Wild Greens

Welcome to the New Year, and Wild Greens is here with thoughts and reflections on mending: how difficult it can be, how empowering it can be, and how the choice of whether, when, and how to mend belongs to you alone.

Maggie Topel’s digital art logo depicts the Wild Greens logo as a patch stitched on to mend an old pair of jeans.

Jo Gatenby’s short story, “A Taste of Forgiveness,” tells of a hedge witch who repairs the broken relationships during her village’s Harvest Festival, with a loaf of bread.

In the first of two found-word collage poems, titled “within the tapestry,” artist J.I. Kleinberg stitches together torn text into a poem.

“Generational Repairs,” a poem by Rania Omar, challenges the personal violence passed down within families. “Hydrangea Petticoat,” a photograph by Melissa Lomax, captures the beauty of nature as it breaks down. “What doesn’t kill you, just makes you crazier,” a poem by Ivona Bozik, follows the “crescendo of a thought” upon the realization that surviving is a form of power.

In Vivienne Brecher’s “Self-Care,” done in ink and marker on paper, Bob the pig fixes a hole in himself. “Cozy Favorites” by Melissa Lomax depicts the artist’s favorite forms of winter self-care, blending traditional drawing with digital color.

J.I. Kleinberg’s second of two found-word collage poems, “from the flowing,” finds healing in the creation of art.

In “Blue Masked and 10-Blade Wielding,” a poem by Kait Quinn, the persona of the poem confronts an abusive relationship and finds the strength to repair what was taken from them. “Sometimes it is worth looking back,” by Irina Tall (Novikova) in ink, gel pen, and collage, is the first of two pieces that depict a rebirth of someone into something new.

“I Gave My Son My Father’s Name,” a poem by Lisa Ashley, reflects on a father’s abuse and the tentative, delicate nature of forgiveness. “From the darkness the universe arises,” the second of two collages by Irina Tall (Novikova), suggests wings and a person’s rebirth in flight.

Elaine Joy Edaya Degale’s personal essay offers insight into the art of mending, even those personal losses that can never truly be mended.

-Rebecca

A Taste of Forgiveness 

by Jo Gatenby

Autumn meant the grand Harvest Festival, crowning those who made the best bread, jams, and pastries, with blue ribbons. Yet over the years, this joyous celebration darkened into fierce competition. Rivalries spawned jealousy, festering over the winter, turning bosom friends into enemies.

These people are out of control, concluded Matilda, a poor old hedge witch, living alone in a tiny hut deep in the forest surrounding the village. So, she decided to enter. 

Her simple loaves contained a secret ingredient, passed down from one generation to the next—a blend of ground autumn leaves, alongside warm fall spices and a hint of magic, infusing her bread with an earthy scent that filled her home with mouth-watering aromas. 

She wended her way to the village, pushed through the crowd, and stood her loaf, on its plain wooden plate, amid the more ornate displays. She ignored the other contestants, who eyed her muted gray clothing, comparing it to their own finery with derisive sniggers.

The judges passed down the row, nodding and whispering together. They stopped at each entry, sampled, consulted, made notes, and moved on.

As they reached Matilda, one of them, a short, rotund fellow with a wispy beard, leaned forward with a sneer, opening his mouth to impart some scathing disparagement of her simple offering. But as the fragrance of her golden-crusted bread filled his nostrils, his insults dissolved unspoken.

He straightened, aromas of cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger wafting around him, recalling childhood memories of togetherness. Waving the other judges back, he cut a slice and took a bite. 

His eyes widened as warmth spread through him. He lifted his head, searching the crowd. “I’m sorry,” his gaze locked on his estranged twin, and he hurried toward him. “I take full responsibility for our argument.”

Startled, his brother replied, “No, ‘twas as much my fault as yours. Let’s forget it ever happened.” They embraced, eyes wet with sorrow for the years lost to acrimony.

A tiny smile twitched the corner of Matilda’s mouth. 

The next judge, a tall, thin woman with a face like squeezed lemons, shared her glare between the brothers and the small, gray hedge witch. Mystified, but determined, this second arbiter moved forward and gave a tentative sniff. Her notebook slipped from her grasp. She slapped her hands, palms down, on the table, her eyelids fluttering as she almost swooned with delight. 

