queJimenez...a pieced and quilted writing life

Cultivating

 

I believe something magical happens when the right words/songs become imprinted in your mind. For the past few weeks, off and on, I have had Esperanza Spaulding & Algebra Blessett's "Black Gold" playing in the background of my mind. My own private cheering squad, they are ready to sing me through any trying moment.

Wednesday I had another head down, tears between my knees moment as I was getting ready for class. These moments, they keep coming. Thankfully, they are mild, mostly morose, and somewhat harmless. This time I was talking with E about life choices, school choices, etc. And again, I began doubting myself and my decisions. Ever patient, E let me talk through the doubts and eventually I asked him, "Why did I start this journey again?" He didn't need to tell me, but he reminded me of my thirst for knowledge and learning. He reminded me that it was a life goal.

"No." I told him.

That's all true, but I really started this journey for two reasons, I wanted an MFA to advanced my writing craft and for Granma. That's it.

Yesterday, I went to Lowes to buy some fruit trees for our garden. Oh the years I have been waiting to make this move and expand our garden. You see, fruit trees are fairly expensive, and they also require space and dedication/knowledge. Neither money, space, or knowledge we had for them. Until now. Not much, but enough.

While I was there I saw the most beautiful (late)-middle aged woman shopping for her garden. She reminded me of Granma. Her clay brown skin glistened in the sun. Her dress, a blue tank muu-muu, was starched and crisp. She looked like she had poured so much love into herself for this trip. I hadn't even ate a real meal yet (and it was after 1pm), let alone taken the time to oil my skin and press my clothes.

I loved on her for awhile. I watched her, wondered her name, and wondered what was growing in her garden. I wondered if her laugh would sound like Granma's or it she enjoyed entertaining like Granma did. She was so poised and content with life.

Watching her, in my mind, I began to quote Alice Walker,

"I went in search of the secret of what has fed that muzzled and often mutilated, but vibrant, creative spirit that the black woman has inherited, and that pops out in wild and unlikely places to this day."

"...an artist who left her mark in the only materials she could afford, and in the only medium her position in society allowed her to use."

"And so our mothers and grandmothers have, more often than not anonymously, handed on the creative spark, the seed of the flower they themselves never hoped to see: or like a sealed letter they could not plainly read."

-In Search of Our Mothers' Gardens

This morning, as I forced myself to make time for my own "wild and unlikely" pursuits, I realized why I have had so many head between the knees moments, crying.

Let me quote Walker again,

"For these grandmothers and mothers of ours were not Saints, but Artists; driven to a numb and bleeding madness by the springs of creativity in them for which there was no release. They were Creators, who lived lives of spiritual waste, because they were so rich in spirituality--which is the basis of Art--that the strain of enduring their unused and unwanted talent drove them insane."

-In Search of Our Mothers' Gardens

I don't think I could express my own feelings and reactions to life better. And in understanding this, I have come to realize my fear is based on this idea that I will never move into my own spirituality, fully.

So I journaled about it. I even managed to catch a poem hovering for only the slightest of seconds. It, the poem, needs some attention, but the essence is there.

I dream of belonging to the sisterhood of Black women writers who preserve and honor our legacy. Those women who stand amongst us, watch us, and write about us as she lives alongside us. Those women who write with the voice and echo of the sisterhood. Those women, passed on, who Walker reminds us of that cried out for creativity while molding biscuits, carrying babies, plaiting hair.

I know I am one of them.

And with these dreams comes responsibility. Knowledge and due understanding. And so I must read first. I must read before I write. I must study, learn their stories and voices, so that my echo will resound.

In my heart they call me "little sister" and reassure me that they are waiting for me. Waiting for my "true leaves" to emerge. Cultivate and nurture, they whisper.

In gardening, when we sow seeds there is a set of leaves that emerge first. They are the plant's first leaves, the seed leaves, and they are not what we call the plant's "true leaves." These first leaves are essentially present in the seed as part of the plant's embryo. They are the plant's stored food, waiting for the true leaves to take over food production. They are biologically created to be present, and to herald the young plant's life in and ensure food, life. But the true leaves, these are the leaves that must be cultivated and nurtured for growth and for the health and survival of the plant.

They are both necessary.

 

Yesterday, while watering my garden, an idea occurred to me--plant a garden in your mind.

Paz...Ki

 

I want to be a poetry & prose scientist when I grow up.

