I'm like a pencil;
sometimes sharp,
most days
well-rounded,
other times
dull or
occasionally
broken.
Still I write.
j.g. lewis
is a writer/photographer in Toronto.
Category: Uncategorised
by Abena Buahene
I grew up believing there was something magical about Sunday mornings.
Snuggled deep in my featherbed as frost from a Canadian winter framed the window, or laying on top of a crisp sheet and breathing the scent of Freesias that had hitched a ride on a Mediterranean breeze to my bedroom, Sunday mornings, no matter where in the world we lived, always had their own predictable and comforting rhythm.
I would lay there in that delicious state of being awake, but not quite ready to jump out of bed and begin the day. Unlike the other days of the week where mornings were about getting to school, work, or Saturday wash day, Sunday mornings were about my mother’s ritual.
Always I was quite happy to lay there and let ritual unfold.
The coffee grinder was the first sign that my mother was up and about. Now, you have to know this noise was reserved for only Sunday morning coffee or when my parents entertained. Instant coffee was the order of the day through the week, but my mother (as with her mother) was a great believer that coffee made from freshly-ground beans was Sunday worthy.
Soon the kettle whistle would blow and then, ever so gently, the smell of brewed coffee would waft from the kitchen, down the hallway, to my room. The first part of the ritual was complete.
I would next hear the sound of the mixer scrapping the sides of the brown plastic bowl, the one with a chip near the pouring spout. On Sundays, my mother would make something special for breakfast like blueberry-banana pancakes, raisin scones or zucchini muffins. If she was up especially very early, she’d bake Finnish cardamom bread to be served with her homemade strawberry jam. The sound of the oven door closing signalled that the second part of the ritual was done. By this time, my growling stomach was telling me it would soon be time to get up.
The opening and closing of cupboard doors, rattling of dishes and cutlery, combined with the smell of baking, completed the ritual. It would now only be a matter of minutes before my mother, sitting on the edge of my bed, would be tousling my hair and telling me it was “time to start the day”.
We all have certain sounds, scents, sights, or sayings that evoke memories. Some memories bring on a smile, laughter, or just that plain old feeling of happiness. Others make us tear-up, bring on grief, anger or frustration. This Mother’s Day will be the seventh one where my father, sister and I will place Freesias on my mother’s grave. We will each be lost for a few moments in our private thoughts of remembrance; her kindness to strangers; her loyalty to friends; her pride in her profession; her joy of picking raspberries and, above all, her utter devotion to family.
My mother’s Sunday morning ritual. Even now, in my dreams, I hear the coffee grinder, smell freshly-brewed coffee, and feel her hand on my head.
Sunday sounds and scents, a perfect reminder of my mother’s love; predictable and comforting.
Abena Buahene is a daughter, mother, sister, and street photographer who lives and loves in Toronto. She enjoys baking and still treats her father to many of her mother’s favourite recipes.
Posted on May 4, 2018 by j.g.lewisLeave a comment
by Kayla Harrison
Google defines the act of “mothering” as, “bringing up with care and affection” or “giving birth to.”
Though I am not a mother to children, I am still a mother.
I am a mother to my ideas, to the words I write down on a page, to my stories. I am a mother to my kindness, making sure it’s birthed in every conversation. I am a mother to my body, giving it all that it needs to survive.
I am a mother to my soul, nurturing it with good music and sunshine.
Like my own mother, I have a heart that beats with passion, a heart that knows it beats not for me, but for others. I give what I have to those that don’t.
I am a mother to those closest to me, making sure they know they are loved.
I am a mother to those I don’t know, those I see on the streets with no home.
I am a mother to those struggling to find hope, those that cry out wondering if anyone hears them. I am a mother to those begging for something to make them feel again.
Like my own mother, I just want everyone to be happy.
I want everyone to know someone cares.
I want everyone to see they’re more than their past and their mistakes.
Being a mother is more than having children.
It’s feeling — maybe a little too much some days.
It’s caring for something or someone with all that you have.
It’s putting time and effort into making a work of art — a masterpiece. It’s loving, with every ounce of being.
I care and I feel and I love. I create and I mold.
I hug and I hold tight.
And though I am not a mother to children, I am still a mother.
2018 Kayla Harrison
Kayla Harrison is a Writing Arts graduate student at Rowan University, editor at The Urban Howl, and freelance writer for Business News Daily. Her goal in life is to find those who’ve lost their sense of wonder and guide them to rediscovering it. To Kayla, reading is a way of discovering the world, and writing a way of making sense of it all. To learn more about her and her writing, check out her blog insearchofthewritedirection.weebly.com
Posted on May 2, 2018 by j.g.lewis // 1 Comment
Motherhood is a hand-to-hand, heart-to-heart, connection formed by being there.
Two years now I have watched the most beautiful bond develop between a child, and a mother who thought she may never be. It has become so obvious that this kind of love is more than DNA.
The woman had never expressed to her family the desire to be a parent, yet she — one who always held such a tight relationship with her own mother — decided in her teenage years that motherhood was something she wanted to experience.
A single woman who had developed a successful business, she put off a lot of personal stuff as the business prospered and met goals and objectives until she decided she could not ignore her personal goal any longer.
A few years back she announced to her family the intention to adopt.
Two years ago, after all the legal and leg work that is part of the process, she got the call. Her baby had been born.
Life changes, just like that.
This child has been given a full and complete life with loving aunts and uncles, a doting grandfather, and cousins who arrived about the same time. The mother, a good friend to so many, has support beyond her close family. You hear the expression that it takes a village to raise a child, well this child was born into one happy, committed village.
The woman has also been given the complete life she was craving, and one she deserves. In the process she has changed. Perhaps not in ways immediately noticeable, as I’ve only been learning or getting to know her further through the past years, I can see the changes.
I can see the love. I can see this child becoming so much like her Mom. I see traits and habits, and similarities, as this pair adjust to each other. Adoption was only a process for realizing a relationship that was meant to be.
Motherhood is not about flesh and blood, not always. Motherhood is more than being there. Motherhood, certainly in this case, is an opportunity for learning, and for growing, and for being who you were meant to be.
Children learn by watching, intuition, and trial and error.
Mothers learn by watching, intuition, and trial and error.
Nature and nurture equal forces, we all learn by watching and experiencing life and love.
