My daughter got a very intricate dragon kite for her birthday last month. It was complex to me. It has 2 large green and black wings. Four long red ribbons lined the 2 edges of the wings. There were black wires that one had to put end to end so the wings stood in place. All of this were attached to a long white rope that kids can use to fly the kite in the sky. I assembled the kite for them awhile back. At least I managed to put the black wires end to end so the wings can stay in place. That was all I could do. I tried to unruffled the rope so they could fly the kite but to no avail. All my attempts meant that nothing flew in the end. Not the dragon nor it’s lavish red ribbons. That is until this morning.

Fixing their kite!

I watched from the window as my daughter and her brothers took a stab at making the kite fly. They worked on the wings, fixed the dragons tail, even strung the rope as best as the could. Then she ran. My daughter ran and the kite, I couldn’t fly, flew right behind her. Her brothers were delighted. I was too amused. Here was a kite that I gave up trying to fly because it was to complex, but my kids didn’t give up. They tried and tried until they got the outcome they wanted. Which is my keep for today is to remember being child-like as you soar or fly your kites.

Whereas I gave up, because it was too complex and intricate, my kids didn’t. They stood up to the challenge and learnt something in return; that they are at very center, the very heart of all the possibilities that resides in them, all the boldness too. They instinctively gravitate towards problems, those great and small, those within that capacity to solve and those they barely know where to begin. They also collaborate or reach out to others for help. I watched as my sons stood patiently behind the dragon as my daughter made sense of the rope for flying. Her brothers fixed the green tail, the lavish red ribbons and were right behind her cheering her on as she took flight with the kite. Something about this moment made me realize that we are all part of something bigger when we open up to problems together. Also, we all need some of the energy and optimism of children. They boldly go where adults may fail to go and they never give up especially when things they love are involved.

This combination of possibilities and being bold, are fundamental life lessons that remain long after you pass through childhood. It’s also one of the greatest blessings I have as a black mother in light. Granted, there are days when giving up is necessary, a self-care remedy even, for a world so corrosive to our being. On those days, I am like myself when I tried to make sense of the kite. I’ll do my part, make sense of what I can, and let go of what I can’t. But on the days full of possibilities, days full of audacity, I am like my children and their dragon kite. I never give up. We give up at our cost. For I remember when flying kite was a child was magic. It’s probably the reason I buy kites every summer for them. A child’s ability to make sense of the kite, to watch as it rises up on wings, and soars through the wind, has always been powerful to me. I always felt alive, watching something we make fly. This question of being bold and knowing your possibilities is very important to me, and when you watch children, my children put it into practice, I am thankful. They helped me return to my childhood watching them fly their kite over and over again. I intend to remain like them as I fly my kite. The possibilities are endless indeed.

I have been excavating other ways of being lately. Other ways of being together too. Other ways to imagine interior lives seldom shared. This unending murmur is part of the noise I narrate. Of motherhood, for example, for mother’s that are black, mothers in academia, mothers with little children, mothers finding themselves still, while being nurturing, as we navigate this space we find nourishing, note-worthy too.

Sometimes, my desire to write about my experience is clear. Inspirations come from all angles too. Like my children, or flowers, like Dahlias and their thick opulent petals, that unfurl, ever so softly with every swirl.

Sometimes, I am moved by the scent of life, the power of meaningful experiences etched in my memories. Like my baby’s first crawl, or his first steps. His first words too, in repetition, over and over again, like da da, or ma ma, unlocks feelings that I have to air in some way, of the multitude of ways learning with life occurs, especially when you stop and kiss the ground, like babies do when crawling or walking.

Sometimes the words come to me, like a whisper. I am obedient to the power of language. Words are supposed to be useful, supposed to move you. So I listen, and dig deeper, down to the hole where the message resides, where the sightings of water, like in a deep well, becomes clear. I listen to tell you about this interior life, full of knowledge that flows through me with words I put together. Though I have no time to tell you everything, I am an overflowing oasis, open and obedient to opportunities, that are opulent, like Savannahs after rain, opportunities that offer to help me move onward in ways that are truly outstanding. So we move and organize possibilities way beyond our abilities. The sound and action of all the possibilities I have, my silence transformed to action, my survival taught as strategies, my stories in the making, those told and still formulating, all of them is so you hear me differently, see me differently too, beyond the spaces you choose or the mirrors you use to shape what you think I am becoming. I need not respond to anything. For my fears are not new, they are not old, even though they are not told.