 

Three new art journals waiting for words and art.

 

I like to think my body has brought my lack of balance in my life to my attention. I don't "feel" the same as I did a year or so ago. My energy feels stagnant, my body feels more sensitive, and most days I feel like I am either in the process, or just got finished running myself into the ground.

With school, I've managed to excise all the creativity out of my life, of course, unintentionally, but nevertheless my creativity has been "ghost." The only creativity I've displayed regularly is the topics I choose to write my papers on. 

But, I am listening...and this past week I spent a delicious nine or ten days focusing on getting my groove back. I'd like to say getting my creative groove back, but the truth is...I just spent the time doing the things I needed to do spiritually.

I planted my garden. I cooked some great meals. I cleaned up trouble zones in my home. I cleaned up my backyard. I slept in. I did very little checking of email. I took pictures. I braided the little lady's hair. I read a little poetry. And! I made three (!) art journals...and got the signatures ready for another meaty, painterly one.

More importantly, I resisted the urge to get started early in my upcoming summer classes, and I also didn't touch any of my CLEP study guides (not smart).

But, my spirit needed it.

 

I decided to piece the covers...but very lightly quilted them without batting. I wanted flat covers with a "quilted or pieced" look.

 

I'm very excited about this new journey/adventure into art journaling that I'm sorta/kinda starting. The first two books I made, sneak peek pictures here, I really hate. The process of creating them was quite zen as I holed up in the studio and worked for hours...literally until E forced me to stop, rest, and eat. I didn't realize I hadn't changed positions much until I succumbed to his pressure and couldn't stand up straight without my back complaining. Apparently, I have really bad posture while art-making. 

The process was freeing, but a day later I felt like I had an "art hangover" looking at the books. A "what happens in the studio, stays in the studio" moment. I laughed to myself, "How could I create something so ugly, when I was feeling so good while creating it?"

I blame it on trying to artfully be something I'm not. I had seen so many different art journals and had been so inspired that I must have channeled it all...ALL...into the mess I created. That's okay, I laugh today. It's all a part of the journey of (re)connecting with my own voice.

 

I love the way the spines looks.

 

In the end, incredibly inspired by the amazing Pam Garrison (seriously, I have an art crush), I discovered Remains of the Day journals, paid for the class, and made myself some lovely journals. When I found ROTD journals it was like finding an answer to a riddle on a fortune cookie...I have so many keepsake paperbilia and things that I have collected, still collect, and don't know what to do with. I ended up loving the process of collecting, organizing, and making these little books (although it was an incredibly looooong process for me). The finish product is even better. 

 

The insides of the third journal.

 

I wanted to add a little "Ki" to my books and make them more my own so I incorporated a few fabric signatures for me to stitch on. Some of them are cross-stitch fabrics, but most of them are PFD pieces of cotton I had gotten ready for painting long ago. 

I finished the books a good five days or so ago, but I haven't used them yet. Shame on me. I'm fighting the "I don't want to mess these pretty things up" jitters. I need to just dig in. 

I think the other issue is that I still haven't figured out exactly how or what I will art journal about. I want to use them as a tool to explore poetry and prose ideas or poem and story starts, but I also want to doodle/paint/draw. Not to mention I also want to keep a regular and gratitude diary. 

With all that in mind, I tried to incorporate pages/signatures that would allow space to do all of those things...so we'll see. I know that all of those things can fit together, it's just a matter of putting it down--my way.

I think in the end, once again, I am reminded of how much I want to be in a creative writing program. I want time to explore and create with words and art. 

And again, I am conflicted because I love learning the backdrop/background or science of literature. I guess that is it. Studying literature/English when you want to be a writer is like studying the science behind that which you desire to create.

My little guy loves food. Loves food. In some ways I think he wants to be a chef, but if you ask him what he wants to be when he grows up he'll tell you "a food scientist." He wants to create flavors for Doritos chips and things of that nature...

Me? I'm changing my dreams..."I want to be poetry/prose scientist" when I grow up. 

There. That feels incredibly authentic.

♥ Ki

This morning.

Peeks into my first art journal.

I keep crying tears that won't fall. Instead they ache my eyeballs and moisten my lids. I also keep rubbing my belly in a clock-wise, small, circular motion centered on my navel because my tummy, arguably the most sensitive piece of me, is acting up. 

I have irritable viscera and eyes that refuse to cry when things get deep, personal, difficult and real.

