Tag: connection

The Joy of Writing and Reading for an Audience

Reading stage for HOME, 2025 issue of SJCPL WRITES,
March 29, 2025

Once people find out that I am a writer, the next question is usually “What do you write about?” The truth is, as an essayist, I write about almost anything that intrigues me or makes me want to delve into my thoughts about an experience, person, belief, or issue. With all that is happening in our world, there is never a loss for topics, even if I sometimes I find myself grappling for the right words.

I recently had the pleasure of doing a reading for an essay of mine that was published in the 2025 issue of SJCPL WRITES, a literary journal published by the library. My essay, Morning at Home, is about how a morning ritual with my mother began in my childhood and changed as we both got older. I was joined by a community of several other writers who shared their own stories and poetry. Being part of a literary community is important.

Publication is never a guarantee, just ask most writers, but it is an honor when your work is recognized and appreciated. However, I truly enjoy the chance to do public readings because they allow for an almost immediate connection with the reader or an audience. And the fact that readers take the time to show up, well, I am grateful for that too. For the last few months I have been immersed in a much longer piece than the essays I usually write. I do not know exactly where this writing journey will take me next but I would not trade the time I have to focus on my writing for anything. Thanks for your support as a reader.

Finding Comfort in Presence

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My father is not doing well, he’s over 90 years old and his body is slowing down. He doesn’t talk as much, eat as much, or move around like he used to. Some of this was expected—I have seen the changes over the years, but his age and health are also factors. There are days when I miss the extended conversations of months and years ago, the ones that you don’t always consider might come to an end…until they do.

My father used to tell me a story about his relationship with his mother, and how it differed from the ones she had with her other children. My grandmother passed shortly after I was born, so I know her mostly through stories and photos; the stories were always happy ones. She used to worry a bit about my father because he was more likely to handle problems on his own, and she wondered if he would tell her about issues she could help him with. She knew her son well enough, and their relationship was close so they knew what was most important to them.

It was presence, the simple act of sitting together in the room, joined in spirit and ready to talk or listen should the occasion present itself. He told me, “For us, it was presence. We could be in the same room and didn’t have to say much.”

I think of those words more these days as I spend time with my father. Our visits are quieter now, sitting outside when the temperatures rise into the 70s, or inside, where he wraps himself in a blanket even as I sit there and wish for a lower temp on the air conditioner. He takes longer pauses when he speaks, and sometimes he gently closes his eyes, still listening, taking it all in, but resting. A week or so ago, I found myself remembering longer conversations and big laughs. It is a funny feeling when you realize that an experience to which you have become accustomed might not occur as frequently, or will completely stop one day.

That’s when I remembered the words he had shared with me, the idea of presence being enough. I thought how for my father, words weren’t always the most important thing, sometimes it was the presence, the silent connection that two people could share.

Now I am looking at these quieter times with my father differently. It’s not that we don’t talk, even when the laughter is not as full as before, the twinkle in his eyes and a soft chuckle let me know he is still amused by something I’m saying. I have decided to lean into his presence, the fact that we can still be in the same room and communicate with each other. It might be different, but for me, it is enough. Okay, maybe it does not always feel like quite enough, but it is as if he is gently guiding me to a new future, towards acceptance of what is coming. I believe his presence, his spirit, will remain after everything else has changed. My father and I will be connected, as he is to his mother, now long deceased, and the ancestors that came before us all. We share a spirit, they are present.

Ubuntu

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Ubuntu means our common humanity

Last year, while reading an international magazine called flow, I came across a word that made me sit up and pay attention. The word is Ubuntu, a Zulu and Xhosa word that means our common humanity.

Intrigued, I decided to learn more about the African philosophy of Ubuntu, reading books and articles, including The Lessons of Ubuntu by Mark Mathabane, who also wrote the memoir Kaffir Boy. Ubuntu encompasses ideas such as respect, caring about each other, empathy, spirituality, and that we are inextricably connected to each other, even when we do not recognize it. It means that I am a person because of other people, or as they say in South Africa, “I am, because of you.”

It is a balancing act—recognizing that individuals have unique gifts to offer the group or humanity, while believing no one individual is more important than the group. This kind of balance requires careful thought, especially in a culture that celebrates individual accomplishment.

At Nelson Mandela’s funeral, President Barack Obama spoke of Ubuntu as Mandela’s gift, “his recognition that we are all bound together in ways that are invisible to the eye, that there is a oneness to humanity that we achieve ourselves by sharing ourselves with others and caring for those around us…”

During 2019, I sought to learn more about what Ubuntu is, and began to see the world and its troubles in a new and more hopeful way. In 2020, I hope to go more deeply into both an understanding and practice of Ubuntu, trying to see the ways we are linked despite the differences that keep us apart.