One of the most instructive phrases I have EVER heard from an elder was, "What grows is what you feed," and I have to keep that phrase simmering on a back burner in my mind as I go through each day's activities. I used it in the sermon on Love this past Sunday to remind us that we need to feed on Love in order to produce the fruit of Love. I conveniently forgot to get rid of the unhealthy snacks that have slipped into my diet as I seek to produce more fruit from the Love diet.
Thinking about the life that I have constructed - which leaves little time for socializing - I had been feeling like I was giving far more than I was getting and I had a momentary lapse into entitled toddler syndrome where I crossed my arms over my chest and stomped my shiny little patent-leather Mary Jane on the ground and asked, "If Mama said that I should do unto others as I would have them do unto me, then why are they not doing like I'm doing???" And then, as I began to count up all of my doings (clue: real Love doesn't keep score!), two things became crystal clear...
1- I am only called and commissioned to give love and to be loving...and I am able to do it out of the abundance of Love that God has given me. The axiom does not promise that the others WILL do unto you as you have done, it just asks me to act as if and leave the rest in God's hands. I am not responsible for other people's actions - I can only control my own actions...and thus, I am in control of how much Love I show each day.
2- Upon closer examination, I had to face the fact that much of what I do in the name of Love is really in the name of something else. If every loving act is performed with a hand out expecting a tip, a thank you, an equal or reciprocal offering..then it was not done in pure Love but in something else. (Clue: starts with self and ends with ish!)
This is where my poetry-fairy-Godmother-in-my-head (Nikki Giovanni) spoke to my soul and applied the balm of truth. In her poem, The Women Gather, she reminded me that...
"Most of us love from our need to love
not because we find someone deserving.
Most of us forgive because we have trespassed
not because we are magnanimous.
Most of us comfort because we need comforting,
our ancient rituals demand that we give what we hope to receive."
And by her loving truth-telling, I felt compelled to change my diet from one of a love that is self-seeking to one that is generous enough to keep giving. I felt compelled to remember that my ability to be loving is rooted in a Love that runs over the brim of my cup and into the saucer. I do not ever have to worry about a Love shortage because my love is connected to, rooted in, and empowered by Divine Love...which truly never fails.
Today, I pray that we would all remain on a steady diet of Divine Love. I pray that we would be unafraid to be generous. I pray that we would take a double serving of patience, kindness, grace, mercy, and compassion. I pray that our diet would produce in us...good fruit.
What grows is what you feed...what is in your lunchbox today?
Shalom
Friday, November 30, 2012
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Can I Get A Witness?
”We need a witness to our lives. There's a billion people on the planet, what does any one life really mean? But in a marriage, you're promising to care about everything. The good things, the bad things, the terrible things, the mundane things, all of it, all of the time, every day. You're saying 'Your life will not go unnoticed because I will notice it. Your life will not go unwitnessed because I will be your witness'."
Shall We Dance 2004 Beverly Clark
This is one of my all-time favorite quotes from a movie. I love this quote because it speaks to a beautiful truth. I love the idea that marriage is a place where we can notice one another in grand moments and in the most mundane moments as well. Don't get me wrong, I know that marriage is hard work and it is usually more balancing a budget and taking out the trash than it is hearts, flowers and family vacations. In a world where the internet has given us all the audience we can fathom with a dearth of social networks, it warms my heart to think that there might be someone who would commit to noticing my life. We can find friends to care about some things and nosey people will care about other things, but this promise to care about everything is more than wonderful.
Imagine, someone to notice the twitch of your eyelids just before you wake and greet the day. Someone to notice whether you taste the sauce from the spoon or from your hand. Someone to notice that your favorite mug is not clean but it is time for a cup of tea...so he washes it and prepares the tea just the way you like it...because he noticed. Someone to notice that you had a long day and don't feel like talking...yet. Someone to notice that your outward toddler tantrum of "leave me alone" is really your way of begging for a long hug that provides the necessary shelter for putting the pieces back together again. In the movie, Susan Sarandon's character is hurt because her husband pursues an interest in dance and does not share it with her...the reason for this is...well...you just need to rent the movie. It's too complex to sum up neatly for the sake of the blog. She hires a private detective to follow him because she is afraid that he is cheating but stops the investigation when she finds that he is taking dance classes. All she wants to do is live out her promise to be his witness because that is what she promised in her "I do".
We all want to be seen, heard, noticed and actively loved. This is the call to be a witness to someone's life. It always hurts me to watch the scene in the movie Brown Sugar when Sydney asks Kelby if he read her articles and he responds, "I read the one about me." That's looking in the mirror and witnessing yourself, you big dummy!!! She wants you to witness HER life!! (Which is why I cry (every time) when she ends up with Dre, who, by the way, not only read everything she wrote, but memorized a line from an article! Swoon!) Outside of the context of marriage, I've heard preachers ask, "Can I get a witness" to their preaching of the gospel and the congregation will usually respond with a hearty "Yes!" or "Amen, preacher!" I wonder what our response is when we are facing the gospel truth of the life of a loved one who wordlessly asks...Can I get a witness? I pray that today, we will all hear and give a "Yes" or "Amen, preacher" or "I've read everything you've ever written!"
Shalom
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
capacity
capacity
sometimes, you can't know the capacity of something
until it's just about to burst
the trouble is
calibrating the vessel to figure out
where that point is
and then, there's the mess that results
when the vessel breaks
and the stuff spills
all over the place
sometimes, you can't know the capacity of a woman
until she's about to burst
the trouble is
there is no calibrating a woman
to figure out
where that point is
and then, there's the mess that results
when she finally breaks
and people look down at her
in her broken state
emotions, hurts, secrets
spilled
all over the place
sometimes, you can't know the capacity
of a woman
unless you try to see
where the calibration marks are
because they're there
if you observe
carefully
and the point is
there won't be a mess
because there won't be a break
because he saw the marks
(they're called scars)
and opened himself up
to make room for the stuff
that now, won't spill
all over the place
because two became one
and capacity increased
exponentially
sometimes, you can't know the capacity of something
until it's just about to burst
the trouble is
calibrating the vessel to figure out
where that point is
and then, there's the mess that results
when the vessel breaks
and the stuff spills
all over the place
sometimes, you can't know the capacity of a woman
until she's about to burst
the trouble is
there is no calibrating a woman
to figure out
where that point is
and then, there's the mess that results
when she finally breaks
and people look down at her
in her broken state
emotions, hurts, secrets
spilled
all over the place
sometimes, you can't know the capacity
of a woman
unless you try to see
where the calibration marks are
because they're there
if you observe
carefully
and the point is
there won't be a mess
because there won't be a break
because he saw the marks
(they're called scars)
and opened himself up
to make room for the stuff
that now, won't spill
all over the place
because two became one
and capacity increased
exponentially
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
For the 14 year old poet
To the 14 year old 'Maya' who performed at the coffeehouse on Friday night
If I thought I could not fail?
What would I do?
First of all, how is this question even in your repertoire? I'm impressed. You, my dear, will go far in life if you keep asking those kinds of questions.
Now, for my answers:
1- I would take the rest of the dance lessons that my mother chided me for taking when I was 25. And after the ballet series was finished, I would take ballroom, african, hip-hop and jazz classes, and whatever other classes they offered until I was ready for competition...and then, because I could not fail (and would not care about winning per se) I would compete and dance with complete abandon! (This is me letting go my pew, but you have to read my previous blog entry for that to make sense.)
2- I would throw my bikini, two tee shirts and two pairs of shorts (and a few other items...like a toothbrush!) in a bag and spend another week in Arizona. But this time, I would rent the pink jeep and drive through the Grand Canyon and I would sing at that karaoke bar in that beautiful steak house where I had one of the best meals of my entire stay in Scottsdale.
3- I would write several best sellers. Not necessarily the "great American novel" but definitely something that captures the hilariousness that is my parents and this life that I have been given.
4- I would retake Kiswahili at Rutgers and become fluent in it. Then, I would do the same with French, Spanish and Greek and Hebrew. That way, I could not only use them in everyday life, but also for the exams to get into graduate school to pursue that PhD in a subject yet to be determined.
5- I would take cooking classes and do extra homework and eat the mistakes and maybe even finish writing my business plan for the personal chef business that grew out of a simple request.
6- I would take my daughter out of school for a year and take her on an educational trip around the world, but it would have to begin in Africa...you understand why, don't you? Yes, of course you do.
7- You might think this one is odd, but I would go shopping. I hate shopping because nothing ever fits and if it does, it's not appropriate or it's just downright ugly. If I could not fail, I would go shopping and have a personal shopper and tailor on hand to help me find that which emphasize my assets. (That wasn't a weak attempt at some not-so-clever wordplay. I haven't been able to emphasize my assets in years because nothing fits but I do have really nice legs to be so short and I have a waistline, so all of these clothes that hang on the hips just don't do me any justice. You're young and perfect, so you have no idea what I am referring to! (smile)) Oh, and there would be shoes! Perfect shoes! Not excessive numbers of shoes, just perfect shoes for the journey.
8- You can't repeat this one to anyone but I might see if God wants me to pastor. What the heck? I can't fail, right? So...(*hand hovers over delete button*)
9- *whispering* I might even get married again...but that would mean dating so, let's start small, and just get the wardrobe and assets in place...refer back to #7, okay?
10- Baby, I would live my life in such a way that you would be proud to know me! I would journal my thoughts and my adventures so that you would smile at my joys, laugh at my jokes, and learn from my mistakes!
That's just for starters! Thanks for asking!
If I thought I could not fail?
What would I do?
First of all, how is this question even in your repertoire? I'm impressed. You, my dear, will go far in life if you keep asking those kinds of questions.
Now, for my answers:
1- I would take the rest of the dance lessons that my mother chided me for taking when I was 25. And after the ballet series was finished, I would take ballroom, african, hip-hop and jazz classes, and whatever other classes they offered until I was ready for competition...and then, because I could not fail (and would not care about winning per se) I would compete and dance with complete abandon! (This is me letting go my pew, but you have to read my previous blog entry for that to make sense.)
2- I would throw my bikini, two tee shirts and two pairs of shorts (and a few other items...like a toothbrush!) in a bag and spend another week in Arizona. But this time, I would rent the pink jeep and drive through the Grand Canyon and I would sing at that karaoke bar in that beautiful steak house where I had one of the best meals of my entire stay in Scottsdale.
3- I would write several best sellers. Not necessarily the "great American novel" but definitely something that captures the hilariousness that is my parents and this life that I have been given.
4- I would retake Kiswahili at Rutgers and become fluent in it. Then, I would do the same with French, Spanish and Greek and Hebrew. That way, I could not only use them in everyday life, but also for the exams to get into graduate school to pursue that PhD in a subject yet to be determined.
5- I would take cooking classes and do extra homework and eat the mistakes and maybe even finish writing my business plan for the personal chef business that grew out of a simple request.
6- I would take my daughter out of school for a year and take her on an educational trip around the world, but it would have to begin in Africa...you understand why, don't you? Yes, of course you do.
7- You might think this one is odd, but I would go shopping. I hate shopping because nothing ever fits and if it does, it's not appropriate or it's just downright ugly. If I could not fail, I would go shopping and have a personal shopper and tailor on hand to help me find that which emphasize my assets. (That wasn't a weak attempt at some not-so-clever wordplay. I haven't been able to emphasize my assets in years because nothing fits but I do have really nice legs to be so short and I have a waistline, so all of these clothes that hang on the hips just don't do me any justice. You're young and perfect, so you have no idea what I am referring to! (smile)) Oh, and there would be shoes! Perfect shoes! Not excessive numbers of shoes, just perfect shoes for the journey.