It is like I'm hardened and overly sensitive at the same time. Fitting, I'm the overthinker, worry-wort, fantastical-thinker of my family brood.

I'm three days into my multicultural literature class, the class that I have waited fifteen months to take, and I can't read introductory material without feeling like my tear ducts are stopped up. 

Everything is telling me, pushing me, encouraging me, calling me to write...creatively. Everything.

(Right now the tears are falling.)

Everything.

Everything.

Everything.

But something keeps telling me now is not the time. Hold off. You still have literature to learn. You still have academic papers to write. 

I love writing those kinds of paper. Academia.

But now, with fatty tears streaming down my cheeks I crave writing my heart. I imagine if I had the means and the knowledge to tattoo words down my arms I would.

What ever would I write, doesn't matter. I would make it up on the fly...a quilt of words, cursing my viscera for being sensitive and reflective, praising my eyes for finally letting the tears fall, thanking my hands for being warm and rubbing out the tears in my belly before painting my arms with the words.

This is me. This is what I do all day, everyday. Write words in me that I want to live.

When I let them out, I talk too much and I'm sure the receiver of those talks often ponders if they should continue friendship with me or if they are family...continue calling me.

I don't care. 

If you eat garlic it gets into your pores and leaks out in your sweat, urine, breath. I used to take garlic cloves, chop them into quarters and swallow them for immunity. My tummy was stronger then. I hadn't birthed kids or been awakened to me yet. For a day or two I would smell garlic all over me and speak garlickly words.

These days words ooze out of me, but I rarely record them. I give them away in conversation, in class, in local-long-distance phone calls to my mother, brother, auntie, to text messages and iPhone to iPhone speaker calls to E while he balances failing school district budgets, to the kids while they still want to hear my life lessons, to class mates who probably wish I'd shut up...to everyone but the paper.

I talk everything but the prose and poetry I should be talk/writing on screen. 

Truth to tell, it sucks and is wonderful all wrapped up in one. I am grateful and sad. Thankful and frustrated. I understand and am confused.

Family lore is that I didn't start talking till I was four, maybe five years old. No words. Granma would tell me often that she thought I was a "mute." (That's the old black way of saying deaf.) Auntie tells me I didn't say a sound. Nothing. I don't care that I talk so much, these days. I am quite fine with the over-talkative woman I've become, because I know one day I will just write.

Self-illustration. I think I had picked herbs earlier that week, and it was raining outside. Not sure.

I will be four again and go back into my shell, but with the ability to express what I observe. I sort of remember those days. I remember always watching. Always. Watching. Always trying to make sense and sort out life around me. 

E would tell you not much has changed. I'd agree.

♥ Ki

---

I spent a great portion of last night editing pictures to share. I'm excited to share with you wonderful, wonderful, women who so kindly shared with me yesterday that you are still here...reading my words. I have class this evening and a few assignments to turn in and end of school year schoolwork to turn in to the kids teacher. Oh, and some very needy squash plants that need an hour's worth of time watering every day. I hope to upload and post them tonight or tomorrow morning. They are of the new art journals I've made...and an update of my garden.

Until then, here is a sneak peak into the first art journal that I made. The outside cover is horrendous. I hate it. The second that I made is equally ugly. But this first spread, I love. It is honest and true. It is real. The next set of books that I made, which I spent almost the entirety of last week making are a lot better. They have not been written in yet. This post should have been written in there...but I wanted to share my heart here first.

Thank you for your continued friendship and love. I love you all back. ♥

What Mami looks like these days.

*Pictures of me, taken by the kids. Click for larger, uncut picture.

I always wonder how my kids will define me. Will I be the mother who baked enough, taught enough, hugged enough, encouraged enough. I wonder who I am to them. Outside of Mami. How do they define me. How will I define their lives.

I have such reverance for my role as mother in their lives. I respect that my daily decisions, my actions will largely shape and define their lives.

I wonder who I am to them. I asked them how they would describe their mother and this is what they said:

nice, funny, always cold, good cook, good baker, writer and reader, a schooler, teacher, knows a lot of words, likes the indices of books, likes dictionaries, looks pretty, a good quilter, a person who likes eating chips, likes her bed, didn't like reading Shakespeare, likes her pet bird Charlie, likes art, knows how to draw, is a good tutor, likes flowers and teddy bears, short, "a little mami."

What do you think about Mami going to school?

