quejimenez

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. ♥

Just getting something down.

This is me painting random words on the blank white page of my blog.

I've found that not blogging for a while creates a void that becomes a great white space of emptiness that is at once overwhelming and daunting to speak onto.

Where do I start? I've been living so much.

Am I even talking to anyone besides myself? I'm too irregular to create a "following."

How do I begin again? Is there a again, does the breaks really matter in the grand scheme of things?

Does blogging only work with regular, spaced entries? Only if you set rules.

I have to be honest. My life is too busy and crammed with "just get today's work done" for me to be the blogger I once was, or the blogger I imagine I could be. Instead, I'm accepting that I am just this woman here that can sometimes, and can't others.

The great thing is that in between these long breaks I am living.

I read something this morning by Tayari Jones that made my eyes sting with tears that were not strong enough to fall:

"While I do applaud those writers who have used their imagination to render in fiction the lost voices of generations past, I believe that African-American writers must also embrace contemporary narratives...we must not become so obsessed with filling the pages left blank by an incomplete historical record, that we leave no record of our own meaningful lives. I do not like to imagine my own granddaughter forced to rely on library archives to reconstruct my life because I exhausted my resources and talent pondering the past. At some point, serious writers must commint ourselves as fervently to transforming our own experiences into art."

Click here to read for yourself.

I have been struggling with this very issue the past few months. To the point of exhaustion, I have questioned myself and tried to find where I fit between writing about the past or my own experience. Tayari's words were like validation, permission, and justification all rolled into one. I was so paralyzed with seeing my own reflection in the advice that I could not read much further and instantly tried to find her to say thank you. I found her blog, but was unable to leave a comment of gratitude. I'm tempted to rejoin twitter, just to tell her thank you.

I am scared.

I feel too old to make mistakes and misjudgements and dare I say, not know what it is I am doing. I turned 35 this Feb. and let it pass by with no recognition. Not that I wasn't happy or celebrating my day, but more so because I feel I have so many unanswered question about the 35 years of living I have done. 

So much has happened. So much I want to say. So much I want to express and paint about. There was just not enough space here, or in my heart to dive into what 35 years of living has meant to me.

Anyway, so here I am. I have much more to say, share, etc. Lots of pictures on my CF card waiting to be processed and uploaded. I need time, school is in full swing for me, the kids, and E.

Before I end, and begin later today or tomorrow...I must set some rules. These are for me. 

1. Never a need to "catch-up," always begin where you are.

2. Write because you need to, not because you have to...because you don't.

3. Write to yourself, because you are truest when looking in the mirror, talking to yourself. After all, this is your life.

4. You don't need pretty pictures in every post.

5. Two, three post in one day? Why not? Do you. Who cares about optimizing, etc., this is your record, your words, your life.

6. Ignore the word count. You can write as much as you like and feel is necessary to fully and adequately express yourself. You will read it, and that's all that matters.

7. You can be fully and uniquely you...I happen to like Kiandra...so don't change her.

8. It's okay to shut the world out and talk to yourself.

9. Smile, laugh, cry through your words.

Okay...now that I got that out, I'm happy and ready to move forward.

♥ Ki

Growth Untamed.

Neglected artichoke in my garden.

I've come to understand that growth untamed and unmanaged can be as much of a set back as stagnation. I know because I seem to be growing wildly in some directions, but becoming stagnant, stale in others.

At first I told myself it was okay, a normal part of evolving. But, I've noticed that my evolution has included cutting and excising other parts of me. Picture me randomly cutting locs for no other reason than to allow space and room for other locs to sprout and fan out from my head. Doesn't make sense, but that seems to be what I've done in my life.

me.

Academic papers have replaced blogging.

Researching has replaced gardening.

"Dressing up" for class has replaced painting, quilting.

Emailing classmates has replaced Facebook updates.

Dreaming about graduation has replaced dreaming about paintings, quilts.

Sitting for hours writing about literature has replaced sitting for hours painting about life.

Packing E's lunch & making his breakfast before Saturday morning class has replaced baking on a whim.

I have felt so many different things the past four months, from excitement to confusion...focused to burnt out...grateful to morose...inspired about the new me to isolated from the old me.

When I feel down, burnt out, and isolated from all that I used to be, I quickly chastise myself. I reel through my ever-growing list of "I'm grateful for..." and rather harshly tell myself to "quit complaining."