8- You can't repeat this one to anyone but I might see if God wants me to pastor. What the heck? I can't fail, right? So...(*hand hovers over delete button*)
9- *whispering* I might even get married again...but that would mean dating so, let's start small, and just get the wardrobe and assets in place...refer back to #7, okay?
10- Baby, I would live my life in such a way that you would be proud to know me! I would journal my thoughts and my adventures so that you would smile at my joys, laugh at my jokes, and learn from my mistakes!
That's just for starters! Thanks for asking!
If I let go this pew
In a moment of comical self-reflection one Sunday, I noticed that I don't like to sit on the front pew in our sanctuary because I like having something to lean on or hold onto. I am not sure when that habit began but I do consider myself to be a bit of a pew-gripper. Now, as someone who suffers from random dizzy spells, this is not a bad idea but I began thinking about it one Sunday when the worship leader asked us to raise our hands and I realized that I was practically white-knuckled in my grip on the pew in front of me. With a sly smile, I let go of the pew and raised my hands but when it was time to lower our arms again, there I was, resting on that pew again. What is the security in holding on to that smooth piece of wood? I am still not sure but I do know that I feel oddly anchored when that pew is in front of me. I am not exactly the most kinesthetic worshipper in the crowd, but lately, I find myself asking myself "so, what happens if you let go of this pew?" (Or the more accurate and countrified version of the question..."what happens if I let go this pew?")
It's not like I'm going to fly away or something crazy like that. It's not like some wind is going to blow through the sanctuary and carry me up and out. It's not like I'll lose my natural balance...and if so, I can always sit down! Honestly, I do have this thought that if I let go that pew, something is going to happen to me but I am not sure what.
I seriously believe that though it is chuckleworthy, it speaks to something much deeper. I've been told that I hold back when I am preaching sometimes and I just need to let go. Someone who heard me preach for the first time said, "So, you're not as quiet as we thought" and I thought that was odd, but then I realized that she stands right in front of me when she is singing and she sees what I look like when I am in worship...so she knows what she's talking about! (But how on earth do I fix it? And do I really need to? (and did I just start two sentences with conjunctions?...I digress.)) I already know that in other areas of life, I tend to become way too big if I "let go" and so I rein it in so that others are not displaced by my volume (as in decibels and size). Turning 40 was a bit of a license to let go and exercise the freedom that comes with..."Honey, I'm 40. I don't have to care what you think!" However, with that freedom comes the responsibility to use it wisely. As I move into the world of spoken word performances, I feel the freedom growing. I know that I am learning to let go and just enjoy the ride. Maybe I'll try it on Sunday...and see exactly what might happen if I let go that pew! If you see me on Sunday and I have on ankle weights, you'll know why!
Monday, November 26, 2012
Some thoughts on preaching
The following is just my own musings about preaching...these are my own opinions and not necessarily the opinions of any other preachers on the planet...you'll have to ask them yourself!
A few notes on preaching:
Yes, we get nervous. It shows up differently in different people. I am usually grateful for a stationary microphone and a solid pulpit so that the congregants don't see my weight shifting from foot to foot as I attempt to keep my knees from knocking. I play with the papers (or lately, the iPad) in front of me and try to have opening remarks that don't sound like incessant stuttering but usually, as soon as I remember to smile, pray, and just read the scripture, it's all good.
Sermons do not fall from heaven onto the lips of the preacher. We read, we study the text, we pray, we read magazines and news articles. We are called to say a word but to also make it relevant. We have to know what is happening in the world in order to help God's people live in it. Sometimes, we will revisit or recycle a sermon but trust and believe that God will sweep the cobwebs away from outdated examples if the teaching is sound.
There is a part that must be given over to the Holy Spirit. After reading, consulting commentaries, doing word studies and searching for sermon illustrations, you have to let it breathe like a fine wine. There is someplace in which you feel a shift and then you might be saying the words on the page, but for me, the breath comes from a deeper place. I'm told that I have a 'game face' when I preach. That cracks me up but I know what people mean because there's always this moment when the congregation gets blurry and I can barely see my manuscript but the words keep coming anyway. If you know about the concept of "Flow" then you'll understand exactly what I mean. It becomes an out of body experience and I need to see the video or hear the recording to really grasp what everyone else saw in that moment. (But what a feeling! Whoooooo!) You may have heard a preacher say that it can't be preached until it preaches to the preacher. I agree. If that thing doesn't somehow bless me, then how can I hope for it to bless anyone else? And that usually happens somewhere around the practice run when my notes are done and "I try it on" to check my timing...and cry through the whole thing. Like the pop-up timer on a Perdue oven stuffer roaster, that's my clue that it's as done as I can make it!
Regarding sermon preparation, I often envy people who have the luxury to be alone with their thoughts and who can really carve out the time and space to really hear from God before, during and after. People who have not preached would have no way to know this, but for some preachers, those 20 minutes are the most exhausting in the week. I know you just want to shake my hand but I just want to sit down and sleep for a minute. Okay, so it may not be quite that dramatic, but preachers often depend on family and friends to assist with small things (like driving me to the church because I am so focused on saying what God has given me...or in my case because I can't get my car started! ha!). Everyone has their rituals and needs but an after church nap seems like the universal preacher treat! Today, I am returning to my 'day job' and I am not at 100% because I have not fully recovered from yesterday. I didn't preach a revival or run around the church but I did attempt to loosen my grip on the pew (tomorrow's blog topic) and just give what I was given to share with my church family...and I'm a tad worn out. (Thus, the pastor's day off is usually Monday.)
So, those are my notes for today. November is almost over and I'm just glad to have had this many days worth of things to write about! Tune in tomorrow for a little something I'm calling "If I let go this pew..."
Have a great day!
Shalom!
A few notes on preaching:
Yes, we get nervous. It shows up differently in different people. I am usually grateful for a stationary microphone and a solid pulpit so that the congregants don't see my weight shifting from foot to foot as I attempt to keep my knees from knocking. I play with the papers (or lately, the iPad) in front of me and try to have opening remarks that don't sound like incessant stuttering but usually, as soon as I remember to smile, pray, and just read the scripture, it's all good.
Sermons do not fall from heaven onto the lips of the preacher. We read, we study the text, we pray, we read magazines and news articles. We are called to say a word but to also make it relevant. We have to know what is happening in the world in order to help God's people live in it. Sometimes, we will revisit or recycle a sermon but trust and believe that God will sweep the cobwebs away from outdated examples if the teaching is sound.
There is a part that must be given over to the Holy Spirit. After reading, consulting commentaries, doing word studies and searching for sermon illustrations, you have to let it breathe like a fine wine. There is someplace in which you feel a shift and then you might be saying the words on the page, but for me, the breath comes from a deeper place. I'm told that I have a 'game face' when I preach. That cracks me up but I know what people mean because there's always this moment when the congregation gets blurry and I can barely see my manuscript but the words keep coming anyway. If you know about the concept of "Flow" then you'll understand exactly what I mean. It becomes an out of body experience and I need to see the video or hear the recording to really grasp what everyone else saw in that moment. (But what a feeling! Whoooooo!) You may have heard a preacher say that it can't be preached until it preaches to the preacher. I agree. If that thing doesn't somehow bless me, then how can I hope for it to bless anyone else? And that usually happens somewhere around the practice run when my notes are done and "I try it on" to check my timing...and cry through the whole thing. Like the pop-up timer on a Perdue oven stuffer roaster, that's my clue that it's as done as I can make it!
Regarding sermon preparation, I often envy people who have the luxury to be alone with their thoughts and who can really carve out the time and space to really hear from God before, during and after. People who have not preached would have no way to know this, but for some preachers, those 20 minutes are the most exhausting in the week. I know you just want to shake my hand but I just want to sit down and sleep for a minute. Okay, so it may not be quite that dramatic, but preachers often depend on family and friends to assist with small things (like driving me to the church because I am so focused on saying what God has given me...or in my case because I can't get my car started! ha!). Everyone has their rituals and needs but an after church nap seems like the universal preacher treat! Today, I am returning to my 'day job' and I am not at 100% because I have not fully recovered from yesterday. I didn't preach a revival or run around the church but I did attempt to loosen my grip on the pew (tomorrow's blog topic) and just give what I was given to share with my church family...and I'm a tad worn out. (Thus, the pastor's day off is usually Monday.)
So, those are my notes for today. November is almost over and I'm just glad to have had this many days worth of things to write about! Tune in tomorrow for a little something I'm calling "If I let go this pew..."
Have a great day!
Shalom!
Sunday, November 25, 2012
There is a word from The Lord
Today, I will preach. Today, at the 11:00 service, I will stand up with knees knocking and feet freezing and I will preach. I have done this before, but every time that I preach, something happens to me. When I write my sermon, there is a process that kicks in. I write, laugh, sing and weep. I sometimes cry so hard that I have to move away from the computer so that I don't short it out. Last night, I wrote, I read, I laughed and I saved the document one last time and then I went to bed. And I wept. I mean, scare the neighbors weeping. I was alone with the sermon on love. I was alone in my bed with my cold toes and heavy heart. I wept, sobbed, whimpered and tried to lift my head off of that pillow but was left to literally wallow in my tears. Today, those tears will preach. Today, the word of Love will come through and come forth. Today, I will joke about football but I will preach about love. The love that attends when you are crying alone in bed at night. The love that hides a multitude of sins. The love that pulls you upright when you have been bowed over for 18 years. The love that raises the roof and lowers you into a healing place. The love that offers not silver or gold, but healing. The love that pulses through a heart from the first beat to the last. The love that needs nothing but an invitation and an exhortation. The love that refills when we feel empty...like I did last night....all alone...with my cold toes and heavy heart. Today, I will preach. I will preach in, on, and through the invisible yet invincible LOVE that, as my friend Valerie says, attends me.
I Corinthians 13
13 Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I have become sounding brass or a clanging cymbal. 2 And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. 3 And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned,[a] but have not love, it profits me nothing. 4 Love suffers long and is kind; love does not envy; love does not parade itself, is not puffed up; 5 does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil; 6 does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth; 7 bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. 8 Love never fails. But whether there are prophecies, they will fail; whether there are tongues, they will cease; whether there is knowledge, it will vanish away. 9 For we know in part and we prophesy in part. 10 But when that which is perfect has come, then that which is in part will be done away.
11 When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things. 12 For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I also am known.
13 And now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love.
I am loved and therefore, I love.
