Expressing love, feeling love, writing love, drawing love and are things done frequently but none of them show love.  This came to mind while I was scrolling through some blog posts and  saw the iconic graphic design of the word love on a post (I haven't been able to find it to link).  Anyhoo, I thought, this design, like the I Heart NY graphic design by Milton Glaser, is an often duplicated image but it in no way communicates what love is. That got me to thinking - how do we show love?

Here are two recent small love actions in my continuing love story with my husband.

#1 - The phone rang during a powerful thunderstorm this morning.  I didn’t pick it up.  I was on the bed, surrounded by pillows with a cover over my head. I hate thunderstorms! Growing up in St. Louis which has frequent, notorious, and damaging thunder storms, I don’t “play” with storms.  I won’t talk on the phone, use the computer or turn on the faucet during T-storms.  I find lightning, frightening.

After the storm passed, I went to the phone to see who’d called.  It was my husband who’d called to say that he was checking to see if I was okay, that he knows I hate thunderstorms and that he loved me.  This is love in action.

#2 - A week or so ago, during a period where we were roiled with uncertainty about husband’s livelihood and just feeling low, I noticed my husband going to work in clothes that were rumpled and to me, broadcast loudly, “I don’t care.”

I got him to pick another shirt, asked him to strip, and ironed the shirt and pants.  “You’re too handsome a guy to look like you don’t care,” I said.  He thanked me (a little grumpily because I’d delayed his departure).  When he returned from work, he said he’d gotten a compliment on how “crisply put together” he looked.  He then thanked me for real.

This is love in action. 

• Sometimes done because times are good,
• sometimes because it's just how you do things,
• sometimes to break the ice in a cool time,
• sometimes done to make up after an argument,
• sometimes to find love again,
• sometimes because love has been renewed...

Small loving things we do for our loved ones are important.  In one of the self-help books I read a long time ago during a period of drought when I was hoping for love, Dr. Wayne Dyer wrote that the way to renew a love is by being loving.  He recounted a man asking him, how do you find love again with a wife who you've stopped loving.  Dr. Dyer said, "Love her."  I never forgot that (and I apologize that I can't find the direct quote)  But I'm sure you get it. 

You find love, renew love, generate love, by loving.

Love in action.

I mean I was driving -  right?

Actually, I was coasting.  I was waiting. Waiting for it to find me.
The “it” being life, not realizing that each day I lived was my life.

I should have carpayed the effin’ diem.

How could I have made choices so obviously wrong or, more to the point, how could I not have pursued choices so much wiser for me?

Warning:  Pity party ahead or maybe not.  Maybe we’ll just call it some clear-eyed observations at this point-in-my life cycle.  I realized the other day that I should have pursued my desire to be a librarian.  It was something I wanted to do when I was a kid.  Who loves books, reading, talking about books, sharing books more than me? I’m in fact, a pusher of books that’s how much they thrill me.

I did sell books for a while and was a multicultural literature specialist in the early 80s but I didn’t have good business skills and my marriage was going down the toilet.  If I’d had  better focus perhaps I would have pursued and made something out of it.  I wouldn’t have made a lot of money but the satisfaction factor I think would have been huge.  (I also reviewed books but never was able to make a living doing it. At the time, receiving free books was all the payment I wanted.)
My sister and I toy with the idea of having a children’s book and cupcake store or some other kind of hybrid business that links our loves together.

Another goal that I’ve pursued  in fits and starts is to be a published writer.  I have two picture book manuscripts under consideration currently and have a middle school novel on the way out the door (again).  I’ve had small publishing successes but…the ones that almost happened are legendary.  (What if Essence had published the story they accepted lo those many years ago?  What if Ms. magazine had published my piece instead of having a deep debate about it and decided it wasn’t right but offering me encouragement.  What if Little, Brown had selected a version of the manuscript we went back and forth about?)  I've gotten close...

What if I hadn’t let life issues, like having to work and being a single parent delay my commitment? What if I wasn’t able to get satisfaction from the jobs I had and had been unrelenting in pursuing the goal of being a published writer?

Looking back things seem so clear but while going through my life, the opportunities and choices were out-of-focus and sometimes not noticed at all. All I can do is keep putting one foot in front of the other and pursue my goals with all t he resources I can muster.  Still, some days it is easy to look back and wonder, “What the hell happened?  How did those years and dreams get away?

Whenever I am traveling away from my husband or he is traveling away from me, after we’ve said our goodbyes, and are on our way into the airport or bus or train terminal, there comes a long moment when I want to turn around and get yet another hug or deeper kiss and tell him once again how much I love him.  Really tell him.

