nature

Giving Myself the Right to Refuse – Day 24

| Sheree

I give myself

the right to refuse.

The right to refuse

what has already

been refused to me.

These rules, standards,

boundaries and barriers, I refuse.

I’m taking myself

outside.

I refuse to be labelled

and placed in one

of your boxes. I refuse.

And when I think about it, from being a child,

asking questions

and taking the beats for them questions,

I’ve always occupied

this refusal, but I never

had the words for it,

the language to hold

it up to the light

and investigate.

To amberfy it.

Until now.

Thank you Fred.

Thank you Saidiya.

Thank you Dal.

I refuse to take up

the subservient position

of ‘black’, to play

the good slave,

to kiss your boots

that continue

to kick me in the face.

Nah man! I refuse.

I refuse the choices

you offer me

and I carve out my own. I refuse

your parameters

and (re)imagine

other possibilities.

I’m tapping into

my own desires

which you could

never claim

or tame. I refuse what was refused me – rights,

responsibilities, respectabilities,

and stepping into

the rapid rivers

flowing fugitivity.

I’m ceasing up my body and running,

outside,

escaping

your oppressions.

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.

Find the Good – Day 18

| Sheree

I’ve been thinking of moving to the Highlands, buying a small cottage by a loch and swim every morning.

There’s a river too, that haunts the glen, between my cottage and the mountains. I feel it, breathing within the shadow of mountains.

I know this is not just a pipe dream. I know someone who’s done it, made the move across the border, living a blessed life.

I’ve been thinking of an open fire where I’d bake bread with the sun rise and when ready sit sit out on the porch with thick slices, warm and buttered. Dripping butter and the air smelling like home.

My home.

I’m thinking there’s one village store miles away. I walk every other day for exercise. On the way, I bird spot. Blackbird, moorhen, blue tit, eagle.

Small talk with the store owner might be difficult after long moments of silence in my cottage by the loch. In the silence I can hear myself better.

Being a water woman and a mountain woman, I will welcome the solitude and the haunting rolling out before me as nothing would hold me back.

Sakura – Day 16

| Sheree

At the tail end of winter,

loaded with blousy, pink,

double flowers with frilly edges,

are Japanese blooming cherry

trees. At mere sight,

I become mooncalf,

mooning over their delicate

blooms. Reborn.

For a few weeks at least,

hope trembles through

the boughs.

The present moment

like each pink, soft cluster,

is cherished.

Tell me what you’re looking for in a relationship in one sentence – Day 14

| Sheree

Ohhh good question.

Laughter and fun, with trust and communication, honesty and commitment but not in a heavy sense but much love and affection and respect and joy, I spent a long time in a relationship that wasn’t joyful and really what’s the point, life’s too short to waste time and energy on people who don’t treat you right or who aren’t happy in themselves, I want to be with someone who makes time for me and us, just like I make time for them and us, hey I get it, people are busy, leading busy lives but I’m of the belief that if you want to be with someone you make time and effort to be/do just that.

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.