aches and pains

Some days, the pain is only a 3
Other days, it is a 7
Occasionally, it soars to a 10
but it doesn't last long
It doesn't bruise
But my eyes look tired
My face tells all
My mask is weakened
The pain presses against the mask
Begging it to fall away
Because it's too tight
With pain comes swelling
and inflammation
But no outward signs
So no one knows
To handle me with care
But my body screams
For sweet relief
That never comes
So with each new day
With grace and mercy
With forgiveness and love
Come aches and pains
Unreachable and untouchable
Incurable and Indescribable
The scale goes to 10
Today was a 12

Tired

...of headaches
...of heartaches
...of mis-understandings
...of un-knowings
...of coming up short
    (and not because of my height)
...of bumping my head on that glass
...of not-enough-ness
...of lists that offer insight but no solutions
So, I will sleep
Until I am no longer tired.

Reverendsister's Ink ©2013

Every fail is not epic

I looked at my November blog postings and saw that I had only posted 14 days out of 30. Hmm...that was not the plan. I had planned to write and/or post every day in the month of November. So, by my grading scale, I have not achieved 50% and that, my friends is a failing grade. Professor Jones would return that assignment with a note of "see me about this" written in neat penmanship on the cover page. I looked at the stats and thought..."Ugh, that was an epic fail!" Then I remembered that I do not embrace the term "epic fail" because as an English teacher, I actually know what epic means. My plan to post for 30 days in a row is not any parts of epic. I am not narrating my heroic journey and though I would like to think that my writing is particularly impressive or remarkable, I am realistic. It's good some days and on other days, it's just for my own catharsis. (And I am okay with that!)

So, I'm just posting this to say that I failed in my mission to post every day in the month of November, but that failure to reach the goal was in no way epic. I am going to be kind to myself and resist the use of the term epic for this failure. John Maxwell fans are acquainted with the term "failing forward" and that is what this is. I did not achieve the goal of writing and posting for November 2013 but it's not the end of the world. Advent awaits and I will try again! I will move forward...again and again! Won't you come along for the ride? I hope so! Gotta go refill the kitty so that I will have more to post in the days to come!



Shalom!

My Mother's Smile

There are people in this world, many of them are blood relatives, who know that the wide toothy grin on my face is a direct result of my mother's DNA. When my parents were designing me in their imaginations (and in my mother's belly), they hoped that I would have my mother's (need-no-perm-because-it's-straighter-than-Barbie's) hair (Oh, the damage we suffer as African Americans) and my father's complexion. What I did get was my mother's beautiful, full, warm, welcoming smile. I am glad for that. If people really knew my mother, they would be glad for it too. You see, behind that smile is a razor sharp tongue that makes my full frontal snark seem like a dull plastic spoon by comparison. You need to thank your stars and the God who created them that I only took on her smile and not her mouth. You think you've had your feelings hurt in this lifetime? Child, please! Until you've heard the blood curdling words of my dear mother...you've not truly been cut. Sometimes, I tell her things that happen in my life and I share my part in the conversations. I remember sharing something with her and it was as if she were disappointed in my wanna-be-kind-but-throwing-subtle-shade response. She offered her "what I would have said" response and though I was not the intended recipient, I had to apply pressure to the wound to stop the bleeding! Her response left me weak...but knowing that she meant that thing from the jam between her toes made me laugh even harder. One day, I'm going to embrace my mother's tongue...but first, I may need some kind of liability insurance or something. Perhaps a license to carry such a weapon. Someday, I might write a more academic account of the ways in which African American women often have to use words as protective armor. That is a task that I cannot bear right now because I would hate to know what happened in my mother's life to cause her to need such a weapon. Tonight, I'm just hoping that someone will thank God that they have not been given chapstick and a GPS satellite map to the altar which my mother often presents to those who need to leave a kiss offering. Heh, heh! Go Mom! You've still got it and you're still giving it! (And I'm still scared of it!)