This constant state of remaking, restorying too, is so you see and feel the story I am becoming. The stretching of my mind, the injection of creativity, of flowers and birds, of trees, and their hidden stories, all help to tell the stories that rally, stories that sustain, stories that oppose all you think about black mothers in light. To be one, to become one, to clear the path towards light, in the middle of darkness is an audacious task. Even if what I write, what I say only touches your soul one time, I have won. For to transform this silence, to use words to bring it out, and pour it in a space, not constrained by others is transformative. I am transformed in process. You are too.

Hence the purpose of this keep. To help you, me, express what I already know but may fail to say. That to be silenced is not without voice. To lack funds to is not without will. There is a way. Another path exists, however muted the path you wanted may seem today. The potential for light, the potential to rise from darkness to light resides in you. It is in you and always has. So keep rising. Your words, your light is the first opening of possibilities. You are important. You are valuable. Your light is inevitable. Keep creating art and words with your life.

Dahlias are intense flowers like mother.

A league on their own, each petal is a colorful ray, of doubled flowers, in yellow or purple-ray florets, whites, ivories, and scarlet rays too. All in multiple whorls of ray flowers, all forming circles, forming clusters, forming bunches so compact, that it can only be described as motherhood. Dahlias are like mothers to me, so intense is the experience to me.

Their golden round and its countless petals, are like countless stars, that circle my being, with a stillness, so formless, so nameless, and so restless. The sighting of Dahlias are like mothers on days things are barely fathomless, days things are formless, even days we feel so flawless.

Dahlias indeed are stars. The blind see nothing. Both those who see, open their hearts. Their minds too open. To a stillness that is forever dazzling, forever haunting, each glimpse, forever brilliant, forever etched in memories as with days forever mesmerizing or days forever feeling helpless, or forever full of deep thoughts, that maybe forever inspiring while at the same time, make your feel forever dreamless, until moments become once more forever captivating, forever full of passion, in the midst of wild terrains that are forever demanding, even as you stay forever looking, yet feel like everything is forever in vain. Dahlias and their intricate whorls are forever full of surprises with every whorl which summarizes all that motherhood forever epitomizes.

The mere sightings of Dahlias galvanizes you to become one with all you desire, all you despise, all you disguise, even all you downsize as your journey from your base to your inner interior, the space where you hide your deepest desires, first for you, the place where all your dreams resides, all for you.

I have been there before. Of feeling lost, yet finding myself, of knowing how to proceed, yet loosing my way, but everything slowly making sense once my eyes greeted Dahlias.

Time stood still for Dahlias. They invite you in, invade your being, demand that you literally stop to recognize them, greet them, with all you possess, all within your power to soar as you devise ways to harmonize being one with your inner strength, one with this intricate flower. This is what Dahlias are known for. An inner strength so haunting, that you may fail to recognize the moment you give your self away to all the flower symbolizes. You may have been here before. Every time your eyes meet Dahlias. The sighting burrows deep in your soul. Like the soft kiss of a breeze. Dahlia’s kiss are forever captivating, forever etched in memories, that are forever lasting.

Yellow Dahlias gently kissed me while taking my baby to his daycare this week. Red ones too, ushered a tenderness so divine, gently caressing my restless heart, like fine wine. Slowly, I pressed forward, running out of excuses to delay this moment. He was supposed to start last week. It was his first time, and my heart and speech where rambling in chaos. Even though this was the day we have been waiting for.

