The Fear and the Dance of Sanity

On November 12, 2024 By Aginetta MulimaIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

It is November 2024, post-election. The sanest thing I’ve done so far is seek out the words of Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes, as I find ways to channel my rage. The election has upended me (not that I was in denial of America’s fascism). But it has made me spiral into thoughts of “who can I trust ” and “how will I frame the call to freedom.”

However, I return to the writing space in order to sort myself out. Yesterday, I admired the changing leaves here in Albuquerque. The snowy tops of the Sandia Mountains anchor me, if only for a moment. During the car ride, I sway between a feeling of betrayal and a small voice of protectionism. It will be four years of accelerated madness.

However, I do know how much I want to protect my heart against pessimism. Here’s a list of promises I want to keep:

a) let my home be a safe refuge for me and those who hope

b) may my activism deepen with those who have been doing this work for so long

c) may I read things that bring me joy, but also allow me to think clearly

d) let folks with the most privilege not take up the majority of my time or essence.

Serenity is a Dealbreaker

On August 16, 2022 By Aginetta MulimaIn life, UncategorizedLeave a comment

An excerpt from my Creative Nonfiction thesis. Through email, I told my former MFA director how scared I am to revisit my drafts. Here’s a sample to hold myself accountable. This piece was written roughly a year ago?

Hayao Miyazaki has given a lot of fans a gift beyond words. A Japanese animator and screenwriter, who created the timeless art of Studio Ghibli, means a lot to me. He captures the profound power of stillness and admiration for the natural world. I could belabor the point by citing the environmental social justice issues present in Nausicaa Valley of the Wind and Princess Mononoke. A strong feminine character who belongs to the natural world: They will defend it. They live in connection with it.

I want to draw our attention dear readers to the beautiful grassy scenes in Kiki’s Delivery Service. The carefully animated lush grass calms me. Each blade accounted for. Each rustling tendril opens a door within me. A lot of Studio Ghibli fans comment on how serene Miyazaki illustrates the landscapes.

In that scene, Kiki and her friend lay on a grassy hill that overlooks a seaside town. Time feels weightless, as if the viewers themselves are as soft as the clouds dotting the blue sky. This is the image in my mind I conjure up when sandwiched in bumper-to-bumper traffic. This, I offer to myself when the distress of bills and miscellaneous expenses feels inescapable.

I matched with a guy on a dating site who also admires the Studio Ghibli film franchise. I am in luck, pals.

“Being out in nature is serious,” Assam types in the chat box. “It’s not for fun.”

I imagine his hiking adventures, kayaking lulls, and field guide uses are deeply serious. I revisit his profile hovering over the waterfall pictures. Another photo includes him posing, his tan-greenish hiking boots in the foreground. Assam has a deep admiration and respect for nature. He relays to me the various flavors of peppers and reminds how a particular vegetable is a fruit.

“Assam, you have to watch Kiki’s,” I type for the second time in three weeks.

“After work, I’ll try,” he replies with a smiley face emoji.

How else do you share that level of grassy-hill-calm? This is my gift in a maybe relationship, I want you to feel that level of expansive contentment in your chest. I want Assam to feel that airy weightlessness that I feel when Kiki and her friend lay atop that hill. A blue sky, curling white clouds, and the seaside town brimming with excitement below. I imagine we are transported away from quarantine, and we are embodied in that calm.

“I saw Kiki’s – you were right about…” Assam types.

The Bookmarked Place

On May 18, 2022May 19, 2022 By Aginetta MulimaIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

The faint memory of milkweeds, poke berries, and libraries defined my childhood. I can still remember my child-self secretly supplying books to my friends in the neighborhood. It was a constant haul of thrifted books from yard sales in the Indianapolis summer.

Mrs. Sutherland, a substitute teacher, ran a summer camp for elementary students. I can picture a few of us boarding the city bus to visit the library. It felt grand that we had pink bus cards that could take us to this special place. Mrs. Sutherland brought us to the outdoors as well – assisting on class field trips to the plains and woodsy areas. One summer, a few students and I picked strawberries. I pride myself on “assisting” my mother later that day and she turns the whole strawberries into jelly. The pot bubbling on the stove. The faint smell of sweat singed into my clothes from a day of running outside.

Perhaps, this is why I find myself reading books about home, nature, and a slow-paced life. On the way back from Corrales, my friend and I search for local bookstores to visit (while averting traffic).

Bookworks, an independent bookstore in Albuquerque brimmed with books on nature. The shelves include more essays, poetry, and historical accounts related to Indigenous history. I make a mental note on how Barnes & Noble in Whitehall, PA has a much smaller section.