Covered Up

The organ was singing softly with prelude music. I walked up the center aisle and sat three rows from the front on the left side. I looked at the order of worship sheet and closed my eyes to shift my mind from worship in the classroom to worship in the chapel. I heard her feet and felt her presence as she decided that there was enough room for her frame and her bag. I opened my eyes and smiled the, "Sure, you can sit here" smile. She sat next to me on that old wooden pew.  We worshipped side by side as if we had been doing it for a lifetime. She was a tiny woman with a long blonde ponytail and a beautiful black wrap tossed expertly over her shoulders. I was buttoned up in my silk cardigan,  Brooks Brothers tailored oxford shirt and pencil skirt and we could have certainly been a magazine advertisement for all things suburban New Jersey. We looked the part of the seminarians who were second career, full time moms with more hurt and history between us than in the pages of the pentateuch. After service, we went out for coffee and she asked the question as easily as if she had been asking about the weather. 

"So, how bad is it?"

"How bad is what?"

"Whatever it is that you're trying to cover up with your beautiful clothes and perfect smile."

I blinked at her for a moment and tried to decide if I should bother to pretend that I did not know what she was talking about. I opted to go with the truth. 

"It's really bad today. Like make an appointment with the doctor as soon as we leave here bad today."

"Mmmhmm...I could tell."

The expression is "game recognize game" (Ugh...it's grammatically incorrect, but it makes the point perfectly.) She knew that my efforts to look 'normal' were merely a cover up for a deep seated hurt. She knew this because she did the same thing although her pain was a bit different from mine. My unresolved grief had dispersed throughout my body and showed up as clinical depression. Her husband who had promised to love and cherish her did not adorn her with jewels but rather with amethyst and sapphire toned bruises on places which she too, could cover up with wraps, throws, and expensive ensembles that took people's eyes away from the pain and drew them to the trappings. She knew that I was in full "cover up" mode. She honored it and she knew that the safest place to be when you are covering up is with another one who is also running for cover. She and I cloaked and covered ourselves in an attempt to survive the outside world because our insides were in danger of exposure. Internal organs are not designed to operate well outside of the encasing flesh that protects them from the elements while they do what they do...to keep us alive. Likewise, our individual and collective pain was in danger of being exposed to the elements...and to careless people who would quite possibly aggravate our wounds to the point of toxic infection. It's not always the wound that kills you. Sometimes, it's the sepsis that no one anticipated. Sometimes, it's the toxic infection that no one anticipated or countered in time. And so, we cover up. 

We perfect the lining of our eyes with liquid liner. We find the right lipstick that draws attention to our lips but ironically, not to what we are saying. We toss, cut, color or change our hair or put on our finest garb in an attempt to cover up what is clamoring to be seen...and attended with love. We cover it and pray that it will not peek out of the covers lest we have to explain...yet again. We cover the hurt with laughter that we rehearse and force out of our lips. We cover up because we cannot bear the arctic winds that whip across our skin when we are uncovered. We work through it and the beauty of this is that we often find a place where we can safely toss off all of the coverings for just a little while. Our little while was in that coffee shop. We did not have to talk about what was under our respective coverings. We just enjoyed the safety of knowing that we could sit together...just knowing that neither of us was alone or un-known in that moment. We knew that we were both covered by the God who called us and who drew us together. 

My prayers go out to those who are covering themselves today. My prayer is that you will feel God's love covering you as you work your way through this day. My prayer is that when you are ready, the covers will come off like grave clothes and that you will strut boldly in authenticity. My prayer is that we would all remember that it is our privilege to pray for those who are in need of a covering. My prayer is that we would all feel God's love attending us...under the covers...in the places that no one else sees. May your covering be a place of healing and not hiding today. Feel free to go uncovered with trappings and find yourself covered in this prayer for you. "Dear God, please guide me to Your secret place today. I need to abide in Your shadow today. If  Because Your feathers cover me, I shall be safe from all harm today. Thank You for covering me in front and behind. Forgive my meager attempts to cover even as I learn to rest in You. Thank you for being my refuge and my fortress. Amen."

Shalom

The dreamers...