Opening her eyes, she stared at Matilda, then dropped her gaze to the bread. She, too, cut a slice, taking a slow…hesitant…nibble. Memories of childhood dreams and shared laughter washed over her, as she moaned appreciatively, and took a larger bite. Unsatisfied, she crammed the rest of the piece into her mouth. 

Whispers of nostalgia, friendship, truth, and honesty warmed even her cold heart, and her face softened. 

The tall judge whirled around, scooped a flower bouquet from a vase and sprinted across the tent to present them to a plump woman, who stared at her in amazement. 

“I’m sorry I lied,” she confessed. “I hated losing to you every year and allowed my pettiness to ruin our friendship. Your apple pie deserved the blue ribbon. Can you forgive me?”

The crowd murmured as the remaining judges pressed forward, demanding slices of their own and begging forgiveness from those they’d wronged. 

Soon, only one judge had not even sniffed the loaf. “I will not be changed by trickery!” He glared at Matilda.

 “The bread is not for everyone.” She shrugged, her smile as mysterious as the forest she called home.

“You’re right.” A young man pushed through the crowd. “Nobody should be forced into forgiving.” The older man’s face paled. “But I choose to forgive you, Father, for all the hateful things you said.” 

The son gestured toward the remains of the loaf on the table. “I didn’t so much as sniff a slice, attesting these words are mine. Forgiveness is a gift I am giving myself. I have forgiven you, even if you don’t approve of the one I love.”

The old judge’s face grew redder as he listened. “You can’t! I forbid it.”

“You…” the young man gaped at him, astonished. Then he threw his head back and laughed—a laugh so free and full of joy it rippled through the crowd, irresistible as a child’s. Around him, people joined in, unable to help themselves. 

Even his father closed his eyes, remembering the boy who once laughed like that.

When their merriment died away, the son turned to Matilda. “May I have some of your bread?”

She cocked her head to one side. “I do not think you need it.” Her gentle smile teased as she cut him a piece. He took it, nodding his thanks, raised the slice to his nose and sniffed it.

“It smells wonderful.” The young man frowned. “But I feel the same.”

“Oh, the magic was never part of the loaf. Well, I might have evoked aromas that awaken the child in us, calling to our memories. No,” she bobbed her head toward the twin brothers, standing arm in arm, and the women, sitting side by side. “The real magic’s in their willingness to listen and open their hearts.” 

The stubborn judge tried to push his way out of the tent, but every few steps someone stopped him, to forgive him for some past wrong. By the time he reached the entrance, he was shaking and cursing under his breath. At the doorway, he hesitated, looking back. Matilda met his eyes with warm sympathy, but he scowled and rushed away. She wondered if he would come to see her before spring. I’d best get some tea, for good measure. It makes talking easier.

Assured there was no coercive magic involved, everyone wanted to try Matilda’s entry in the competition. When they did, the townsfolk realized her loaf didn’t just taste wonderful; breaking bread together healed old wounds—rekindling friendships and drawing the entire community closer.

When the festival ended, Matilda slipped away, leaving her blue ribbon on the table. 

That night, she brewed herself a nice cup of tea, listening to the peace and laughter echoing through her forest from the village, and smiled contentedly. 

She considered that the most valuable prize of all.

Generational Repairs

What doesn't kill you, just makes you crazier*

Blue Masked and 10-Blade Wielding

I Gave My Son My Father's Name

A Decade of Saudade 

by Elaine Joy Edaya Degale

Once upon a time, the Portuguese defined a feeling that cannot be translated into English. During the era called “The Great Portuguese Discoveries,” the ones who were left behind referred to their feeling of melancholic incompleteness as “Saudade.” As lovers and kin became separated by the duties required of an occupation at sea and conquest, saudade described their intense feelings of yearning for a faraway someone. It’s an undeniable nostalgia that is never fulfilled in its entirety because of the unpredictability of life and the elusive nature of love itself. It is a hauntingly beautiful emotion, both certain and uncertain at the same time. Uncertain in its return while being certain that something is missing. 

