Wow, after reading my previous posts on here, it's been nearly a year since I've blogged. Sometimes, I feel that my creativity has suffered, due to my overall anxieties of how I feel about myself and my life. Although, I have been writing in my diary on many occasions -albeit, my minimal efforts have been noted in my diary - I still have lots of thoughts and ideas how my creativity will pan out.I procrastinate a lot and sometimes I feel this is affecting how I express myself with my words.
However, I can safely state, right now, at this moment, I feel that the root of my uncertainties lie with my departed mother. This is not to apportion blame on my mother, as I am aware that I have to take responsibility in my creative expressions. But it is definitely part of my 'makeup' as such. I don't want to be seen as a victim, as I am a survivor of my circumstances. Nonetheless, I can now place all of this into a clarified context.
My mother, Caroline Wuraola Olagundoye, passed over in 1989, June 30th to be exact.
Every time this date comes, I feel a sense of ambiguity and vagueness. Don't get me wrong, I had a kind of reverent respect for my mother, I mean, she brought me into this world. But the crux of my uncertainties et al, is that I never KNEW her. She was a mystery to me in life as she is in her transition.
Asking my mother about her life 'back home' was to commit a cardinal sin. I only started getting a better focused picture when she passed from her family members. This was because, myself, together with twin sisters and twin brothers decided to take her body 'back home' to bury her. Sometimes, I regret this decision. Only due to the fact that I, together with my children, are unable to visit her graveside. However, I know that her spirit is 'rested' in being buried 'back home'.
But back to how I feel about my mother.
As I said previously, she gave me life. Unfortunately, she didn't give me a sense of 'self' and who I was. Although she gave me some tools for life - 'tangible' being the key word that always cropped up in conversations between us both, she never led the way to see how I could attain this.
I have felt divorced and isolated from my Nigerian/Yoruba culture - I will be writing about this in other blog entries - simply because when my mother passed, all of the minimal contacts I had went with her.
So now, with my reflections and memories,I still try to conjure them up. Something that I can pass onto my own children as part of their legacy. But dang, it's hard.
To be continued...