Inside Bookworks, I marvel at the picture books with Brown and Black children. One title says something akin to I’m an American too. A lot has changed since my childhood. I remember the pains of projecting into White characters. I can recall the limited respect for nature stories penned by people of color. I do remember Lewis and Clark’s narrative though. The faint memory of milkweeds resurfaces again.

In elementary, my 4th grade science teacher Mr. Woodward remained adamant that students explore nature right at home. The slippery worms in the grass after a rainfall. The metallic gray pill bugs curling in my palms. I find myself standing in this bookstore thinking about a state I haven’t lived in for a long time. Indiana is faraway now, but New Mexico remains present.

As an adult, I seek out stories that are less “traditional” in one way. Perhaps, I am on the search for less manifest destiny as praised in the old radio westerns. My friend and I scan the shelves in Bookworks. Our eyes are trained to fall on books written by LGBTQ+ authors and/ or authors of color now. We diverge from one another, and flitter to our favorite genres. I saunter over to a display with nature and outdoorsy material.

I find Robin Wall Kimmerer’s book Gathering Moss: A Natural and Cultural History of Mosses. I welcome the slim, glossy paperback and hold it firm in my hand. On the same bookshelf, I glance at the cardstock box of nature meditations. With further research, I discover these nature meditations were created by Kenya Jackson-Saulters. Her engagement to mesh nature and spirituality appeal deeply to me. Next time, I shall buy these deck of meditation cards.

In undergrad, my Buddhist professor asked students to keep a meditation journal throughout the term. I have since stopped adding recurrent thoughts. However, I tried slowing down my thoughts. I sat impatiently in the interfaith chapel with an occasional glance at the stain glass windows.

Maybe next time I will buy the nature meditations. Maybe I’ll try meditation as a form of prayer, since my spiritual practice has waned during the seasons of my life.

With that said, place matters. In the upcoming journal issue, Snapdragon will showcase folks who define what place means to them. Place, as someone who has lived on the east coast and west coast feels elusive. I try not to think of place in negative terms. I try not to venture to that tinkering space in my head — where I revisit a place I cannot change.

The place within each of us matters. I conjure up a place of safety and transformation when I read. Books allow people to be transported. The book recommendations from friends, healers, and colleagues — introduce me to new places to visit. This book creates a home. This book remembers a place that does not exist. And this place has yet to be found.

An Incantation: To Honor the Writer’s Growth

On April 27, 2022April 27, 2022 By Aginetta MulimaIn education, Internship, UncategorizedLeave a comment

I remember feeling that I’d come through something, shed a dying skin and was naked again. I wasn’t, perhaps, but I certainly felt more at ease with myself.
James Baldwin, The Art of Fiction No. 78 (An Interview by Jordan Elgrably)

Just focus on what is in front of you.

I thought about the rigorous work that comes with completing my thesis. I am trying to plan the next phase of my life, while honoring the ninety-four pages in a Word document. The internet browser highlights; Indeed’s job search engine, an email from my internship host, and the foreboding MFA countdown to-do’s.

In order to take a breath, I would like to honor the drafts I produced. I would like to feel a faint satisfaction for the blog posts that nudged me to revisit my personal blog in the first place. This Publishing Track at Bay Path University has been a place of curiosity. What speaks to me? What do I want to do next? Where do I see myself as a writer? What are my publishing goals (and how are they subject to change)? How have I challenged myself?

I thought deeply about Kay Hardy Campbell’s self-publishing presentation. Writers do have options. With elbow grease (and savvy research), the untraditional path can open doors. I send my deepest gratitude to the former high school librarian that embodied untraditional roots too. I can see her now placing the medium cardboard box that read ‘write a poem, leave a poem.’ I thank the peers from Mr. Stearn’s Latin class for participating.

This memory brings a smile to my lips as I think about my cohort in those days. There is Maya. There is Bobbi. There is Estevan. Before I gather my gaze, I must send my deepest gratitude to the slew of English teachers and professors. Their words of strength guiding me across the literary storms of my life.

With this awareness, this blog post detailing the end of the MFA program does not feel like an adieu. In reviewing the places I had been (and the people I have met), it becomes apparent that I am noticing my new skin. James Baldwin’s above quote holds true. My peers and I have come through something. The MFA program has offered folks a chance to actualize a dream. One that I had almost abandoned. It matters to not be negligent towards one hope for the future.

“I remember when you were considering the application itself,” my therapist said. Her warm smile comes through the Telehealth app. “And now you are graduating,” she continued. Sometimes it is easy to forego one’s growth. How grateful I am to connect with folks in the publishing industry, and more so likeminded peers. After all, persistence is key.