I'm happy, I'm learning, I'm growing, I'm so much further [intellectually] than I was a year ago. I'm humbled by what I've learned and what I've shown myself I can do--academically.

But that there is it. I have grown academically, but creatively I have stood still. I don't like that. It makes me sad. It makes me cry on the way to school as I listen to moody music, look forward to class, miss home, and try to talk through it with E all at the same time. (Sometimes, while tutoring or on the way home I've had what E calls panic attacks. Their origins? I don't know.)

I ask him over and over and over and over...if I'm dying creatively. Is the artist in me dying so the scholar can live?

When class is done and I'm filled/sustained by all the learning done I bargain and sale the artist in favor for the high learning induces in me. If only you all could see how much I come alive in class. How much I have to say. How much I thrive. How much I learn. I am the nerd of the class. I am that girl who keeps talking. I am that person who gets up in front of the class energized, ready, willing, and too able to talk on and on. I am always prepared, overly so. I am always so damn happy to be there.

And then there is home.

What's left of my neglected herb garden, chives, lavender, everything, and marjoram.

I stare out my window, between writing & researching, at my garden. The birds, bees, grasshoppers tease me...call to me...land on my window, begging me to come and grow--in the garden. I walk into my studio ransacked for crafting supplies and overrun by the kids and tears rim my eyes. Where is the girl who lived in this hot, sunny, lilac room? The girl who painted one day, quilted the next, all while baking and gardening and homeschooling? Where has she flown?

Last week I was sick and the boy was sick and I begun to have panic attacks when E told me he could not come home early and help take care of us. He could bring home tea and herbs, but that was it. I literally couldn't breath. My throat was raw, closing up on me, and my head was swiming with all the school assignments I needed to complete and how little time I had to be sick. It was sunny, which only reminded me that I was 2 months late in planting my garden and getting sick will push that back another week, or two. 

I could not breathe except for in the shower, in the garden, or while crying on E's shoulder. I went from the shower to crying on E's shoulder, to the garden so many different times. It was a rush of me moving from one space to another in a hurry to find my breath and peace.

It was terrrifying, humbling, and saddening.

When E finally left for work, we were in the garden and I didn't look up from digging out weeds from my vegetable bed. I didn't look up because I was praying and afraid that if I saw him leave, or stopped praying I wouldn't be able to breath again. When I finally looked up the kids were next to me, trying to help me dig. The boy was just as sick, but yet there he was...digging in the garden with his unhinged mother. The love and tenderness in their eyes when they asked me why I was crying, the quiet love and understanding they gave me as we three digged--Gave me strength.

While I cried into the soil and prayed I began to realize that my life is without balance. I then begun to beg God to show me a way out. A way to find a happy medium so I wouldn't feel so dead and alive at once. 

For whatever reason I started to notice the wild runners of mint sprinkled through our failing lawn. Me and the kids started to dig them up and replant them in discarded planters. I can't tell you the comfort that gave me...finding homes for herbs growing in the wrong place. 

Eventually I decided, or at least tried, to leave the yuckiness out there for nature/God to work out. Eventually the cold progressed from my throat and within a few days I was well enough to catch up on homework (though I had to miss class, which I cried about).

Well, in the past week or so I have kept my heart open to whatever would come to me. One answer came: art journaling.

I have been struggling to find a way to combine writing and art, and ironically never made the connection. Though I had planned on signing up for a local, bookbinding class, and in the past I have created some sort of "art journal." 

Yesterday, while searching for transcipts and doing graduation prep stuff I stumbled upon the first things I ever drew back in the 10th grade. Amongst it was pages and pages of journaling/writing/poems on scattered and random pieces of paper. I found a few of my prized essays from high school and finally, with my adult eyes realized why they told me I was a good writer. I was.

A collection of tools waiting for me to begin creating again.

I'm starting though I don't know what or how or where to begin. I don't know how I can add something creative and consistent to my life. I also don't know how I can continue to breathe if I don't. I'm learning that still, 35 years into life, I have not truly defined and found myself. That is such a comforting thing to realize. Freeing.

God only knows what lies ahead, but amongst these last few months leading towards graduation...I hope that I'll find some balance, peace, and my creative breath again.

I wonder if any of you have ever dealt with panic attacks or stress brought on by inbalance in life? Share with me.