It's hard to be a thinker and a dreamer in such a noisy world sometimes. I have great dreams when I am able to reach that level of sleep where dreams appear. It just doesn't happen often. Some of my most detailed dreams scare me because I also experience deja vu from time to time and so I often fear that what has showed up in a dream will happen in real life someday. It's a little bit unnerving to see something play out in real life when you thought that your mind created it out of the safe nothingness of sleep. It makes me wonder what sleep is really made of and if insomnia is the body's way of protecting me from what is waiting for me in that deep REM sleep. Are there monsters under my bed that want to snatch me in the night time? Could be. Could very well be. But that won't keep me from trying to sleep anyway. Sleep is the dreamer's playground. Sometimes, we are able to find friends and other times, we can only find foes on the playground. But we must return every night in order to find out who will be waiting for us. I live the waking life of a dreamer. What a challenge in a world where others think themselves awake and wield weapons of mass destruction on the dreamers. If only they can keep us from imagining possibilities, they can control us. Or so they think. Come what may, the dreamers will find a way to sleep without slipping into the coma of absentminded busyness where no dreams may come. We shall not die in our dreams though we may die while living them...and that is more comforting than you can imagine. I'd rather die while living my dreams than to die without any dreams at all. I who sleep not, dream still...I believe in the power of dreams and the place where dreams are dreamt. Some dreams deserve life and others deserve death. All night tremors are not harbingers of evil. Some are just a way of finding our footing. A place to dream is my lyceum where I grow in fitness so that I have a way to live while awake, though a real dreamer is most awake when dreaming.

Like a Flower

Like a Flower

Like a delicate
flower, I
Lay open 
to you
like a flower 
to the sun's 
golden rays. 
Waiting for you 
to warm me. 
But like a flower
If you don't
warm me
or shed your light
on me
I'll bloom anyhow
I'll open my petals
And bloom beautifully
If a flower blooms
and no one notices
It blooms anyway
And dies quietly
and like a flower
I bloomed
in your presence
but you failed to notice
So, I'm going to die
just as beautifully
and quietly
Like a flower.

what looks like writing on a sunny day

This morning the sun is shining through my window and her beams bring warmth and a gentle "Good Morning" nudge that causes me to smile before I stretch my legs off of the edge of the bed and allow my feet to hover over the small fuzzy pile that was made when I pushed my socks off last night. I need the sun this morning because the light reminds me of the creation story. God created the light and not only was it good but it was separated from the darkness. Both the light and the dark had names but the record shows that the light was given a grade of "good." Today, the light is good and it brings with it Jaha's images, Ohene's music, Charisse's paintings and pottery, Valerie's poetry, Toby's wisdom and wit and Dre's painting. The artists in my life are bearers of this good light and they make my life brighter.

You see, the nicest thing about embracing one's art is that you find your muse in other finely crafted art. All of the artists in my life inspire me and tune my ear to my own muse. My muse calls me to follow the lead of these artists and to sit in my chair and create with words what has not been seen before. She whispers to me and knows that because the light is in them, the good in them speaks to the good in me and I won't be able to resist the her powerful charm. Yes, I will be charmed and intrigued enough to follow the other artists into the space where we all find ourselves from time to time. We go to the place where we can create something like the Master did...making something and being able to sit back and say, "it is good." We have been blessed with the easier part of the work. God has gifted us and continues to inspire us. God created ex nihlio...because...umm...that's all part of God's awesomeness. Out of nothing, God created everything but out of God's "good" creation, we are inspired to see what has not been seen, to draw what lies behind, to speak what need to be heard, to moan what words cannot truly express. Yes, we who are artists are merely listening to the Master's Voice and creating not out of a void but out of the depth of our existence...as God's creation...able to hear and respond to the call to create.

There is a certain freedom in hearing that Voice. It frees me from judging my creations. If I were creating out of my own self...we would be back to those pitiful clay ashtrays made in elementary school art class. Listening to the Master's Voice gives me room to see what has not been seen and to hear what has not been heard and to express what ears want to hear but what has not yet been expressed. Listening to the Master's Voice evicts those controlling, fearful voices that would tell me all too clearly, "You're crazy. There is nothing remotely good about that!" The Master's Voice silences the critics and releases the muse and waits to tell us (because we don't often believe it right away...if ever) that it is in fact...GOOD!

