There is something about us
that only we understand
but could never explain . . .

something in not only the way we see the world
but how we learn from it.
There is a mild nature within us
that whispers to others “we are gentle” –
even when we are most firm.
At a glance, we can tell
more about each other
than any volume could unfold
because of something born within our kind
even before we, as individuals,
were conceived . . .
from something
created inside our souls
long before we felt “soulful” . . .
from something that cannot be denied
and will not be ignored.

It is a deeper understanding,
a stronger bond.
It is love between black people . . .
and love for ourselves.

Tara Jaye Centeio.  “Mahogany” Hallmark Card from series of Hallmark Cards, Inc., Kansas City, MO.

When I ran across this hallmark card today (mind you, I keep everything — Ron might tell you that I’m a borderline hoarder), I couldn’t help but think about Dr. Dale Brubaker’s class during my doctoral days at UNC-Greensboro.  We were tasked with writing an autobiographical narrative of sorts — the exact parameters for the assignment escape me now, but I remember thinking back then, around 1999-2000, as a young scholar, a relatively new wife and mother, and so on, just how inextricably woven my mother’s life and mine were.  As a matter of fact, I could NOT write my autobiography WITHOUT incorporating a biography of her life.  I used the “Mahogany” poem in my document for this assignment because it seemed to aptly express the mystical/spiritual/(undoubtedly) biological connection we shared.

My mother was so taken by the finished product, especially the biographical narrative I had written about her, to the extent that she sent it to be published by the Mt. Vernon Institute in Washington, DC., when she was asked to serve as a consultant in the Leadership program there.  She gave it the title Personal Mythology of Lillie M. Jones, which I thought was quite curious then because when you think of a myth or of mythology, for one, you think of a folk tale or of a fabled or fabricated story; when you think of a mythology, you think of heralded Greek and Roman stories with gods and goddesses like Zeus and Hera, Poseidon and Hercules or like the Anansi spider of the Ashanti people in West African culture.  These types of tales emanate out of the ethos of a culture and were created to explain the sometimes unexplainable.

A broader definition of the term myth, though (and this could have been the thought pattern of my mom when she coined the title) is “a traditional story, especially one concerning the early history of a people or explaining some natural or social phenomenon, and typically involving supernatural beings or events.”  Another synonym for myth is  “legend.”

Well, now!

I don’t know if Lillie considered herself legendary or not, but I most certainly do now and was thinking it then as I wrote mom’s biography.  The story I wrote contains her history from her formative years in Brevard, NC, all the way to her retirement in 2000 from the Guilford County School System.  What’s interesting is that The Western North Carolina United Methodist Conference office has asked me to put together a biographical sketch for mom that will be presented at Annual Conference this summer and will be published in their official Obituary for 2015 for their archives.  So in addition to the years I have already chronicled of mom, I will be adding to her rich story her remaining 15 years.  Again, as I have stated over and over . . . the privilege is absolutely mine to do this.  My cousin has even reached out to me to discuss perhaps writing a Wikipedia page for mom.  Wow!

I suppose I should stop being in such awe of God’s timeliness and His sovereignty concerning every thing and all things, but I am simply in awe.  Yes, I miss my mother terribly, but to be put in a position to honor her legacy in the medium that she prophesied would be my life vocation – that of a writer – is just beyond me.  For verily, it is coming to pass . . . and seemingly, without my permission.  I’m just walking into these opportunities.

Anyway, what’s even more noteworthy about all of this . . . and I know you’ve been waiting for me to finally get to the point (smiley face) . . . when I was presented with the assignment in Dr. Brubaker’s class, I thought of my mother in legendary terms.  I considered my mother then as – a mighty river – and I was a mere brook at the time.