Ki

 

Beanery: My Current Culinary Obsession/Vegan Red Beans & Rice

Red Beans & Rice w/Sweet Southern Cornbread

I wonder if there are "bean people." I imagine there are--people who know the difference between navy beans and white beans (is there a difference?). People who know beans. People who make meals, outside of chili and refried beans, out of beans.

Bean salads. Bean dips. Bean burritos. Bean pies.

They would most certainly not be the other type of people, the people whose stomachs swell, tighten, and sound like a war zone at the slightest sniff of beans. 

If it sounds like I speak from experience...I do.

I love beans and I suffer because of it. I've avoided them mostly, in recent years, as it seems like the more years I gain, the more sensitive my tummy becomes.

But, ahhh...the torture. I love beans. I really do.

I have fond memories of getting bean pies off Crenshaw in L.A. ...and constantly creeping into the refridgerator to lift up the pink pastry box and cut off another slice. Of course I had to compete with my older brother as he loved the pies too, and often brought one home after work.

But this post is not about bean pies, nor bean people. I'd much rather share the way I've been cooking beans lately.

Lately as in every Friday, since E has been observing Lent.

Ingredients. Left: Seasonings & such, Top Right: "Trinity," Bottom Right: Soaked Red Beans

Vegan Red Beans & Rice, Soulfood Style

*before I begin, I must share that red beans & rice is one of the first "soulfoods" I made on my own. It contained smoked ham hocks...and was darned authentic, and good. With that said, this is not a "close" replica...it is a better replica.

Ingredients:

1lb. of Dried Kidney Beans, sorted and soaked overnight

Carrots (about 3 medium sized)

Celery (2-3 stalks)

Red Bell Pepper

Can of Diced Tomatoes (about 14oz.)

2 Tbl. Tomato Paste

Soy Sauce (low sodium)

Imitation Bacon Bits

Hickory Smoke

2 Bay Leaves

Seasonings (I use: Old Bay, Thyme, Marjoram, Paprika, Celery Salt, Salt & Pepper)

Kombu

Directions:

1. Sort through beans, discarding rocks and rotten pieces. Rinse well. Cover with cold water and set aside to soak 6-8 hours. Pour off water, cover with cold water and soak overnight or another 6-8 hours.

*Hint: This double soaking is to get out as much of the gas-causing sugars as possible. If this is not a concern, you can soak overnight, or do a fast soak following package instructions. Also, the Kombu (half a piece) can be added to the soaking beans, preserved and cooked with the beans. Kombu is a sea vegetable that provides a wonderful savory flavor, while also tenderizing the beans and making them easier to digest.

Cooking w/love...sautéing the vegetable trinity

2. Day of cooking. Chop vegetables, season with pepper and herbs and saute in canola oil in the bottom of the pot you plan to cook the beans in. Once vegetables are soft, add 1-2 Tbl. of tomato paste, cook over low-medium heat until paste coats vegetables well and has had a chance to deepen. 

Add canned diced tomatoes, using roughly half of the juice in the can. Cook for another 2-3 minutes to give flavors a chance to bloom.

Add beans, cover beans with 2-3 inches of water. Add smoke to taste (I just shake it into the pot, till it smells good) and about 1/4 C. of bacon bits. Turn up the heat and bring to a rapid boil.

*Note: It is key to not add salt before the beans are cooked as the salt toughens the beans and prevents them from getting tender. Because of this I usually wait an hour-two hours before I add any seasonings that have salt in them. This includes the Old Bay, and the Soy Sauce.

Cooking Steps. Top Left: Add paste, Top Right: Add tomatoes, Bottom Left: Cover with water, Bottom Right: Add Kombu

3. Once the beans come to a boil, turn heat down to low-medium, cover and let cook. I usually let the beans cook for at least 1 1/2 hours before I start to pay them serious attention. I check and stir about every 15 mintues or so to make sure they are not burning, but if your heat is low enough this will not be an issue.

4. Cook beans for 2-3 hours. This is where it gets sketchy. I usally don't keep track of time because it generally takes me hours to cooks beans. I like my beans cooked very well, especially kidney beans which have to be cooked all the way through or else they will cause stomach distress due to a natural irritant in the beans.

While the beans are cooking, skim any foam that floats to the top as that is the beans releasing the "gas."