In the Master's hands and under the direction of the Master's voice,  we are free; free to float in the goodness that is life in the Master's studio. This is a good space. This is an abundant space. This is a space where every tool is available and every resource is at the ready. This is a space that feels lonely sometimes but since we are ever interns and never equal to the Master, we take comfort in knowing that we are never alone. The Master is always watching, helping, and waiting for us to see what we should have learned in the last lesson. What looks like writing on a sunny day is really just a little sample of the goodness that comes from a life of apprenticeship with the Master Artist...and it is GOOD!

Shalom!

Don't ask me if I remember being that age (trigger alert - rape)

So, in case you ignored the title, let me make this as clear as I can...
This piece includes subject matter that might trigger those who are sensitive to allusions to sexual violence candy coated in the phrase "date rape".  If you are one of those wonderful and trigger-able persons, please wait for another post. Thank you!

I know that people mean well when they offer their advice in light of my hyperbolic (and often insincere) complaints about parenting a teenager. Most often, I am chided for being too hard on my charming, gorgeous and age appropriately indolent teenager. When I complain about her music choices or her failure to wash dishes, I am often met with this comment, "Oh, just remember what you were doing at that age!" I know that my friends mean well but charging me to remember what I was doing at that age is of no comfort to me as the mother of a 15 year old.

So, although it feels like it happened several lifetimes ago, I do remember being 15. I remember permed hair and tight jeans. (Well, they were never all that tight because I was so skinny.) I remember walking to school with the boy down the block and I remember learning to drive...by driving to church on Sundays with my dad...unlicensed and without a permit! I remember being the smart black girl who was the poster child for "the good girl." I remember youth choir rehearsal and running to the store between Sunday School and 11:00 service. I remember being not quite black enough with the black kids and I remember having to hide in the closet when my friend's fiercely racist father came home unexpectedly one day when I was there. I remember going to the movies with my friend and meeting those cute boys. I remember giving my phone number to one of them. I remember waiting for the powder blue teen phone to ring and I remember the excitement I felt when he finally called. He was 17 and he had a car and he wanted to take ME to a movie that next weekend.

The week flew by and when the time came, he pulled up to the house in his '17 year old boy fixer upper car'. He came to the door and smiled at my parents and even shook my father's hand. Everything seemed like it would be just fine. A movie and probably a burger and I'd be home before the sun went down. We left the house and hopped in the car and off we went into the next town where the movie theater was located. We chatted throughout the ride and he indicated that he needed to stop home before we went to the movie and he wanted me to meet his mom. Wow! Meeting his mom already? Hmm...this seems like a winner!

He pulled into the gravel driveway, and the crunch of the small black stones announced our arrival. His mother came to the screen door to meet us. She opened the door and welcomed me into her home and we walked quickly through the door to the basement where he spent all of his time. There were no chairs down there, so I sat gingerly on the edge of the twin bed and waited for him to finish what he was doing so that we could get to the movie theater as soon as possible. Then, he walked over to me and just stood there for a moment. The next thing I remember is that my shorts and panties were being pulled down to my ankles and I was flat on my back on this boy's bed. My brain tried to make it make sense but my body was frozen. I was an honor student. I spoke French. I made straight A's. I was skinny and not as cute as the girls with the 'good hair'.  I had braces.  I was the Sunday School Secretary. This could not possibly be happening to me...but it was...and I was the same age that my daughter is now. I remember being in a state of shock as he stood up and walked off to the bathroom. He tossed, "What movie do you want to see?" over his shoulder and I pulled my panties and shorts up and wondered what I was going to say when I returned to my senses and found my voice again.

