The journey to me figuring out how I wanted to frame this post became a lesson in itself. The process always involves copious amounts of outlining and erasing and rewriting and backspacing and walking away and coming back and sitting with my head cocked looking real confused at the jumble of ideas and half phrases in my notebooks or whatever scraps of paper were readily available at the point of inspiration, and plenty of cups of Aldi brand Earl Grey tea (I have to keep my bougie tastes within my not so bougie budget). This time, all those elements were present, as they always are, but there was also the desire to do extra in the writing, to augment and ornament the story I wanted to tell, to dress it up and jazz it up and equivocate- there was one draft that even included an anecdote about one of the six cats I'm living with. I cocked my head at the screen and asked myself what I was even talking about anymore, then I promptly got up and walked away.
I was getting too consumed in the packaging, devoting my energies elsewhere, and by result compromising the quality of the goods. I had to get back to the actual thing I wanted to talk about without trying actively to make it interesting- all this damn actor training, I should know by now that things are much more fascinating when they are unadorned, just people being exactly who they are at the exact moment that they are and being brave enough to be present fully in whatever state they're in.
Weeks of rewrites later, I now bring you back to the previously scheduled program. I recently shared my writing with my mother for the first time. This was spawned simply by the thought, what if sharing my work with her suddenly was no longer an option?
This time of the year, all the breezy days saturated in sunlight, reminds me of way back when, being in my backyard with my dad, hands deep in the dirt, defying all HGTV logic and planting our lush father-daughter garden (to this day, I don't think Whole Foods could hold a candle to our West Side cucumbers and cherry tomatoes). I know that the experience of working alongside him so we could have fresh peppers and collards and even one ambitious year strawberries taught me that something beautiful could in fact emerge from a place as unlikely as our littered bit of earth, and so much more than I could ever adequately put into words. I know it's all buzzing around inside of me.
By the time I had begun trying to figure out the power of putting my experiences into words, it was no longer the fashion to share early sunsoaked Saturdays with dad. I had entered my awkward artsy angst filled years, diving headfirst into notebooks, proudly assuming the role of misfit, hashing it all out with Bic pens. It was at this time that I felt at a distance from the rest of my family, and me and my father were a ways away from the bond we'd forged playing in the dirt. We didn't seem to understand each other as well. Lots of quiet car rides with him picking me up from the train station, just the sound of V103 filling space between us.
We began reaching a better understanding of one another right around the time I left for school, him seeing that I had found my happiness onstage, speaking to his own ability and desire to reach and entertain people (I remember the team of older heads who would crowd our front porch to listen to him talk, or his kitchen renditions of Isaac Hayes songs). We were finding our common ground again. I sometimes wonder what he would've thought of my writing, having influenced so largely who and what I am. I do not now and will not ever have an answer for that, only hopeful speculation.
As a person, I don't believe in regret, only lessons. True, I didn't seize the opportunity to share this aspect of myself with my father while I had the chance, but now I know to share generously the things that matter most to me with the people who make me feel most alive. It took a heap of courage to get me to hit send and share my writing with my mom. I just kept thinking "Oh, Lord, she gon know about the cussin and the drinking and the mess of a life I'm living." Then I laughed, thinking that if anyone doesn't know I'm a mess by now, they must not be paying very close attention.
Sent.
Her reply:
Absolutely great didn't know you were a deep thinker. Divine order, love you. Can I share with family???????????
You sure can, mom. Share away.
I wonder what she'll say about this one. I know she will be pleased about the lack of cat stories.
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