Cooking beans. Top: Beans first added to pot, Bottom: Beans after hours of cooking on low heat

5. Once the beans are mostly done, I add soy sauce, Old Bay, and more smoke, herbs, and bacon bits as needed. This is done to taste. Add salt within the last 30 minutes or so of cooking.

Serve over rice, with Southern Cornbread on the side. 

Sweet, Southern Cornbread...Cooked in a cast iron skillet like my Granma did

Variations: Onions, green bell peppers, and garlic can be added to the vegetables. Also, hot sauce, real meats, can also be added to the recipe according to taste. 

Serving: This feeds my family of four for 2-3 days, easily. This makes a hearty pot and I would say it easily serves 8-12 depending on the size of the portions. Expect to have leftovers, unless you are serving a crowd.

Time: This meal takes time, but it is not "active" time. Most of the time is passed with the beans cooking on their own on the stove. It generally takes me about 45 minutes to an hour to chop everything, saute, and get the beans set to cook alone. With that said, this dish does require planning ahead to soak beans, so start 1-1 1/2 days before you would like to serve if you plan on doing a double, overnight soak. 

For five/six o'clock dinner, I'd start cooking the meal at about noon/1pm. The longer and slower the beans cook, the deeper the flavor and the more tender the beans.

Cost: This is a very cheap meal. The beans usually cost me between $1-2. The vegetables another $4-5, and everything else is usually something I have in the pantry. The cost generally ends up being about $.50-.75 a serving.

I love this meal, and so does my family. It is one of those hearty, comfort meals that you curl up to and feel spoiled eating. Three things always amazes me: how cheap it is, how easy it is to make, and how good it is. Easily a family staple.

Growing up, my Granma and Papa didn't make Red Beans & Rice, at all. Neither did my Mama or Auntie. Instead we had Black Eye Peas--always. And those few times my mother and I would make chili in a crockpot. But, for some reason I always feel rooted when I make this meal. I feel like I am owning my heritage and passing on the richness of my people to my kids/family. I guess I feel connected.

Is is the soulfood taste? The southern cornbread? The memories of Granma stirring a pot of beans? Remembering Mama telling me soaking beans gets the gas out, when she taught me to make chili while she worked? I'm not sure, but I know I feel like I own something sacred and worthwhile whenever I feed my family soulfood. 

I feel like I'm Granma and I'm cooking with love...naturing this beautiful family God has given me. I feel womanly, strong. I feel like I am a part of a tradition of women, and men, who love and nurture through the stove.

I'll share one more memory and then hold my peace.

When me and E were dating, about 6 months or so into our relationship I came down with a nasty cold. My throat felt horrible. I lost my appetite and I remembered I just wanted to wallow in my misery surrounded by the small four walls that was my studio. E would have none of it. He insisted that I eat and that he come over and take care of me. I didn't put up much of fight--I was feeling homesick, 60+ miles away from Granma and Mama, and was probably not far from self-pity as no one would drive out of L.A. to tend to me and a cold. I was "grown" and on my own.

Well, E shows up to my studio with a warm tupperware of "caldo." He lived close enough that I didn't even have to re-warm it. His mom had made frijoles, and he promised me it would make me feel better. It wasn't my Papa's homemade chicken noodle soup, but I agreed because I was smitten and loving E something terrible. 

I couldn't swallow the beans, but I could drink the broth, slowly. E sat by my side as I slowly slurpped and sipped his mother's caldo. I could taste the love. My suegra loves E something terrible. I don't blame her, he's all kinds of Mr. Wonderful. 

Anyway, the broth soothed my throat and before long I was cuddled up to E feeling loved, nurtured, and taken care of. That was the start of my love of affair with my suegra's food; she's an amazing cook. 

I'd like to say that was the start of my love affair with E, as it would sound so romantic. But truth is...I loved this man way before that. Our first date to be exact.

So beans...they are Granma's black eyed peas, Mama's crockpot chili, my first soulfood dish, my suegra's nourishing caldo, bean pies off Crenshaw shared with my big brother, a meal my kid's and husband love.