I am afraid to venture to one of many finish lines. However, I am in good company. The Snapdragon team will continue to be a beacon in my professional life. I look forward to carrying on with Jacinta and Petra.

Truthfully, my writer’s contract is a letter to myself. It is not necessarily a pact, but an encouragement-agreement. I am hopeful that I will return to the Southwest, and I have made the intention in my heart to connect with literary writing groups there. My artsy friends from high school are musicians, mixed media artists, and wellness practitioners. One day, I’d like to interview them. I want to write about things and people that matter to me.

Sometimes you find a little bit of yourself when the people around you speak their truth. I thought about the frankness and honesty of my MFA cohort. Here is the struggle. Here is the flowing energy. Here is the profound pause to name an experience before it flutters away.

To myself and to you, I say: Please continue to write. Please continue to manage your mental health in the best way you know how. Please keep in touch with your writer-friends, and water the seeds you planted.

There’s an adage that says you cannot keep digging up the seeds you plant. Perhaps, I will allow myself a fallow period after graduation. I will not revisit my thesis right away. There are essays tinged with my past self’s perspectives. There are essays I want to rework from a place of compassion. This is the part of my writer’s contract that takes up the most space in my head.

When we are ready, we can examine our skin. Perhaps, here we can admire our worth.

Go forward and in peace.

Setting the Placemats: Reviewing the Journey’s Course

On April 14, 2022 By Aginetta MulimaIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Since January, I have nipped glimpses of the other team members at Snapdragon. I have yet to connect with the blog editors, poetry team, and social media intern. But timing is everything.

My inbox brims with ideas on how to engage users on social media, publishing initiatives, and countdown reminders that my MFA program is ending soon.

I am thankful for the messages from the social media intern, B, with her innovative emails. I await her posts on social media. The smooth graphics defining Snapdragon: A Journal of Art and Healing on my Instagram feed. Petra, the managing editor, remains hopeful that the Eastcoast team members will be able to meet in-person this year. How surreal it would be to see people face-to-face. I am reminded that people are a lot taller than me. For example, I am certain that my internship host, Jacinta, and managing editor, Petra, are tall folks.

When you’re sitting down and looking at one another over zoom, you forget people’s height. I stand at five feet tall and anticipate the reactions to my shortness. However, I know things in-person will be fine with the cool glasses club.

Photo by Orione Conceiu00e7u00e3o on Pexels.com

“We need to have a party for the cool glasses club members,” Jacinta says smiling into her words.

“Yes!” Petra joins. Their young child has entered the zoom screen, as the three of us anticipate an upcoming zoom party. I am glad that I will not lose contact with the Snapdragon team post-graduation. It has been an anchor in my life. Despite the deadlines. Despite the highs and lows of mental health. Despite the weather that swings back and forth like a pendulum.

In June, the next issue will come out. The summer’s theme focuses on place. It reminds me how impactful place can be when you’re at home, on zoom, in your neighborhood, and in the world. How deeply we appreciate one another’s presence in our shared places.

There’s a place for you here.

There’s a place for all of us to go forward, to grow, and to conjure our wildest dreams.

Booking a Future Trip to the Local Bookshop

On November 30, 2021December 5, 2021 By Aginetta MulimaIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

You haven’t visited the local bookshop in more than a year. In fact, you barely drive down main street anymore. Yet, your city has one of the oldest bookstores in the country (let alone the second oldest in the world). In 1745, the Moravian church laid their claim to advance education and literary scholarship. The Moravian bookshop, a blue building with large windowpanes, hosts an entire world within its walls.

Upon entry, you could see the downstairs tables displayed with board games and fantasy books. You remember how your friend from elementary school carried the Eragon and Lord of the Rings series under her arm. In tow, she carried a medieval-type notebook for her secret code language she had perfected. The leather-bound notebook had become an aesthetic within itself in bookstores. You wonder if the kids in the bookshop were considering these too.

After taking a small step, you were on the main floor. The not-to-tall bookcases spanned from travel guides to an anthology of creative nonfiction. Do you remember how the Moravian bookshop displays looked like shrines? There was Ntozake Shange’s body of work. The most notable title, For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide/When the Rainbow is Enuf. These delicate shrines were protruding out of a small groove in the wall. In front, a small table carried copies of the writer’s work. You consider what it must feel like for a bookseller to display an author who has died within the last couple of years. You are spiritual – so everything felt sacred. Perhaps, the spirits of former Moravian parishioners still move within that bookshop.

