Today is my mom’s birthday. It’s only the second birthday she’s hasn’t had.
I’m still not over that. My eyes hurt and my expression turns sour when I think about it. But I’m getting better. It makes me happy to think that she lives on through me.
For example: last night I made plantain and eggs for my friends and family. They loved it like I used to love it on Sunday mornings when the aroma from the kitchen would sneak its way into my room and wake me up.
I made an effort to learn her secrets because she was the best, and that’s something I’m always striving to be.
She would host parties at the house, even if they were inconvenient and stressed her out. Everybody felt warm in her presence. And they loved her cooking. She knew that and couldn’t deny them her gifts. She would give and give and give because that’s what she was good at—and how could she deny giving the world her greatness?
I think about that and it inspires me.
What I am giving to the world? Is it my greatness? Is what I was put here to give?
I don’t always feel that it is…but when I do…in those moments of extreme presence and courage, when what I “should” do is supplanted by what I am, I feel her with me, even if it’s just my mind validating what I already know:
I give with every action, every thought, every word. My whole being is a gift—flaws, warts, awesomeness and all. Imperfect and perfect, everything I am is an idea working its way through me. And it’s not for me to judge, but to express, as naked and honest as possible.
And in a way…my gift to you, is her gift also.