The madness of this life.

And perhaps today the sun had eclipsed itself behind the gray shadows of my unfulfilled dreams. Perhaps today she has decided that I wasn’t worthy of her grand performance, her legendary face blushing with the birth of every dream. And though I know I am worthy, perhaps I haven’t proven it to her yet. Perhaps she has grown weary in anticipation of the dreams I’ve kept announcing for the past five years. Perhaps she has become enraged by my fear of success.

And perhaps like me she has obscured herself and refused to shine.

*

I stood at the mouth of the Tagus river, becalmed. Her hands reached for me to join her joyous orchestra; to commence the journey of my dreams, crashing upon the soles of my feet. I remained doubtful. Uncertain like the retreat of a low tide from the shore. I listened to the echoes of malice in my heart, simmering in the angst of a sun that never arrived. I’ve asked for very little in this life, and bearing witness to the sunrise as it breaks the darkness of dawn is the only way I’ve ever felt inspired to insist on my existence. 

The cruelties of this life.

But I’ve been here before. It’s familiar like the sonorous lies of a charming lover who squandered your youth. It’s consuming like the unspoken desperation of becoming a single mother. It’s bewildering like watching a lover wield a heavy fist in the direction of your love. It’s disenchanting like the sound of the cunning silence of the parents who swayed your lover to reclaim his masculinity through violence. It is disconcerting like the devious taste of their anger. “Why must you love someone who is not like us?” they’d say. “We can’t fix a black baby,” they’d say. It’s confounding like the bitter taste of freedom when you finally escape a world that hates you because of the color of your skin. It’s the penchant caress of confusion for the lost souls who did all the things society told them to do, only to end up with nothing. 

How despite all your efforts to be rid of the clutches of poverty, homelessness was the only respite that coddled your dreams. And though I was still mourning the death of my mother only three years prior, I still had the audacity to look my social worker in the face and announce that I would be pursuing a master’s degree at an Ivy League institution.

“Come hell or highwater,” I said.

He may have felt an urge to chuckle, but he readily nodded his head instead. Perhaps in his mind, some hope was better than none. And the woman behind me interjected saying, “your master’s degree should be your daughter. Your master’s degree should be the desire to make it out of here before Christmas. Your master’s degree should be to get a job so that your daughter would not spend her first Christmas in a homeless shelter.”

And perhaps they were right. But seven years later, as I stare at this river, the greatest affliction currently facing my soul is the disappointment brewing within me, seething. For I have crossed the Atlantic Ocean just to watch the sunrise in Lisbon. The precious city that gave birth to my literary dreams almost a decade ago, enticed as I was by the literary grandeur of the oldest bookstore in the world. 

Viva Livraria Bertrand!

You must understand that I’ve always been ruthless about my plans. The plan today was to watch the symphony of my golden sunrise, and harness her magic to write great poetry. A poem that I would then walk back to my soulkin in Chiado, where I would recite my poetic sorcery to his bronze legacy. My soulkin, Fernando Pessoa, I was going to resurrect you with my words! And yet, my inspiration never revealed herself. My fickle sun. So I continued to stare at the horizon that kissed the banks of my treasured city, and I grappled with the heartbreak that she may never return.

My eyes burned with mist. 

This nostalgia, this longing, this impossible yearning, my eternal saudade…

*

I’ve survived so much, but it is the little things that break me.

I inquire the weather forecast to the fantastic discovery that the sun will not shine for the next three days. I only have seven days left in this assignment to make this happen. You do understand that this is very important to me. Perhaps it is within my grasp to try another continent—furthest away from the Lusitanian disappointment that enshrouds this very city.

Minha querida Lisboa, você me abandonou!

I have realized that in the moments of uncertainty, those very moments when my instincts are to flee, signal the critical parts of my story, begging reality for its expression. These are the moments when we should choose to stay calm. In these moments I chose—rejected—to dance to the drums of panic that uncertainty reverberates throughout the entirety of my being. 

So I sat there, contemplative, and I took out a black and white photograph of my mother and asked her: 

Para onde vamos? 