Cooking love letters...Ki

Spanish Words:

caldo- translates to soup, in this case I'm talking about cooked pinto beans; in my husband's family it is made as a soup the first day, and then re-fried the next morning and evening as leftovers.

frijoles- beans

suegra- mother-in-law; I hate to call my mil "mother in law," it sounds so impersonal and doesn't come close to expressing how close we have grown in the 13 years me and E have been together. I believe she considers me her daughter, and I consider her my third mother...after Mama and Granma...so suegra, the spanish word sounds better.

Writing in Books: Breathing life between the pages.

Yesterday I shared my 5 top-secret, stupendious, studying rules. (Like the exaggeration?) If you want to rock your studying world, read it here. But I have to tell you a secret, so come in close.

Those five rules are no where near as stupendious as what I'm going to share with you today. Not even close. What I'm about to share is my most efficient weapon in studying. You ready? Wait for it, wait for it...

::I write in my books::

I know. Gasp. Shock. Scream.

I have learned that the world is divided into two types of people: Those of us who write in books, and those of us who don't.

I proudly belong to the writing group, and I'd like to share why. 

Let me begin by admiting I am a true bibliophile. I love books; in fact, I believe I am obesessed with books. I say that my first love was pencils, hinting at my love of sketching, but before I became an artist I was a reader. I distinctively remember the moment I realized I could read. I was in my mother's or aunt's powder blue volkswagon bug and I was effortlessly reading billboards as we drove through the streets of L.A. After that I remember hours of reading the Bible with my grandfather, hours reading the set of encyclopedia's my grandmother kept in the dark bedroom closet that smelled of moth balls and pine sol (She had hard wood floors throughout-even in the closets), and of course reading my favorites books: The Pokey Puppy and Little Bear.

(I so loved that puppy and little bear. My heart skips a beat when I see either book, just like it did when I was a young girl, starting to read.)

I'm desperately trying to express my love of reading, which has followed me through my life. My mother is a copious reader, and now my daughter is also a copious reader.

Now that we have my love lines drawn in the sky, let's talk about the joy of writing in books.

I believe, strongly, that writing in books create a conversation between you, the reader, and the book/author/characters. What happens when you write in a book is that you begin to interact with the content, creating a back and forth discourse between what the book/author/character says or thinks and what you, the reader, thinks.

Wait, I know that "conversation" doesn't feel important, but, it is--it very much is. Let me explain why.

We learn by interacting and forming connections; our brain depends on these connections. Let me see if I can explain it quickly, and easily. Our brain is made of connections called synapses. These synapses form connections every time we learn something new, experience something, etc. When we have these "new" or additional experiences/information our brain creates new connections, diverse connections, and connections between places that weren't necessarily connected before. What this all means is that every time you have a new experience you make another synaptic connection. The more connections, the richer your brain. The richer your brain, the more you are able to learn.

Learning creates a snowball effect in your brain.

How does writing in your book help facilitate that snowball effect? Well, when you write in your book you are actively engaging with your book. You are interacting with the content. You are talking back to the author, or the character and sharing your opinion. This forces you into an active, participant position with the book, instead of a passive position.

It is similiar to when you are in class. When you are in a classroom where the professor lectures while you sit and recieve, your absorbtion of the material is less than if the professor adds group discussions into the lecture. When you discuss, particularly when you ask questions or challenge information, you are seeking connections, forming connections, and creating a dialogue between you and the information. Not to mention when a classroom is rich in discussion you also have the added benefit of learning from other ideas. It is not neccesary that you agree with those ideas, but that you are at least open and listen to them.

So that brings us back to books. When you write in books you are creating that rich, dynamic discourse between yourself and the book that happens in classrooms rich with discussion. It doesn't matter that the book does not "speak" back, it matters that you interact with the information. When you interact with the information you may discover something the author missed, or didn't know--and that, that leads to further research or "new knowledge."

That research or "new knowledge" is what academia is about. It is about the on-going conversation between scholars about important and relevant content. Each new piece of research should build upon that which came before it, while also advancing it a little further.

But how do you do it, and is it similiar to highlighting?

I don't think writing in books is similar to highlighting. Honestly, I would never highlight in a book. Maybe it's the artist in me, but the random slashes of fluorescent colors disturbs me. Instead, what I do is underline and annotate or take notes in my books.

I only use pencils, mechanical, .5 lead, and I am very careful not to haphazardly draw crooked or odd-looking lines. The point, for me at least, is to gently call attention to key points, ideas that struck me.