Shalom
Saturday, November 24, 2012
prayer 112412
Dear God,
Thank you for loving me and knowing me and allowing me to just be here. Today, although there are pressing matters around the globe that require, if not demand, your attention, I'd just like to hang out with you for a while. I'm sitting in this wonderfully comfortable chair that was practically given to me and I realize that You have put some very generous people in my path and I am grateful for each of them. Some, I didn't even recognize in the moment but as I reflect on my life, I see them now. I thank you for wonderfully funny parents who are marvelously extraordinary in their everyday humility. You could have stopped right there and left me in the small circle of my nuclear family but you have allowed me to travel and move and meet and greet an international grouping of people I now call friends. My garden of friends and acquaintances is beautiful in its diversity and I pray that I would be a flower and not a weed in the lives of people I have met. You have allowed me to love and be loved. I have survived heartbreak and bad dates but I have also known a love that endures. Thank you. I don't know what the future holds, but the present is pretty good! Thank you for the new community of artists that you have allowed me to find. My life has a richness that cannot be measured in carats or gold bars. There is something sacred about those spaces and I always find you when I am in them. Thank you for those who use their gift...to your glory. We're all in the process of birthing something. You have allowed me to give birth to a beautiful girl...her life is a testimony to you. I've always known that she is just on loan to me for safe-keeping. The way that you trust me is incredible. Thank you for allowing me to be a part of the lives of students across these 20 years. I also thank you for the tragedies and wounds that make life full and real. You have taught me compassion and patience and love in the midst of loss. You have also taught me where my idols are in the midst of my grief...thank you for allowing me to live long enough to learn from that. In everything today, I just want to hang out with you. I don't want to long for anything today. I just want to be content and complete with you. And so, I shall. Thank you...I'm listening, leaning, present, and here...
Thank you for loving me and knowing me and allowing me to just be here. Today, although there are pressing matters around the globe that require, if not demand, your attention, I'd just like to hang out with you for a while. I'm sitting in this wonderfully comfortable chair that was practically given to me and I realize that You have put some very generous people in my path and I am grateful for each of them. Some, I didn't even recognize in the moment but as I reflect on my life, I see them now. I thank you for wonderfully funny parents who are marvelously extraordinary in their everyday humility. You could have stopped right there and left me in the small circle of my nuclear family but you have allowed me to travel and move and meet and greet an international grouping of people I now call friends. My garden of friends and acquaintances is beautiful in its diversity and I pray that I would be a flower and not a weed in the lives of people I have met. You have allowed me to love and be loved. I have survived heartbreak and bad dates but I have also known a love that endures. Thank you. I don't know what the future holds, but the present is pretty good! Thank you for the new community of artists that you have allowed me to find. My life has a richness that cannot be measured in carats or gold bars. There is something sacred about those spaces and I always find you when I am in them. Thank you for those who use their gift...to your glory. We're all in the process of birthing something. You have allowed me to give birth to a beautiful girl...her life is a testimony to you. I've always known that she is just on loan to me for safe-keeping. The way that you trust me is incredible. Thank you for allowing me to be a part of the lives of students across these 20 years. I also thank you for the tragedies and wounds that make life full and real. You have taught me compassion and patience and love in the midst of loss. You have also taught me where my idols are in the midst of my grief...thank you for allowing me to live long enough to learn from that. In everything today, I just want to hang out with you. I don't want to long for anything today. I just want to be content and complete with you. And so, I shall. Thank you...I'm listening, leaning, present, and here...
Friday, November 23, 2012
I knew it was love
I knew it was love
He said, "It ain't easy being away from home on the holidays because it's just not the same and you can't complain about a free meal. However, I just wish that I could get a proper holiday meal."
I listened.
He said, "I mean, who I gotta know to get some chittlins that are cleaned properly? Is it that hard? Aren't there any cooking classes being offered in grandmothers' kitchens anymore?"
I listened.
He said, "Is there no honor among African Americans anymore? It's a holiday!! Why are we eating the same stuff we ate after the church picnic in July? This just doesn't make sense!"
I listened.
He said, "All a displaced black man wanted was sweet potatoes, greens, dressing, giblet gravy, turkey and cranberry sauce...oh, and cornbread. Is that so much to ask for on Thanksgiving?"
I listened.
Then, I knew it was love...when I began preheating the oven, greasing the skillet, looking for that box of Bell's turkey seasoning and making a shopping list and channeling the spirit of every cooking ancestor in my lineage...so that he would know that there is honor among African Americans on holidays.
I knew it was love...because I considered cleaning chitterlings...
I listened.
He said, "It ain't easy being away from home on the holidays because it's just not the same and you can't complain about a free meal. However, I just wish that I could get a proper holiday meal."
I listened.
He said, "I mean, who I gotta know to get some chittlins that are cleaned properly? Is it that hard? Aren't there any cooking classes being offered in grandmothers' kitchens anymore?"
I listened.
He said, "Is there no honor among African Americans anymore? It's a holiday!! Why are we eating the same stuff we ate after the church picnic in July? This just doesn't make sense!"
I listened.
He said, "All a displaced black man wanted was sweet potatoes, greens, dressing, giblet gravy, turkey and cranberry sauce...oh, and cornbread. Is that so much to ask for on Thanksgiving?"
I listened.
Then, I knew it was love...when I began preheating the oven, greasing the skillet, looking for that box of Bell's turkey seasoning and making a shopping list and channeling the spirit of every cooking ancestor in my lineage...so that he would know that there is honor among African Americans on holidays.
I knew it was love...because I considered cleaning chitterlings...
I listened.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
A teacher's thanksgiving prayer
While some people are all mushy and warm and fuzzy and all "save the world" and "let's enjoy our time off" and "is it black friday yet?" today, I remain a snarky and sleep-deprived schoolteacher. With that in mind, let us pray,
Dear God,
Thank you for everything. There, that sums it up neatly. You are awesome and wonderful and loving and kind every day and I hope that I remember to tell you because...well...I work with teenagers and I'm going to need you...every hour! So, thanks for everything.
Now, this is the big request of the day. Ready? Okay. I would really appreciate it if you would help people to stop referring to these four days as a break or a vacation. Don't these people know that we saved all of our grading from the past three days for this weekend? Like, duh! Don't they know that we needed all of our energy for the kids who NEVER miss a day of school no matter how hard we pray (so, yeah, we will need to discuss that later too)? Don't they know that in order to be the change we want to see, we have to plan lessons, grade papers, write curriculum maps, read the literature, collect, report, and analyze the data plus wash the dishes and cook half of the meal...if not the entire meal and plan activities for our own children who are actually off and have no homework over the..."break"? Lord, today, I'm not praying about raising test scores or increasing retention and graduation rates. Today, I just pray that as you shut the lion's mouth for Daniel that you would shut a few mouths for me too. (You know I am a direct descendant of Peter and I'm prone to cutting people and if I have to spend half of my time "off" on the altar asking for forgiveness, I won't get my schoolwork done. Can you help a sister out? Pleeeeeease?) Okay, I think that's all for now. I know, it's a lot to ask and I know you're probably teaching me grace or patience or something useful but you told me to make my requests known...so this is my request for today. Thank you so much!
Love,
Carla
PS - Please grant me an extra helping of grace as I continue to refer to this day as the celebration of that time that the colonizing imperialists stole from the people of color who were indigenous to this land long before it was "discovered" and who warmed themselves against the ravages of fire water with small-poxed blankets. Okay, thanks again!
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Commitment
Commitment
On Sunday, I watched a TD Jakes sermon called Commitment and it was, as the churchy people say, right on time. I have committed to not only writing but also publishing a piece of writing every day for the month of November and it has become a habit that I enjoy and look forward to every morning. Fortunately, I really don't have time to write like I want to, so the act of carving out time is also an exercise in commitment. I will do this every day whether the circumstances are conducive or not. It is growing me and that's one of the things I look for in a relationship. Can this relationship grow me...as in nurture me and not just in the proverbial "whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger" kind of way?? (Healthy living, exercise, quiet time and love don't kill you and can make you stronger too! Don't trip, all growth doesn't come from pain although some might.) I am committed to my craft and will revisit my goals as December approaches. I wonder what other people are committed to these days. It's really quite awesome to see the fruits of something as small as this. If you're thinking about your own commitments, let me tell you, starting is the hardest part. (Go on, what are you waiting for? Do it! Do it! You're not alone! Look at the number of posts I have for the month of November! One post a day and one day at a time!)
I claimed November as my "turning point" month and this weekend is my first test...or maybe it's a lab..I'm not sure. I committed to perform at an open mic event and though I feel a slight cold and sore throat coming on *cough, cough* I have made the commitment and now the only obstacle is fear. Writing on my iPad and touching the screen where I see the ominous word "publish" is very different from having to open my mouth and release the words that are in my mind and heart. Ah, but that's the best part. Once I put on my game face and forget that I am in front of other people...I just might be okay. The point is that whether I pass or fail, failure to act is the ultimate betrayal of my commitment...so I guess I should act in fidelity...and plan my outfit!
shalom and love and courage!
On Sunday, I watched a TD Jakes sermon called Commitment and it was, as the churchy people say, right on time. I have committed to not only writing but also publishing a piece of writing every day for the month of November and it has become a habit that I enjoy and look forward to every morning. Fortunately, I really don't have time to write like I want to, so the act of carving out time is also an exercise in commitment. I will do this every day whether the circumstances are conducive or not. It is growing me and that's one of the things I look for in a relationship. Can this relationship grow me...as in nurture me and not just in the proverbial "whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger" kind of way?? (Healthy living, exercise, quiet time and love don't kill you and can make you stronger too! Don't trip, all growth doesn't come from pain although some might.) I am committed to my craft and will revisit my goals as December approaches. I wonder what other people are committed to these days. It's really quite awesome to see the fruits of something as small as this. If you're thinking about your own commitments, let me tell you, starting is the hardest part. (Go on, what are you waiting for? Do it! Do it! You're not alone! Look at the number of posts I have for the month of November! One post a day and one day at a time!)
I claimed November as my "turning point" month and this weekend is my first test...or maybe it's a lab..I'm not sure. I committed to perform at an open mic event and though I feel a slight cold and sore throat coming on *cough, cough* I have made the commitment and now the only obstacle is fear. Writing on my iPad and touching the screen where I see the ominous word "publish" is very different from having to open my mouth and release the words that are in my mind and heart. Ah, but that's the best part. Once I put on my game face and forget that I am in front of other people...I just might be okay. The point is that whether I pass or fail, failure to act is the ultimate betrayal of my commitment...so I guess I should act in fidelity...and plan my outfit!
shalom and love and courage!
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
I know you meant well...however...
Been There...
Two years ago, I suffered from a debilitating depression. When I say debilitating, I mean barely functioning, can't get out of bed, crying incessantly, can't eat, inconsolable (not that anyone could get close anyway because I was barricaded in my bedroom), wanting to kill myself kind of depression. Now, I know that's hard for some people to read and comprehend but as the holidays approach, I feel compelled to talk about it again - not for my own cleansing and closure (I'm still here, so I'm good) but for the sake of others who have no words to express what they are feeling and cannot make others understand. It's hard enough being depressed but then to have to explain it to others who just don't get it...and to be loving and generous when you have NOTHING is nearly impossible. So, the following is an excerpt from a message that I sent to a loved one who made a well-meaning comment on social media after attending the funeral of a person who committed suicide:
This is a reaction to a Facebook post that has my hands shaking my heart pounding and my head throbbing as I drive down Route 73 on this otherwise beautiful sunny day.
Beloved, it makes me angry when people think that being suicidal can be remedied by talking to "everyone" or "someone". If the listeners were actually available to HEAR us when we're talking about what's going on and what is leading us to consider suicide in the first place, then perhaps that suggestion might work. It is utterly offensive to me that people think that simply finding 'someone' to talk to will solve the problem. I had plenty of people to talk to including ones I paid to talk to but that didn't solve the 'problem'. I even talked to Jesus but that didn't easily and readily solve the 'problem' either.
The darkness surrounding suicidal thoughts is thick, consuming, frightening and overbearing and most "friends" can't handle going there with you for fear that it might leak off of us and consume them too.