The same thing happens when I bid adieu to my daughter, son, Mom, sister or brother.  In that long moment when they have dropped me at the airport, I realize that I don’t know when I’ll see them again.  I try not to let my mind wander further to wondering if I’ll see them again.  I have faith that I will.  Yet I feel a deep loneliness and wrenching detachment in those minutes after departure.

The first few trips my husband went away when we were first living together and then married, were difficult for me.  The sounds the house made and those that came in from outside were magnified and twisted.  I slept with lights blazing on each floor.  I piled all the pillows, including the decorative ones, like a fort around me.  I put the phone next to me under one of those pillows within easy reach.

Gradually, as our love has matured and the hormonal imbalance of new love subsided, I’ve gotten better during our times apart.  I’ve been able to relax and sleep better as opposed to tossing and turning or watching TV into the wee hours.  I only light the first floor but not all three floors.

Still, there remains those minutes of panic:  “Don’t go,” I want to say, but I don’t.  “I’ll miss you.  Take care of yourself, be careful.”  I do say.  It always seems that the last kiss and hug is too short and shallow especially with him going into the sky in that metal contraption to fly away, no matter the reason.  I want to ignore the horn beeps and rush of traffic at Logan Airport and give him a kiss from my toenails through my heart…a kiss straight from a Hollywood movie.

(This even though I have projects I’m waiting to do while he is gone. This even though couples need a break from each other every now and again to refresh. This even though our families live in other cities and so we have reasons other than business or vacations to travel.)

I remember reading a quote from Toni Morrison who talked about having “the sheer good fortune of missing somebody even before they were gone” (or some approximation of those words).  My husband hasn’t even booked his ticket yet and I already miss him.  I  Am I being a baby or what?

It is awfully nice to get a card on your birthday, Valentine’s Day, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Christmas, Easter, etc.  Likewise, it feels good to be the woman in the office on Valentine’s Day, birthday, an anniversary that gets the big bouquet of flowers from your husband or boyfriend and have the other women “ooohhh and aaaahhhh” over them.  (Men may notice the flowers but they don’t comment much.)

Here are my feelings about most holidays:

• They were made-up by businesses to sell stuff.
• Sometimes the biggest gifts are given to assuage guilt.  (In one office I worked in, the woman who received the largest bouquets and the knock-your-socks-off diamond ring had a husband that we all knew was cheating on her!)
• Holidays are not important to everyone!
• Holidays are not celebrated by all families and so may not be part of a person’s tradition!
• Sometimes the holidays fall when cash is low.
• Sometimes the gift one expects is not the gift one receives even though one might appreciate the thought behind the gift.
• Children especially of the young adult variety often fail to remember or observe holidays.  (They may be grown but they are still egocentric enough that they miss certain deadlines.)
• Comparing the gifts you receive to the gifts your friends neighbors, or colleagues receives is sure folly and will hurt your feelings if you let it.
• Many of the best gifts don’t require a lot of money and some are free.

The best gifts:

• Time equals love – this is true of children and parents and husbands and wives.
• Cooking a meal and serving it to your lover is a time = love gift.  (You get bonus points if the meal you prepare is actually something the recipient likes.  I mention this because my first husband used to take me out for lobster on my birthday.  He liked lobster; me, not so much.)
• Having a date night with your mate where you go to the movies or dancing or a walk is another time = love gift.
• A handwritten card or letter pledging your love and admiration in your own words is better than any purchased card will ever be.

We can decide to bemoan what we don’t get versus celebrate what we do have.
You have to figure out if the presentation is more important to you than the thought behind it.

Having been brought up female in this consumer-driven US society, I can let myself get caught up in the holiday/gift game or I can notice the gifts of love and consideration I am so blessed to get from my family and friends in dozens of ways over the years.  And that is my choice most of the time, when I'm being my best Candelaria,  even though, I love to get and give gifts, especially when they are unexpected.

These insults are easily lobbed by Black people again other Black people who they perceive to be acting outside of the racial guidelines.  (I’ve been looking for my How to Be Black Guidebook – haven’t found it yet.)  I’ve uttered them once or twice (okay – maybe ten times) myself.  But when the words are said about your own behavior, when someone has accused you of not being Black, they are hard to take and difficult to challenge. 
    
Having been a thrower, a receiver, and a witness to the impact of this judgment on others, I have come to this conclusion: the only thing any of us who are Black has to do to be Black is to be born Black.  This is my final answer to the test questions on what makes one Black enough.

To quote the great poet, Langston Hughes, “You got to take me like I am Black and don’t give a damn.” 
You, whoever you are, don’t get to decide :

• if I’m Black enough,
• woman enough,
• down enough,
• anything enough. 