Cool and good

What do you think about Mami always doing homework?

Mad and sad because we don't watch Family Game night like we used to. (Not totally true.)

I asked--they answered. As I continue on this road of education I know that I must constantly remember that they are traveling with me, along with E. It really is us four doing this. I may write the papers, and read the books, but the three of them help me, lend me to my studies--if you will. 

I hope that in six-seven years, when all of this is done, they will know that they did it with me. I hope that they will say one day, "Mami was in school, but she always baked for us and taught us important things like quilting, painting, gardening, writing...and how to be silly, dance, and make weird faces." I hope they will remember the many hours I bake for them, in addition to the many hours I study. I hope that they will follow their dreams (currently: she wants to be a writer/journalist and he wants to be a food scientist) because they saw me follow mine. I hope my daughter will see that she can be in intellect, a professonal, a scholar--and a sahm who bakes, quilts, gardens, and homeschool. I hope that if my son so chooses, he will be a sahd too. I hope that they will honor their true selves--however they evolve. 

I hope a lot. 

 Ki

Roller coasters can be fun.

*Study aids. Click for larger, uncut picture.

Just when I thought I had it all figured out, I learn that I don't and that I need more time and life experiences.

Hop aboard the greatest roller coaster of all time. We've got twists and turns and loops and speed and sudden stops. Guaranteed fun, thrills, screams, laughter, excitement--soon as you sit back, strap up, and settle in. 

Picture me riding this roller coaster called life.

At the end of last week, after I settled on my plans to pursue the MFA Creative Writing-mind you, I scooted an email out to my creative writing professor from a couple of semesters ago telling her my decisions, and asking her opinion. It was a long email. A vent, if you will. I told her I wanted someone to be honest with me. And that I needed to know if it was truly worth it and potentially helpful for me to pursue an MFA instead of the others. I also told her that I wanted someone to be honest with me--the reality is that most writers won't publish, I'm fine with that--where should I focus my energies to position myself to not be "degreeful" and jobless in five years. I also told her I need someone to be honest with me.

Before I tell you how she rocked my world, let me remind you what my life goals are:

-Full-time, at-home, homeschooling mom till kids are well into double-digit ages (teenagers or later).

-Writing life (both academic and creative).

-Artist life (showing in select shows once or twice a year).

-Maintaining an edible garden year round.

-Part-time adjunct professor teaching composition, literature, and creative writing.

-Baking extraordinaire.

-Teaching textile art classes, when life permits.

Basically, when I grow up I want to be a stay-at-home, homeschooling, mom, artist/writer, part-time professor and full-time gardener and baking extraordinaire.

I know, not complicated and highly probable. ^__^

Back to my wonderful professor (who has a Ph.D.). She told me that I needed to think bigger, brighter, higher, and further. She told me that I was capable of more. She told me that no matter how academic I become, I would never loose my creativity. She told me I didn't need an MFA to become a great writer--as I am already on my way. She told me that I had something special to offer students. She told me I can. I can. I can.

I can get a Ph.D.

And that I should seriously, as in stop thinking everything your thinking now, put thought into what I can accomplish, and what I should accomplish--again, a Ph.D.

Hold on, whiplash. Let me fix my neck.

I never allowed myself to think that high. MA English? sure, I can accomplish that. Ph.D.? Oh wait, pump your breaks, you do know my name is Kiandra, right? You do know who you're talking to, correct?

*Where I school, click for larger, uncut picture.

Before I type on for another thousand words, because let's be honest, I am going to discuss this thoroughly; let me tell you that you must never set your goals at what you "think" you can do. No, you must set them higher, further, out in the realm of Jupiter, Saturn, or dare I say Neptune. What ever you think you can do, you can do--plus about 75% more. 

She is an amazing professor. Loving and gentle, but also insightful, wise, and willing to challenge you with honesty. She sees the you that you don't see. Every student should have one, five would be great, professors like this. And I urge you, cultivate relationships with those professors who care, are wise, and are willing to offer guidance. Stay after class. Ask them about their life/academic/professional experiences. Let them know who you are. Express why you are pursuing what you are pursuing. Build relationships. 