Also, what is important to my process is note taking--directly on the page. Some books lend themselves to more or less annotating, but I am always mindful to write out my thoughts, questions directly on the page.

If you wonder what to write, here are some clues:

1. Ask questions, or record questions that come to mind as you are reading.

2. Write out key points/thesis in words you can understand, i.e. in your own words.

3. Write connections you may find with other pieces of literature, research, etc.

4. Write out emotional responses. If you feel something is wrong--write it.

5. Write down ideas for future research, or things you'd like to research.

6. Write definitions of words you don't understand. (Underline those words too.)

7. Record your thoughts, the why behind your responses in #4.

The key in this process is to preserve your initial reactions so that when you need to--the information is present. Often times we think we will remember what we thought/felt/saw/questioned, but the truth is the further we read, the more we have to remember.

It is also key to develop your own "system" of annotating the text. You may have a certain way of highlighting key terms/words, or of writing short word strings to remember what you thought. That is what annotating is about; however, make sure you know your system and can come back to the information with no problems of understanding it.

My suggestion is to let it develop organically. With time, as you become more comfortable, you will find what works perfectly for you. And when you find that--stick to it.

Finally, I want stress how important it is to write things down. Not solely because it records it, but also because through the act of writing we do a number of things that help us understand content deeper, which in turn commits the learning to our memory. *See nerdy discussion on brain synapses above*

When you write, especially if you are taking quick/short hand notes, you have to summarize and deduct the key points of an arguement. You also have to put things in your own words. Doing those things ensures that you understand the information and that it is now a part of your knowledge base. 

Sure, it's more time consuming, but studying from your annotated notes is much easier than opening up a blank book with a bunch of words on it you read weeks ago--and don't recall. Writing preserves that learning experience. It preserves it in your mind, and it also preserves it in your book should your mind back out the night before your paper is due, or your final occurs.

This is what us English/Literature majors do, but I believe it is a powerful tool for any critical reading.

For the record I'd like to make it known that in my most favorite book in the world, The Bluest Eye, I have not written in the margins or underlined a single line. It is just so sacred to me. It is full of post-it notes, but no pencil has marked its beautiful pages. 

I'd also like the record to state that I abhor corner page folding. Nope, I love my pages to be as flat and unwrinkled as possible.

You wanna know something? When I open a book and see my notes carefully sketched in the margins and my lines drawn carefully from edge to spine I can't help but feel like the book is alive, like my thoughts sketched in graphite dance and float above the pages with life, learning. I get excited. The pages are new, pristine, flat and gracefully...I have added my words to the scholarship, the conversation, the story of the book.

When my books are published one day, I want to see pages like that, pages where my readers have screamed at me, laughed with me...wrinkled circles where they have cried with me--that is my dream, to write books that come alive. 

Happy Reading,

Kiandra

P.s. Don't ever write in someone else's book. No library books, no borrowed books--only books that are your own. Because, I can tell you...it will piss someone off. Someone like me.

Studying: "That Thing You Do"

My study scape.

Do you ever wonder how people study? I do. Particularly, I did in high school when Maritza, the smartest girl I knew, would routinely make AP classes like Calculus and Physics look like mere distractions on her way to awesome life/greatness. Our AP teachers were generous; they graded us on a curve so that we would be judged in relation to our peers--and not the books. That sounds great unless Maritza was sitting in the class, which meant an A was often times a 98, and rarely a 95. Us struggling students, barely getting B's, would never make the A--even on the curve. 

I remember there were times I'd sit and look at Maritza, a beautiful latina with long curly hair and an easy smile, and wonder how the hell she did it. I mean really--I was a nerd too, I gave up my lunch hour and nutrition break to sit in class and do homework--everyday. I asked her many times how she did it, and ever kind she'd just say she studied a lot, or she'd smile and say, "Kiandra, your smart too."

My reply? "Um, no, because you keep messing up the curve, Maritza!" Truth is she was amazing. 

Well, now I think I'm pretty amazing sometimes too. Now that I know how to study. Now that I've found my focus. Now that I love what I study.

Let's talk about that thing us students do--Studying.

My morning study time.

Time.

To begin an effective studying routine you have to get clear about one thing first, time. What time are you at your best? When do you have the least distractions, we're not talking no distractions, but the least distractions? When are you less sleepy? When do you have the most energy?

