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“Didn’t you know…
That the higher you go…
Is the more you expose…
If you’re a thorn or a rose?”
– A wise soul and friend
This reminds me of the Jamaican proverb:
“The higha monkey climb, di more him expose”
I often find wisdom in observing the experiences, successes and mistakes of my friends. As a result of this, I began thinking about my future in my field of media and communication. I’m currently a student but I’ve always been a bit far-sighted. Thoughts of the impression I would have on the Jamaican media landscape or if I would even leave an impression, surfaced. I know that often times a certain level of popularity in your field fosters an increase in income in some cases or is even considered by many to be the measure of success. Because of this, we find ourselves not wanting to simply be mediocre but to be renowned.
The thing is, there is not only up-thrust, but gravity as well. As we ascend, more of who we are is exposed. Your faults, imperfections, insecurities and weaknesses are all topics for a public forum. With this, many are pulled down to an emotional state lower than what they began at.
The perspective in which the first quote was said and the second is interpreted in, is in fact a bit more beneficial for those of us still on the ground looking up at another floating to higher heights or a monkey climbing a tree. We are at a vantage point to see who someone really is. Their lives are on display, much like every Real Housewife on Bravo can attest to. At this angle, we see that of our subject which is flattering and that which is quite the contrary and which of the two overpowers the other. For indeed, every rose bush includes roses as well as thorns. As we attempt to ascend with as little jealously or “bad mine (mind)” for the chale above us, let us try our utmost to use our GROUNDED position to avoid getting pricked.
Reflection is good sometimes I think. From it I’ve realize I’m much more girly now than in my prior years, embracing make-up and fashion (and yes, clearly biased to the vibrant prints of African wax fabrics). But, I realize, SO ARE MEN.. maybe even more so than actual girls but only, in a different way. Clearly there are many strutting the underground catwalks in make-up when the hidden gender of many is revealed, but I’m referring to a more general sense and bear in mind that my perspective is based on what I am and am not accustomed to based my culture.
I see pics of men in their younger years looking like a sir, smooth and confident even in those tight high rise jeans…
…and now as the tumultuous “joys” of child rearing set in, I see a few conflicting mannerisms peeping through: crossing their legs when they sit ? <check> ..emotional about every issue and topic including conflicts presented in Disney movies ? <check> .. assuming the role of the nag-er in the relationship ? <check> …wow, that’s 3/3.
Now this is clearly not the case for all men but of most fathers I’ve been coming across since this year.
There’s even androgen, the male menopause. Come again? Decline in testosterone tht results in the same symptoms as menopause? It is clear what’s really going on. MATURITY for both sexes, simply means being more like the stereotypical FEMALE (which females are not even like any more!) solution for males: end this concept they pass off as “growing up” *drops pen, walks away*
African prints, I can’t get enough of u…
When my mom and I started Sundara Fabrics, our focus was on Indian textiles. Indigo prints, ikats, kalamkari (beautiful hand-painted cotton), and hand blocked-prints for sewing are very difficult to find here in the States. We realized that we were leaving out lots of amazing textile traditions from different parts of the world. And every fabric-lover knows how hard it is to refuse a gorgeous piece of material to add to their stash. Hence, we decided to offer fabrics from Africa, too.
I fell hard for African wax prints. Personally, I am drawn to modern and colorful prints, so I love their bold graphics.
Surprisingly these African fabrics are truly global in origin. Many are produced in the Netherlands, for the West African market, using a technique developed over a century ago in Indonesia. For more history, I suggest this interesting article.
Finally, some inspiration. These images came from this…
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When the Earth calls to her, she answers, is the only way to perfectly express this girl’s spontaneity. I affectionately call her Luigi (in an Italian accent) and she calls me Mario (yes, I am indeed the short, fluffier one). She’s a musician, effortless poet, and this…is her work. Pure Magic…
That pang of pain making its way from your gut up to your chest,
Brimming, flowing, spouting hot almost acidic.
Emotions.
All the while following the wave of heat coursing through your now limp frame, mercilessly leaving torrid remnants in its wake…
The heat… it’s at your eyes now. You let it flow, warm at first then quickly cooling.
Like a sweet breath of fresh air; the one that you take in through your nose and out through your mouth.
But me? I close my eyes. I send the heat back from whence it came.
I will not shed tears no matter how they sweetly beckon to me.
I focus on whatever triggered this goddamned feeling, I hate it with all I have. I dismiss it,
Like it never even existed.
I smile and shrug. Then,
“Ha! Who me? I’m not jealous”
– Luigi aka Lola
Recently, a number of my friends have lost a loved one. Whether it be a grandparent, parent or the person they fell in love with and with me truly empathizing, my observations with a very keen eye began once more. I even began assessing my own capacity to love.
Most of the time, I do not bat an eyelash about not knowing my three deceased grandparents and barely knowing the one alive who abandoned my mother months after her birth. She did this to live down the shame associated with having multiple children with different men in Caribbean society and fled to England to start a whole new life, pretending the last was a mere dream: cruel, but understandable.
But then there are times that I am really bothered by not knowing them. I have no stories to tell, no traditions they passed on to me directly, no laughs together nor accounts of their reprimands done in love and concern. I know not their mannerisms, tendencies, habits or how my body reacts to the warmth of theirs.
But with love, comes that which consumes us with joy and contentment… and that which breeds pain and contempt. Ying and Yang. Love says boldly, “take all of me, or none of me”.
As cliché as it must sound, our lives are a puzzle. As we embark an its trail set before us, often times detouring and making a new trail where there was none, we traverse through its obstacles and experiences, we are rewarded with another piece to the puzzle which we must fit in at its corresponding and appropriate spot and ultimately, at the end, we can take a step back, observe, and see what our lives really meant, see our purpose. As our purpose is not an “is” but a “was”. It cannot be predicted. We do not discover it at the beginning of this journey when we are pushed out of our homes that once cradled us in supportive fluid, but when we are to return. Then do we see our impact on the secular. What our purpose was. Love love and all that comes with it, or live with a puzzle piece missing. Live with a “if only…then I’d be able to fill this spot with a puzzle piece, fulfil my purpose in its entirety.”
For those who love chose, a glorious beginning was experienced, as well as a less than exciting end. Once we have felt love’s touch, it pulls something out of you, a feeling you become attached to, something that seems impossible to part from. Many become angry and full of resentment at times, that it is not our choice to keep while others accept its farewell softly, without resistance, but filled with sorrow nevertheless. But unfortunately we cannot put order to what we did not choose. It applies to true intimate love, as well as genuine platonic love. The parting of grandparents or the estrangement of friends can sometimes hurt as much as separation from a soul mate. But never is a soul mate, a “the”, unless we choose it to be. It is possible to love intimately, twice in a lifetime, contrary to popular belief. A devoted wife, now a widow finds another who does not replace her last love, but fulfils that which is required of the second, and that’s perfectly fine. Here we choose to accept love after it has chosen us. With a family member though, it becomes a bit more convoluted. How do we manufacture blood really?
I wish love chose me. As simple as this sounds, I wish I knew my grandparents. I wish I felt love’s embrace in heritage. But I am happy for those who did and will hope to gain a puzzle piece through them, live through their experiences.
I say Rejoice in the time you had with love. Thank the God, the Giver of Love, Love Himself, for the way he allowed you to feel him and resolve that it actually does not end, but it is transferred to another realm, a different form. Adele, my darling, you’re ex-lover missed the mark: In true love, All times, it lasts in love, and in all instances, it eventually hurts. Accept both.
The Observations of an Earthian 