I realize that people do mean well however, understanding mental illness goes far beyond telling people who were sick to talk to people who are well.
We don't want to talk to you people! Do you know why? Because you treat us like we are children with a scraped knee instead of like the triage cases we are at that point. Hello! I don't have a scraped knee. I have a severed limb! And bless your hearts, you try your uninformed best with your "get over it" or "cheer up" (and my personal favorite - "I was depressed last week too" - No, YOU had a bad day! I have an illness!! But we can't say those things because they're considered inappropriate.) and after hearing that repeatedly (from loved ones who are closest to us or who claim to know us best) we simply decide to stop talking to people who say stupid shit. (excuse me, I mean well-meaning but useless words). Do you seriously think we haven't tried talking to people? Do you seriously think we just sat here in silence picking at a wound until the gangrene took over and we had no other choice but to cut the limb off? Is that REALLY what you think? I just don't understand why it is so difficult for people who live normal lives to make room for the possibility that there is another way of life out here in the age of the Google search and smart-phones.
I don't mean to sound ungrateful or negative - I just want you to understand what it feels like in the day to day existence in the kind depression that leads to suicide. I have to advocate for those who have no voice in the conversation but are expected to "talk to someone".
Those who have never been there think we are selfish. You've got to have a sense of self to be selfish. For some, by the time we get to that place, it looks like an act of pure ego, but it's really quite the opposite. Hubris has become homeless at that point.
I'm one of the blessed ones because I survived my own suicidal thoughts and attempts. I made it through my own indescribable darkness.
I did not survive because I had someone to talk to per se. Talking to a professional and to loved ones is but one part of a larger treatment for a whole body illness.
I survived because sisters and friends came and put their hands on me and heard me and worked hard enough to know me and love me when I was extremely difficult to love and extremely resistant to it as well. They pushed their way into my foxhole and dragged me out and did not let me go until I remembered myself. (Remember that scene from "The Women of Brewster Place" (the movie) when Mattie pulls Ceil out of the bed and bathes her, braids her hair, puts pajamas on her, and force feeds her...yeah, it was like that.)
I survived because I was forced to get medical attention because this thing was bigger than 'talk' and I was out of words anyway. I survived because I had people holding me accountable for taking the prescribed medication until such time that I did not have to use it anymore.
I survived because there is a gift of writing that allows me to say to people do not discount those who are truly clinically depressed and using that gift reminds me of the dragon that waits to be slain every day - whether in my life or in the life of others.
I will not allow you to use your widely respected influence on social media to simply say, "If you are considering suicide find someone to talk to."
It sounds harsh but it's like when Malcolm X told the white girl there was nothing she could do for the movement. It's bigger than your well meaning heart’s desire to "help". Helping is usually more work than people imagine when they "sign up" for the committee. Life saving is long hard work and you have to be built for it. It ain't for everyone. And believe it or not, we won't hold it against you if you can't sign up for the tour of duty. But please stop telling us to talk to someone...decide whether you can be that someone and go from there. I've written before that loving someone who is depressed and/or suicidal is like hugging a porcupine. We're most hurtful towards others when we feel like we are in danger...which is every moment of every day.
So, thank you, love, for caring enough to say something. Now, I pray that as you speak, you will speak as an informed advocate and not just as a well-meaning but uninformed soul.
For those who are voiceless, I pray. For those in the darkness, I'm shining a light. For those who crossed over...rest in peace. Shalom...
Two years ago, I suffered from a debilitating depression. When I say debilitating, I mean barely functioning, can't get out of bed, crying incessantly, can't eat, inconsolable (not that anyone could get close anyway because I was barricaded in my bedroom), wanting to kill myself kind of depression. Now, I know that's hard for some people to read and comprehend but as the holidays approach, I feel compelled to talk about it again - not for my own cleansing and closure (I'm still here, so I'm good) but for the sake of others who have no words to express what they are feeling and cannot make others understand. It's hard enough being depressed but then to have to explain it to others who just don't get it...and to be loving and generous when you have NOTHING is nearly impossible. So, the following is an excerpt from a message that I sent to a loved one who made a well-meaning comment on social media after attending the funeral of a person who committed suicide:
This is a reaction to a Facebook post that has my hands shaking my heart pounding and my head throbbing as I drive down Route 73 on this otherwise beautiful sunny day.
Beloved, it makes me angry when people think that being suicidal can be remedied by talking to "everyone" or "someone". If the listeners were actually available to HEAR us when we're talking about what's going on and what is leading us to consider suicide in the first place, then perhaps that suggestion might work. It is utterly offensive to me that people think that simply finding 'someone' to talk to will solve the problem. I had plenty of people to talk to including ones I paid to talk to but that didn't solve the 'problem'. I even talked to Jesus but that didn't easily and readily solve the 'problem' either.
The darkness surrounding suicidal thoughts is thick, consuming, frightening and overbearing and most "friends" can't handle going there with you for fear that it might leak off of us and consume them too.
I realize that people do mean well however, understanding mental illness goes far beyond telling people who were sick to talk to people who are well.
We don't want to talk to you people! Do you know why? Because you treat us like we are children with a scraped knee instead of like the triage cases we are at that point. Hello! I don't have a scraped knee. I have a severed limb! And bless your hearts, you try your uninformed best with your "get over it" or "cheer up" (and my personal favorite - "I was depressed last week too" - No, YOU had a bad day! I have an illness!! But we can't say those things because they're considered inappropriate.) and after hearing that repeatedly (from loved ones who are closest to us or who claim to know us best) we simply decide to stop talking to people who say stupid shit. (excuse me, I mean well-meaning but useless words). Do you seriously think we haven't tried talking to people? Do you seriously think we just sat here in silence picking at a wound until the gangrene took over and we had no other choice but to cut the limb off? Is that REALLY what you think? I just don't understand why it is so difficult for people who live normal lives to make room for the possibility that there is another way of life out here in the age of the Google search and smart-phones.
I don't mean to sound ungrateful or negative - I just want you to understand what it feels like in the day to day existence in the kind depression that leads to suicide. I have to advocate for those who have no voice in the conversation but are expected to "talk to someone".
Those who have never been there think we are selfish. You've got to have a sense of self to be selfish. For some, by the time we get to that place, it looks like an act of pure ego, but it's really quite the opposite. Hubris has become homeless at that point.
I'm one of the blessed ones because I survived my own suicidal thoughts and attempts. I made it through my own indescribable darkness.
I did not survive because I had someone to talk to per se. Talking to a professional and to loved ones is but one part of a larger treatment for a whole body illness.
I survived because sisters and friends came and put their hands on me and heard me and worked hard enough to know me and love me when I was extremely difficult to love and extremely resistant to it as well. They pushed their way into my foxhole and dragged me out and did not let me go until I remembered myself. (Remember that scene from "The Women of Brewster Place" (the movie) when Mattie pulls Ceil out of the bed and bathes her, braids her hair, puts pajamas on her, and force feeds her...yeah, it was like that.)
I survived because I was forced to get medical attention because this thing was bigger than 'talk' and I was out of words anyway. I survived because I had people holding me accountable for taking the prescribed medication until such time that I did not have to use it anymore.
I survived because there is a gift of writing that allows me to say to people do not discount those who are truly clinically depressed and using that gift reminds me of the dragon that waits to be slain every day - whether in my life or in the life of others.
I will not allow you to use your widely respected influence on social media to simply say, "If you are considering suicide find someone to talk to."
It sounds harsh but it's like when Malcolm X told the white girl there was nothing she could do for the movement. It's bigger than your well meaning heart’s desire to "help". Helping is usually more work than people imagine when they "sign up" for the committee. Life saving is long hard work and you have to be built for it. It ain't for everyone. And believe it or not, we won't hold it against you if you can't sign up for the tour of duty. But please stop telling us to talk to someone...decide whether you can be that someone and go from there. I've written before that loving someone who is depressed and/or suicidal is like hugging a porcupine. We're most hurtful towards others when we feel like we are in danger...which is every moment of every day.
So, thank you, love, for caring enough to say something. Now, I pray that as you speak, you will speak as an informed advocate and not just as a well-meaning but uninformed soul.
For those who are voiceless, I pray. For those in the darkness, I'm shining a light. For those who crossed over...rest in peace. Shalom...
Monday, November 19, 2012
Game changer
I'm on the train and looking around at the faces. One man is slack-jawed sleeping. One I can't see but I can smell...tussin, alcohol, cologne? There's the guy whose girth takes up several seats and the thin one in athletic attire who peeps a seat and sits quickly. There's the one whose face is stony. I spy a sleeping mailman with fleshy face and bulbous nose. Cuteish guy with bike and cool sneakers, wet hair and a blue sweatband keeping salty perspiration out of his eyes. The woman with super straight shiny weave tracks mixed in with her own. Face serious, not stressed. Headphones in. Dark lipstick and polish. And then there's the one woman with her hair pulled up in a bun on what must be the top of her head from her perspective. Jeans, flats, hoodie, striped knit shirt and not distinctive at all except for one quality. She has a slight smile on her face at 6:15 am.
I'm reminded of the way that we notice what we see. I see a lot of faces, but her smile is to remind me that I might also shift someone's day with the same gesture. There may only be one smile for every ten faces but that one is the one I'm looking for today. One in ten is a game changer.
I'm reminded of the way that we notice what we see. I see a lot of faces, but her smile is to remind me that I might also shift someone's day with the same gesture. There may only be one smile for every ten faces but that one is the one I'm looking for today. One in ten is a game changer.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Saturday prayer for November 17
Dear God,
Today I apologize. I apologize for outsourcing your work to idols. I apologize for both idol worship and idle worship. I put my faith in things that can never satisfy. I have left offerings on altars that could never receive them in the first place. And so, these offerings, genuine, pure, and true could only rot there...stinking...festering...feeding flies and breeding pestilence. I apologize. I apologize for idle worship that just gets all revved up but never really goes anywhere. Praying to ask for a filling and indwelling but then operating on old fumes and bad fuel. I'm pretty hard on the Israelites when I read their stories but then when I make my life a parallel text...I'm suddenly compassionate and a lot less judgmental. I apologize. I apologize for the expectation that someone else can do what you have done for me for so long. I apologize for knowing better and not doing better. Today, I apologize. I'm not asking for a miraculous healing...I'll just take pain medication. I'm not asking for extra hours in the day...I'll be a good steward of the 24 I have (every day). I'm not asking for a king to share my queen sized bed...I'll re-read 1 and 2 Kings and remember what happens when you ask for a king just because everyone else has one. (hey, that's kind of funny, isn't it?) I'm only asking you to forgive my arrogance, my forgetfulness, my selfishness and my everythingelsethatisnotlikeyou-ness. Today, I apologize...and repent.
Thank you,
Love,
Carla
Today I apologize. I apologize for outsourcing your work to idols. I apologize for both idol worship and idle worship. I put my faith in things that can never satisfy. I have left offerings on altars that could never receive them in the first place. And so, these offerings, genuine, pure, and true could only rot there...stinking...festering...feeding flies and breeding pestilence. I apologize. I apologize for idle worship that just gets all revved up but never really goes anywhere. Praying to ask for a filling and indwelling but then operating on old fumes and bad fuel. I'm pretty hard on the Israelites when I read their stories but then when I make my life a parallel text...I'm suddenly compassionate and a lot less judgmental. I apologize. I apologize for the expectation that someone else can do what you have done for me for so long. I apologize for knowing better and not doing better. Today, I apologize. I'm not asking for a miraculous healing...I'll just take pain medication. I'm not asking for extra hours in the day...I'll be a good steward of the 24 I have (every day). I'm not asking for a king to share my queen sized bed...I'll re-read 1 and 2 Kings and remember what happens when you ask for a king just because everyone else has one. (hey, that's kind of funny, isn't it?) I'm only asking you to forgive my arrogance, my forgetfulness, my selfishness and my everythingelsethatisnotlikeyou-ness. Today, I apologize...and repent.