The Moravian Book Shop operates under the ownership of Moravian College. More so, it is managed by a Barnes and Noble College Bookseller. You frequent the Barnes and Noble bookstore attached to the Whitehall mall often. Inside, you watch a former college classmate whiz throughout the store. She has her radio walkie-talkie with her. You exchange a few words with her at the cash register, and she inquiries about your membership program. You do not have one…yet. However, one day you will because you’re buying books monthly.

In front of the register, there are strategic displays of new releases on low tables. Now, that you are in a publishing course. You cannot help but notice how the displays are placed on the outer sides of bookshelves. The decorative imprint fashioned on the spine of a book does not feel like a mystery anymore. Perhaps, you will ask the booksellers at Moravian what they notice while on-the-clock. You imagine what it must feel like to work in a bookstore that fans out into a tourist gift shop. The decorative towels and year-round holiday decorations in the background and/or neatly tucked around the corner. It is a constant stream of retail shoppers.

You wonder if the Moravian booksellers have walkie-talkies too. During your last visit, it felt like a low murmur and you only caught snatches of conversation from the book buyers. You stood by the register and inquired about a book or two.

“We do not have it, but we can order it.”

Usually, you reply “no thanks.” You regard this as a sign to investigate the bookshop further for the next-best book. There you see a bookshelf or two filled with discounted books. Some are vintage. Some are classical reprints. You eye the shelves carefully, and find yourself being pulled by a magnetic force to the poetry section. Perhaps, you ought to revisit the bookshop again.

Loglines, Lifelines, and Lasting Impact

On October 18, 2021October 18, 2021 By Aginetta MulimaIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

It is required that we pen a writer’s statements next term. The MFA graduate program began with a writerly manifesto. I remember typing a letter that stated I wanted to embody Audre Lorde. Her words continue to ring in my ears: “Silence will not protect us.”

I have to usher myself into the world as a writer, and remember that I am not silent. Each word forms a weapon against a culture that would have one swallow their words. It’s the bitter and the sweet on the same palate.

My peers and I have to answer why we are writers. Why did we choose to subject ourselves to being known? In this public display, we are inviting people to engage with our innermost thoughts. This undertaking starts with a classic line of questioning, “why should people care what you’re writing about?” I blinked back at the Zoom screen, and felt a small wallop in my stomach. Does anyone care? I watched the many guest speakers address the class, expanding on their expertise in the publishing industry.

Photo by Andrea Piacquadio on Pexels.com

As a student, I am to produce an answer that is satisfactory to me and to the person who posed the question. I am searching for a lifeline. On the contrary, I need to write a good logline.

A logline provides a short and sweet summary no more than one to two sentences. Often, people can see loglines when they are browsing a streaming platform. Netflix and their cousins have to advertise their shows. A solid description gets straight to the point. Similarly, books and works of literary fiction work the same way. It’s a lot like providing a well, crafted response in an interview.

As I learned about the various roles in the publicity and marketing department, I thought about the importance of enticement. This book attracts attention. Here is the hook. Here is the curious reader adding said book to their online shopping cart.

I thought about the word logline, and how I would make use of it’s form. Often, getting straight to the point feels impossible.

Logline: This post encompasses my upcoming semester projects as a MFA graduate student, and how hard it is to not be longwinded about a vocabulary word.

Accomplishing: A Verb With An Affirmation

On September 16, 2021 By Aginetta MulimaIn Uncategorized2 Comments

I do not want to talk about accolades nor resumes. I do want to commend anyone who can keep going despite all the odds stacked against them. Whenever I envision my future writing career, I scrounge my desk for affirmations. The word “accomplishment” means a lot of things.

Here’s what I gathered in my MFA Writing Program:

You can feel accomplished by writing the first words that come to mind. Edit later. Momentum matters a lot more than an anxious blank page.
You can appreciate the risks you took in your written work, without hyper- focusing on any mistakes. I often think about Bob Ross and his approach to painting.
You can change the definition of accomplishment when the world feels heavy. Mental health must remain a priority regardless of external deadlines (self-imposed or not).

I hope these affirmations are helpful to you. In my final year, I am tasked with completing a Thesis and a Concentration. I have accomplished the very thing I feared more than a year ago — entering into a graduate program. By subjecting myself to “the ordeal of being known,” I have become freer.

When you start to write your truth, it becomes apparent that you have allowed more people to believe in their own freedom too. I thought about Audre Lorde’s Cancer Journals and Toni Morrison’s The Source of the Self Regard. I thought about the slam poetry night hosted by the LGBTQ+ club in my undergraduate days. Vicariously, I believe that many people accomplished a great deal to write a poem, a story, and an essay about their experience.

