This was supposed to post on May 10, 2015, Mother’s Day.
Life is art. How could it be any less? As I look out of this slit of a window, I see a single wasp diligently building its place to rest. As this goes to press, the size of this insect domicile is no larger than the eraser at the tip of a No. 2 pencil.
At this point, I welcome such an inviting spectacle of nature. Although I am sure I will be cursing my obstructed view by the end of the summer.
Nature’s tireless work ethic will eventually be my blind spot, but will not handicap my view of the masterpiece before me. I have to wonder if the builder of this dependable structure – crafted to withstand the elements of every season – will, in some way, be remembered by the future generations of insects claiming this to be their residency.
This is the instinctive pattern of a wasp I speak of, but it is the actions of a “Stingin B” that makes this observation closer to a homecoming.
You see, “Stingin B” is a magnificent species of mother. In my earliest years, my mental framework was molded by her survival intuitions. Throughout the stormiest of seasons Moms’ aptitude for providing refuge was impervious to the statistical demise of a four-year-old Mann losing his Dad to tragedy.
I was nurtured with her love and groomed in the spirit of her community activism. She stood toe-to-toe with the daily struggles of the urban parent-teaching me to embrace resistance at a time when most little boys my age were just figuring out how to pedal a Big Wheel. Word is bond!!
By the time my proverbial wings were steady enough to take on the elements beyond the threshold of Stingin B’s domain, my course in this life was predestined for hardships. It is the design behind Moms’ lessons that propels me to fulfill my purpose no matter how drastic the circumstances may appear.
She is the author of my character. Depending on who you ask, that could be good or bad. I’ll admit I am not well-liked in the state of North Carolina, but thanks to Moms, I refuse to allow the next person’s negative perception of me to be an accurate testimony to my reality.
Much like the rigorous efforts of the wasp, Moms’ configuration of stability and self preservation continues to bear the reward of sanctuary for the offspring “buzzing” in her wake. This is what home means to me. Stingin B is not just a sobriquet for the matriarch of my fam. It is a title of endearment that solidifies the spirit of moxie surging between mother and son. I love you madly, Moms!
Happy Mother’s Day to you and all the matriarchs in this blogosphere. Nana and Ms. Rissi, your presence in this realm is greatly missed.
All the same, you have inspired generations of artists constructing their own masterpieces, which we commonly refer to as, ‘Home.’ Rest in peace.
Copyright © 2015 by Leroy Elwood Mann