Black is my birthright.  I was born Black.  I have walked Black through the world.  I wasn’t given a set of instructions at birth about how to be Black.  My ancestors fought so that I could try to live a life without limits and strictures on what, where and how I could blackly be.

I have even written lyrics about this – sing it to the tune of They Can’t Take That Away from Me.*

You Can’t Take Black Away from Me - by Candelaria Silva

 There are many crazy things
  that I might do
 And with your permission,
 I’ll list a few.
 The way I wear my hair…
 (curly, kinky, straight, locked, braided or blonde – I’ll wear it any damn way I want to)
       
The way I sip my tea… 
 (I’ll drink tea, coffee, water or wine – my choice)
 The memory of my past… 
 (Whether I’m haunted by it or celebratory of it)
 You can’t take Black away from me.

 The way I smile or frown.
 The way I talk so free… 
 (King’s English or Ebonics)
 The way I pursue my dreams
 No, no you can’t take Black away from me.
      
 We may never agree what I should be on this journey of life
 But I’ll always be who I am, however I am.
 No, no you can’t take Black away from me
 No, you can’t take Black away from me-ee!
     
So stop the nonsense, people. Stop trying to box me and other folks of the black-brown persuasion.  Stop making pronouncements about my racial integrity based on snap judgments and your ever-shifting criteria. Nuff said? 

 No?!  Well, let me make it plain:   You can’t take Black away from me –
     
Not even if I like Seinfeld or Ace of Cakes( or whatever other all-white show is happening at the moment.)
Or if I prefer Timberlake to Timbaland.
Not even if I like flip-flops, have freckles and dye my hair blonde.
Or even if I know all the lyrics to songs by Stevie Nicks (or Coldplay, etcera, etcetera).
Doesn’t matter if I can’t dance, wear Birkenstocks and eat tofu.
Not even if I date, love or marry a white guy or girl.
No matter my shade – chocolate, cream, or caramel.
Doesn’t matter where I live – city, country or suburb.

I’m Buh-lack and I’m going to be Buh-lack in whatever way I choose.  I may be boisterously Black, the only Black, a champion Black or passing through Black.  The Black in my DNA will show up and, living in America, it’s likely to blow up at some point or another.

Just because I don’t "act Black" according to your standards or I hang out with non-Black folks…none of this means that I don’t love being Black. 

(Side notes to White folks – you can’t take Black away from me by saying you don’t think of me as Black or by saying I’m not like “the other Blacks.”)

 No, no you can’t take Black away from me. No you can’t take Black away fr-om me-ee.

<><><><>
*Original lyrics to They Can't Take That Away From Me were written by George and Ira Gershwin

I’ve bought bathrobes for two men in my life.  The second man became my husband (and still is).  I thought the first man was going to be my husband but it didn’t work out that way.  We got close but no further.

Buying a bathrobe meant to me that he was going to be a long-term part of my life.  I shopped for it carefully, trying to find just the right color and texture. 

The signal I got from my husband that I was going to be a lasting part of his life was when he gave me space for my things at his place.

Other signals and sign-posts along the way that indicate longevity were:

• Being introduced to his family.  (In general, women open up our lives to men much quicker than they open their lives to us.)
• Accompanying him to special events.
• Making plans for New Year’s Eve well in advance of the date.  (My sister told me, “If you spend New Year’s with him, that’s your man.”  She was right.)
• Exchanging keys.

For me, buying the bathrobe was significant because I don’t tend to buy gifts for boyfriends.  Buying a robe, a not inexpensive purchase, meant that I intended this man to be around a long time.  He is and he still has that bathrobe.  Whenever he puts it on it reminds me of our courtship.

I was so shy when I gave it to him - not wanting to act like it was as big a deal as it was for me yet not wanting him to think it was something I did frequently or casually either.

What signals do you look for or give to feel that your relationship has become serious and will go the distance?

Today is my 10th birthday.  Ten years worth of living (if you add the two digits of my birthday together they equal ten.  I’ll leave it to you to decide which two digits they really are.)

It’s good to be ten. 

“I’m so two thousand and ten you’re so two thousand and when…?”  (For those who don’t know, that’s a take-off of a line sung by Fergie of the Black Eyed Peas in their current hit song Boom Boom Pow on their album “The E.N.D.”  (Thanks, hub, for downloading the song on my iPod.  It has an infectious beat and is perfect for dancing.)

Music, especially music to dance to, just makes me feel fantastic.  I am instantly transported back to the girlish days of my teens and the womanish days of my 30s and 40s when I danced basically every weekend. 

