Eighty years ago, a translator–Mary Ryan–wrote about her work as a translator, a communicator whose responsibility it was to be a bridge between two worlds.

Image available at https://archive.org/details/a.d.sertillangestheintellectuallife/1-271%20all%20book%201%20page/page/n19/mode/2up

We are all translators in some way, especially on rainy days. Thinking about how we tell stories and explain the many whys of the moment to our future selves–the generations behind us–as a writer, this is what I think about on rainy days. This passage is arresting as I hear raindrops on the roof dribble down loose gutters.

Do you want to do intellectual work? Begin by creating within you a zone of silence, a habit of recollection, a will to renunciation and detachment which puts you entirely at the disposal of the work; acquire that state of soul unburdened by desire and self-will which is the state of grace of the intellectual worker. Without that you will do nothing,
at least nothing worth while.

Antonin-Gilbert Sertillanges, 1863–1948, The Intellectual Life (1948/1960, Translation by Mary Ryan), p. viii

I am getting so close to finishing this manuscript. All the note-taking. All the re-wording. All the resisting that which is artificial. All the truth-finding. On rainy days, writing seems easier until I remember I have other work to do. Sigh…the steady rhythm and harmony of rain is being replaced by bustling on the street…it is time to translate something else as I evaluate papers…the life of a teacher is more than intellectual.

Three generations provide the perfect recipe for balance in families that are a little bit wonky.

Child-parent-grandparent, loving and needing and kneading love into the ball of emotions that overwhelmed creates.

I smile in this moment, watching funny videos of Poppies and Mamas taking care of the little ones two generations away from theirs…owning the sassy and hilarious-to-them, but

they

would

never have put up with that from their own…

Then I smile thinking about my own grandparents, now gone for what feels like an eternity…

I miss them so much.

I saw highway billboards this past week wishing a Happy Day to unknown Boomers.

I choked up remembering the cards we made and letters we used to send to let Granny & Popoo, Grandma & Grandpa know how much we loved them.

A tradition my own progeny has not maintained…

Missing closeness, there is nothing but distance…

Fresh opportunities are on the horizon for them that are alive.

For me, heart-filled contemplation of what was and will always be…

Rest in peace James, Edna, Harry, Mildred, Hattie, Alice.

Love,

joy

“It is our duty to say thank you and pay tribute to them, whether they are here or not.”

Zendaya in How Black Models Broke Through the Glass Ceiling

I like to say “I used to be a dancer” often forgetting that I used to be a model too.

I used to love pretty clothes, hair, heels and makeup.

I used to love imagining myself like Lena Horne and Diana Ross. Then I learned their stories, along with so many people whose lives inspired me.

Now, I love seeing, hearing, and reading their his/tories and her/stories…like crumbs left for us that lead us back home to ourselves.

The pictures and the films show us who we are and have been.

I give thanks for the photos that inspire all the essays (historical, editorial and journalistic). They still teach us (like all models tend to do) how to write as scribes and documentarians for the next generation.

The World in 1963 by The Atlantic is one of my favorite models on which to gaze. I revisit her often when I think about my parents and grandparents…the generations before X that endured pains so we could have joys.

I am grateful for these models as I seek to embrace the one that I am.

Reflections emerging from thoughts about the dark

Something happened when we were forced to be apart

We longed to be…

To be with

Each

Other

Differently and the same

Peering in

To 

Each 

Other’s

Lives

To check in

To make sure

That We were alright…

The poems I write are not really poetic in the traditional sense. Rhyme and meter mean less to me than cadence and pulse. My poems are like dances—some short, some a slow drag…all designed to move me, away from harm and into myself, my thoughts and wonderings…my wanderings…my salvation and my strength. My poems save me because they often provide a way for me to talk about history that I am learning or willing to reveal.

I think I have always written this way…errant and pithy, like the flute I used to play. 

Notes pushed out rather than strung together, staccato-like and sincere.

This poem is about Black joy unfolding like a dance or a choreopoem or a flower.

The outside

A recent movement

To the seed that still passes its DNA through time

Hundreds of years

No mutations

Nothing changed

But the size of the thorn