This is what I wrote in the Preface of my narrative autobiography:

“Blessed is the [woman] that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way or sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful.  But [her] delight is in the law of the Lord; and in [her] law doth [she] meditate day and night.  And [she] shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth [her] season; [her] leaf also shall not wither, and whatsoever [she] doeth shall prosper.”  (Psalm 1:1)

In this passage, David is saying that if one lives her life in accordance with God’s will, she will be blessed with good crops and will be prosperous for and in her season.  God, through nature, has a sobering yet awesome and majestic way of reconnecting His children to the source of their strength when they need it most.  That strength is manifested in the Holy Spirit that believers know is granted only through God’s grace and mercy.

Particularly, mothers have a tremendous responsibility as incubators and bearers of LIFE.  Obviously they can’t produce life alone; seeds have to be planted for fertilization.  How our mothers nurture those seeds once planted depends to a great extent on how they themselves are fed and nurtured.  By their very nature, our mothers are rivers (whether they want to accept full responsibility or not) out of which emanates, evolves, emerges brooks.

Just to fathom God imbuing me with the capacity to . . . be a life bearer, mother, nurturer – a river – gives me goose pimples, especially as I sit and reflect on just how much I have come to appreciate my earthly life-source, my mother.  Not that I haven’t always considered her one of the greatest people on earth.  My own process of individuation and initiation into womanhood has propelled me to another level of understanding, hence affording me a quintessential affinity with my mother now that I will relish forever.  It’s more than just considering, as kids say, that she’s the “greatest mom in the world.”  This statement is a gross understatement.

I must emphasize again that a transition had to occur in my life, an epiphany, to bring me to this point of illumination.  Daniel J. Levinson supports this process of transcendence in The Seasons of a Woman’s Life:

 “. . . a transition is both an ending and a beginning.  As an ending, it requires us to deal with termination, loss, separation, departure, completion.  As a beginning it presents the task of initiation:  exploring new possibilities, altering our existing relationships, and searching for aspects of self and world out of which new relationships might evolve” (Levinson, 1996, pp. 33-34).

Like a mighty river that receives its strength from an eternal source, my mother has never ceased to be nurturing, perceptive, and sensitive to the needs of her family.  I am most enamored though by her past and invigorated and encouraged by her capacity to achieve against all odds.  Subsequently and not accidentally, the philosophies she has taught me all have been those that surround the theme of self-preservation, but also of love and compassion . . . of service.

Rivers

Black women

r
e
f
u
s
e
to be

scenic ponds that have no depth,
majestic lakes that birthed no civilizations,
minor tributaries that run a course
other than their own.

We
are
rivers
wide
deep
insistent
powering

R
I
V
E
R
S.

Gloria Wade Gayles.  (1991).   Anointed to Fly.  New York, NY:  Harlem River Press, 14.

Then I went on to write about the river (about 15 pages).  At the conclusion of her biography, I wrote this segue to my own life story . . .

When the Brook Meets the River

As I position my life categorically beside my mother’s life, I see similarities – I know I wouldn’t be who I am right now if it weren’t for her direct influence on my life and my ultimate choices.  I am eternally grateful because I believe I have made an impact in the teaching profession, I have made some wonderful, professional acquaintances, I have had the honor . . . to teach [a few] really gifted students who are serious about learning, about improving education, and about eventually (one day) giving back to their communities.  I am striving to be a good wife and mother.  I am a better student now because of her.

Yet I hear my own voice emerging.  My river is increasing in strength because of my accumulation of experiences and my preparation by God to nurture my [three] brooks.  Should I anticipate resistance?  Sure.  Should I cease praying and nurturing and being perceptive and sensitive?  Never, because the current of the river draws back unto its own brooks, no matter how far they stray.

             Like the mighty river, intersecting, yet connecting – flowing in and out – our lives are inextricably entangled – their lives are my life.  They emanate from me – my life is their life.  I draw strength from them.  We run this course together because it was divinely purposed, conspired and ordered as such.  When the brook meets the river . . .

Now, guided by the Spirit of my dear mother, still the mighty river, the legendary mythological woman that she was and is, I know that I am still emerging.

Stay tuned as I finish the entire story, which mom was attempting to complete herself over the course of the last six months of her life, entitled How I Got Over.

In love and charity,

Giselle