compassion

Ode to Kiwi – Day 23

| Sheree

Kiwi, my love. Let’s celebrate the love we have for each other.

Just over a year together and we have been places. Seen the seas,

oceans, mountains and streams. Moonrise and sunrise, we have

witnessed with each other. Thank you my love, for allowing me to ride by your side.

We’ve both seen some years play upon our bodies. We are both

worn and rusted. Speed will hear us protest loudly, as we ricket

over potholes and obstacles. But neither stop us.

I’m learning to read your sounds, your warnings. Creaking while

stationary, rocking to and fro when I walk within you, and then

you roll back. Handbrake on truly on.

Rattling while climbing a hill, crawling almost on out knees, slip

back down a gear and then we cruise. I hear you humming,

singing all the tarmac and I feel your joy, matching mine.

Kiwi, little sage in colour. My love. Maybe this is a colour I would

never have fallen in love with. Too pale, too fickle. And yet on

you, I accept it all. Got a lot of extra paint to touch you up when

you fall and scratch yourself. Of rather me. I’m sorry about that

lamppost. To be fair, I couldn’t see it around your fat arse. But I love

your behind, your front, your sides and all.

I love everything about you Kiwi, because I think through our time

together and I adventures, base and far, I have learnt out to

navigate this big and ugly and brutal world with you. And

because of our partnership, I have grown in confidence and wisdom.

Daily, when we go outside to there, as one my love, I learn how

to appreciate the beauty of this world, once more.

And I can only thank you for this realisation.

Thank you Kiwi.

How to Create a Ritual for Writing(Springtime) – Day 22

| Sheree

Play Love Devotion on repeat as I (re)enter the world from sleep, with gratitude and grace.

Welcome.

Open the email from Lemon Grove Writers.

Read the inspiration for the day’s prompt.

Breathe.

Listen to the birds.

Allow the morning air to chill my cheeks.

Smile into the feeling.

Allow it to cascade over my whole body.

Joy.

Read a suggested poem.

Take a word, a structure, a spark.

And jump. Write off and out from there.

Allow the energy to flow through me. Onto the page.

Read over it.

Redraft with a light touch.

There. Right there.

Something Spot lit. Post.

Driving Bodies for Profit, A Narrative Poem – Day 19

| Sheree

Black women’s bodies could be speculated on.

Prime hands. Breeding bitches.

Their owners were interested in their reproductive capacities.

Examinations were necessary. Teeth, back, bellies and vaginas.

Wide child bearing hips were a bonus.

Clean them up good to catch a higher price.

Healthy took on a whole other meaning

during these times, these cruel times,

when monsters sold humans for profit.

The birth of children was essential to the growth

of the Southern economy once slavery became illegal.

Anything could be mortgaged on the backs of those children.

Children that were never meant for Black women to mother,

to love and see grow up.

They say that there was a second middle passage

as prime Black women were shipped around

from one plantation to another, sold, driving a profit,

driving their bodies for more and more bodies

for labour and babies.

Fugitive Practice

| Sheree

For those of us who live at the shoreline… Audre Lorde

It will be 10 years this August that I started my visual journaling practice.

Then it was called Dreaming on Paper, as I completed the course of the same name by Lisa Sonora.

I needed a safe space to explore the tumult of my feelings and thoughts. I was going through a traumatic experience of escape really. Escape from the life I’d spent the past 12 years building up, that was took away in the flick of a Facebook post.

I ran away from the public, the writing community, my home as I travelled into the Scottish Highlands and Islands. To heal.

Visual journaling helped me heal. Helps me continue to heal.

Overtime, I’ve come to understand my visual journal practice as a fugitive practice. Within these paints, images and words, dreams of freedom are planned out and eventually come to fruition. Projects, happenings, events – all on my own terms.

I mean, the whole point about escape is that it’s an activity. It’s not an achievement. You don’t ever get escaped. – Fred Moten

Within these visual journal spreads, I work out how to escape, how to get outside white supremacy culture while still having to be living on the inside. Coming to terms with the thought of that the outside can only occur from the inside. Being here.

Visual journaling is me trying to create an opening, a break in the fabric in which to slip on through into the otherside/ outside, into the woods running between the trees with the dogs barking at my feet. Creating beauty, creating a beautiful space in which to linger in while the terror rages around me.

Visual journaling is a safe space, is a nurturing space, is a free space.

Tender, Undoing Self Within Night’s Skin – Day 13

| Sheree

I say to myself : stop. Stop undoing yourself within night’s skin.

Tell myself a promise to sort out my living habits so I don’t die prematurely like my mum.

Imagine the tenderness: like soft beige rolls of fat, like soft pink tongues languishing in wet mouths, like soft woollen blankets tickling toes.

I may no longer be the second daughter, the misfit who could conjure a soul’s reflection through colourful art.

Please night as you stretch out your skin one more time, please be tender with my damaged, twisted stars.

Couplets – Open Heart – Day 12

| Sheree

Feel the breeze through the trees. Even the leaves strive

to stay alive. The energy is flowing through you, my love.

Pause and feel its spinning. The way of this world , freedom

is for the taking with every breath, linger

in the outside, the black outside while still enclosed within,

for now.

Revisions – Day 11

| Sheree
Come Again

Day 9 – Goofing off Revisions/ redrafting

Ten years. Ten long years of changes, I’ve been dreaming on paper.

I had to give myself permission.

To create again. Safely.

I was fearful. Fearful of the word. Images are safer. Images speak to the soul.

Paint. Takes me back to being a child and all I wanted was love and joy.

Tapping into this feeling of being with self, I show up to the page. Each day.

Each day, I have the opportunity to start again.

Each day I have the opportunity to meet the sunrise anew.

[the hour after] – Day 8

| Sheree

Letting my brain catch up with the happening, I allow my heart to stop for an instant. Feeling unmoored to make sense, far too soon.

If only I had saw it coming. If only someone had thought to talk to me before this. Maybe things would be different, maybe the wound wouldn’t cut so deep.

Needing to rewind the clocks, to go back to that ignorant bliss, that season of love and acceptance, is a fool’s wish.

Under the avalanche of words, I move silent into the dark night, to piece myself back together following a different schema, charting an undiscovered course.

[the hour before] – Day 7

| Sheree

I know I was in the full of it all. Life overflowing.

With all its distractions and demands and me thinking I’m the central force.

I know I was missing from the family home, chasing the next big gig, the next recognition slip.

Maybe my family had eaten for the day and I’d missed it again.

Maybe I had to circle the streets trying to find a parking space for at least half an hour.

I know I carried loads of bags with stuff packed just in case, always worried about being unprepared and found wanting.

I know I lacked the self-belief and love of self. I know I needed more of everything.

So when night fell, and I found myself still working, reorganising books for god’s sake, I know I wasn’t prepared for the public shaming.

But my gut probably knew this day of failure would come to expose me for the imposter always felt and knew.