Thank you,
Love,
Carla
Friday, November 16, 2012
Dear Jaha - letter to my baby-play-cousin
Dear Jaha,
You wrote that although it's called a free-write, nothing is ever free. That hit me right in that part of the chest where the muscles clench and it feels like what I imagine a heart attack feels like...for an elephant. I thought of my budget, my time, my talents, and my treasure and my heart tightened again. Writing is costing me more than I ever imagined. Today, it feels like the biggest expense has been my protective sheath. I feel so naked out here on this page and it's public, so today I feel like I would imagine I'd feel if an ex boyfriend posted private photos on the internet. But it's worse because I'm the one posting what I hope are tasteful nudes and not just crass personal porn. I want to write poetry and post my work but I'm not sure that I want to share that much of myself with the world when I've not found one human being to share myself with who can protect me from what everyone else might think or say as they ogle my words, feelings, emotions and soul. Some would say, "Get over yourself. It ain't that deep." (Those are the ones I suspect want to do this but are too afraid to do it and so they throw shade at the ones courageous enough to do it.) Today, I am just in that space of wanting to go deeper as I maintain the practice but I swear, I am shivering out here in the icy cold cyberspace where my words and work are on display for all to see.
Sigh...but that's the whole reason we do it, right? Somewhere, there is a woman who needs these words to express exactly how she is feeling. Somewhere, there is a woman who will stumble upon these words and exhale because she realizes that someone else feels the same way and put those feelings into the universe for the purpose of pairing up with hers. We give expression to what others are feeling because all of life is meant to be a shared experience...I guess. That's what community is all about, huh? You know what? I feel warmer all of a sudden. At my age, it could just be a hot flash, but I think your warm spirit just reached across the continent to bring mine a bit of warmth and peace. You are my baby-play-cousin on my Valerie's side and I am so grateful for you today. Thanks for making room for me and for handing me the blanket of courage that will allow me to go back into my room and write like there's no tomorrow...because it's a gift and a calling and a love offering.
Thank you, sis!
I love you!
Carla
Shalom
You wrote that although it's called a free-write, nothing is ever free. That hit me right in that part of the chest where the muscles clench and it feels like what I imagine a heart attack feels like...for an elephant. I thought of my budget, my time, my talents, and my treasure and my heart tightened again. Writing is costing me more than I ever imagined. Today, it feels like the biggest expense has been my protective sheath. I feel so naked out here on this page and it's public, so today I feel like I would imagine I'd feel if an ex boyfriend posted private photos on the internet. But it's worse because I'm the one posting what I hope are tasteful nudes and not just crass personal porn. I want to write poetry and post my work but I'm not sure that I want to share that much of myself with the world when I've not found one human being to share myself with who can protect me from what everyone else might think or say as they ogle my words, feelings, emotions and soul. Some would say, "Get over yourself. It ain't that deep." (Those are the ones I suspect want to do this but are too afraid to do it and so they throw shade at the ones courageous enough to do it.) Today, I am just in that space of wanting to go deeper as I maintain the practice but I swear, I am shivering out here in the icy cold cyberspace where my words and work are on display for all to see.
Sigh...but that's the whole reason we do it, right? Somewhere, there is a woman who needs these words to express exactly how she is feeling. Somewhere, there is a woman who will stumble upon these words and exhale because she realizes that someone else feels the same way and put those feelings into the universe for the purpose of pairing up with hers. We give expression to what others are feeling because all of life is meant to be a shared experience...I guess. That's what community is all about, huh? You know what? I feel warmer all of a sudden. At my age, it could just be a hot flash, but I think your warm spirit just reached across the continent to bring mine a bit of warmth and peace. You are my baby-play-cousin on my Valerie's side and I am so grateful for you today. Thanks for making room for me and for handing me the blanket of courage that will allow me to go back into my room and write like there's no tomorrow...because it's a gift and a calling and a love offering.
Thank you, sis!
I love you!
Carla
Shalom
Thursday, November 15, 2012
You Got Me
Just a work in progress...
You Got Me
You got me
Walking through New York Penn Station
hoping to accidently-on-purpose
bump into you
You got me
Listening for every syllable
unable to go on living like I used to
because you move me
You got me
Wondering if you had designs on me
when you rolled my name in your mouth
like smooth Kentucky bourbon. Neat.
You got me
Hoping that my smile haunts you
in the coldest and darkest night
when you can't sleep
You got me
Wanting to be recreated by
the movement of your fingers and
the sounds from your throat.
You got me
Wishing I had been there to hold your hand
and hydrate you back to life
that time when you did too much.
You got me
Waiting for the litany
called Beautiful Carla
because I believe it when you say it.
You got me
Wanting to co-create life with words.
You got me
Looking over my shoulder
hoping to see your smile
just one more time.
Yeah,
You got me.
You Got Me
You got me
Walking through New York Penn Station
hoping to accidently-on-purpose
bump into you
You got me
Listening for every syllable
unable to go on living like I used to
because you move me
You got me
Wondering if you had designs on me
when you rolled my name in your mouth
like smooth Kentucky bourbon. Neat.
You got me
Hoping that my smile haunts you
in the coldest and darkest night
when you can't sleep
You got me
Wanting to be recreated by
the movement of your fingers and
the sounds from your throat.
You got me
Wishing I had been there to hold your hand
and hydrate you back to life
that time when you did too much.
You got me
Waiting for the litany
called Beautiful Carla
because I believe it when you say it.
You got me
Wanting to co-create life with words.
You got me
Looking over my shoulder
hoping to see your smile
just one more time.
Yeah,
You got me.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Performing or Authenticing?
Why is it called performing and not authenticing?
At my best and truest...I am loud...and pretty funny. And I like me that way. I tell corny jokes and make smart remarks that make you laugh 5 minutes later because it just connected in your brain that I actually said what you thought I said...and it was funnier than you realized. I don't miss much in the verbal and nonverbal interplay in a room or at a table. (Ooooh, Lord, especially at the table!) This is interesting because my light seems to have several settings. Most of the time, I am a Tiffany lamp - shaded and providing a specific arc of gentle light. I can bring a warm glow to the room just by shining on others in the room. Most of my days are spent in that polite light space. I scale back and hold in the supernova that is on standby. You see, most of the time, I feel like I am in someone else's space and so I fold over onto myself and quietly wait for my literal 'time to shine'. If you pay attention to space and energy, you will find that there is always a delicate interplay at work. Some people try to ramp up their wattage and others need to be stoked to allow their light to burn brighter. I already know that as a child born under a fire sign, I can provide a warm glow or I can burn it up from the basement to the roof...(the roof, the roof, the roof is on fiyah! We don't need no water, let the....burn!). So, I typically opt to just let the embers glow instead of letting the fire run wild.
The other day, I let the fires burn a little bit more brightly and it did not go unnoticed. We were out in public and I was so excited to see my people that I could not contain myself. I laughed, told jokes, reminisced and tried desperately to use my inside voice but like the little girl at the table, I did not WANT to use my inside voice. There was too much positive energy at the table for that. I have to contain myself for the sake of others all to often. I wanted to be excited to be with these people. I wanted to be loud, funny and authentic. I know that other people in the dining area might have felt like I was in their space but to me, it felt like one big party and we all were sharing the space. My loud and funny was not at anyone's expense, so it could have been one huge celebration of life as far I was concerned. We did not know the other people in the room but that has never stopped me before. These days, knowing people is just a matter of making an introduction...and with the shrinking of the 6 degrees of separation, we were probably connected anyway. Come on! You've never made eye contact with the people at the next table in a restaurant? Seriously? (But you have 12 billion virtual friends on social media? Umm...okay...no judgement! Life is meant to be lived in person, not just in likes and comments and double-tap hearts! More on that later...)
I make these notes to make this statement...why is it that we refer to our "stage presence" as performing? When I am 'on stage' as a poet or as a preacher and sometimes, even in the classroom, I am at my most authentic. Life, for me is a series of performances and the so-called performances should be called authentics....because those are the times that I am in my truest skin. Shakespeare is credited with the saying "all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players" and isn't it funny that it appears in a play entitled "As You Like It"? I like it best when I can fill a room with the real me and know that it doesn't necessarily outshine anyone else in the room...it just adds to the brilliance that was already there. I do not seek to compete or burn anyone out. But be advised...like wildfire, I can sweep through a room quickly and completely or like a candle, I can offer my flame to one waiting to shine. (I like this one...there will be more on this subject later. Meanwhile...burn, baby, burn!) I am moving from performing to living a more authentic life. Please don't adjust your television or computer screen. The real Miss Jones is about to stand up!
At my best and truest...I am loud...and pretty funny. And I like me that way. I tell corny jokes and make smart remarks that make you laugh 5 minutes later because it just connected in your brain that I actually said what you thought I said...and it was funnier than you realized. I don't miss much in the verbal and nonverbal interplay in a room or at a table. (Ooooh, Lord, especially at the table!) This is interesting because my light seems to have several settings. Most of the time, I am a Tiffany lamp - shaded and providing a specific arc of gentle light. I can bring a warm glow to the room just by shining on others in the room. Most of my days are spent in that polite light space. I scale back and hold in the supernova that is on standby. You see, most of the time, I feel like I am in someone else's space and so I fold over onto myself and quietly wait for my literal 'time to shine'. If you pay attention to space and energy, you will find that there is always a delicate interplay at work. Some people try to ramp up their wattage and others need to be stoked to allow their light to burn brighter. I already know that as a child born under a fire sign, I can provide a warm glow or I can burn it up from the basement to the roof...(the roof, the roof, the roof is on fiyah! We don't need no water, let the....burn!). So, I typically opt to just let the embers glow instead of letting the fire run wild.
The other day, I let the fires burn a little bit more brightly and it did not go unnoticed. We were out in public and I was so excited to see my people that I could not contain myself. I laughed, told jokes, reminisced and tried desperately to use my inside voice but like the little girl at the table, I did not WANT to use my inside voice. There was too much positive energy at the table for that. I have to contain myself for the sake of others all to often. I wanted to be excited to be with these people. I wanted to be loud, funny and authentic. I know that other people in the dining area might have felt like I was in their space but to me, it felt like one big party and we all were sharing the space. My loud and funny was not at anyone's expense, so it could have been one huge celebration of life as far I was concerned. We did not know the other people in the room but that has never stopped me before. These days, knowing people is just a matter of making an introduction...and with the shrinking of the 6 degrees of separation, we were probably connected anyway. Come on! You've never made eye contact with the people at the next table in a restaurant? Seriously? (But you have 12 billion virtual friends on social media? Umm...okay...no judgement! Life is meant to be lived in person, not just in likes and comments and double-tap hearts! More on that later...)
