recklessness of our past selves or how hard it will be.
the service we can provide is work, collectively, to create a future we can proudly gift our shared children.
what are you doing to amplify the work of grassroots organizations who mother our communities? how are you spending your dollars to mother the voices, livelihoods, and hopes of our children? who are you supporting with time and energy and money that may rise in matriarchal leadership and champion the children? how are you putting your body to work mothering justice and belonging and liberation for our children? what texts are you consuming to mother a more conscious self so you may better mother a society? to whom do you open your home and provide mothering friendship and love? how are you mothering a more just history into reality, interrupting the legacies of oppressive abandonment we’ve inherited?
mothering is not reserved for those who birth babies, for indeed we are all birthing and shepherding and raising a nation with our actions and inactions, silence and protests, love and love.
I think of the mothers, and I ask:
what are you doing to raise a world that will not kill my child?
no. 7
a little note for you, sweet soul.
you deserve to know your being is whole + your power is freely flowing. you are a powerful force. your soul stuff vibrates in this world. you do not need permission, but you have it.
& so you know:
my belief in you is constant + unwavering. in the moments when your self-trust is weak and you are certain only of your shortcomings, my belief remains forever steady.
because your possibility is mine, too.
your growth is mine, too.
your ascension is mine, too.
your delight + joy + beauty is mine, too.
I revel in your expansion.
don’t stop now.
xx
no. 6
I’m thinking a lot about influence, and who holds it, and how we use our time here — here on earth, here in digital space, here in this season of life, here in this one moment of connection, here in our bodies.
for a long time, I’ve written off virtual influence. this is not because I’m a more enlightened being who cares little for the support of folks who dig my work and message, or because I am dismissive of the wide-reaching impact social media can create.
I wrote it off because I have offline influence, and so my cup felt full.
I’m an educator + guide supporting people to harness their power.
I’m an artist + visionary crafting ideas into moments of truth-telling.
I’m a mother + healer building the just, loving world deserving of my child.
as I’ve been in isolation, however, some of that work has shifted. I don’t see students and teachers each day, and my cast is equally sequestered in their homes, and my calendar is cleared of shows and performances, and the gatherings have been postponed. motherhood is my constant (so say we all), but what of all the other elements of me?
I realized: whether we seek it, or dismiss it, or hold it, we each possess influence. hibernation has us clawing at the walls, desperate to wield our powers. suddenly, translating the work I do “out there” became crucial for audiences “on here.” I wasn’t sure what to say. more to the point, I wasn’t sure who to be.
I wanted to show up as everything. I wanted to translate my offline presence into clickable understanding, and I looked for clarity + understanding outside myself.. which is never helpful. I found myself scoffing at camera-perfect moms of four with 300K followers and #ad posts every other picture summarized themselves as “good at puzzles,” or whatever, but that was my judgment talking. I had a choice: do I want to cultivate online influence, or do I want to reflect my complex existence? when I said it like that, there was no other option. I gave myself permission to show up as complicated, which is more my speed anyway.
for me: my Self is presented in portrait and reflects on learning + healing + creates art + shares of tending + devotion + mothering. in life: I cry more. I wear more color and prints. I am out and about in the night. I skip showers. I am fucking hilarious. I know a lot of pop culture. that I am other or more or sometimes less in the world is not a critique, nor is it misleading. I get to curate this space and choose how I show up.
this doesn’t make it untrue.
whole, beautiful, striving, imperfect selves cannot be fully captured in brief bios, and this is ok, because the paradox of influence is this: who I am in virtual space and who I am in the world are not exactly the same, but they are both true. all versions of me can be true. I don’t have to give every drop of me to give every ounce. my impact on my world is measured not by who knows it, but who feels it.
we are many beings at once. as we sit in isolation, let us sit with all of them.
no. 5
I was a cautious girl — obsessively imaginative, and detailed in my creations, and quite scared of being physically hurt. I didn’t climb trees, or monkey bars, or race bikes, or learn to skateboard. I didn’t jump from high places, and I looked at tall things with apprehension, and I walked easily away from things that spun too fast. I craved some control, and I required a handle to hold.
in my teens, and twenties, something shifted, and risk became the name of the game. I liked the jolt of telling a white lie, or pushing the boundaries of curfew, or secret texts. I wore skirts that were too short and stayed out late and threw myself at moments. where I once was precious with my reputation, I tossed caution to the window and dared a soul to say I wasn’t wild. I scoffed at control, and those who sought it, and I wandered through my days with a bit of recklessness. it’s probably far more dangerous than a broken bone, but I threw my heart and soul into danger, and found a little thrill when I managed to sneak out alive with stories to tell.