I said not a word. I just walked up the stairs and opened that screen door again and walked out. I walked out that door and down the stairs and stumbled across the same crunchy gravel that had announced my arrival just a few minutes earlier. I walked down the driveway and continued waling down the block. I walked and walked and walked until I found myself back at my house. I walked past my mother and walked to my room. I picked up the phone and called my best girlfriend. I told her my story and she quickly informed me that no boy would just ever want to take me to a movie just for the sake of going to a movie. Boys didn't spend money on girls without expecting something in return. I should have known that. The conversation ended and oddly enough, life went on. Life as I knew it had come to an abrupt end. I was a 15 year old girl who should have simply known better. I didn't even know that I was allowed to call it rape or how to explain what had happened...because I should have known better. At 15 years old...I just should have known better.

Now, I am the mother of a beautiful girl child who has access to technologies not yet dreamed of when I was her age. The teen phone has been replaced with hand held cell phones with video capabilities. No one is subjected to screening by the gruesome parent on the other end of a house phone. The field on which teens play these days is a virtual one and the effects of 'the game' are far reaching.  Cute boys with loud cars are still cute boys and girls are still expected to know better. So to answer your question, yes, I do remember what I was doing when I was her age and I'll be damned if history will repeat itself. Thank you for your concern. If you are really concerned, then the best help that you can give me as it pertains to raising a girl child is not to ask me if I remember being her age. That's not helpful. The best help that you can give me and her and girls everywhere is to help us dismantle rape culture. We can start by telling all of our children that if we all would just 'do better' then we won't have to tell our hurting children that they should have 'known better'.


Shalom

On Triggers

There are these things we call triggers. These triggers are things which can essentially "trigger" or set off a physical reaction in a person. The trouble with triggers is that they are typically associated with traumatic events in one's life. It may be as simple as seeing a car that looks like the car your ex drove or it can be as complex as smelling the cologne that your rapist wore. These triggers are everywhere and you never know what will set someone off. You never know what will cause a reaction in another person. You never really know what is in someone's mind - unless, of course, the person tells you and you pay attention. But many people simply do not pay enough attention to the deep mysteries of other human beings, thus, many are accused of over-reacting to things when in fact, they are simply reacting to the trigger that has touched on something deeper and more painful and oh-so real.

Here's an example of what it's like to be triggered. I slipped into a special church service about an hour late and found a seat just before the speaker stood to deliver the message. I had settled in, turned off my phone, waved and mouthed silent hellos to my people and waited to hear what the man had to say. I looked up and saw the tousled ponytail of a young girl who appeared to be preoccupied on her phone and I shot her a quick text message about it and she turned to look at me two pews back and we shared an inaudible giggle. The speaker began to pray and my head bowed slightly and when I looked up at the conclusion of the prayer,  I saw them. Actually, the first thing I saw was a hand raised in affirmation of what the speaker was saying. The tell tale blue bracelet indicated that this was a member of our congregation. But just behind the blue braceleted wrist, I noticed the shiny black hair that was parted in the middle and then the dark suit jacket. Along the back of the pew, an arm clad in the fabric of the kind of suit that only certain kinds of men dare to wear to church rested along the woman's shoulders. I could not see the hand because if I could see the fingers, I would know whether it was HIM or not. 

I strained and found myself unable to listen to the speaker for trying to make out HIS face in the glass that surrounded the drumset. I could not tell for sure but it certainly did look like HIM. I followed the pinstriped arm up to the collar of the jacket and then stifled a gasp when I looked at the back of the man's head. It had that same shape as HIS head. I remember it well. I saw the heavy eyeglass frames and my breath grew shallow. I thought, this cannot be possible. Who would he know here? Why would they be here. I looked again at the woman and thought, this can't be true. That's not her hair. She has different hair. Then it hit me...I had not seen her in a while. Perhaps she was doing something different. Oh, why won't they turn around just enough so I can catch a profile? If I can see the color of her skin, I will know if it is THEM. I saw her raise her hand in praise and I caught a glimpse of the nails and I remembered to exhale again. No way would she ever have such a garish manicure. Or would she? I don't really know her, do I? He would not speak, nor would he turn just enough so that I could see if it was really HIM. The one who...well, maybe I'll tell that story another day. 