Photo by Anna Nekrashevich on Pexels.com

I am not quite sure if success and publication are necessary. Success can often mean that one person resonates with your story. I would hope people feel that way about my sole published essay detailing my eating disorder and newfound friendships. However, my accomplishment and success really should include the first act of telling someone the truth other than myself.

Years later, I may quip about “chasing the highs and feeling the lows.” Right now, I want to think about affirmations and notebooks. If I could leave on any note, it would be this: Just write. Let everything else unfold.

How do you define your own success as a writer? Which pieces are you most proud of?

…It’s February folks

On February 10, 2021February 10, 2021 By Aginetta MulimaIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Every February (like clockwork), I fret about what messages I want to elevate during Black History month. Am I sharing the affirmational works of Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., Audre Lorde, Shirley Chisolm, and James Baldwin? Or am I having a time to unpack how anti-racist curriculums affect my own life?

For the latter, I am still toeing the line. I appreciate the efforts many are doing to educate themselves (specifically in reaction to the many deaths and assault of Black people in this country and abroad). However, I haven’t mastered what to do these new conversations. I have noticed that I am “burning out” quicker than what I used to. I have noticed that my previous work with the Diversity and Inclusion office in undergraduate days had not prepared me for being really honest with myself. Do I want to be available for most discussions about race, trauma, and justice? I am bouncing on my feet like a tired boxer, but I am still in the ring. Truthfully, I am processing last year. Some psychotherapists say that events tend to revisit a person when they are in a safer place to deal with those emotions. Yet, I did feel tired under the Trump-era of politics (which has now molted onto a lot of other areas of American life). I am still owning all of my complicated feelings about the United States as a Black person. To trust or not to trust what the future brings.

I am reading again, for fun and for graduate studies. I am unpacking racialized trauma in Kiese Laymon’s memoir Heavy. I will need to dedicate a separate blog post to that memoir alone. It unravels a person. However, I am also getting to the must-read recommended by my former Islamic studies teacher — The Autobiography of Malcolm X (as told to Alex Haley). There’s also Ross Gay’s The Book of Delights. This collection of short essays I label as my light read before bed. With that said, my mind has been working overtime. Black stories. Black narratives. Black ways of processing.

Sightline: A Walk with Eyes Only

On July 13, 2020 By Aginetta MulimaIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

*Malcom Gross Rose Garden*, image taken by me

As the photographer knelt, I noticed how the roses wilted under the July heat. Mere weeks ago, their petals soft and plump decorated the park. Today, a singular man goes from each low rose bush and captures their waning breath.

My mother and I watch him under the cool shade provided by the gazebo. I wonder if the photographer considered coming to the park earlier — when the sun did not blind one’s eyeline. My family tried our best to pull out of our apartment parking lot by nine a.m. Yet, our efforts were futile. The eighty to ninety-degree heat steams under our cloth masks, and we decide to stay in shade. As a faithful jogger (under COVID 19 quarantine), my dad left us to circle the park. However, I let my eyes walk for me and complete this summer’s journey.

A family of four stroll through the grounds ahead, and in seconds a couple of fast-pedaling kids whiz by on their bikes.

“She wants to go too,” my mother comments. We watch the little girl next to her family and sense her urgency to follow the bicyclists long gone. The small child stays behind, and I wonder what she’s thinking. Does she want to run? To skip? To take air too as the children with bikes do? Who knows?

My mother and I find ourselves in a conversation about children and their understanding of all matters. A child can take a large conversation that affects the world, and somehow make it small enough to fit in the palm of their hand. They can show this finding to their friends, and soon they note what must be done.

My mother and I take turns commenting on the social media pictures we have seen. Children on the shoulders of their parents at protests. Children with signs in hand – parading down their neighborhood sidewalk (sometimes in their bathing suits). Children with onesies fashioned with slogans. Children who remind me of my own childhood. Everything is serious and everything can be dealt with too. I wonder if my nieces and nephew find these realizations. In an Instagram post, I am content that they are fishing on the lake and I wonder if their presence can be a protest that they belong in nature too.

“Did you know that scorpions used to be as big as baby bears,” I say. To my mother’s amusement, our conversation takes turns at the best times. A lot of small things started off big, and likewise big things find their survival too. I wonder if scorpions and a variety of other animals take space – acknowledging all their ways they can be big and small. Perhaps, people do that. Certainly, children of all ages do. As someone’s child, we remember many things about where we came from and where we go now.

Children and scorpions and politics make their way into my mind. They are all there tacked on the corkboard like ideas.

The summer sheen threw light all over the garden. The photographer, now positioned by another rose bush, captured only what he saw. What did he see? What did we all see on our journey – the walk with no set course? I walk with my eyes and I am minding the thoughts as they come.

What comes to mind when you are on a walk?