Writing notions from an enchanted summer

a patchwork of little diary entries from my season... love letters to some stuff that happened.

Writing notions from an enchanted summer

You know how, at the end of a season, some folks on social media will post a “photo dump” of a whole bunch of the cool things that happened in their lives that season? This is that: a collection of random notions (like sewing notions in a little case, bits of colored thread and fabric and sewing needles and pleasingly shaped thimbles…) from my summer; but in written form, a patchwork of little diary entries from my season, love letters to some stuff that happened.

I often find myself wanting to be “useful” in these Substack writings, to offer something that you, the reader, can take to create something on the page in your own writing–some writing prompts, some food for thought or meditations on the writing craft, something to evoke emotion or memory or inspiration. I want the writings to fall into some category, to be in alignment with something that is meaningful to me, and hopefully to you, as a writer and creative person. I also, and equally, long to be foolish (a fool’s errand; the Fool’s journey) and aimless, dreamy, romantic, oblique, unproductive, lost in reverie… creating something beautiful for its own sake, and for no sake.

***

A few weeks ago my daughter and I went shopping. The kids’ yoga teacher at our studio is leaving. We are sad, but we are happy for her–because she is going on to a position that is a dream for her. She will work with children in hospitals, teaching them the tools of yoga, breath, and mindfulness. She wrote all the families who’ve studied yoga with her at our studio a letter. In the letter, she said that she will be working with kids who are facing injury, illness, and even, yes, “end of life.” These were the words she used, “end of life.” Yes, there are children who face the end of their life. K, our yoga instructor, will teach yoga, breath, and mindfulness to some of these children, whom she will meet. She won’t teach them box breath or child’s pose so that they can take those tools with them into adulthood. She will teach them those tools for them to use in the moment.

My daughter and I went shopping for a gift for K, something that she could take with her to the next part of her journey, and so that she wouldn’t forget us, the community she’s saying goodbye to. We bought her a blue beaded bracelet with a silver yoga lotus charm dangling from it. While we waited in the line to buy the bracelet, there was a young couple behind us.

The woman, dressed in a punk rock outfit like I might have worn when I was 16, cooed at my baby in the stroller and said, “Que lindita.” (How beautiful.) She had pink hair. “How old is the baby?” she asked me.

“Almost a year and a half,” I said.

I forget how exactly our conversation deepened and progressed. But somehow, we were talking about how long it takes–no, how long it really takes–to recover from childbirth. I told the young couple that I had had a C-section. I said that I was awake for the surgery. I said that it was a hard recovery, that I am still recovering, both mentally and physically.

The young couple listened. They looked astonished. The young guy said, very gently and compassionately, “I hope you feel better.” He mostly listened as the woman and I talked, with an open and attentive expression. He was very lanky and tall, with long blond hair loose down to his shoulders, and a Nirvana T-shirt. His T-shirt was of the image from Nirvana’s album In Utero. (Yes. Really.) The couple said they hoped to have kids too someday. I could already tell, meeting them, that I would think of them often in the future, think of them at random moments and wish them well, and beam them love.

I love talking about my C-section in the checkout line at a store in the mall, with kind and random strangers. I would say I talk about it casually, but I do not, because it is not a casual thing. It is a deep thing. Our conversation about C-sections, and bodies, and recovery, and children, was intimate and deep, and no less so even though it was brief and we didn’t even know each other’s names. I love talking about my childbirth experience not because it was joyful and perfect but because it was so hard. I think we need to bring what’s hard, what hurts, about and to and in our bodies out into the public. I want to bring my body out into the light.

When it was my turn to pay, I said to the guy and the woman, “It was so nice talking with you.” They laughed brightly, said, “You too!”

***

18 months later, and I still discuss my childbirth experience, in vivid detail, at pretty much every single one of my weekly therapy sessions. I am beginning to be able to sort through the murk and muck of it and find… something else. What else? I don’t think it’s fully processed, not yet. It’s still in the cave! I will share more later.

***

On a warm Sunday morning I took my daughter to a baby play gym. I don’t drive. (This is an important element of the backstory of this story, promise! :) I take my daughter to places on public commuter trains, strapped to my chest. I have carried her to places this way, on public transportation, since she was three months old–much as, when I was a baby, in Brooklyn, New York, my mother took me to places on the train.

When we were getting ready to leave the play gym, I saw that all trains on our train line were to be canceled for the afternoon; someone had trespassed onto the train tracks, the red alert said, and died. I’ll also need to share that one of my biggest fears this past year, carrying my daughter with me on public transportation, has been that our train would be canceled, and she and I would be stranded somewhere, alone. What would happen to us? How would we manage? What would we do, stranded and alone? I still took her to places. I just went afraid, a little inner thrumming of fear that accompanied us along the journey, interlacing my joy at taking my daughter on adventures.

Well, that Sunday at noon, this fear came to pass. It materialized, here in the real world. I called my partner, J. My voice was a little shaky as I explained what was going on. But as I spoke, I also began to realize something: this did not feel as bad as I had thought. Actually, I was okay. J could come get us, but not right away. We really were going to be stranded and alone for a while, with no way to get home, just as I had feared might happen someday.