But don't you see? I was so caught up in the trigger that I almost missed the sermon and the rest of the service.  I did focus on finding the scripture and taking notes in an attempt to be in the service but that's the dangerous thing about triggers. They pull on something so deep that it takes a herculean effort to work against their insidious nature. They remind you of a 'thing' that you have paid a therapist a lot of money to deal with. They put you right back in harm's way in the theater of your mind and that theater is powerful. It is better than the IMAX. It is 3D and has surround sound and induces more perspiration than a sauna in a fitness center. There are no ushers in this theater and the concessions stand has been long abandoned.

Treat every person you meet with as much kindness as you can muster. Perhaps you can trigger something beautiful with your smile or with our silence. Perhaps you can help someone who seems to be over-reacting when in fact, he or she is simply reliving the horror of one of the worst days he or she has ever...survived. 

Shalom

Making Waves

As long as there are black girls

In jeans and tees

There will be black boys

With do rags

And brown brushes

Making waves

Sons of mine 

Get out of the mirror

And trust that your hair

Is at least as smart 

as you've trained it to be 

with your brush

Get out of that mirror

And see what I see

It ain't waves on your head
I see brain waves
I see the thoughts in your head!

I see you

No baby

I really see you

Making waves

In the world

I see you building pyramids

And solving equations and problems

Building bridges

To connect the cities 

The women are creating

With our words

I see you snatching earbuds out

And screaming 

For freedom

I see you turning earbuds

Into microphones

Because what you think

Far exceeds what you're being taught
But you think no one hears you.
I see you
I hear you
I feel you

Baby boy

Handsome son

Don't make waves in your hair

Make them with your mind

And watch the ripple effect in the world

Make waves of change

And reclaim your place

You can create something 

Bigger

Badder

Better

Than what we have handed down

Make waves baby boy

Make waves

and the world will 

Have to sit back

And enjoy the ride!

Make waves baby boy!

Make waves!

Reverendsister's Ink ©2013

If people came with instructions

Just like the iPhone, iPad, and other useful devices, Carla comes with a handy dandy guide that will make your time with her far more enjoyable. 

Congratulations! If you're reading this guide, you have been invited into Carla's world...which is probably unlike anything you have ever experienced. So, welcome and enjoy the experience!

Let's begin with a quick overview, shall we? Great! The model that you are currently enjoying (CJ4.3) has undergone several upgrades and is constantly reworking her processor, so you may notice a glitch or two on occasion but given a brief reset period, those will work themselves out. The CJ4.3 is built for strength, endurance and comfort. However, like the delicate screen of an iPad, she is fragile and without proper care and handling is subject to scratches and cracks which are most often merely surface damage but dropping her will not only shatter her exterior, but has the potential to impact her delicate inner workings so please handle with care. 

CJ4.3 comes with a charger and has incredibly long battery life but definitely requires recharging. There is great danger of severe malfunction when improperly or insufficiently charged. Please be sure her battery is fully charged at least once per week, preferably on Sunday. If it is not possible to fully charge on Sunday then you will have to rely on short bursts of alternate charging during the week. This can be done virtually or through human interaction. Charging can occur with literature, food, prayer, hard belly laughing, healing hugs, solitary confinement, and a number of other means which can only be discovered through interaction with CJ4.3. Any or all of these will sustain the 4.3 until a full recharge is possible. 

The CJ4.3 has a self cleaning function. Her eyes will run and appear to leak. This is entirely normal and should not be a cause for concern. Please pay attention to this function. Cleanup is simple. If you are a compatible device, pull the CJ4.3 close to your chest and hold steady until leakage ceases. If you are not a comparable device, simply put the CJ4.3 on a well cushioned surface and wait for the function to run its course. This feature will not damage the unit and in some cases will result in more efficient performance. 

CJ4.3 has a rapid output system. In layman's terms...a smart mouth. Some have tried to disable this feature but all attempts have been unsuccessful. This feature is preprogrammed and is a default safety feature. 

Speaking of safety, the 4.3 is also equipped with an ultimate security feature. In case of emergency, the 4.3 will shut down completely and become inoperable. In the event of a system shutdown, you must merely wait for the manufacturer's reset. No information will be lost but some applications may function differently. 