These days when I’m walking or riding the T plugged in to the music on the iPod,  I have to remember I’m in public because the music “sweets me so”* and before you know it, I’m dancing. 

I wish we had a world where you could just stop in the middle of everything and take a dance break, with your dance partners being the people around you!  I can envision a vending machine – where you select a song and have an instant party in a designated dance zone.  You'd get your dance on then you continue on your merry way.

Anyhow, I am so happy to have another birthday to celebrate.  I would like to treat all of my friends and acquaintances out for food and drink and dancing but alas cannot afford it right now.  I’ll figure out something soon to scratch that itch.

There’s a lot to be grateful for (I’m saying those prayers privately every day).

• lots to look forward to,
• challenges to meet,
• goals to achieve,
• desires to experience. 

I am blessed to be able to distinguish between wants and needs and to occasionally get a few of the things I want.  (Thanks for the gifts - family.)

Thank you to everyone who has sent or phoned a birthday greeting

Happy birthday, to me.
Happy birthday, to me.
Happy birthday dear Me-ee-ee,
Happy birthday to me.
And many more.

*(”This quote is from a children’s book, The Dancing Granny, an Anansi story retold and illustrated by Ashley Bryant. It’s no longer in print but copies are for sale on Amazon.com.) 

My feet are pretty big - note I didn’t say too big.  Too big is a judgment call.  Real big is the reality.

I’m writing this piece because I saw a young woman look at my newly pedicured feet and notice how big they were.  When she saw me see her looking, she gave me an embarrassed smile.  “That’s alright, sweetheart,” I said.  “I know I have big feet.”  And I chuckled to myself.

My feet grew each time I had children – from size 9 before children to size 11 after.  That wouldn’t be so bad if I had thin, elegant feet or even medium, regular feet.  My feet are w i d e. I have big, wide, sturdy peasant feet (not that there’s anything wrong with that).

I keep them groomed and don’t have corns or bunions (you can’t make a “salad” with my feet)!  I started getting pedicures about 15 years ago when nail shops began opening up in neighborhoods all across Boston and pedicures suddenly became available at affordable rates.  Before then, going to a salon for a manicure and pedicure was more of a luxury, special occasion kind of thing

My feet are harky-sharky or is it harnky-sharnky?  I don’t know what that phrase means but it’s been used to describe my feet.

My brother says I have feet like Minnie Mouse.  (In my family, teasing is an act of love.)

A few years back, my sister found a rare photo of us when we were under 5.  We’re sitting on a couch next to my aunt and uncle, and, well…you see the soles of my big shoes before you notice me.  My brother, who also got a copy of the photo, teased me. “You had Minnie Mouse feet even then,” he laughed.  I love my brother.  He's a tease!

Having big feet has saved me from  having the shoe addiction that most of the women I know enjoy.  I don’t get excited when I see a shoe warehouse because I know at most they’ll have maybe 5 pairs of shoes that will fit my “dogs” and they won’t be the most fashionable.

My shoe choices have widened in recent years because of the internet but I’m a person who likes to try on shoes.  I miss the Designer Shoes showroom that used to be on Newbury Street (the website just doesn’t do it for me).  .

The only stores I can go to get shoes off the rack are The Avenue (the few branches that carry a small selection of shoes) and Payless.  At least their affordable.

Sounds like I’m lamenting but I’m not.  I love my big feet because:

• They're the only feet I've ever known.
• They carry this lush, voluptuous body of mine every where I want to go.
• They helped me play a mean game of kick-ball in my girlish days.
• They have saved me untold thousands of dollars because I can’t partake in the craziness of buying shoes…I will never know the pleasure or expense of designer shoes by the likes of Manolo Blahnik or Jimmy Choo.
• They can play a mean game of footsies – more feet means more pleasure spots.
• If I wanted to have a decorative design painted on my big toe, I’d have plenty of room.

Now, don’t y’all go looking at my feet first when you meet me! Okay? 
Hey, If I were a man, big feet would be considered an asset (y’all know you know what I mean although that myth isn’t always true).

Fats Waller* sang the most well-known version of the song, “Your Feet’s Too Bit.”  It was written by Ada Benson and Fred Fisher and recorded by in 1939.  Chubby Checker, The Beatles, and Mos Def among others, have recorded it as well, but the Fats Waller original is my favorite!

(If this link doesn't work, go to YouTube and you can find a video of him singing this song.)

How do you keep from absorbing the pain of your loved ones?

If your mate is ”having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day”* or week or month, how can you keep from having one, too?

If someone you love is struggling with an issue that is making them question their standing/status/future in the world (like yet another lay-off) does it make you begin to question your standing/status/future in the world? 