and then I didn’t. I met a man, and I ran headlong into the uncertainty of our pairing, and we had a life of sorts, and it nearly killed me — not my body, but the me I most longed to be: my spirit and energy and self-determination and potential and hope. it wasn’t my fault, and I still have to remind myself of that. and yet, I can’t heal a thing I don’t own. so with an infant on my hip, I began claiming the road that brought me there, and cleaning it up, a little like adopting the highway of my mistakes.
and the road was a mess.
how had I gotten so far from myself, and so hurt in the journey? I was the careful girl! I thought. and that wasn’t all. I was also the desperate girl: to be seen, to be heard, to stand guard, to be true. I was the cut + run girl: ready to dart at a moment’s notice. I was the girl with my head in the clouds: far more interesting to me were the worlds I could create in my mind than the trees or ramps or jungle gyms of the one I knew.
the thing is, or a thing is: the human desire to be carefree and unbound can only be submerged for so long, until it seeps through the skin and stains all it touches. ashamed of my caution and hesitancy, I had quieted that impulse. unsure if my creations and imaginations were welcome beyond my own mind, I turned my back on them entirely and sought approval elsewhere. confused by the thin line between wild and free, I acted out without grounding within. it wasn’t that my girlhood self had grown up so much as my adult self had grown away.
see, the greatest injuries in my life haven’t come from perceived risk, or those that burst into the world and knocked me off my feet, or even those reckless foibles that I still replay with embarrassment. the greatest injuries they’ve come from surrender — I’ve been most hurt and damaged by giving up and giving in to that which didn’t serve me. it turns out I like long, flowing skirts, actually, and telling the sincere, deepest truths I can muster. I’d rather stare up at the trees than climb them, and I don’t like to go fast. I like to take as much time as possible, drawing out an action or a thought so that it’s the one, sweet accomplishment of the day. I’ve been most deeply wounded by suppressing and tethering my spirit: a meticulous, imaginative, observant, wild thing who holds onto some learnings close and calls them truths. I was not ruined by a man, or a high jump, or a regrettable hookup, but I have been irrevocably altered by inauthentic living.
the lesson, for me, has been this: to risk is not to flail or make chaos or be unafraid, but to dare greatly + remain true in the face of a thousand nudges to abandon yourself. we can't escape hurt; we’re just trading one for the other, and I promise that this life is so much sweeter when the hurt is honestly earned. to hurt in pursuit of your true being is a glory, sis. you cannot escape this life alive, and you’re bound to be wrecked in the meantime. just torn to pieces and rebuilt and then destroyed and held together with tape + love + glue + tears + gold —
& what a delicately shredded + beautiful testament to be wrecked by integrity.
No. 4
the people here congregate around the center, as a matter of principle. each carves a little nook from which they carefully observe the other creatures. occasionally, directions are shouted across the quiet — where to find softness and who had the last piece and which way toward comfort and how many days. it’s prayerful in the mornings and when one takes deep breaths, the others just wait.
here, milky coffee is poured hot into smooth white mugs, a parade of preparation for seeming nothingness. remnants of the days festivities stay littered about until: bells sounds and small spots are tidied, pictures taken, calls accepted, life shushed momentarily. the people tiptoe about the fringes then, skirting the edges of yesterday’s world so as not to disturb it. and then, the moment unmutes itself and life pours again, running water and clanging spoons, and steering cardboard race cars past hot ovens.
the sun glows brightest in the late afternoon when a glow streams from the white door across this hub. mothers shield their eyes, perfecting character voices, reading aloud stories of magic and childhood to anyone who might listen.
I wonder if spring always brings out the best in them, and did anyone ever notice? is every new bud always so tenderly embraced and met with such joy? and do they routinely extend this love to the air and passersby and every bite, or am I catching them at the perfect moment? I’d like to imagine so. I’m going to preserve them like this.
I’ll tell others:
— oh, you simply must visit them in those holy weeks between breaths, when the world pauses and they pour themselves across one another full of caring and compassion. they sip afternoon cocktails of languid sweetness, leaving them about without concern, and at night they hold one another close as if they’ve never done so before.
No. 3
I despise small talk. perhaps this is rooted in confusion — I don’t really know what people mean by, “how are you?” how am I in this exact moment, or today, or generally over the past few days, or what is something good that’s been happening, or deep within my soul at my most essential? do they say it because it seems a nice entry before getting down to purpose, or do they genuinely seek to know my truth?
fine, I say. and I always am. amidst the chaos of the world and in my mind and juggling all the potentials.. I am fine. I am capable. I have weathered much, and it is well with me to journey through. this thought comforts me in the mornings, and sits with me in overwhelm, and tucks me to sleep each evening. I am fine, and will be fine, and can do hard things.
this is a privilege; of that I am certain. it is also a responsibility. I owe folks more: of myself, and my honesty, and my perspective. this is the truth clawing its way up through the many, many days of isolation.
