Article

A lesson from a child...

Watermelon

First, I have to say, I’m not the best fruit picker. People who know me know that I don’t shop much for groceries, and when I do, I don’t quite remember how much things should cost, nor do I pick the best fruits and vegetables. But at the farmers market a few weeks ago, I took my time to choose what I was hoping might be the “perfect” watermelon. I applied all of my learning: what I’d seen others do and all the reading I had done on selecting sweet fruit. I went about smelling, thumping, lifting and turning.

After spending what turned out to be an inordinate amount of time, I took the prize home and sliced it; first in half, then in quarters, and proceeded to cut the succulence into chunks, placing each one delicately into a large freezer bag. The next morning, we were to leave for a long trip to Wisconsin. We were driving, which meant packing snacks for my partner, young cousin and me. But the watermelon was for Granny—we had just gotten word that she was in the hospital, suffering from heart failure. And all I could think of before we left for the 13-plus-hour drive to Beloit, Wisconsin, was making sure I had watermelon for Granny.

When we arrived at the hospital the next day, my grandmother was very ill and appeared extremely frail. She hadn’t been eating well and could barely speak. After talking to her for a while, I opened the bag of watermelon, removed a small piece and touched it to her lips. She opened her mouth and I gently placed the chunk on her tongue. She was without her dentures, but she began to chew, the juice of the watermelon visible in her mouth.

As she chewed the fruit and as I reached into the bag again, my fingers seeking just the right-sized piece, I remembered our ritual. I was suddenly on the porch of the old house on Tower Street—the house where I lived the first four years of my life.

It was hot that day, and my grandmother was breaking chunks of watermelon with her hands, removing the seeds, and feeding the juicy fruit to me. When I was done chewing, I would open my mouth, our special language of trust, and she would place another sweet and salty piece on my tongue.

She continued to open her mouth to take in the juicy bits of melon. I had gotten the seedless variety.

She carefully removed each black seed before feeding me another piece—one for Granny and one for me.

In the dark of the hospital room, it was Granny and me again, perhaps for the last time, I couldn’t know. This time, she was the one trusting. I thought it might please her to know that I had learned my first lesson from her.

As I left the hospital that day, it occurred to me that my connection to watermelon, a fruit I rarely eat today, might change after Granny is gone—it may well become the thing I think of eating when I need to take care.

If...

If
today was
all we had we might
make each
moment
be about love.
If there was no
tomorrow
there would be no walls
around hearts as
open as hands
and as easy to touch
and hold.
There would be no
need to save
things
for rainy days
no need
to care if everyone
was watching.
If there were
no more days

to decide
when and
how much to
give up and in
there would be no time
to focus on
ways to avoid
a broken heart or
hide one
but instead
how quickly can we
let each other in and
how far
can we get inside
because shutting down
takes too much time.
If there were no
next weeks
we’d be more careful
about being what we mean
and doing what we can to
make each moment
be
about
love.

Aging and Detachment

There's something deeply moving about getting older. One thing I've noticed lately is that it takes less and less to make me want to cry. My very dear friend's poetry always makes me want to cry.

He says that every time he finishes a poem, he doesn't expect to ever write another. Yet, he always has the knowing that he is a poet, whether or not another poem ever comes. To me, this way of honoring the work while releasing it is akin to appreciating a moment fully instead of quickly seeking, then moving to the next.

My friend says, "Whether or not I am a poet again anew, I will always be a poet."

One is not a poet because one has written a poem, in the same way that one is not an artist because one's art hangs in a gallery.

Life as Art

I heard the singer Maxwell discussing his 7-year hiatus from recording and performing. I was struck by his response about why he "disappeared" from the music scene, just as his career was at a high point. What I got from what he said is that he needed to live his life so he'd have something to write about. That, to me, is a profound understanding.

Experience is the fertilizer if art is the seed. I imagine a conversation with Grandma Moses, who started her painting career while in her 70s, going something like this:

"Why is it that you started painting so very late, Ms. Moses?"

"Well, I imagine I had to experience the Beautiful World before I could paint it.."

I'm guessing Grandma Moses was always an artist, even before she picked up a paint brush. And when living is done well enough, new possibilities have room to become. A new word. A new brush stroke. A new note. A new dance step.

I claimed myself a writer at the age of 12. And I remember what I wrote then as being very important to me. Only recently have I begun to understand the concept of "voice" as it relates to my own work. It is the product of experiences enjoyed and suffered, some seemingly insignificant, but each one building on the one before.

Parenting with Patience

The other day, I observed an interaction that gave me a deeper way of seeing the level of patience that is commonplace among those who parent.

Target, as it turns out, is a great place to witness the most wonderful things.

I observed a woman of a certain age after 40 and her young son, who looked to be about 3. They were leaving the toy aisle and the little guy was saying (loudly, I might add), "FIX IT MOMMY, FIX IT!"

The little boy was holding something that resembled a building with an animal attached to it and he screamed even louder the second time: "FIX IT FIX IT!" thrusting the thing toward his mother. She took the toy and began to work with it for several minutes as I pretended not to be nosy while looking at colorful towels that felt much more expensive than the kind I use at home. After a few moments, the mom handed the toy back and said, "I'm sorry, Jason, Mommy does not know how to fix this."

I heard her mutter under her breath, "Mommy doesn't even know what it is..." as she proceeded to look at the Batman shower curtains.

I was amused by this and chuckled.

I thought her reaction was sweet and wondered if I could have spoken with such an even and loving tone to a child screaming in the middle of a department store. My thoughts then returned to my own reason for shopping, so I walked on, not finding the boxes with lids that I had come for but coming across some candles to use for meditation.