I make these notes to make this statement...why is it that we refer to our "stage presence" as performing? When I am 'on stage' as a poet or as a preacher and sometimes, even in the classroom, I am at my most authentic. Life, for me is a series of performances and the so-called performances should be called authentics....because those are the times that I am in my truest skin. Shakespeare is credited with the saying "all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players" and isn't it funny that it appears in a play entitled "As You Like It"? I like it best when I can fill a room with the real me and know that it doesn't necessarily outshine anyone else in the room...it just adds to the brilliance that was already there. I do not seek to compete or burn anyone out. But be advised...like wildfire, I can sweep through a room quickly and completely or like a candle, I can offer my flame to one waiting to shine. (I like this one...there will be more on this subject later. Meanwhile...burn, baby, burn!) I am moving from performing to living a more authentic life. Please don't adjust your television or computer screen. The real Miss Jones is about to stand up!
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
yesterday's affirmation
I received a loving affirmation yesterday.
It caught me off guard because it came in the midst of a moment of self-doubt. I must confess that in many ways, I am a textbook example of a control freak/recovering victim. For example, I embrace my quirky controlling behaviors because I am aware that I am still trying to bring back the balance that was disturbed years ago when power was taken from me. I have finally learned that it is not a zero sum game and so every time I thought I had a grip on this thing, something else would happen and I would find myself back in the red with regard to my sense of "power". So, in order to manage that chaos, I found ways of creating stability for myself. These habits have come to shape many of the things that I do on a daily basis. These habits require great discipline and often great sacrifice but when I look at what I am "sacrificing" I am forced to consider what is really important in my life. I may miss a social outing for the sake of keeping my home "guest ready" by cooking and cleaning. I may decline my own credit card by avoiding Loehmann's or Marshall's for the sake of keeping utilities paid. I can't remember the last time I took myself out for dinner...just because...instead of rationalizing that it would be easier to just eat what is already in the fridge.
The crazy thing is that when I operate outside of my well controlled environment (which can be as simple as getting off of the train one stop early and walking from 42nd to 34th in search of the perfect samosa to eat on my way home), I am able to easily return to those patterns that have given me structure and safety. Even now, getting on this train and heading into New York and waiting to dial into the prayer call helps me to manage the underlying fear that I will get dizzy and need to take my little yellow pills that make the world stop spinning. I pay my bills and don't borrow against tomorrow for things like clothes and shoes so that when I flip that switch, there will be light. I may not like what the light reveals but at least the darkness is an option and not a stark reality. Going to work and coming home gives structure to my day. Praying in the morning gives structure to my day. Planning meals gives structure to my day. Even this act of writing and publishing daily adds another level of structure to my day. All of these things keep the day from running away from me. (I know...it won't really happen that way...it just feels like it.) What would happen if I didn't do these things? Would my world fall apart? Would the earth stop spinning? Certainly not. But for now, this is how it works.
I worry sometimes that my obsession with security will be my undoing but yesterday, I was reminded that there is good even in this quirk of mine. My life may not have the glamour of another's and it may not have what looks like the spontaneity of another's but it provides a place of peace and solace to someone I love...and that's good enough for me.
Shalom
Monday, November 12, 2012
apology to my gift
Oh, my gift! I have abandoned you. I have not watered you or given you any sunlight. I have neglected to commune with you. I have not pinned phrases to my heart nor have I been faithful to give you exercise and you have atrophied. I used to feed you delicacies and now I have starved you with drops of water and crumbs from the life that has captured me. I have chased the practical and exhausted myself to the point that you no longer make love to me in dreams. Sleep is no longer for dreams and clandestine meetings but to reset the overworked body that belongs to an artist. Where have the days gone? How can you still love me? You are still here! Atrophied, weary eyes tearing, barely breathing, blue for want of oxygen, cold, shivering and just looking at me with the look of one who has been abused and abandoned. I repent and beg your forgiveness.
Come, sit in my lap and let me feed you. Let me cut up fresh fruit and serve you from my fingertips. Let me make your cheeks fat and rosy again with the soul food of Aunt Toni and Aunt Alice and Mother Maya. Let me put Baldwin's balm on your bruises and let me love you back to life. I will wake with you again and lie with you and snuggle you again like I used to with pillow talk of Sweat, Mules and Spunk. I will look for you and listen for your faint voice. Close your sunken eyes and rest here in my breast. Let me breathe with you again until you remember the rhythm of our inhale and the pattern of our exhale. It won't be easy and I know I have to regain your trust but I promise, I remember how it used to be. I remember the promises I made. I left you behind to pursue...what? Work? That vampire! I'm working just enough for the city...not living, just working.
I love you and if you will allow me to return, I will be better. I will never forget my commitment to you. You have been faithful and I have been awful. Will you take me back? I want to do better. Let me love you. Let me show you how well I can love you again. Thank you for not leaving me. I love you.
Come, sit in my lap and let me feed you. Let me cut up fresh fruit and serve you from my fingertips. Let me make your cheeks fat and rosy again with the soul food of Aunt Toni and Aunt Alice and Mother Maya. Let me put Baldwin's balm on your bruises and let me love you back to life. I will wake with you again and lie with you and snuggle you again like I used to with pillow talk of Sweat, Mules and Spunk. I will look for you and listen for your faint voice. Close your sunken eyes and rest here in my breast. Let me breathe with you again until you remember the rhythm of our inhale and the pattern of our exhale. It won't be easy and I know I have to regain your trust but I promise, I remember how it used to be. I remember the promises I made. I left you behind to pursue...what? Work? That vampire! I'm working just enough for the city...not living, just working.
I love you and if you will allow me to return, I will be better. I will never forget my commitment to you. You have been faithful and I have been awful. Will you take me back? I want to do better. Let me love you. Let me show you how well I can love you again. Thank you for not leaving me. I love you.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Sunday's offering 11.11.12
Sundays are difficult writing days. This is usually because there are dinner preparations, surprise visits, worship services and if I am careful, there is also time for blessed quietness. What I find in my quiet time is often so beautiful that I am afraid to put it on display because it may be damaged or mishandled. Or like most art, it may be misunderstood. The quiet time is a space to deal with the blessings and the demons that have danced in my head all week. The quiet place is a place of triage where I re-member my dismembered self and look for my severed limbs and put myself back together again. This blessed quietness is the place where "I come to the garden alone while the dew is still on the roses." In this space, I can work on forgiving and accepting forgiveness. In this space, I can work on loving and being loved unconditionally - which is really overwhelming when I pause to look at what it means to love ME unconditionally. In this space, I make room for the still small voice that calls me to my life's work. In this space, I am by myself but never alone. In this space, I am...
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Saturday Prayer
Dear God,
This morning, I want to offer my gratitude. I want to say thank you for the ways in which people are helping each other out under the guise of "just doing my job." I am grateful for the ways in which systems work well and for the ways in which people are and have been prepared to handle the two storms that have hit the east coast. I am grateful for those who work long hours and eat meals prepared by the Red Cross and FEMA. Their lives have been turned upside down as well but they are giving their all for the sake of others. I guess you know a little something about that. I mean, we would all pitch in to help someone we know. We might even give an extra dollar here and there at the grocery store to help the food bank or to put our name on a shoe or balloon for some disease. But what I am seeing firsthand is a remarkable display of competence and ability in the midst of disaster. I have the luxury of looking on from the comfort of my living room. I get to simply send and respond to text messages and wait for a chance to do more than just encourage the heroes. I get to decide whether I have the energy to do one more thing for someone else in an already overcrowded day of service. They are on the job every day until the job is done and although they may get paid for their work, the money does not compensate adequately for their heart's offering.
These folks are heroes in my eyes. I pray that you would keep them healthy as they move into dangerous and hazardous spaces. I pray for their safety as they move to reconstruct homes and structures. I pray that their brief rest - often on cots and trailers - would be deeply restorative. I pray that their families would not feel the loss of their presence but would feel honored to share their hero with those who are in need. I pray that (as you promised) you would keep their minds in perfect peace. I can't imagine staring at disaster every day. I can't imagine having to stare at chaos and know that it is my responsibility to bring order to it again. I pray for those charged with administrative tasks - that every dollar be properly accounted for and that people would be fairly compensated. I pray that cracks in systems would be sealed so that nothing and no one would fall through. I pray that egos would be put aside and that loving hearts, able bodies and competent minds would be engaged. I pray that those at the mercy of the generosity of others would find perfect peace. I pray that those who need medication would have what they need. I pray for those with mental illnesses - diagnosed and undiagnosed. I pray that those with a heart to help would have the competence to refer out when it's out of our hands. I pray for professionals to be professional - competent and compassionate.
I pray for those who give and pray for those who receive. I pray that those of us who know, love and trust you would act like it...in whatever form that may take. I pray that we would keep the focus on those who need and not on how wonderful we are for doing that which you have called us to in the first place. I'm thanking you in this moment for watching over all of us. I'm thanking you for keeping us. I'm thanking you right now for just hearing the cries of your people. I'm thanking you in advance for whatever good will come from this. I'm thanking you for all of the new that will come now that the old has been washed away. I'm thanking you for just being a big enough God...
Thank you for the call to tikkun olam.
Thank you...
Thank you...
Thank you...
This morning, I want to offer my gratitude. I want to say thank you for the ways in which people are helping each other out under the guise of "just doing my job." I am grateful for the ways in which systems work well and for the ways in which people are and have been prepared to handle the two storms that have hit the east coast. I am grateful for those who work long hours and eat meals prepared by the Red Cross and FEMA. Their lives have been turned upside down as well but they are giving their all for the sake of others. I guess you know a little something about that. I mean, we would all pitch in to help someone we know. We might even give an extra dollar here and there at the grocery store to help the food bank or to put our name on a shoe or balloon for some disease. But what I am seeing firsthand is a remarkable display of competence and ability in the midst of disaster. I have the luxury of looking on from the comfort of my living room. I get to simply send and respond to text messages and wait for a chance to do more than just encourage the heroes. I get to decide whether I have the energy to do one more thing for someone else in an already overcrowded day of service. They are on the job every day until the job is done and although they may get paid for their work, the money does not compensate adequately for their heart's offering.
These folks are heroes in my eyes. I pray that you would keep them healthy as they move into dangerous and hazardous spaces. I pray for their safety as they move to reconstruct homes and structures. I pray that their brief rest - often on cots and trailers - would be deeply restorative. I pray that their families would not feel the loss of their presence but would feel honored to share their hero with those who are in need. I pray that (as you promised) you would keep their minds in perfect peace. I can't imagine staring at disaster every day. I can't imagine having to stare at chaos and know that it is my responsibility to bring order to it again. I pray for those charged with administrative tasks - that every dollar be properly accounted for and that people would be fairly compensated. I pray that cracks in systems would be sealed so that nothing and no one would fall through. I pray that egos would be put aside and that loving hearts, able bodies and competent minds would be engaged. I pray that those at the mercy of the generosity of others would find perfect peace. I pray that those who need medication would have what they need. I pray for those with mental illnesses - diagnosed and undiagnosed. I pray that those with a heart to help would have the competence to refer out when it's out of our hands. I pray for professionals to be professional - competent and compassionate.
I pray for those who give and pray for those who receive. I pray that those of us who know, love and trust you would act like it...in whatever form that may take. I pray that we would keep the focus on those who need and not on how wonderful we are for doing that which you have called us to in the first place. I'm thanking you in this moment for watching over all of us. I'm thanking you for keeping us. I'm thanking you right now for just hearing the cries of your people. I'm thanking you in advance for whatever good will come from this. I'm thanking you for all of the new that will come now that the old has been washed away. I'm thanking you for just being a big enough God...