This takes honesty and self/life-awareness. You have to get real on when you are in the prime of your day. And then you have to be honest about when you actually have the time. It may not be an idea time. But, you have to know when you can optimize your time, energy, and attention.

Me? I used to think I was a night owl and that I could pull all-nighters, plowing through anything. Nope, I can't. I'm not like my sis, up at 5 am, showering and ready to take on the world, but I am also not like my husband, up at 2 am, writing and reading feverishly. I'm a mid-day girl. But, I am at my best when I first wake up and my mind is clear.

Conditions.

Next, you have to know what conditions you work best under. Stress or no stress? Deadline or Massive time? Quiet or Music? Alone or Group? When do you get most done? When your with a group and feeding off others ideas? Or when you are alone, feeding your own thoughts and combing your own mind for ideas? What about stress and deadlines? Are you better when your back is up against the wall? Or are you better when you have time and nothing looming over your head?

The conditions you study under make a huge difference in the success of your study session. If you stress under deadlines, then saving your homework to hours before class is not going to be optimal. Likewise, if you know that having lot's of time makes you procrastinate and loose focus, then studying ahead may not be an option.

Me? I have to be alone. I have to have relative quiet--in the room alone with the fan whirling in the background. I have to be at home, that way I know I am available should the kids, or E needs me. And, I also need time, time to digest and slowly study what ever it is I am studying.

Materials.

And then there are the materials. The textbooks. The pens. The paper. The computers. The nerdy office supplies that either foster your studying, or hinder it. 

Some of us (ahem) are very particular about our study tools. What gets in the way of your studying? Do using used books bother you, or does the thought of paying full price for a book you will use a semester drive you crazy? Do you have a favorite notebook (writing kind), computer, pen, etc? If certain tools make learning easier than recognize that and use them. The goal is not to challenge yourself and see how long you can put up with reading a smoke-smelling, coffee stained textbook, but the goal is to get the information in your brain. In other words, learning needs to happen; don't give yourself unnecessary obstacles.

I am anal about my tools. I have a very particular set of tools and system that I must use. I have to have a dictionary present (I use the American Heritage Dictionary app on my iPad), I have to have a very particular notebook system that allows total customization (I'll review it in the future), I have to use the same pens and mechanical pencils, I have to have post-it notes, and I MUST have new books, or books that have not been marked by anyone. This is my plan and I stick to it--religiously.

Attitude.

Finally, we get to attitude. I truly believe that you get out of things what you put into them. If you approach studying with a negative, defeated, fearful, or know-it-all attitude, chances are you will get those results back. You have to open yourself up to learning. Make yourself available to learning. I really mean that. Have the right attitude and the right reverence for the ability and opportunity to learn.

So often school is viewed as a means to an end. No, scratch that, school is not a means to an end, but it is essentially the beginning. When you learn you open yourself up for future learning, future connections in either the real world, the work world, or the academic world to happen. Studying has affected my life. Not in that it has made me academically smart, or given me a high GPA, or even given me the means to get a degree. Studying, and more importantly learning, has changed me. I am more focused. I am more confident. I understand the world around me better. I see connections that I didn't see before. I am a more well-rounded woman.

This is only possible if you approach studying, and for all intents and purposes learning, with the right attitude. Be open to learn--always.

My Studying Rules:

1. Know what time of day you work best and optimize it.

2. Be informed about when you can study, when it is best for you, and again, optimize it.

3. Know the conditions that you work best under, and seek to create those conditions every time you study.

4. Find the materials that "get out of the way" for you and use them to aid your studying. Find your system and use it.

5. Have the right attitude towards learning.

I get the feeling these are things everyone has heard. I'm sure I have, maybe not all together, but I know someone has told me these things in my life. My point here is that we need to approach studying with thoughtfulness and we need to give ourselves every opportunity to succeed.

In the end there is no "magic" studying formula, except for the one that works for you. And guess what, that probably will only work for you. 

It has taken me time and maturity to find the studying routine that works for me. I had to learn myself and then adapt to my life situation. I didn't always have kids and E, obviously, but now that I do have them I have to learn how I learn with them in my life. I had to look within and be honest with myself about what works--for me.

I won't lie, there are times when I try and force myself to study at night and I always hate it. Sometimes it is merely life, I don't always have the time to fit studying in when it's best for me. Those times I have to make the best of it, but they also teach me how valuable my quiet morning, or early evening time is for me. I cherish it and I bring myself to studying with gratitude and reverence.

