“You gotta be mo’ in this world” (21, Shange)<\/p>\n
“Indigo’s specialties were other worlds, fiddling” (34, Shange)<\/p>\n
“I just can’t imagine another world” (63, Shange)<\/p>\n
“There was so much to do. Black people needed so many things” (2, Shange)<\/p>\n
—————<\/p>\n
I’m thinking a lot about what has got to be birthed into this world and what worlds have got to be birthed:<\/p>\n
Sometimes, the apocalyptic-ness of our times threatens to stop me in my tracks–I feel fear spread up my back, belly and chest, all hot and prickly. I go numb.<\/p>\n
And then I remember learning to make apple pie with my Grandmother.<\/p>\n
I don’t remember a lot about her anymore but I just remember that day: the Kitchen is too hot and I’m sweating and really bad at kneading dough because I am a child, with clumsy child fingers. But her<\/em> fingers move all swift and skillful “recipe, and ritual”<\/em>. And all I can remember about the moment otherwise is that, that woman just loved me–\u00a0so much<\/em>. And I can feel her taking care of me–teaching me to create something that will nourish our spirits–every time I remember to reach for her (memory).<\/p>\n I think the memory sometimes exists like a pocket-world I can inhabit and draw strength from. It beats the life back into me on days I don’t want to feel anything anymore, when the fear creeps and \u00a0I forget to “take care”.<\/p>\n