If your Carla is damaged for any reason, your data is secure and will not be made available to anyone but you. Jail-breaking is not a feature that is available on the CJ4.3. Your unique access code will allow you to restore your CJ4.3 to the original factory settings. 

The  CJ4.3 is your companion for as long as you choose to keep her. If you are unsatisfied for any reason, you may return her in whatever condition she is in to her manufacturer.  We hope you will be pleased with your time spent with  CJ4.3. Please send all questions and feedback to reverendsister@gmail.com. We appreciate your patronage of and loyalty to our brand. The CJ4.4 upgrade will be available on April 2, 2014! Stay tuned for updates, upgrades, and new features!

I Was Supposed To Write a Love Poem

(Written around the time of the inauguration)

I was supposed to write a love poem

about hands and lips and thighs

but then I lost my words

I had no words of sweet nothings in my ear

and deft fingers running through my hair

no

i had none of those thoughts

instead I tried to find words that rhymed

with incarceration and literacy rates

I tried to find words that sounded like dream

but misspelled as scream

my not watching makes it no less historic

and makes me no less patriotic

neither does your attendance 

make you more

while children in your circles

still get tracked for prison

while you are chasing paper

they are chasing

the futility of their dreams

because we refuse 

to teach them who they really are

Malcolm asked us to remember

we say we remember Dr. King but

how can you remember that which you never knew

nobody will come for you

if you post from the media sanctioned speeches

but let's see if you still don't give a Huck

when he's standing over your bed on assignment

because you wrote

free mumia

free angela

Palante

or the like

tell me, where's the scandal in that?

putting picstitch pics of the Kings and the Obamas

as if that's the simplicity of black life

there are complications

teach the children the burden of being the Preacher King

don't excuse the philandering

but do discuss it

we want to buy our clothes from the same store as Michelle

but why don't we apply to the same institutions of higher learning?

oh, because you were watching Love and hiphop while

she was studying latin roots.

Doggone it. I was supposed to write a love poem!

Reverendsister's Ink © 2013

Napping in Psalm 91

(I wrote this a while back and I like it...hope you do too...)

I want to go back to bed now. Not because I am tired but because this stuff can't get me if I am sleeping. It can't wake me and it won't enter my dreams because there is at least one angel on guard with a flaming sword over my subconscious mind daring anything that looks like terror, arrows, pestilence and destruction to cross her path. Behind the sword and under the protective wings, I can find refuge and rest.

Normal people can take a nap and return to their normal lives. Those plagued by demons require consensus from 'the voices' to simply decide whether a nap is just a nap or if it is an escape from the overwhelming reality of everyday life lived under a cloud of darkness. Today is that day. I crave a nap but moreso, I crave the comfort of swaddling mself in the blankets and high thread count sheets. They will just cover me and welcome me in. They will not torture me with thoughts of what successful people do. They will not judge me for having a moment of weakness in a life where I must pretend to be strong and capable and able and available to those who also wear the mask but refuse to realize it and wreak havoc on all in the wake of their everyday masked actions. 

I need a nap because I am carrying other people's unmanaged stuff out of love and compassion but I am really about to just put it down by the door right next to my stuff and get in that bed and take a nap. It is not the siren call of the depressed soul that needs to escape. It is the welcome song of a resting place. Today the nap is my way of dwelling in the secret place of the Most High with the hopes that I will find rest under the shadow of the Almighty.  I need that to be true today. I can't think. I can't manage. I can't solve problems. I can't cry any more tears but I can find rest in the shadow of the Most High. I can take a nap and trust that when I wake, I will feel just a bit more capable. I will feel restored. I will feel balanced. I will emerge from the shadow ready for what awaits. For that, I am grateful...and sleep shall be peaceful.

Shalom!

what color is a chameleon in the dark

What color is a chameleon in the dark?
When the lights are off
and the chameleon is alone
what color is she
If there is no light to bounce
and no prism to refract the light
what color is she in the dark
when she is alone
with no one to match
no need to blend
no need to be protected from predators
I wonder what color a chameleon is
when the lights are off
does she glow
with particular luminosity
or does she fade into the night
hiding like she must in the day
I can only wonder
I may never know
and that is alright

but I still wonder

what is the color

the a chameleon

when she is in the dark.

