Grief’s Hand Revisited

October 16, 2023 | Leah Royster

Today would have been my grandmother’s 95^th birthday. I’m not sure if my mom knows the coincidence of traveling down to my grandma’s house this Wednesday. There’s still so much left to clean at the house; my mom has already invested in a new air conditioning unit, brand new floors and got rid of a nasty mold issue. She still says “I’m need to go to mom’s house” even though my mother and I co-own the house now.

It’s odd to travel down to The Villages, to grandma’s tiny yellow house without the anticipation of her small frame greeting us at the door. Asking us if we want something to eat. Her gentle hint that she wants to go to Walmart or the flea market. Her fluttering to and fro each room during the early morning hours, humming old spirituals. I mentally slap myself for all the times I woke up; groggy and annoyed at hearing all her sounds at 6 AM.

If only I could hear her hum one more time.

I wondered why I was so cranky today. I woke up with a hammering migraine Sunday morning which has persisted into this evening. I’m teaching at a new school this year, trading in a 20 minute commute for an hour and fifteen minute hail Mary to save my spark for teaching. This morning, I dragged myself out of bed and the only thought that kept shuffling in my head is five long five day weeks until Thanksgiving break. I snapped at my 6^th period class today, lamenting over their atrocious behavior and when my 7^th period class came in, I completely gave up on any semblance of instruction or order.

Grief has a way of not making you sweat the small stuff.

February will mark two years since my grandmother’s passing. I remember the last time I called her for her birthday; her voice strained and weak as she answered the phone. She told me it was quiet day, her lovely caretaker made her a Banana birthday cake, but she mainly rested. Our conversation was less than 10 minutes (which in hindsight was an indication of her rapid decline).

To celebrate (impromptu and not originally a part of my slothful Monday) I am having a cup of coffee in a quaint café. Grandma loved coffee, but never went to cafes. She always made her coffee in house. And she scoffed at the idea of going to breakfast. “Why would I spend all that money on bacon and eggs when I can make it at home?”

Maybe I’ll make bacon and eggs this week and save some for her (even though her portion would be half a piece of bacon and a tiny amount of eggs. She’s “save some for later”).

It’s difficult not to fill cheated or robbed of time. Even though my grandmother lived to be 93, I often hoped we would celebrate her 100^th birthday, that she would tease my future (at this point imaginary) husband and meet my kids.

So I try to remain in gratitude. Grateful I had her in my life for 32 years. Grateful for the summers spent reading in her hot, muggy sunroom. Grateful for the stories she told of how she was a part of the Great Migration. Grateful for her sassiness and playful threats of spankings. Grateful she was able to spend time with a great great grandchild. Grateful that when she passed, she passed away in her home state in North Carolina, surrounded of pictures of all her grands as babies, in a warm cozy bed. That when she was ready to transition, she went on her own terms.

Happy 95^th birthday Grandma Montie.

With Love,

Leah

A Bold New Life

June 21, 2022 | Leah Royster

“Would anyone like to volunteer to share a four minute story? We’ve got prizes”. The MOTH presenter, *John, enticed. I looked greedily at the stack of books he plopped down on the podium. Always a sucker for free literature and immediately raised my hand. Me. The young woman who can sometimes barely look a person in the eye. Me. The young woman who freezes mid conversation with a complete stranger. Me. The young woman who used to keep her eyes planted on the sidewalk. Me. The young woman who immediately races past chatty church folk to get to the seat in the farthest corner, usually hidden by a concrete pillar. Me. The young woman who stayed silent at staff meetings even though a tornado of thought and ideas were swirling around her head.

“Awesome! Come on up!” John eagerly welcomed me to the front of the room. The story I picked was random; an anecdote about my time working at a small movie theater walking distance from my house. God gifted me the title on the spot “Well Spoken”.

I’ll tell you the tale of “Well Spoken” in another blog post. What mattered to me was not the story I told, but that God blessed me with the courage to tell this particular story in the first place. As far as stories go, there were far more compelling and poignant ones in my repertoire. And I really wanted the bell hooks (RIP) title “All About Love”.

After I finished my story I received enthusiastic claps and John smiled and said “That was awesome, you finished in 4 minutes exactly!” He continued “There’s so many ways to expand on that story. Great Job!”.

I grabbed my literary prize and two new friends I made at the MOTH workshop congratulated me on telling my story.

What’s wild is that I wasn’t even supposed to be at that storytelling workshop in the first place.

Let’s rewind to the night of June 17th.

With Juneteenth approaching, I felt like I needed to commemorate the true “independence day” (loosely independent) for Black American. The Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture , a historic institution that specializes in archives of Black history, was holding a literary festival in honor of Juneteenth. I browsed the list of events and The MOTH storytelling workshop immediately caught my attention.