Let’s say you have a close friend or relative who is depressed; in loving them, having empathy for them – do you begin to experience their pain?

Are you allowed to still feel joy about your life when you are surrounded by others who are feeling pain?  Can you still want to do the things you enjoy – a long walk, dancing to old school and new cool music, or organizing your photos – to name but a few?

Should you keep your joys and small daily accomplishments to yourself?  How can you even have pleasure when some of the closest people to you feel doom and gloom?

It’s not that I don’t feel pain or that I  don’t worry – I do, I do.  But I have a point below which I don’t sink…at least not for very long.  I’ll have a brief pity-party (often with myself) and then I’m on to what to do next.   Instead of focusing on all the things I can’t do or don’t have – I do the thing(s) that I can. There's always something one can do.  This attitude and ability has worked for me for most of my life.

I learned early to lean on myself.  I learned early that forces larger than me - namely my parents, a mate, an employer, the weather – could change my life in an instant.  Instead of thinking, “why me,’  I most often think, “why not you, bruthuh?”  (This is a quote from a film Richard Pryor was in; I wrote a blog about it some months ago.)

Mama Clarsie would let me eat as many of her delicious biscuits as I wanted and never tease me about being greedy or say that I was fat. I was ten years old and  "pleasingly plump," mostly because I loved her food and would go upstairs to visit her and eat whenever my Mom and my dad, her son, let me.  We shared a two-family house in St. Louis.

A favorite memory was when Mama Clarsie taught me how to make biscuits.  She didn’t use measuring cups but had an old china tea cup that she used to scoop the flour.  She instructed me to fill the cups twice and showed me how to level the flour with the swipe of a butter knife.  Then she taught me to add the other dry ingredients.  She used Old Clabber Girl baking powder and measured it with a soup spoon.  She poured a small amount of salt into the middle of my palm.  She had me sift these ingredients together in the hand-sifter with the red wooden knob at the end of the handle.  I loved cranking it.
      
She then had me scoop the lard, for that was what we used then, into a tin metal cup that she used solely for this purpose.  She showed me how to cut the lard into the flour .  She used her fingers but taught me to use two forks.   After the flour and lard were blended together, she told me to make a well in the center of the  mixture.  
      
I can hear her saying, "now slowly, slowly, pour the buttermilk into the well – just enough until you fill it.  You can always add more later if the dough is too dry.”  The buttermilk was in a glass bottle.  It had been delivered to our front porch that morning by the milk man, who came twice a week to our street.  Mama Clarsie drank buttermilk with most of her meals – especially neckbones and navy beans with collard greens on the side.  I didn’t like the taste of buttermilk straight out of a glass but I loved the flavor they added to biscuits.

I sprinkled flour on a piece of wax paper on the kitchen counter and then I dusted the big wooden rolling pin with flour.  First, I had to roll the dough around in the flour making sure it wasn’t too sticky to roll out.  Then I ran the rolling pin over the dough a couple of times.  Next I did my second most favorite thing to do -  dipped a glass into flour and cut the biscuits with it.
 
"Put the glass straight down," she instructed with a smile.  “You’re doing it just right – you’re going to take my spot as the biscuit maker in this family,” she laughed.
      
We set the oven to 425.   (Mama Clarsie lit the pilot light in the gas oven with a match, something I was thrilled to see but scared to try to learn to do.)  While the biscuits were in the oven, she told me to grab the pan of butter that she kept in the refrigerator and set it on the gas burner to melt.  She turned the fire down real low so the butter would melt without burning.  
      
After about ten minutes, I grabbed the oven mitts and opened the door to see if the biscuits were brown.  They were!
      
Mama Clarsie put the pan of hot biscuits on a cloth kitchen towel and took a small paint brush used just for this purpose to brush  the melted butter over the top of them.  We didn’t invite anyone else to eat my first batch of biscuits.  The two of us sat down and drank hot cocoa and had biscuits with syrup – the name of the syrup we used was Sho-Is-Fine.  It came in a tin can.  We also had apple butter and grape jelly.  My favorite topping was apple butter, but I also liked to dip the biscuits in syrup.
      
Mama Clarsie passed away at the age of 94 a few years ago.  I am now the head biscuit maker in my family although I use butter or vegetable shortening (or a combination) instead of lard and real maple syrup instead of imitation.  Whenever I make biscuits, I am transported to her kitchen and the love and patience she had for me.  I felt warm and safe eating those biscuits.  I have taught my daughter how to make them and in a few years will teach my granddaughter, too.  Recently I helped a friend’s daughter, who is 10, make her first batch of biscuits, continuing the tradition of love and sustenance begun more than forty years ago.