I have been here before, with three other children. But something about baby number 4 made me nervous, made our day restless. Nothing was packed properly. Not his snack, not his water bottle, not his bag. Nothing was labeled properly either, not his diapers, not his wipes, not his bag. I should be happy. I should be pleased. No troubled mind, no demanding time. No breastfeeding, not restless feeding. Finally, all my children will be out of the house. Finally, all time, would be mine to claim. Sleep too. Yet, I was restless, nervous too. I fought through pain, until Dahlias met my eyes. With their sweet embrace, they encircled my being, forcing me to rise, to open to the sweet tenderness of this moment. Like the warmth of deep blue skies, I opened to their sweet embrace.

These are some of the secrets that I tend to keep hidden until now. Tend to ignore, dismiss too, until now. Stopping to recognize the power of opening up, was the gift I got from Dahlias. That and letting go. Of all the pains and joys of motherhood. The hopes and dreams we have that slowly dissipate, when we put others first. Slowly die, when we fail to put ourselves first. Even when we give our children the will to fly. We forget to fly too, afraid we will fall. I should be happy. I told myself 100 times, it will be okay. I knew this. We have been here before. Letting go, was painful. Unleashing a power, that made me rethink this moment, this freedom, this time that I knew would come one day. All children have to grow up. My baby, my last born, the one I bore during the pandemic was slowly walking to embrace all that life has to offer. I should be happy. Yet I felt lost.

I was lost, until Dahlia found me.

I was lost in its petals. This ethereal beauty, filled my restless soul with ease. Our greeting was gentle, a soulful ease. Like lovers we caressed each other, gently took hold of each other. With stillness so profound, so earth shaking. Time stood still, and Dahlias held me captive. We held on to each other. Afraid to blink, our eyes remain captivated by each other. Letting him go became easy. Watching him go with such reverence, became easy. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and caught him as he looked back. I saw something. Movements he initiated. Eyes locked with mine. As if to say are you coming. I am, always and forever, behind you, looking at you, loving you, captivated by you, inspired too by you, my baby, even as your journey through this world, through life. Keep Dahlia’s in mind for your journey through motherhood.

An entourage went with him to daycare on day 1 by the way. Here he walks forward to life.
Here he looks back! I’m behind you always!

On nights we make believe, I tell the story of the old lady who lived in a shoe. It’s a short story and my kids seem to like my many take on the lady. Like why a shoe, or why so many children? Why even feed them one by one? Why didn’t she even know what to do?

These questions often come to mind the moment our storytelling begins. We never find a definite answer but I like the creative process of thinking through in depth, more details about the old lady and her shoe. My son said she loved the shoe that’s why they lived in it. I asked, can you imagine what it would be like to live in a shoe? How tight such a space maybe? How big might the shoe even be for all of us to wiggle and snuggle ourselves in? And what about the old lady, why did she do all she could to still feed her children?

Stories like the old lady personify why motherhood is full of moments that linger on in my mind long after events go by. Moment that are not only full of struggles like those of the old lady but also full of strength and survival especially with our children. Moments like yesterday.

On the plane back to Saint Louis yesterday, I reminisced about the first days of traveling on airplanes with my son on the spectrum. They were horrible and forever etched in my mind as one of the many things not to do. Yet we did them because we had to travel. One moment I recalled was a trip from Indianapolis to Augusta, Ga via Atlanta. We had to get on two planes. My son cried from the beginning to the end of the trip. He was only 2 years old. I was like the old woman in the shoe. I never knew what to do in those days. Nothing worked. Not IPads, not snacks of all kinds. Nothing seemed to work. My son cried and couldn’t whip him soundly to sleep.

But yesterday, as I watched my son, now seven years old, totally mesmerized by his growth, I felt like the old woman in the shoe. His ways are truly full of moments that linger on long after they occur. You have to literally take them all one by one, whip them soundly into unforgettable moments, like the old lady in the shoe. The layers to his being, are literally being peeled away, one by one and I am learning what to do these days with ease.

I asked if he was having a great time. He said yes. I asked what was his favorite part of the trip. Being on the airplane, he said. Here was a boy who cried and cried in the beginning. We still have miles and miles to go. But I am learning to love watching him grow day by day.