I felt my body acclimating to our present reality. I felt my system slowing down. I felt my breath relaxing. Actually, I realized, I was okay. We were okay.

My daughter and I hung out at the baby play place until it closed. We ate a grilled cheese sandwich together. It was from the kids’ menu, so it was perfectly gooey and soft. I drank a tea. My daughter had some milk. We were okay.

When the baby play place closed, we left. Oh, it was the most beautiful day, kind of like that grilled cheese sandwich–golden, gooey, squishable, summer-damp, and soft. It was the kind of day you’ll grieve, you’ll miss, because it’s so beautiful, and it’s going to go away. My baby and I had nowhere to go. I realized, walking under the dappled greening light of a tree, that this had transformed by its very coming to pass from a fear into a delight. We had nowhere to go, nothing to do. We could do anything we liked. We weren’t just okay. We were free.

We went to a cafe. It’s a cafe we visit often, because we go to this town to visit baby play places all the time, we have done since my daughter was only a few weeks old. People at this cafe know me, not only by sight (the short lady with the curly hair who wears the baby), but my name, my daughter’s name. I got a snack, sat down in a chair. I don’t normally sit in the soft, wide, cushy chairs, the ones where you can’t easily lay down your phone and notebook on a table and journal, but that Sunday afternoon I did. I ate my snack. While I did, my baby fell asleep. She fell asleep with her sweaty head on my chest. My daughter runs very, very hot; she is always sweaty and flushed when she sleeps. The front of my summer sundress, the one with the deep pockets, grew wet. I finished my snack, and then I just sat. I had nothing to do. I couldn’t even scroll my phone; it had little battery, and I wanted to preserve it until J arrived to pick us up. So I just sat in a soft chair. My arms dangled, aimless, my body nothing but a soft bed for my baby to sleep on. She slept, blissfully. When she woke up a short while later, I took her to the cafe bathroom, unstrapped her, and changed her diaper. I set her on the floor and went to the bathroom myself; she watched me and giggled. (Yes, all those stories about not even being able to pee by yourself when you have a toddler are true!)

J arrived. We moved to a larger table and sat there a while. J had brought the stroller from home; we transferred the baby into that. J drank some tea also, went to the bathroom. I bought the baby a fruit puree (they sell toddler food at the cafe!) and gave it to her. Slowly, she is becoming able to feed herself. J said, “Do they know you at this cafe?” I said, “Yes. We come here all the time.”

J drove us all home. The summer’s day was golden and blue, enchanted. Trees, neighborhoods, generous houses, and many places that hold memories for us passed us by as we drove. It was a dream. It was one of our best days ever. J says, “I loved that one day I picked you up in that little town and we just hung out.”

When I shared this story at my moms’ group, several friends said, “If you ever get stranded again, just text me and come to my house. You know I live right here in town.” I say that I was okay. I was better than okay. I wasn’t alone. I was safe. My daughter is safe with me. I am safe in the world.

***

And some poetry I wrote… this August, in Jan Fortune’s Lammas writing workshop, we wrote about seeds.

2 years ago today,

I hosted an embryo.

She came from a seed

in my left ovary.

Growing inside that embryo one day

were seeds!

All the seeds of potential

embryos that my daughter might host in her body someday–

or might not!

Last March I gave birth

to the seeds of my granddaughters.

They pulled my uterus fresh

from my body,

sliced it open to free

my generations, me as

future ancestor.

How does it feel to be a seed?

How does it feel to be a tightly closed bud that is going to unfurl?

How does it feel to be a greenling that will push forth from damp spring earth?

Does it hurt? Does a plant feel?

How does the baby animal in the egg feel, knowing it must muster strength to crack open her own shell, from the inside out? How does she know that it is time?

To think you grew

a body full of internal organs.

You weren’t thinking about it, but

one day while you were stretching in yoga, or dreaming, or walking like a lumbering giant, or cutting the deck of tarot cards, or talking in front of the classroom, a brain was acquiring its deep grooves. An artery was tunneling into being. A kidney or liver formed out of nothing. A heart separated into 4 chambers and began pumping her own blood. You’ll carry a little of her genetic material in you, always. She makes you, descendant and ancestor.

***

Some writing notions for y’all.

*What do you remember from this summer? What do you want to remember?

*What places hold memories for you?

*Where do they know you, not only by sight but by name? Where do you want to build community, to be known?

*What was so much better, so much less scary, than you thought?

*Recall a time you had a meaningful conversation with a stranger.

*If you haven’t, take time before this summer’s over to do nothing.

*What seeds are living inside you?

*Our world is full of fresh horrors. It is also so full of so many things so beautiful they will make you cry. How do we feel safe in this world of ours?

• - -

Hey. I’m Mistress M / Nikki Ali. I’m a writer, writing guide, teacher, dancer, and creative activist based in Newark, New Jersey.

I am a person whose ancestors were enslaved people who helped build the structures of this country where I live. I stand with the lightworkers + those seeking the liberation of all peoples from oppression. I live + create most humbly on Mohican + Lenape territory, and I lovingly acknowledge the ancestors + elders, past and present, of the land on which we live.

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• - -

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