And that brings me to my final point.

Have reverence for learning. This past week I have discovered how much learning, and teaching matter to me. It is so important to me that all people involved with learning, students and teachers/administrators, always have reverence for the process of learning. Learning is a privilege and needs to be treated as so. 

Happy Studying!

Ki

Sweats, Platforms, Literature & Homework

 

 

Hey, you want to know a secret? It isn't always easy being a focused student, a homeschooling mother, a supportive wife-daughter-sister-friend, a short person, or outspoken & passionate.

I've had a rough week:

I've cried and lost nights of sleep. I've not been focused. I haven't washed dishes in...I don't know how many days (but I think E has picked up some of the slack). I'm frustrated. I learned the depths of my passion for learning/teaching this week. I'm insanely annoyed every time the phone rings. My back has made me cry too. My house looks like my kitchen sink. We had sandwiches 2 or 3 times this week because neither me nor E had time to "cook" dinner (not even making minute rice, steaming vegetables, and quick-cooking chicken). 

 

I am finding solace in doing what I shouldn't and some of what I should do:

1. I E bought me new platforms as an early "present." 

2. I added a "throne" to my bedding. It vibrates so strong it made me nauseous, and the factory smell makes my eyes water and burn. But, besides all that I feel like it will lessen the time I spend crying over my back aches. 

3. I added two other bed desks to supplement my surfboard that I love and use every time I write a paper. (One of them. The other is discontinued, so I have no pictures.)

4. I'm wearing those platforms (see #1) in bed because when I peek over my laptop they make me feel like a lady despite the paint laden sweats I'm wearing from my maternity days, and the too big, cheap, forever 21 sweatshirt I'm wearing. And the lack of time I had to shower last night, or this morning---that luxury will come when I finish this paper. *They are brand new, so it's okay that I step on my bed with them.*

5. I made my bed though the rest of my room is a total, complete disaster.

6. I ate two cookies for breakfast.

7. I'm allowing myself to have an attitude with my brother for calling me at 1:17 am to tell me he was "thinking about shutting down his fb page too," and "that he is finding his new role as father agreeable" because I have no time for sleep, but I allowed myself a few hours and he called and interrupted them.

8. I'm blogging when I should be writing a paper.

9. I'm thinking about turning on the vibrating function of my throne even though I know it will make me nauseous just because I'm so anxious,  and restless--but still need to write.

10. I'm thinking positively, because India tells me, "Even the day after tomorrow will one day be yesterday."

11. I'm thinking about being completely irresponsible and buying another pair of these platforms in yellow because it is my favorite color, they are comfortable, they make me taller, they make me feel worthy of my age and title as woman-lady. But, I'm sure I won't.

12. I'm pissed at myself for not writing in my gratitude journal for the past 2 or 3 nights.

 

 

 

 

If you've heard that "life sucks--and then you die" you should know that isn't true. There are days and weeks, sometimes months and years, that seem like mischief is dancing on your back, swimming in your throat, and bouncing on your sore knees--but, you (like me), better yet us all have to get over it.

In the end there is happiness in simple things like red and purple platforms. There is also happiness in things like prayer/meditation/positivity. 

I will spend the entire weekend sitting in this pretty bed, with pretty shoes, surrounded by a grossly disordered room, books, research, etc. But I can choose to look over my work and smile at shoes. I can choose to ignore the paint splatters on my sweats and the hairs growing in on my legs, or the frustration in my heart to focus on what is good:

life

Today life is happiness in something stupid like shoes, but always life is worth pushing through...to see what is on the other side. Next week, or perhaps, in four weeks when this class is over I will be stronger, taller, and more sure of who I am.

I will be able to write my teaching philosophy, I will be able to confidently send apps out to graduate programs--knowing that I want to be a professor. Because though I'm having a difficult few weeks...I've learned that I value and respect teaching and learning. The process, when done with reverance on both ends, is simply delicious and worth struggling for.

I'm working hard today. My nose is down, my face is pressed in the bindings of my books, and I'm going to do this damn thing:

Because I think learning is the most wonder-fullest thing in the world. Even better than red and purple platform shoes in the bed on a Saturday morning.

Peace & Platforms...

Ki

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