The first moment they laid eyes on him was breathtaking. Because of the pandemic, no visitors were allowed around hospital grounds for the pandemics grip was ground breaking, heartbreaking too, for all the lives lost to poor leadership and decision-making. That we were heading home with baby about 36 hours later following his arrival was so striking. The pandemics grip was so tight that even newborn babies didn’t need the customary 48 hours in a hospital where the virus impact remained captivating. We arrived through the backyard. Grandma was watching the kids and knew we where on our way home. The kids were clueless. Dad held the car seat with baby and the hospital bags. I held my phone camera up ready to capture the joy I hoped would be striking.

The moment they saw us, the moment they saw baby, even the joy for the moment will forever be etched in my mind as it was amazing, this joy so elating. They sang how he was welcomed in the name of the Lord. Twirled and jumped around in excitement so exhilarating. Mama was singing and praying. The children were calling and repeating the name baby over and over again as if we named him baby. My middle son had a red shirt one with an emoji with four yellow smily faces making crazy but happy faces. My children did the same with all their crazy but happy faces. We were indeed welcomed in the name of the Lord following a birth during a pandemic so mesmerizing but still so frustrating. That we could come home with no problems and a healthy newborn kept me like grandma, singing and praying for this joy we found so intoxicating.

As was customary during the pandemic, everyone had to wash their hands or use hand sanitizers before touching baby. My children were no exception. He is so cute, my son said. My daughter agreed too. Baby lay restful in his car seat, straddling between being awake and being sleepy. They world was a scary place that refusing to choose either states made complete sense to me as well. What’s his name again, asked my daughter. Ranyenna. My son, refusing to learn just blurted that well we have two Olisa’s (the name of third baby now displaced from being our last baby). No we don’t, I said. His name is Ranyenna and you will learn how to say it with ease. Hi Breana, Hi Rihanna, they kept saying, until Ranyenna rolled from their tongue with ease.

But just when I though I had seen it all, my children surprised me with a bag. They say it was for baby. They back up some of their old toys in a plastic grey paper bag and made a paper card for baby’s arrival. They presented it to me to keep for baby. Their gift, even though full of toys used and old, is forever etched in my mind too as an example of love so blazing. Grandma talked about how she couldn’t sleep at night, about how she stayed up praying for our safe delivery. My kids talked about how baby was cute, how he was so cute and tiny, a cute tiny baby. I basked in their joy, knowing that the journey this time around was different, full of turbulence, made worse by a pandemic, whose path was groundbreaking, heartbreaking too. That our journey would end with us singing and praying was liberating. Watching Ranyenna awaken finally to their stares was joy so amazing that my soul kept singing and praying, for his blessings totally worth praising.

I see life as a journey. For some, that journey may take up to 86 years. For others, few months. Last year, my little nephew completed his journey in 10 years. He returned back to the one who first called him, first framed him, first loved him. We all have to return back to him. But the exit of a 10 year old, stings.

Here was a boy, his mother described as her king. An oasis of love, so divine, so beyond the beauty of flowers that bloomed in spring. Their love too was never supposed to end. Always supposed to rise up on eagle’s wing. Yet, perfect submission was all our soul could sing.

This weekend too is bittersweet for all of us living. Life remains a journey that will come to an end. Yet, many still take life for granted, pretending that there is no dead-end. Expending our time and energy for things that even our life can’t seem to comprehend. And when our journey comes to an end, very few remain to commend all we left behind, defend even the time we spent, sowing love that was supposed to transcend time.

I called his mom yesterday. Told her to be strong. That their love is still divine. That his journey, still sublime, even though the end stings, he is still the perfect definition of life lived by God’s design.

She called him her angel. God’s perfect being. Sitting next to the one who first called him. I asked her to send up a prayer to him for me. Remind God of all of us still here, all of us still contending with time, as we comprehend this loss our heart still cannot get over, despite time.

Then she took me on a journey, an oasis of her love for her king. Though, he is gone, she said, something great can still come out of this moment. She imagined it would be an oasis. His very own oasis of light. Where all the memories they had together transcends time. One where all things supposed to end, never truly ends. Like his smile, the warm glow in his eyes when he shines his bright smile. His words, those he reserved for those he loved, because they deserved all his words. Every thing about him was truly perfect and by God’s design.