The mother and son reminded me that I've been thinking a lot about patience lately, and about how to know when to wait for a thing and when to pursue it with gusto. As I picked up the right-smelling candle and added it to my shopping cart, the mom and son passed me again, clearly on the way to check out. The boy was louder, if that were even possible, and he was saying, "I FIXED IT MOMMY, I FIXED IT MYSELF!!"

The mom turned to the child and in the most gentle tone said, "That's good, honey, Mommy is SO proud of you!" Then I watched her turn around to start walking and, mid-turn, she rolled her eyes toward the ceiling as her cheeks filled with air. I also thought I heard a barely audible sigh on the out breath. Our eyes met briefly, and we both smiled. Her smile did not, in the least, seem to be related to fatigue and exasperation. It was the knowing kind that comes from successfully and lovingly pretending. A way of honoring another in such a way that it feels good throughout the challenge of the interaction. A smile that says, "I'm determined to respond in a way that allows my child (partner, wife, husband, etc.) to feel good about herself/himself."

This moment was priceless to me in so many ways. It was an example of the kind of patience I want to exercise when a salesperson chit-chats on the phone while I wait to be acknowledged. Or when a car cuts me off in traffic. Or, even more importantly, the next time I am tempted to be impatient with a loved one who wants to repeat a story I've already heard, I will try to think about Jason and his mother.

I heard a story once about a couple where the husband was living with Alzheimer's disease. Hearing the wife talk about her love for her partner, I vowed to be more patient with my own partner's memory lapses, but I keep forgetting to do that.

Perhaps true patience can happen most often, but also goes most unnoticed, in the common, everyday experiences. The mundane and the sublime rolled into a life's worth of small allowances. A willingness to give that which is sought--the inaudible sigh.

Remembering Audre Lorde

I had the great fortune of meeting Audre Lorde in 1988. The memory of this meeting came flooding back to me after reading Dr. Johnnetta Cole's essay in the newly published book, I Am Your Sister: Collected and Unpublished Writings of Audre Lorde.* This collection includes reflections by Alice Walker and bell hooks, as well as some of Lorde's essays from Sister Outsider and other works. In her essay, Dr. Cole writes about her friendship with Lorde and how she convinced her to come to speak at Spelman College after being treated poorly there during a previous visit in 1978.

Being in Audre Lorde's presence for the first time, I was moved enough to challenge my fear of talking to people I didn't know. This radical act was put in motion on my way to hear her speak.

I had stopped for gas. While pumping, I fingered a piece of quartz crystal in my pocket. I had found it a few years earlier after a friend told me about the mineral's healing properties. I was instructed to, when seeking a crystal, look for one that would "speak" to me. Though I didn't quite know what that "voice" would sound like, I stumbled upon one that I liked very much while shopping in a new-agey store near Atlanta.

I remember the selection process well. Among numerous pieces, finding one that spoke to me proved daunting. There were ones that were clearly beautiful to look at and perfect on all sides. These would have no trouble speaking, I reasoned, and passed them by. The one I eventually chose was cloudy and had, for me, some character. It was about 6 inches long and misshapen, with facets in the center and some divits and chips on the outside. Sometimes things with character get overlooked beside the seemingly perfect. So, what spoke to me was this piece with the flaws. (I discovered sometime later that the cloudy or "smoky" crystals are believed to be associated with specific properties of manifestation and protection).

I took the crystal out of my pocket. Though I wasn't quite sure how the healing worked, I enjoyed looking at it often; holding it felt good to my hands. As I looked at it against the evening sky, it suddenly slipped from my grasp, hitting the concrete, breaking into two equal pieces. I was crestfallen in the moment, feeling this once-whole piece of mineral from the earth was now quite damaged. I immediately thought about glue; I had infused a part of myself in it by the very act of treasuring it. I felt a pang of disappointment to see that part lying disjointed on the ground.

Perhaps a full minute passed before I collected the pieces, reminding myself that this crystal wasn't a heart or a sentient being or a even a wonderful memory--no loved one had picked it out especially for me. In fact, the salesperson had been perfectly pleasant while taking my 50 cents, but the transaction wasn't particularly meaningful. So, I put the halves in my pocket, finished pumping the gas, and carried on to Spelman and Audre Lorde.

What struck me most that day, as Lorde introduced herself, was her courage as she, without hesitation, embraced all of her many parts. No shame, no apologies. It was a time in my life when I was unable to do that--mainly because I had no idea what all the parts were. For me, Lorde's courage was equal to the courage it would take to stare death in the face. And she had.

After she spoke, she graciously signed books and spoke with people for more than an hour. I waited until the last person was almost finished and got in line behind her. The book she signed for me was ZAMI: A New Spelling of My Name. I nervously told her what the book meant to me and how much I had gotten from her talk. I don't remember the exact words of her response, but I do remember how precious I felt she was to the world as I watched her lips moving. When she finished, I reached into my pocket and gave her one part of the broken crystal. She looked at me with tears in her eyes, as if the moment conjured up something very personal, as if the crystal were not broken, and I watched her take the half and place it near her heart before hugging and thanking me.

I wished for too long that the crystal had been unbroken when I gave it to her, until I made the connection that my small crystal had most probably started out as a part of something much larger. That thought reminds me of how even the tiniest spoon full of the ocean has the same properties as the entire ocean.

I've been thinking about the meaning of perfection and about the beautiful and perfect diagonal angles each broken piece of the crystal created.

Sometimes things have to be broken to be made.

I keep the other piece close, to remind me.


* View upcoming event details for An Evening for Sister Audre.