Thank you for the call to tikkun olam.
Thank you...
Thank you...
Thank you...
Friday, November 9, 2012
What's On A Name
Dale Carnegie's 6th Human Relations Principle is this: Remember that a person's name is to that person the sweetest and most important sound in any language. This is what I am reflecting on as I remember that I know who I am supposed to be by what I hear you call me. When I hear "Mom" then I know what role to play. When I hear "MizJooooones" I know where I am and who I am. When I hear "Boo" I know it's none other than Miss LaKeisha Hayes calling my name! (Yeah, that's a blog entry unto itself!) When I hear the childhood nickname derived from my middle name, I know I'm talking to kinfolk.
It occurred to me today that I recently had the chance to introduce myself to some people who used their artist's moniker instead of their "government." Interesting. All of my avatars have names except my artist. The preacher is Reverend Jones, Revvie Rev, Reverend Sister, Reverend Mommy and sometimes Reverend Carla (which I still don't really like but I'm not sure why just yet). The educator is Miss Jones, MissJones(WHO?), Jonesey, Mi'Jones (you gotta hear Lasal say it to really understand that one), the ever incorrect Mrs. Jones (That would be my mama! Now stop it!), Professor Jones and "Miss" - which will earn you an ignore and an eyeroll. To my friends, I am Bestie, Jooooones, CeeJay, Coorla (Yeah, another Jersey shore pronunciation that you have to hear to appreciate...I may have to make this one an audio blog just so you can really feel me on this one!), Soror, Sis, Baby Sis, Big Sis, Twiiiiiiinnnnn, Twinlet, and there are a few others that I won't list just because they are mine and I don't have to. (And because some of the family in-house names dropped by my parents might offend your PC sensibilities. Okay, you really wanna know? There was Big Dummy, Bean Pole, Cancer, Skinny Minnie, Nappy Head, and a few that include the infamous N word but I'll leave those for the unauthorized biography.)
As an aside, I absolutely hate it when I am in the store using a card and the salesperson takes the liberty of assuming that my pleasant demeanor while handing over my hard earned money is a permission slip for familiarity. Don't you call me by my first name without an invitation! You don't know me. I am Miss Jones to you! Carla? How dare you? Just because your name tag has your first name, that's not my issue. I appreciate your gratitude for my choice to shop in your store, but if you call me Carla again and you'll be calling a manager to void the sale...ya hear?
Carla is by invitation only. It wasn't until this morning that I really realized it. I received a message the other day that used my name in a way that caught my attention. I know that the popularized question is what's in a name but I wonder (as a foodie) what's on a name? When I read the message, I immediately heard the person saying my name and it moved me. Suddenly, the name that I have worn all my life took on a different shape. Suddenly, I felt the meaning of my own name. Carla means strong and if you've ever seen me in action on a good day with my game face in place...you already know my parents knew what they were doing. But when I read my own name nestled near a comma, I heard it in a whole new way. Carla. Hmm...yes, finally, I was able to hear the sweetness that had been laid on my name.
Don't misunderstand, I am not suggesting that I have never heard my name spoken in a moment of intimacy where it was clearly drenched in honey and probably a few drops of sweat. (Heh, heh! That's a blog for another day too!) This wasn't any kind of sexual intimacy...but it was as if I really heard my name for the very first time...all over again. Hmm...perhaps my artist doesn't need a name. Maybe the name is indicative of who the artist really is. Say my name as if it invokes the muse and I will respond as one who has been inspired. Yes, lay that sweetness on my name and I will create for you because I can't help but be who you are calling me to be. In a typed message with nothing but black letters on a blue background, I was baptized into myself. Yes, the sound of my sugar coated name as it pushed up on that comma...that was indeed the sweetest sound I've heard all week. And I thank you.
Shalom
It occurred to me today that I recently had the chance to introduce myself to some people who used their artist's moniker instead of their "government." Interesting. All of my avatars have names except my artist. The preacher is Reverend Jones, Revvie Rev, Reverend Sister, Reverend Mommy and sometimes Reverend Carla (which I still don't really like but I'm not sure why just yet). The educator is Miss Jones, MissJones(WHO?), Jonesey, Mi'Jones (you gotta hear Lasal say it to really understand that one), the ever incorrect Mrs. Jones (That would be my mama! Now stop it!), Professor Jones and "Miss" - which will earn you an ignore and an eyeroll. To my friends, I am Bestie, Jooooones, CeeJay, Coorla (Yeah, another Jersey shore pronunciation that you have to hear to appreciate...I may have to make this one an audio blog just so you can really feel me on this one!), Soror, Sis, Baby Sis, Big Sis, Twiiiiiiinnnnn, Twinlet, and there are a few others that I won't list just because they are mine and I don't have to. (And because some of the family in-house names dropped by my parents might offend your PC sensibilities. Okay, you really wanna know? There was Big Dummy, Bean Pole, Cancer, Skinny Minnie, Nappy Head, and a few that include the infamous N word but I'll leave those for the unauthorized biography.)
As an aside, I absolutely hate it when I am in the store using a card and the salesperson takes the liberty of assuming that my pleasant demeanor while handing over my hard earned money is a permission slip for familiarity. Don't you call me by my first name without an invitation! You don't know me. I am Miss Jones to you! Carla? How dare you? Just because your name tag has your first name, that's not my issue. I appreciate your gratitude for my choice to shop in your store, but if you call me Carla again and you'll be calling a manager to void the sale...ya hear?
Carla is by invitation only. It wasn't until this morning that I really realized it. I received a message the other day that used my name in a way that caught my attention. I know that the popularized question is what's in a name but I wonder (as a foodie) what's on a name? When I read the message, I immediately heard the person saying my name and it moved me. Suddenly, the name that I have worn all my life took on a different shape. Suddenly, I felt the meaning of my own name. Carla means strong and if you've ever seen me in action on a good day with my game face in place...you already know my parents knew what they were doing. But when I read my own name nestled near a comma, I heard it in a whole new way. Carla. Hmm...yes, finally, I was able to hear the sweetness that had been laid on my name.
Don't misunderstand, I am not suggesting that I have never heard my name spoken in a moment of intimacy where it was clearly drenched in honey and probably a few drops of sweat. (Heh, heh! That's a blog for another day too!) This wasn't any kind of sexual intimacy...but it was as if I really heard my name for the very first time...all over again. Hmm...perhaps my artist doesn't need a name. Maybe the name is indicative of who the artist really is. Say my name as if it invokes the muse and I will respond as one who has been inspired. Yes, lay that sweetness on my name and I will create for you because I can't help but be who you are calling me to be. In a typed message with nothing but black letters on a blue background, I was baptized into myself. Yes, the sound of my sugar coated name as it pushed up on that comma...that was indeed the sweetest sound I've heard all week. And I thank you.
Shalom
Thursday, November 8, 2012
vertigo - part one
Vertigo
Vertigo is my newest nemesis. If you have never experienced it, let me explain. Remember when you were little and you and a friend would hold hands and spin around and around at a dangerous speed until you couldn't stand anymore and you would fall onto the ground and watch the sky rock back and forth until it stopped? Fun, right? Yeah, well imagine that you're just on the ground watching the sky rock back and forth and it doesn't stop. That's not fun. But it is vertigo. It feels like the whole world has pulled you into its rotation and taken gravity out of the equation and so if you could float, you might feel relief, but in the meantime, you're just disoriented and dizzy. Oh, and it feels like your head is a Magic * Ball that shows the answer in your eyes. The little answer thingie reads: Reply hazy, try again or Outlook not so good right now.
I had my first blind date with vertigo over 10 years ago and all I remember is that one minute I was standing and the next, I was falling to the ground a little at a time. First standing. Then sitting. Then collapsed on the couch and finally rolled onto the floor but there was no relief to be found. The EMT came to take me off to Monmouth Medical Center where they gave me some drugs that made me sleepy and in a little while, I was fine for another 7 years. On and off every now and then just seemingly out of nowhere, the dizziness comes and if I catch it in time, 2 little yellow tablets of Dramamine should allow me to remain on my feet. Like most diseases, this seems to have studied me and found my weakness and now, vertigo can now take me down like David's smooth stone to Goliath's head. Now, vertigo doesn't respond to the medication quickly. Now, vertigo sends me to the ER where I get oxygen, an IV and the good drugs. Now, vertigo wakes me from a sound sleep into a spinning wakefulness. This will not do.
It used to be polite and follow the rules of engagement. Now, it seems to have gone Rogue! It hits when it wants. Even in the midst of a deep sleep! I've had every test that my doctor can think of. On Monday, we will discuss the results of this most recent test - that made me sicker than I have ever been! It made e dizzy, nauseous, and it gave me a headache. I wonder if this is God's way of reminding me that I am not in control and I need to trust. Hmm...we shall see. Vertigo will not have the final word!
Vertigo is my newest nemesis. If you have never experienced it, let me explain. Remember when you were little and you and a friend would hold hands and spin around and around at a dangerous speed until you couldn't stand anymore and you would fall onto the ground and watch the sky rock back and forth until it stopped? Fun, right? Yeah, well imagine that you're just on the ground watching the sky rock back and forth and it doesn't stop. That's not fun. But it is vertigo. It feels like the whole world has pulled you into its rotation and taken gravity out of the equation and so if you could float, you might feel relief, but in the meantime, you're just disoriented and dizzy. Oh, and it feels like your head is a Magic * Ball that shows the answer in your eyes. The little answer thingie reads: Reply hazy, try again or Outlook not so good right now.
I had my first blind date with vertigo over 10 years ago and all I remember is that one minute I was standing and the next, I was falling to the ground a little at a time. First standing. Then sitting. Then collapsed on the couch and finally rolled onto the floor but there was no relief to be found. The EMT came to take me off to Monmouth Medical Center where they gave me some drugs that made me sleepy and in a little while, I was fine for another 7 years. On and off every now and then just seemingly out of nowhere, the dizziness comes and if I catch it in time, 2 little yellow tablets of Dramamine should allow me to remain on my feet. Like most diseases, this seems to have studied me and found my weakness and now, vertigo can now take me down like David's smooth stone to Goliath's head. Now, vertigo doesn't respond to the medication quickly. Now, vertigo sends me to the ER where I get oxygen, an IV and the good drugs. Now, vertigo wakes me from a sound sleep into a spinning wakefulness. This will not do.
It used to be polite and follow the rules of engagement. Now, it seems to have gone Rogue! It hits when it wants. Even in the midst of a deep sleep! I've had every test that my doctor can think of. On Monday, we will discuss the results of this most recent test - that made me sicker than I have ever been! It made e dizzy, nauseous, and it gave me a headache. I wonder if this is God's way of reminding me that I am not in control and I need to trust. Hmm...we shall see. Vertigo will not have the final word!
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
I thought
I thought
I thought that if I wore Revlon Red lipstick, you could see what I was saying. Instead, my mother told me I looked like a hooker and my aunt passed me a tissue.
I thought that if I studied hard enough and if my grades were good enough I would finally be enough for you. Turns out, I wasn't the teacher's pet.
I thought that if I prayed hard enough, things would get better. Instead, things got harder.
I thought that if I showed you my letter of acceptance from Princeton Seminary or Yale Law School, you would be proud of me. You put your drink on it - and I was pissed because you never used a coaster before.