When love is defended in this way, it never really ends. It begins again, always like a circle that never ends. So she is going to sow an oasis of love. She is going to raise awareness of his love. No other child should end their journey by 10. But if they do, she wants them and their families to remember not how but when, not why too, but when they choose love over and over again. A never-ending oasis, this outpouring of love that truly never ends.

Listening to her, made me realize how connected we all are to love and by extension light. Even in our deepest darkness, in moments that are difficult to comprehend, the pull and push for light transcends time. Like an oasis, the movement towards light never ends. We become light the more we seek it out for ourselves. Our light, does not exist in isolation. Rather they interact and will penetrate moments of darkness in ways that allow us to survive and thrive even as we bend to things our soul can’t fully comprehend.

When we move towards this oasis of light, we are no longer held captive by the firm grip of darkness. We move towards light even when darkness surrounds our journey. Our existence can only manifest great things if we let light flow like gentle waters along rocky streams.

The key is to keep moving, whether along rocky paths or in dark tunnels. Many say it’s at the end of the tunnel. I say it’s right where you are, whether at the beginning, the middle or the end of the tunnel. Light is all around you, so long as you choose to move. A mother’s love, resembles this oasis of light. I saw a glimpse of it as I listened to it being manifested in the words my sister spoke so eloquently with all her heart, all her might.

It’s an oasis after-all. Light invades our being despite our resistance, interrupts all the noise too, often with no assistance, and structures our lives when we choose it as the pinnacle of a supreme persistence for darkness that threatened our very existence.

No other being perceives it in this way. Darkness may come to disrupt it. Death too, in its own final way. But seeking light, doing our best to reach out to it, to clutch it firmly in our hands, is freeing, in it’s own unique way.

We are bound to be in darkness. Our journey through life began in a womb filled with darkness. Yet we thrived despite being surrounded by an air full of darkness. We did so, because of this light inherent in places filled with darkness. So that, even if we watch our children depart before we do, even if we pass through the deepest darkness, their gift back to us, reminiscent of the moment they first came to us, is an oasis of light

This is a mother’s love truly undefined, one my sister has found for herself. One that I hope to live up to, as I continue my journey through life. Keep this oasis of light for all mothers, especially those who bear the unthinkable, unimaginable, unbearable weight of loss. There is still light for them and all of us, even in these moments of loss. Rest In Peace, a perfect oasis of God’s light Kaysen.

My awakening summer was 2020. Like the entire country, I was literally in labor. Something wonderful was born on this day, by 9am last year. We became parents to our fourth child. We call him Ranyenna. In Igbo, it means giving him back to God.

His hair was full, short, brown and crinkled. His eyes were big, brown and beautiful. They moved slowly to see this world we live in. His voice was tender, very mellow, very hush, except when he cried and only food, stopped all the fuzz. I imagine he was weary. I was too. The world was unfriendly and unkind, squeezing through my canal, equally unfriendly and unkind and he choose to make his arrival in the middle of a pandemic and a long overdue racial reckoning so unfriendly and unkind.

The times were changing but my baby was as beautiful as the setting sun. The loveliest thing about life, about love, was in my arms. I was prepared to protect him like an eagle. Nourish his being for he was regal. Watch him soar unfettered like a seagull. For he was mine to gaze and hold so dear. His entire being filled me with enormous pride. I too was prepared to say, here is my child, with whom my joy for life, cannot be denied.

Love was more than a four letter word, more than a feeling, more than I can even put to words. Love was him and together we were loved. To see a child pass through the different stages of becoming a being. To listen from the beginning and watch till the end for over 9months until they they make their arrival to this world defies words. I have been through this 3 times already, but everytime has a magic of its own and Ranyenna’s birth was no different.

I felt no pain, expect during the critical times of labor. I didn’t even know I was in labor. And people continue to underestimate my labor. We walked into the hospital the night before, with our masks on like never before. We were 2 days early. I felt contractions. They weren’t painful or I seem to know how to tolerate pain. My husband asked whether we should go check it out. I did so because he suggested. I felt completely fine. I left my purple hospital bag in my car. These were the terrible beginning months of the pandemic. I feared even my bag wasn’t safe on hospital grounds. I was taken to a room where the nurses started to check whether I was in labor or a false alarm. I was in labor, 4 cm dilated, and I didn’t even know.