Just a few months ago, a short film that I wrote was screened at the International Film Festival Manhattan. I invited my mother’s best friend, Tita Arlene, to attend the awards ceremony. And when she saw the high-rise apartment I was living in on the Upper West Side, she told me that my mother would have been incredibly proud of me. 

“If only she could see the kind of life you are living, Elaine!” she gushed. 

Tita Arlene asked if I ever finished school, and I told her about the two master’s degrees I acquired from Columbia University. 

“How come you didn’t post it on Facebook?” she asked. “Dapat maging proud ka sa ganyang klaseng achievement!”

“Well, it was COVID the first time around, and for my second master’s, my father was dying from cancer and was too sick to attend. So, we streamed my graduation instead.”

“Your mother would have been so proud,” she repeated as she handed me a bouquet of roses. 

And for a moment I imagined all the future awards and bouquets of roses I will receive for all my future successes. And I am certain that as I continue to grow my career as a writer that no matter how many prestigious awards I will win in my future—heck, it could even be the most coveted literary prize—I am certain that I will stand in that Scandinavian stage riddled with the fleeting thought that none of it would ever be as good as having my mother with me in the flesh.

You see, the things that have broken me the most in this life are the things I couldn’t fix. How can you truly mend from the loss of a mother? My ambition has always remedied every other aspect of my life. Missing graduation? That’s fine. Unhoused for a year? Fine. Domestic violence while pregnant? Terrible, fixable. Single motherhood? Not the end of the world because my daughter is beautiful.

But losing my mother? How was I supposed to ever recover from that? I can’t bring her back! I can’t turn back time and show her all the sunsets and sunrises that I get to bear witness to. I can’t show her all the places, the countries I’ve seen, the cities I’ve been, the collection of lovers I’ve astounded with my charm! I can’t show her all the poems I’ve written, the awards I’ve received, the honors that feel meaningless because she is no longer alive to bear witness to it.

She’s gone.

And what of my father? The strange delicate dance of the time we spent together in his last years. How we never discussed that I knew he had just adopted me so he can brag about having a young Filipina wife. “See how white she is? Beautiful. Intoxicating.” 

What about that time when I was building my life as a professor but he didn’t understand why it meant so much to me? “If you were my aide, the government would give you $20 an hour. That’s good money.” How he shrugged at all my accomplishments, and outwardly mourned my slender body because “shit, why haven’t you taken better care of yourself?” How I had to explain numerous times that I have dreams too, like men do. And in the same way he abandoned me when I was three, I would have to bear the same in his time of need. Because I’m selfish, yes yes. How we spent his last Thanksgiving together broiling a turkey, and how I lingered by him in those few stolen moments hoping he’d tell me the truth about my real father because my mother was no longer alive to share the rest of the story? How he forbade her to tell me anything, lest he’ll divorce her before that green card comes! How he took all those secrets to his grave, and wailed that “nobody”—NOBODY!—was there to be with him in his last moments…while I wept in his living room every night.

Do you know how many times I’ve wept because I couldn’t make my parents happy?

*

I’ve realized that the art of mending requires the courage to let go. It requires the acceptance that there are details about our existence that we can’t change because our story is written by something larger than us. And I’ve soothed myself with the idea that perhaps the mission of my life is something that is yet to make sense to me. And so I mend in the ways I know how. I write each stanza of this life, listening to the calling that has brought me here to the streets of Lisbon. I wander with the curiosity to fill each longing, each yearning, that my mother ever had in the time that she was living. 

And one of the greatest dreams she ever had was to visit Morocco.

And so I celebrated her tenth birthday in heaven greeting the beautifully bright sunrise on the horizon of Marrakech. We climbed the Atlas Mountains together, watched the snowy peaks of Mount Toubkal together, dined with women of the Berber tribe together, rode camels with locals in a caravan together, and watched the gushing waterfalls while sipping on hot mint tea together. She’s always been here in spirit. Perhaps it was my mother that would be my inspiration all along.

My eyes filled with mist. This nostalgia, this longing, this impossible yearning, my eternal saudade…

Happy Birthday Mom.