2017: A Transition

I sit in the Middle Eastern bakery in my Akron neighborhood, gazing out the window at the local locksmiths. Next to it was a bright blue house shedding it's siding like skin, much like the community around it which is always many things at once--both old and new, hope and decay, ebb and flow. 

We are in the midst of the greatest paradox, and we call it life. 

I go up to pay for my lunch, and am greeted by the store owner. She has become a constant in my life. We call one another family, but neither of us has said so with words. We speak through our eyes. 

"Whomever it is that is making you sad," she says, "Is not worth it. I see you over there in the corner, looking out the window. Let them go. Life is too short." She rings up my check and I hand her my card with an endearing smile.

"I hear you," I reply, an honoring nod an acknowledgement that I have received her wisdom. She has many more years than I. 

I open the old frame of the metal door and am hit with a wave of winter, accidentally allowing the door to slam shut from the shock of the gust of brisk needles. I put my hand up as an apology to all inside, and wave good-bye to the owner. 

On my way home, I stop by at the local taqueria, opening the screen door to peek inside at the fountain drinks on the right. I'm greeted by the store owner, wave my hellos, and turn to the right to take a look at the fountain drinks. Pink, brown, and white--no mango. Damn.

"We have no mango drink!" I turn and see the other store owner smile laughing at me. 

I laugh out loud in reply. She knows me not because I come to eat food often, but because I stop in seeking this $2.00 delicious giant mango drink I have no cultural context for. It has become an exchange of endearment between the two of us every time I come in.

The owners speak to one another in Spanish, and the first turns to me and says, "We need to wait until we are out of one flavor. We'll have mango all next week."

"I'll be here!" I smile, waving my good-byes. I take a mental note to eat here next week, too, so they know I'm not just a fan of the mango drink. I walk next store to the small grocery store and get a stock house of Jarritos. I've decided I like drinking Jarritos because the bottle makes me feel fancy. Plus they're delicious.

Once I'm home, I'm cutting potatoes into small pieces and thinking of my year in Philadelphia where my housemate cut potatoes every week, baked them as a skillet, and put them in separate containers as his food for the week. It was his staple, and I always wondered how he didn't get tired of potatoes and chicken, but he didn't. I got tired of everything in Philadelphia, but my spirit didn't respond well to routine and monotony. It was good for a season.

And now I'm here, food for the week in the oven, sipping Kona coffee out of a mug, looking out upon the living room of the place I call home. What a rocky transition to finally feel at home. But I know that this place finally is home. For how long, that I do not know. But I sense I will be staying here a while. 

I've been mesmerized watching videos of poi pounding, watching hands repetitiously fold poi bathed in water. It reminds me so much of dough being kneaded, of my mama's hands folding dough from her grandmother's roll recipe, integrating it upon itself again and again. 

I think our lives are a bit like this, being folded upon themselves in a circular motion as we integrate our new selves upon old selves and new passions into old spaces. We ourselves are in a constant state of renewal and folding and unfolding as the seasons of our lives mesh with one another.

Life is but a paradox.

I am a writer. Even as I write those words I hesitate to proclaim them for they have deep implications. I have wrestled time and time again with claiming being a writer, or an artist, even. I've found much more solace in embracing the identity of "creative."

But I sense that it's time. I sense that it's time and things have aligned so that I may practice the discipline of writing in my day to day.

I am a product of all who have poured into me, and so my words are merely a reflection of all those who have taught me much. I am a product of many teachers of many cultures, worldviews, and experiences, and I seek to honor and esteem each and every one of them in my writing. My hands are open in service.

I am a storyteller who paints with words to expand people's theological imaginations towards an understanding that we can care for one another better.

For such a time as this, may it be so. 


 

Photo Credit: Sara Fouts