They took us to a plain-colored room around 1am or so. I was curious about birth in a pandemic. I expected it to be surreal and unlike my other 3 births. It wasn’t, except for all the mask people wore around us. My husband and I wore no mask in our room. They put all their tubes, started epidural, and waited for labor to progress. I went to sleep. By morning, they broke my water. And my labor started in full force by 8:30 am on that fateful Wednesday morning and by 9am he made his arrival known.

My Ranyenna cried, piercing tears that were so melodic to my ears. Then he came straight to my body. Flesh for flesh, love for love, I held him completely mesmerized that he was mine. Completely in awe that I passed through the journey for the 4th time with no problems. I am the last person to ever share news of being pregnant. My mom once said that because pregnant women go through a journey called pregnancy, it’s best to keep mum about the journey until you become a mom. It has always been my philosophy to keep mum. Until they arrive.

With baby number 4, his arrival illuminated my spirit and set my world ablaze. My soul has been on fire ever since. Because of him, being fearless is all I know. You would too if you watched yourself give birth to a living being. It’s an out of body experience that I can never fully wrap my head around. This gift called motherhood. One that I will forever cherish because I am never overlooked. I struggle with that a lot. Struggle with when I should speak or stay silent. When I should lead or follow. Even when I should stifle my drive so others and their drive are not stifled. It’s a struggle I’ll admit that means women like me get overlooked and underestimated all the time.

But with my children, with my greatest treasures, with my profound creation, with my cup that overflows, I am looked at, with eyes that say I love you and words that speak it all the time. Love that knows no despair. Love as gentle as an evening prayer. Love that never wears or tears. Love that is always there. Love that allows me to go anywhere. Love that I will follow anywhere. Love that leads me anywhere. With them, I found strength for this thing called life. Their love is all I need to get by. Your love Ranyenna is all I need. Happy birthday my gift I gift back to my God always.

My love, happy birthday!

The idea that grace is all we need has been stuck in my head since Sunday mass.

Three times I asked to take it away, the reading said. But the answer, was my grace is all you need. My power is greatest when you are weak.

I was weak this time last year, waiting for the arrival of baby. The pandemic was raging in full force. The sun too, blazing in full force.

My son crossed his legs by the piano, unaware of our stares. The sun was still blazing outside and finding ways to stay cool preoccupied our minds.

The piano preoccupied his mind. It was a dusty brown piano with broken notes that created melodies unmatched but perfect for his mind.

Counting down the arrival of baby was eminent on my mind.

Until he started to play as if he prepared.

Watching as he belted a tune by ear awakened my mind. He has had no piano lessons. I keep planning to sign him up for one. I figured having one in the house would suffice for now.

So watching him play with no lessons made me beam with pride for all his hue.

It’s always the small things with son number 2. Surprising things too.

Though we focus on the bright side, his meltdowns have a way of robbing us of his best side.

Like playing a piano as if he had a clue. Mary had a little lamb was all he belted in tune. From the beginning to the lamb going everywhere.

We are always prepared to go anywhere. Knowing that grace is always somewhere. So long as we keep it as our prayer.

Our room was shaped like a square with a baby cribbed next to a wall covered in grey paint. There was a grey rocking chair for breastfeeding and a silver and white changing table stood next to the window awaiting the arrival of baby.

There were no baby rooms. I was never a decorator mom. I never took the time to fashion a room or think of ways to make it a child’s room. None of my other children had one. I expected baby to sleep in our room.

The researcher in me is to blame. When conducting a review on sleep in diverse cultural settings, I read somewhere about the benefits of children sleeping in rooms with their parents. In close proximity to their beating hearts, however you choose. A friend reminded me once, that we all grew up like this in Nigeria, in close proximity to our parents. All my babies have been doing so since then. They transition, when they get older to their rooms.