The MOTH is a non profit organization that specializes in oral storytelling. The organization hold various storytelling workshops, story slams (people compete) and community sharing of stories. The premise is to tell a mostly unedited, true story in 5 minutes or less. The stories can range from a person’s first kiss to the time they were chased by rabid monkeys in the rainforest. Each story should be unique to the person, raw and exposing in some aspect.

I was excited to see a free workshop and I quickly clicked the link to register. To my disappointment I saw there were no more spots left and no where to put your email on a waitlist. Bummed I prayed, “Lord, if it’s you will, I would really, really, super really like to attend this workshop”.

Well, you know the rest of the story.

If this was me from two years ago, I would have sulked and thought, “oh well, maybe next time”. But I shot my shot. I strolled into the workshop 30 minutes before the start time and asked another attendee if she knew if there was a waitlist. She responded she wasn’t sure, but encouraged me to stay.

Because I was bold and took a chance, I met two new friends, both aspiring writers. I learned about different storytelling techniques. We listened to one of the presenters tell a compelling story about his time in Paris, France.

If I hadn’t approached that brightly lit room, walls covered with pictures of smiling black and brown faces, in the basement of the Schomburg, I would not be telling you this story right now.

God wants us to be bold.

If you look at His creation, the entire planet is a bold statement of his majesty! We are told to fan into flame the gift of God that is is in us (2 Timothy 1:6). I boldly prayed to get into that MOTH workshop and 1 John 5:14 was fulfilled in that moment; “ And this confidence that we have toward Him, that if we ask anything according to His will He hears us”

One day, I’ll work up to the MOTH storytelling stage. I truly believe God has placed an abundance of stories for me to share. Perhaps He can use my stories to spark someone else into sharing their own story.

Because we all have a story to tell. And we have one incredible Author who writes our own.

With Love,

Leah

Resources: The MOTH: https://themoth.org/
Bible Verses Courtesy of: https://www.biblelyfe.com/blog/bible-verses-about-boldness

Reclaiming My Voice

May 21, 2022May 21, 2022 | Leah Royster

Annadale Falls Grenada. This Spring break trip sparked a new energy for creativity!

“He put a new song in my mouth, a song of praise to our God. Many will see and fear, and put their trust in the Lord” (Psalm 40:3, English Standard Version)”.

Praise God I completed the 7 day blog challenge! This is the longest blogging streak I’ve completed and each day grew more and more strenuous. I suppose that’s what happens when you don’t use a muscle or skill; your body and brain stretches in ways not stretched in a while.

Today I started a six week writing workshop hosted by New York Writers Coalition (NYWC). Each Saturday from 2-4 I join other writers on Zoom along with the instructors. The workshop is completely free, unless people make donations to the organization. The instructors present us with a prompt and we’re given 20-30 minutes to write. The instructor gave a prompt called “Taking it back”. Below is the piece I came up with.

I’m taking back my voice. I buried her deep in the crevices of my insecurities. “No one listens to you”. “No one cares what you have to say”. “Our words will always go unheard and ignored”. “Why do you bother speaking anyway?”.

When I was little, my voice danced freely while reverberating through time and space. So much needed to be said, expressed, challenged and questioned.

Yet, so many attacks caused her to retreat. Adults telling her to “Be quiet and stop making so much noise”. Ridicule by our peers when she spoke freely during class. Teachers overlook her words.

SO I captured and bound my voice, trying to silence her permanently. “Only speak when spoken to”. I sternly warned her. “If people invite us into the conversation, then I’ll let you go”.

I kept her imprisoned in a cage, but I never expected her to grow restless, enlarge, grow louder and become steeled.

Somewhere during our lifetime, she became too powerful to contain. As I grew, so did she. Outgrew her cage.

And then she ripped open the seemingly impenetrable cage I stuffed her in all those years ago.

Now I think she’s planning on taking me back.

Taking back her rightful place, an unstoppable force. Determined to be heard, she tore down the fortress of silence I worked tirelessly to construct and uphold.

She terrifies me.

My voice speaks her mind. She shares the depths of her innermost thoughts with strangers. Speaks her truth while demanding an audience. And for God’s sake, when did she get so loud!

My voice; off and on the page, no longer accepts silence, disregard or attempts to extinguish her flame.

A Flame which continues to spread and there’s nothing I can do. My voice, the fiery phoenix.

As I continue to rediscover my writer’s voice, I hope to spark courage and elation in everyone who comes across The Bashful Butterfly blog. To share how the Glory and grace of God constantly transforms me into someone bold and powerful. Come join this journey with us!

With Love,

Leah

**In case readers are looking a writers group:
NY Writers Coalition: https://nywriterscoalition.org/