writing

Satda Mornings

| Sheree

You’ve got to love Saturday mornings. The promise of the weekend ahead. The mix between wanting to lie in and getting out there and {BEING}.

I’m loudly advocating for what I want this morning and that is time to write and muse and drink coffee after coffee.

So I’ve been over on the Earth Sea Love Substack page sharing about a recent literary project I’ve been involved with. I wrote about creativity, motherhood, blackness and publishing on the Substack.

And being a Black mother in the publication.

Entwined: an Anthology of Creativity & Motherhood

A collaborative anthology and art journal to kindle creativity in motherhood. Edited by Sarah Shott.

My writing is included in this anthology of creativity and motherhood and I thought you might want to check it out!

Rest is a Revolution

| Sheree

How do you know when it’s time to unplug? What do you do to make it happen?

When I start avoiding people. Start avoiding those conversations, connections with other people. Not being able to muster the energy to just look someone in the eye, I know it is time to unplug, unwind and retreat.

When my mind becomes a jumbled mess of to-dos, guilt-tripping myself galore with feelings of not being good enough. Then I know it is time to unplug, unwind and retreat.

When I no longer receive pleasure from the things I love to do, like writing, creating, eating. {BEING}. I know then, time to step away from the tasks, the commitments, the noise, the violence and the ruin and hide.

Stop. Breathe. Lick wounds. Apply water inside and out. And come back to centre. My centre. Me, being just me.

No actions or words in attempt to prove myself. No singing and dancing routine to grab your attention. Nothing wise or in service here.

Just someone unplugging from the system unsure whether or not she wants to plug back in on someone else’s terms.

WATERLINE

| Sheree

By Ocean Vuong

If I should wake & the Ark

the Ark already

gone

If there was one shivering thing

at my side

If the snow in his hair

was all that was left

of the fire

If we ran through the orchard

with our mouths

wide open

& still too small

for amen

If I nationed myself

in the shadow

of a colossal wave

If only to hold on

by opening—

by kingdom come

give me this one

eighth day

let me enter

this nearly-gone yes

the way death enters

anything fully

without a trace

Taken from Emergence Magazine