I am in debt to a life which has challenged me; to a spirit that has befuddled me; to a world which has quieted me; to a motherhood which has propelled me; to a community which has provoked me. I owe it to this one-time existence to live inside the truth and to be an expression of that understanding.
see, it’s not just confusion which colors my dislike of small talk, but the sinking distrust of answering — I must speak my truth, and I’m fearful this is “too much.” but now we are hunkered behind walls, and I’m desperate to be asked after, and it occurs to me that I owe that to myself, as much as others.
sis, it’s all too much. every last drop of living and breathing and mothering and making art and reheating leftovers and being real and like, pretending you give a shit about branding and worry after screen time and remembering to brush your teeth and responding to all those notifications and embodying a creative existence is too, too much. telling the truth about that is ok. knowing you’re going to be fine is ok, too.
we owe each other this.
how are you? where do you live within your body? who is tending to you? how are you sleeping? what do you see? what nourishes you? how are you escaping? what are you consuming? when did you ever know silence? what words are haunting you? where can you go? what stories are you telling? what is true there? how are you?
how are you?
I’m fine, and here’s what’s keeping me that way.
one time I balled in the Sistine Chapel, and later wrote a poem about it. I don’t go to church, but I do listen to On Being, and I think it might be the same thing. their series Poetry Unbound is bringing a lightness into my life; I hope it serves you.
last week, I was certain I beat the final level of Netflix. this week, however, I found Unorthodox, Uncorked, The English Game, and Tiger King. I’ll save you the reviews, and simply say that it has alleviated my spirit to watch untouched-by-me media. although, I contradict myself by re-watching Schitt’s Creek often.
my child has a newfound fascination with Harry Potter, and the joy this creates is inescapable. together, we sit for hours and dig through the complex world. we’re on book two, but it’s quickly coming to a close. another favorite read aloud for us is Tar Beach.
despite now owning one, I don’t much read blogs. I tend for articles and essays and books and newsletters and such. maybe that’s why things are taking shape here in this way… speaking of, would you like an irregular letter straight to your inbox? I routinely look for corners that feel kindred, though, and so LaTonya Yvette and Erin Boyle and Joy the Baker are dear to me. but when it comes to those that speak straight to my guts, Yan Palmer hits the feels, for sure.
I’ve forced several people to explore this app, and now I will demand you give it a go as well. if eery and beautiful had a baby, it would be called The Pattern.
No. 2
seventy-five emails about “unprecendented times” and eighteen more encouraging me to be productive with my time. I’ve wanted to run screaming, but I ought not leave the house.
so here we are.
I’ve spent these days ruminating on the concepts of balance, sovereignty, community, and resilience. as I float and plod and skate and scrape through days, I piece together some new understandings which seem to demand a shift within me — I wonder what it would look like to embody the [be]ing that I am. so much of the fear and doubt which has plagued me throughout life is wrapped up in concern that my [do]ing is a drop in a saturated ocean of productivity. who am I to take up space? who am I to create? who am I to live so loud? who am I to love so well? who am I to tell these truths? and in the absence of touch, in the vacancy of contact, I return not only to the essential (who am I not?), but to the newly discovered: I own this existence, and that which I crave and make exists in all environments.
balance is authenticity, not perfection. sovereignty is integrity, not comparison. community is empathy, not competition. resilience is forgiveness, not force.
and when I stack those thoughts, I become an alchemist: authenticity, integrity, empathy, and forgiveness — why, that’s the work of womanhood. that’s the medicine of femininity. that’s the soft power of the matriarch(y) weaving gold through our cracks.
when women gather their intuitive wisdom and capacity, they seek and attract sisterhood. within these circles of feminine intelligence and potential is the collective strength to unshackle healing and cultivate wholeness.
how do I live as the fullest expression of my self? and if I can’t do it when the world is quiet and kept, what happens when it begins to bustle again? now is my moment for unapologetic alignment of my being. I think it’s yours, too.
we are overdue a cultural revolution. we are owed soft, fierce healing and liberation. we are creators, visionaries, and dreamers devoted to conscious leadership and love-guided justice. I know this, because we are mothers. our daily existence is wrapped up in the tending to vulnerable creatures. this is sacred. we hold the capacity to dismantle the destructive systems and thinking which has devastated our lands, minds, bodies, and souls.
I think our time is now. I’m claiming it. for myself, and for you. and from here on out, I give myself to that charge. I release the uncertainty which whispers at my ear, demanding I simplify and shrink into consumable pieces. I am no commodity; I am an expansive, whole being, and I will live and work as such. I do this for my child, and my sisters, and my Self.
this is women’s work.
No. 1
what if our pain + longing + confusion were bound together? what if united sorrow is the fullest joy?
this is an offering — an extension of my hand to your heart; let’s sit in our sharing and let that be enough. for now.
she is a friend of mind. she gather me, man. the pieces I am, she gather them and give them back to me in all the right order. it’s good, you know, when you got a woman who is a friend of your mind.