MY LIFE IN ROSES

Somehow, I knew early that life wouldn’t be a bed of roses for me. My childhood was good; looking back, I know I romanticized it as anyone who has had a good childhood would. I enjoy the pleasant feeling that indulging in nostalgia brings. But even as a young girl, I knew my life wouldn’t be like the ones I watched on TV. Maybe that was why I always rooted for the underdog, because I knew that society had already slated me to lose. But I had something going for me that no amount of hate, racism, or lies could destroy. I had parents who loved me and worked hard to provide for all six of their children. My mother still inspires me even though her spirit has long been set free. Her wisdom was only fully recognized long after it was first spoken.

There was a regalness about the way she held her head at times. She cleaned houses for a living, and sometimes I went to work with her. If the people were home when we arrived, she would introduce me with her head tilted upward, speaking the Queen’s English. As a kid, I didn’t understand code switching or why she wore a mask in public. I would laugh with my siblings whenever we recounted how our parents spoke one way at home and another way in front of white folks. As an adult, I know how necessary and satisfying it is to be able to do so.

My life has been untraditional in almost every way. I was a single parent for nearly fourteen years, never received public assistance, bought my first house as a sole owner before I was thirty, worked over forty years in the court system, married late in life, and started my writing career at sixty.

Life hasn’t always been easy, nor has it always been hard. There have been incredible, joyous moments, and there have been seasons of heart-wrenching pain. Whenever I think it's too hard to move forward, I think about my parents and grandparents. I think about what they must have gone through. I look at a map of the Middle Passage that hangs on my living room wall and imagine what my ancestors went through. In their survival, I find my strength and do whatever is needed to move forward.

Life is a beautiful and precious gift from God. Although I may not have had the same opportunities as someone else growing up, I know that God made the sun to rise and sent the rain for all of us. Working hard to obtain what I have and sometimes fighting to keep it made me tough, determined, and appreciative. It also allowed me to see God working on my behalf.

My garden was once in the lush, fertile soil of Altadena, where it was easy to grow a variety of colorful plants. Although I could never grow hydrangeas, I had a Japanese maple tree that survived for almost a year. Now my garden is in the desert, which could be a metaphor for this stage in my life, where growing vibrant plants can be difficult. I’m slower now. It takes me longer to complete a project. The effortless, carefree days of youth are gone. Instead, I have days that pass too quickly, where I haven’t accomplished a thing. Even though my days are rushing by, there are times when I manage to complete a few chapters in the book I’m writing, work on a quilt, or finish a blog post. On those days, I see how past events planted a seed, bloomed, and expressed themselves in written words or manipulated fabrics.  I equate my rose bushes, succulents, pine, and native trees with my life experience and the people I have encountered. Some of my plants are prickly and must be handled carefully. Others are soft and fragrant, and pleasant to touch. Some plants, try as I might to nurture them, will fail me. Knowing all of this has never stopped me from pursuing a garden of my own. My desert garden isn’t as colorful as I would like, but it’s pretty when everything is briefly in bloom in the spring before the sun burns it all up. Although it’s more arduous to produce something beautiful in this dry land of mine, the result is so worth it.

A NEW SEASON

Spring represents new beginnings and renewal, and I feel that way for the first time in a while. I have to admit to myself that I have been depressed and wallowing in the past for far too long. Perhaps it is a place that all creatives must visit to hone their craft. However, it isn’t a place in which one can live. Existing in that sunken place was crushing to my spirit, making happiness something I vaguely remember. It was unfair to the people around me because they never got to see the real me. It also robbed me of the fullness of the present moment.

For me, constant comparison of what our family gatherings were like in the past (when my parents were alive) eventually led to not getting together with my siblings at all.

I know I’m not the only one this has happened to. So many families have grown apart. Brothers and sisters who grew up in the same households that were once As Thick as Thieves no longer speak to each other. Or siblings who are outwardly cordial while privately harboring resentment. Some members clique up and continue to have family functions while excluding others. Worst of all, some siblings are embarrassed by their families and where they came from, so they voluntarily exile themselves from their past.

I have had this conversation with friends about how, when the parents die, family ties and traditions are broken. We lament how painful these situations are and how our efforts to reunite the family have been to no avail. Years of this have left me unable to enjoy Thanksgiving without wishing I could replicate what my mother had. Thanksgiving will forever be her holiday, as it should be, and I’m now okay with that. Letting go of the desire has freed me to live in the present and accept it for what it is. I love my family, even though we're not as close as we used to be. I thank God for the parents he gave me and the wonderful memories that they provided. I hope to never forget the time and space we shared, but I must start living in the present for myself and the people who love me.

Like the spring season, this is a time for a fresh perspective on life. I could either keep looking back at the good old days or look forward and dream of the things waiting for me. I lost a home in the Eaton fires in Southern California. Contemplating the future can sometimes be overwhelming, but I look forward to creating something new and beautiful. I’m no longer looking back at a past that can’t be duplicated.

THE COST OF BEING STRONG

Something in me refuses to let me lay down and give up. Perhaps it was passed on to me by an unknown African who was captured, shackled, and placed on a slave ship. Or the African that picked cotton from dawn to dusk, or the one that cleaned the big house, wet nursed the Marse’s children, survived rape, beating, near starvation, and all the dehumanizing atrocities of slavery. For some Black women, our strength can also be a burden. When a woman has to be strong all the time, inside and outside her home, some of us lose the soft parts of ourselves. Every day before we step outside the safe havens of our homes, we slip on a protective armor that has become a part of us. Some of us are so intense in our efforts not to be pierced by the daily onslaught of racial bigotry that we forget to hang up our armor when we’re at home or in the company of friends.

I would describe myself as strong, opinionated, and loud. I have heard others say that I’m mean. People who don’t know me could jump to that conclusion if they were only looking at the mask I wear. My exterior may be tough, but not my heart; I think of myself as kind. There are times when I’m quiet and listen. I’m learning in my latter years the value of listening to what others say. I understand now that my opinion is not required on every subject. But my strength is something that I have carried with me for so long that I don’t know if I can put it down even to rest.

This belief or feeling that I must be strong in every situation is becoming too much to bear. My mind and body are telling me to slow down and rest. Many of my friends are dealing with health issues directly related, I believe, to being strong women. These women have been the backbone of their families, putting everyone else’s happiness and well-being before their own. They have given of themselves until there is almost nothing left to give, and still, they give.

If you are a strong woman who thinks you can’t stop being who you are, you don’t have to. Being strong is an asset, but you don’t have to be strong “24/7.” Create a place within your home where you can rest. Rest can take many forms. Writing, quilting, and reading are some ways I maintain my peace. Joining the gym, going for walks, and meeting up with friends are other ways to relax and enjoy life. Sometimes, I sit in the backyard and let the sun's warmth recharge my soul.

Being strong has a price, especially if you ignore the warning signs. Continue to be who you are, who you were built to be, but remember to care for yourself just as much as you care for others.