I began this blog almost nine years ago as a love letter, of sorts, to my four boys. At that time, having recently lost my own mother, I quickly realized how much I never knew her. Her, as a woman in this world. What her life was like. What pieces made up her puzzle. What chapters made up her story. What words made up her poem.
And so, I wrote for my boys. I could leave them these parts of me. The stories of our lives together. Yet, also, the story of me.
Initially, photography and autobiographical writing were central to plainmama. Running, knitting, and cooking emerged as forms of self expression in those nine years. All of these arts, as well as drawing and painting are a central part of me.
However, the main focus of plainmama (aside from photography) has shifted. Poetry has taken the place of autobiographical documentation. See, I was born a poet. I know that. I wrote poems from the young age of 6 or 7. Peaking in my teens and early 20s, I filled notebooks and journals with poetry. I packed away those filled journals, along with most of my words. I would visit them on rare occasion when the urge to write verse was too great to ignore. Awakening, I found my words. I opened the suitcase and released their presence back into my life. They are here to stay, never to be silenced again.