We began the day like any other day. Baby’s purple hospital bag was ready. I found it at a goodwill store by our home. It was purple and in great condition. Looking at it, one would have thought it was something befitting for a king. I bought it because my son is a king.

My mind was already in the labor room, even though my other children demanded it remained with them, at least for now.

One in particular was my three year old. His keen awareness for the times was incredible. Not only was he clingy, tugging my legs to carry him or hold him at every opportunity, he knew that the arrival of baby would mean he was no longer the baby of our home.

Looking at him, I had the sense that the joys, the fears, even the hopes of no longer being our baby were all lingering on his mind. To ease his concerns, we took him for a walk. Just Dad and I.

We choose to go out with him alone (wearing his baby-blue baby-shark pajamas), just so he knows he would always be our baby. Love will always be his, whether on his dad’s shoulder or on the arms of mom.

Whether by rivers or on top of bridges. Whatever life throws his way, love will be thrown right back. We are all never meant to walk alone. I wanted him to know that he would always find comfort and solace in us.

( I digress-but one of the side effects of the pandemic is an insistence on wearing pajamas. I wonder if other parents are going through this).

There were many flowers along the walk through Forest Park. Even flowers may shrivel and dry up as they cling to the day. Almost all flowers, bloom and whither with each passing day. But tomorrow, they awaken, like yesterday never happened.

It’s this vision of awakening that I want to cling to as well.

In moments where fear becomes intermixed with joy, in moments when things change, and your place is no longer what you expect it to be, even in moments when things seem to be moving at a pace beyond your control, I will always remember our walk through the park with my son. The full force of lesson he taught us this time last year, is only beginning to be clear in my mind. We are never meant to walk alone. Whether in joy or through moments of fear.

So we walked forward together, lost in his world, clinging to the solace and comfort we found as we watched all the flowers blooming in his world.

I begin this week in awe of becoming a mother for the 4th time. My last baby arrived this week, last year.

The pandemic kept us all distracted. This was the 4th month of mask wearing, social distancing and lockdowns. It was also a time where the virus was so debilitating that I feared a wrong move would put myself and baby in danger.

There were no research on its effects on pregnant women. There were more deaths in black and brown men and women. I did not want to watch the news for we lacked leadership from those sworn to protect all men and women. This was also the time of protests by brave men and women.

A wide-awakening was ongoing and finding ways to refine ourselves was eminent. Enough was enough was all we could muster even as we protested our rights to exist, amidst ignorance for their bluster. Of course I stayed home, but my mind was on the streets.

We stayed home and prayed God’s plans for his children were of prosperity. Baby’s due date was eminent and so I focused on how to create another baby, another life, within an already pandemic and race-inflicted world.

Creating a new life, a new being, a new beginning, a new purpose within a world committed to a path leading to doomsday, seemed to be the last thing anyone should be undertaking.

But then again, I am not anyone.

Exactly one year ago today, at our 4th of July barbecue.

By this time last year, it seemed that the most fruitful thing I could do to for a world so filled with darkness, was to shine a bit of light, with a dash of hope, and a sprinkle of love.

Imagining what his eyes would look like, his first smile, even his tears occupied my mind. It was a ‘He’. My third one for a world where I wished he was a butterfly. Love appears impossible in times of despair and frustration, but I choose it as a valuable experience. I choose it to fly away to the spaces and places full of brilliance, his brilliance, his beauty.

The beginning of love, a future full of hope, all of which seemed to be dissipating in the world at that time was a gift to the times.

So throughout this week, I want to keep these moments in mind. I want to relive this experience through words and pictures too. I want to contribute a share of myself to your world so you sense the light of my motherhood.

It’s a gift I continually gift myself. Like a restorative balm to soothe the realities of a world so full of harshness.

Motherhood shakes and informs every aspect of my being. It restores my soul too, in the way quiet streams of water do.

Like a Phoenix, I rise to every occasion, countering every interpretation necessary to showcase that my interior life, my nurturing life, even my academic life, as I define it, is so valued and revered and I wouldn’t trade this for anything else.

The beauty, the brilliance of being a black mother in light is my keep for the week. My doors are open. Enter if you may.