But first you need to get clear about who you are, and what you want. Gosh, here I go again--I know it is getting old--but this is one reason why I stepped away from fb. I found myself defining myself through outside influences. And, let me be the first to tell you that I am not that impressionable. But, something happens when you watch or are keen to what others are doing. You start to define yourself in relation to them. "Oh, I don't want to do that...Oh, that's what I want/use to want...Oh, what if I did that then/now/in the future." Please don't get me wrong, I do think this is healthy, and is a normal part of human behavior, but the problem is comparing ourselves to too many people, and people who are not truly aligned to our life goals. 

We don't think we do it; the comparing sneaks up on us--perhaps through the back door, or a crack in the window seal of our psyche. Before you know it, you start to synthesize who you are based on others, society, etc.

Let me go off on a meaningful tangent here. I wrote a paper last week about a book I'm reading, Moll Flanders--Daniel DeFoe, and I wrote that her identity was a synthesized identity based off her constant reactions to what labels society (oppressive to women at the time-17th Century British) places on her. Moll becomes a prostitute, a criminal, she marries her brother, the list goes on and on, but all of these reactions to her situations is because she lacks identity.

That is what I do not want for myself. I want to make career and educational decisions because I am following passion, innate talent, and drive. It is hard to see your true reflection when you allow so many fingerprints on your mirror. This does not mean we don't need others, but that they should be reflective of who we are. In the best way, those people should be a reflection--a mirror if you will--of who you are, not fingerprints.

So?

I've done my research. I've dug deep down inside. I've written out who I want to be and what I want to become when I grow up. I've talked to the people who know me, love me, and have been a part of my life journey. I've talked to my kids, my most honest reflections. I've prayed and held a few conversations with God in the shower. I've focused on what I'm most grateful in my life.

And through all of that I still don't know 100%, but I am very close, 95%. The other 5% is me waiting for the continual direction from God. I believe I know, but I could be wrong. I won't know until God makes it possible.

With that I am preparing myself for everything. After all, luck is when hard work meets opportunity, right? Although I leave it in God's hands, I do know that I must do my part. I must take the first steps. I must work hard. I must be grateful. I must be mindful. I must be honest. That is me doing my job, so that God may do his/hers.

I will be applying to two different Ph.D programs, one based solely on English and another where I would get a dual Ph.D in Cultural Studies and English (getting MA's in both along the way). I'm also applying to my current Uni for their MA English Lit program along with another Cal State's MA program. I will also apply to a couple of different MFA programs. None of this is entirely set in stone; during this year I may change preferences of Universities after I visit and talk with counselors. But the point is I am not limiting myself to just what I think I can do, I'm aiming out there towards Neptune.

There are fears. GRE anyone? But, I've managed to turn those fears and pieces of apprehension into excitement and pieces of anticipation, expectation. I tell myself these mornings, "What will it feel like to pass the GRE with high scores? What will it feel like when I get accepted everywhere and I have to make a choice? What will it feel like to graduate with honors?" And then I close my eyes and experience it.

I learned this trick from my best friend Cosme. He accomplishes so much. Well, years ago he told me his secret. He says he imagines himself doing it. He lives it, sleeps it. Walks himself completely through the experience--sees the sights, smells the smells, hears the sounds, feels the feelings--all of that. And when it happens, you know what he told me--he's already lived it and is busy living the next experience. Sounds familiar, like the law of attraction, the Secret? Well, he told me this years before all that came out, he's extremely dyslexic and does not read--at all. He doesn't know anything about "The Secret" outside of what he's done his entire life. He is an artist by the way, and taught me almost everything I know. He has also created the entire arts culture, which is city-wide, in our city. 

I'm getting verbose here, but these are things I need to speak out into the world, if nothing else but to remind me when the roller coaster gets scary.

We can never know what we are truly capable of unless we try to accomplish it. It is as plain and simple as that. Nike says "Just do it," Cosme told me "Jump off the bridge," I'm telling you, "Set your standards high and cultivate your own life."

It is all different ways to saying--Own your life.

In the 12 days since I've stepped out of my comfort zone I have learned so much. I have opened myself up to new possibilities. 

Did you know you could CLEP out of GE classes for $80 a test? Neither did I; I'll be taking College Algebra, American Government, Sociology, and Western Civilization I.

Guess who's going to be an art show, April? Me.

Did you know you can pass the GRE by studying and learning the tricks? I didn't either.

Did you know there are resources online that can teach you Algebra, I mean really teach you, for free? I know, coolio.

Guess who's entering her university's excellence in writing contest? That would be me.

Let's Own this life of ours, and do the damn thing!

Ki