A sketch of me and baby Frida in the hospital.
On April 21, we welcomed Frida Iyla into the world. Frida means peace in Old High German and Iyla is based on the Turkish Ayla, for moonlight.
Writing this newsletter weekly is important to me, but if needed, I’ll take some time away from the world to care for myself and my family. I have no schedule or particular ambitions; I’m planning on taking it exactly one day at a time.
A year from now, here are five things from this week that I'd like to remember:
MONDAY
It’s no surprise that I admire Frida Kahlo as a woman and artist; as a human, she has the enviable ability to embrace her strangeness, her differences, and to find strength in them. As I learn more about her life, I am stunned by her endurance, determination, and ability to find romance—that is, beauty and value—in even the most treacherous moments of her life.
My favorite words by her are below:
“I used to think I was the strangest person in the world but then I thought there are so many people in the world, there must be someone just like me who feels bizarre and flawed in the same ways I do. I would imagine her, and imagine that she must be out there thinking of me, too. Well, I hope that if you are out there and read this and know that, yes, it’s true I’m here, and I’m just as strange as you.”
—Frida Kahlo
TUESDAY
My experience with birth the second time has been vastly different from the first, and a positive reminder that the past does not have to be indicative of the future.
What do I want to remember most?
• The way I was cared for by my surgeon, my doctors, my nurses, my husband, my daughter, and my family. The friends and classmates who’ve called and comforted. The editors who have stretched deadlines, the cohort who has taken on my Thesis installation, the publishing team who has taken on more work in my absence.
• The humanity of those that gave a little of themselves to me and my family, though we were perfect strangers—during many moments of great vulnerability over the past week.
• A never-before-felt grace towards my body, which always tries to care for me, and endures far more than I ever give it credit for. A promise to give you rest.
• The joy of experiencing motherhood with a lot more patience, a lot less anxiety, and priorities—and a perspective—that suits my values, my needs, and the life I want for myself.
• The sweetness of you, my little Frida, who has brought out such unexpected, dormant sweetness in me. At six days old, you have already changed me.
WEDNESDAY
“When things go well, it is easy to celebrate our bodies. But when things go poorly, or not how we imagined, it becomes much harder. I could look back and think about the ways my body disappointed me—and I did, a few times. But whenever I went down that road, I found that it was a dead-end street that made me feel terrible. Hating my body remains a waste of time. At some point, just for the purpose of survival, I chose, deliberately, to focus on all the things my body did right, what it did so well on my behalf. Everything it tried to do.”
—Like a Mother: A Feminist Journey Through the Science and Culture of Pregnancy by Angela Garbes
THURSDAY
Frida’s childhood home in Mexico City, Casa Azul, was turned into the Frida Kahlo Museum in 1958. I’d love to visit one day — many of her paintings are still on display, including Viva la Vida, her final work. In true Frida fashion, she remains in the house as well: an urn containing her ashes lives in her bedroom.
Below are a few of my favorite paintings by Frida:
Self-Portrait with Thorn Necklace and Hummingbird
FRIDAY
I’m your guide here. In the evening-dark
morning streets, I point and name.
Look, the sycamores, their mottled,
paint-by-number bark. Look, the leaves
rusting and crisping at the edges.
I walk through Schiller Park with you
on my chest. Stars smolder well
into daylight. Look, the pond, the ducks,
the dogs paddling after their prized sticks.
Fall is when the only things you know
because I’ve named them
begin to end. Soon I’ll have another
season to offer you: frost soft
on the window and a porthole
sighed there, ice sleeving the bare
gray branches. The first time you see
something die, you won’t know it might
come back. I’m desperate for you
to love the world because I brought you here.
—First Fall by Maggie Smith
xx,
M
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