I thought that if I gave you enough to compensate for what the world took away that you would love me and not leave me. Like a bank robber, you took what I had and left me with my hands tied behind my back.
I thought that you were sincere when you told me that you would make me the envy of every woman in the room just by loving me. You didn't tell me it was because they knew that I was the catch of the day.
I thought that I would never engage in idolatry like those foolish Israelites who were loved so fiercely by God. Then I found myself rushing through prayer to have time to talk to you.
I thought that showing you my scars would entice you to kiss and make them better. You traced them with a sharpie and used them for target practice.
I thought we would grow old together and never get tired. We just got tired of each other.
I thought...I thought...I thought...wrong.
I thought that if I wore Revlon Red lipstick, you could see what I was saying. Instead, my mother told me I looked like a hooker and my aunt passed me a tissue.
I thought that if I studied hard enough and if my grades were good enough I would finally be enough for you. Turns out, I wasn't the teacher's pet.
I thought that if I prayed hard enough, things would get better. Instead, things got harder.
I thought that if I showed you my letter of acceptance from Princeton Seminary or Yale Law School, you would be proud of me. You put your drink on it - and I was pissed because you never used a coaster before.
I thought that if I gave you enough to compensate for what the world took away that you would love me and not leave me. Like a bank robber, you took what I had and left me with my hands tied behind my back.
I thought that you were sincere when you told me that you would make me the envy of every woman in the room just by loving me. You didn't tell me it was because they knew that I was the catch of the day.
I thought that I would never engage in idolatry like those foolish Israelites who were loved so fiercely by God. Then I found myself rushing through prayer to have time to talk to you.
I thought that showing you my scars would entice you to kiss and make them better. You traced them with a sharpie and used them for target practice.
I thought we would grow old together and never get tired. We just got tired of each other.
I thought...I thought...I thought...wrong.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
#serendipity
On Sunday, November 4th, I did the unexpected. I left the house for something other than church. (gasp) The talented teen was off with her big sister and dinner had already been cooked the night before (nod to proper southern upbringing) and so, I decided that the Facebook post inviting me (and a billion other Facebook fans and friends) to a poetry event that included the hashtag #serendipity was written just for me. But there was just one problem. I don't leave my house on Sundays - except to go to church. So why was I writing down the address and phone number as if I might actually attend? I always want to go places and do things but I never do! What made me think this time would be different? One little hashtag. #serendipity
I came home from work and had to talk myself out of my skirt and into my jeans. (Yeah, no grand stories of endless wardrobe changes and fashion consultations here. I have sweats, jeans, button down shirts and suits. I make it work.) I ate a few morsels from the pot of smothered turkey wings and with a hair toss and a prayer (and one more dip into that pot), I jumped in the car with the thought...well, if I don't have to call AAA to start this car (like I've had to every day for the past week!), it's meant to be! #serendipity
Driving down I-76 on a Sunday for a non-church activity was my first act of pushing out of my comfort zone. I got there embarrassingly early and sat in a chair and let a total stranger play in my hair. (Second act of pushing out of my comfort zone! Yes it is all mine and Hell NO! You cannot touch it!). By total stranger, I simply mean that we had not met before but, we did introduce ourselves by name before I allowed her fingers to dance in my newly retightened locs...and she had locs, so it was okay...turns out she was the vivacious and charming co-host. I was at home from the moment I walked in the door. #serendipity
The artists were brilliant. The poetry was...beyond description. The venue was perfect and I had the wisdom to share this moment with two girlfriends as a birthday gift to one and as a "congratulations on taking two baby steps" gift to myself. It was the best decision I've made in a long time. I sat in silent appreciation of the entire event but when I go back, I will give and not just receive. Grateful for #serendipity.
I came home from work and had to talk myself out of my skirt and into my jeans. (Yeah, no grand stories of endless wardrobe changes and fashion consultations here. I have sweats, jeans, button down shirts and suits. I make it work.) I ate a few morsels from the pot of smothered turkey wings and with a hair toss and a prayer (and one more dip into that pot), I jumped in the car with the thought...well, if I don't have to call AAA to start this car (like I've had to every day for the past week!), it's meant to be! #serendipity
Driving down I-76 on a Sunday for a non-church activity was my first act of pushing out of my comfort zone. I got there embarrassingly early and sat in a chair and let a total stranger play in my hair. (Second act of pushing out of my comfort zone! Yes it is all mine and Hell NO! You cannot touch it!). By total stranger, I simply mean that we had not met before but, we did introduce ourselves by name before I allowed her fingers to dance in my newly retightened locs...and she had locs, so it was okay...turns out she was the vivacious and charming co-host. I was at home from the moment I walked in the door. #serendipity
The artists were brilliant. The poetry was...beyond description. The venue was perfect and I had the wisdom to share this moment with two girlfriends as a birthday gift to one and as a "congratulations on taking two baby steps" gift to myself. It was the best decision I've made in a long time. I sat in silent appreciation of the entire event but when I go back, I will give and not just receive. Grateful for #serendipity.
What looks like writing on an ordinary day
I must produce every day
I will produce every day
So this is for Monday
This morning the sun is shining through my window and her beams bring Jaha's words, Ohene's music, Charisse's paintings, Valerie's words, Bassey's words, Dre's paintings...and countless others who cannot resist the alluring and compelling song of the Master Muse.
They, in turn, are calling me to follow them to that chair where words flow effortlessly onto the page. They whisper to me and know that i will be charmed and intrigued enough to follow them into the place where we all go from time to time. That place where we create as the Master did...making something and being able to sit back and on a great day, say, it is good. We have the easy work. God has gifted us to do this work. God created ex nihilo. we are just listening and following the Master's Voice.
There is a freedom in hearing that voice. It frees me from judgement. If I were doing it, it would be easy to critique, reject and condemn. Listening to the Master's voice gives me room to just be and to feel the fullness of who I was created to be. Listening to the Master's voice evicts my controlling fearful voices who tell me that the only way to survive is to clutch and cling. In the Master's hands, I am free - not falling - just floating. I love this space. I need more time in this space. I think I will pack my things and stay here for a while.
I will produce every day
So this is for Monday
This morning the sun is shining through my window and her beams bring Jaha's words, Ohene's music, Charisse's paintings, Valerie's words, Bassey's words, Dre's paintings...and countless others who cannot resist the alluring and compelling song of the Master Muse.
They, in turn, are calling me to follow them to that chair where words flow effortlessly onto the page. They whisper to me and know that i will be charmed and intrigued enough to follow them into the place where we all go from time to time. That place where we create as the Master did...making something and being able to sit back and on a great day, say, it is good. We have the easy work. God has gifted us to do this work. God created ex nihilo. we are just listening and following the Master's Voice.
There is a freedom in hearing that voice. It frees me from judgement. If I were doing it, it would be easy to critique, reject and condemn. Listening to the Master's voice gives me room to just be and to feel the fullness of who I was created to be. Listening to the Master's voice evicts my controlling fearful voices who tell me that the only way to survive is to clutch and cling. In the Master's hands, I am free - not falling - just floating. I love this space. I need more time in this space. I think I will pack my things and stay here for a while.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Can't refuse the Muse
Nov 2012
04 Sun
Last night I put turkey wings in the oven and loved them until the meat fell off the bones. I put all that lovin in a heavy cast iron pot and let it rest. Today, I will let it nestle next to some collard greens and brown rice and I will eat a sliver of the turkey and work the seasoning off of one wing tip and I will be full. I will be full because my food is to do the will of the Mother. In this work, I am satisfied.
This morning, I took the chicken breasts out of the refrigerator and smeared some lovin on them. I warmed the oven to make a cozy environment for them and covered the pan with foil so they could see their beauty reflected back on them as they steeped in the hotbed that I made for them. I rubbed them with seasoning and blanketed them in my magician's cape so that they would emerge in a pan full of gravy and not just regular old drippins. You know, chicken breasts tend to dry out if you don't treat them right. I want them to fulfill their destiny to be all that they can be. When they are done, I will remove the foil from the pan and close my eyes and inhale their scent. It's not like new baby smell - that makes me want to cuddle. It's not like new car smell - I always liked vanillaroma better anyway. No, this is like back when we were colored but we used cast iron pots and pans because it was all we had. It is like when Grandma would make biscuits that were perfectly round because she cut the dough with a floured glass and not a fancy cutter from a specialty store. This is like what Cracker Barrel wants us to think of when we sit in the rocking chair that we won't buy. This is the smell of my mother's kitchen on any given school day. This is another kind of love that I have known and felt. This is the kind of love that can only be generated by the work of certain kinds of hands. There are hands that massage, hands that play instruments, hands that speak in time with our words, hands that heal, hands that harm and there are hands that serve as the Master's hands. The scent of the chicken swathed in gravy is the scent of what we call Grandma's Hands. It's not a lotion. It's not a perfume. It is the smell of love and work and sacrifice and discipline and healing and truly there is nothing as sweet or savory as the smell of Grandma's Hands.
This morning, I read another writer's work. I listened to a musician's song. I studied a painter's painting. These were all acts of invocation. Finally, I sat down to my keyboard and a blank page and let the words flow freely. That was the act of worship. When I wrestle the courage to post it to the blog and publish it - flaws and all - that is the offering.
And this is the benediction -
May the God of all creation be with you until we meet again.
Shalom
04 Sun
Last night I put turkey wings in the oven and loved them until the meat fell off the bones. I put all that lovin in a heavy cast iron pot and let it rest. Today, I will let it nestle next to some collard greens and brown rice and I will eat a sliver of the turkey and work the seasoning off of one wing tip and I will be full. I will be full because my food is to do the will of the Mother. In this work, I am satisfied.
This morning, I took the chicken breasts out of the refrigerator and smeared some lovin on them. I warmed the oven to make a cozy environment for them and covered the pan with foil so they could see their beauty reflected back on them as they steeped in the hotbed that I made for them. I rubbed them with seasoning and blanketed them in my magician's cape so that they would emerge in a pan full of gravy and not just regular old drippins. You know, chicken breasts tend to dry out if you don't treat them right. I want them to fulfill their destiny to be all that they can be. When they are done, I will remove the foil from the pan and close my eyes and inhale their scent. It's not like new baby smell - that makes me want to cuddle. It's not like new car smell - I always liked vanillaroma better anyway. No, this is like back when we were colored but we used cast iron pots and pans because it was all we had. It is like when Grandma would make biscuits that were perfectly round because she cut the dough with a floured glass and not a fancy cutter from a specialty store. This is like what Cracker Barrel wants us to think of when we sit in the rocking chair that we won't buy. This is the smell of my mother's kitchen on any given school day. This is another kind of love that I have known and felt. This is the kind of love that can only be generated by the work of certain kinds of hands. There are hands that massage, hands that play instruments, hands that speak in time with our words, hands that heal, hands that harm and there are hands that serve as the Master's hands. The scent of the chicken swathed in gravy is the scent of what we call Grandma's Hands. It's not a lotion. It's not a perfume. It is the smell of love and work and sacrifice and discipline and healing and truly there is nothing as sweet or savory as the smell of Grandma's Hands.
This morning, I read another writer's work. I listened to a musician's song. I studied a painter's painting. These were all acts of invocation. Finally, I sat down to my keyboard and a blank page and let the words flow freely. That was the act of worship. When I wrestle the courage to post it to the blog and publish it - flaws and all - that is the offering.
And this is the benediction -
May the God of all creation be with you until we meet again.
Shalom
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