ReverendSister's Ink ©2013

People are like Salt

People are Like Salt...

Some people are like salt. They come into your life and provide that little something extra that makes life taste better. They emphasize the good in you. This happens in the same way that kosher salt brings out the flavor of a good cut of meat. Believe it or not, some of the most flavorful steaks are cooked with only a good dose of salt and pepper! The salt brings out what is already inside! That's what it does!

Sometimes though, we encounter people who can be like an excessive amount of salt in a dish. The natural flavor is overpowered and the salt is all that you taste. In addition to affecting the flavor of the meal, it is also hazardous to your health. Trouble is, once something is too salty, it's hard to "un-salt" it...even if you add a potato or extra liquid. There are people who enter our lives and end up taking over until we no longer see ourselves because their presence (flavor) has eclipsed our very own. Literally, too much salt in the diet can lead to high blood pressure. Figuratively, too much salt in our relationships can also put a strain on our hearts - causing a different kind of pressure and stress on the heart. Both are unhealthy and should be avoided at all costs.

Salt is not the enemy. It must be used wisely and in some cases, sparingly.   Guard your heart, your life and your recipes - lest your best health, best self and best dishes be tainted by the overpowering and unhealthy effects of salt. The right people will bring out the best in you. Too much exposure to the wrong ones will just leave you...salty!

Shalom!

Fine

He said I was too heavy for him
so I lost weight
But I misunderstood
he meant
that his brain
could not keep up
with mine
My physique was fine
and I do mean FINE!

His brain needed to
bench press
and build capacity
but I misunderstood
and starved myself
to lighten what I thought
was his load
but I was fine
and I do mean FINE!

Hope he finds a trainer
I'm off to find and feed
the parts of me
that I lost and starved
when all along...
I was fine!
and I do mean FINE!



Reverendsister's Ink ©2013
(Originally drafted February 2013)

Perspective: The In-Between Space

    
     This morning I was reading the lectionary texts for the week and wondering which of my brilliant preacher friends would be preaching from the ever familiar text of the 10 lepers who were healed. I have heard that story many times but today, I stumbled upon a blog post that helped me see myself and that text from a different vantage point. In her blog post, Rev. Dr. Janet H. Hunt refers to the importance of the space between Galilee and Samaria and how crucial that piece of (physical and spiritual) geography is to the story.

      She writes, "the land between Samaria and Galilee is neither one or the other." Suddenly, I find myself at peace because I recognize this space. I often refer to myself as a bit of a gypsy because I am never in one place for very long. It seems that I am put in certain places for seasons, but unlike the seasons which are clearly marked on our calendars (and yet, ironically, more like the whimsical display of unseasonal weather patterns we have seen in the northeast), my seasons are never clearly marked. It always hits me like a ton of bricks when the season ends because I tend to fall in love with the place and the people and then, with love, comes the heartbreak of separation at the end of the season. This, I am sure, is a human phenomenon. I have never seen lush fall leaves weep as they make the tree branches bare in time to wear the glossy shimmer of winter's snow and ice.

     Right now, I am in that in-between space. In a world of multi-tasking and technological connectivity, I am in the in-between space where I can not keep up with people because of my particular use of the 24 hours granted to me each day - and my absolute refusal to be "on-line" 24 hours a day. I am in-between communities. I have left the home of the Renaissance (the Harlem Renaissance, that is) and seem to be reluctantly relocating to the City of Brotherly Love (which, ironically, seems to have no love for the brothers or the sisters!) I am in-between paying off student debt and incurring more for the sake of my career. (Dr. Jones, I presume?) I am in-between worship communities. (With the call, comes the realization that "regular" church membership is no longer an option.) I am in-between part-time jobs. (Part time work, full time expectations and an overachieving employee...you see my dilemma?)

     I am in that narrow space of in-between and it is not a comfortable space. Have you ever had to sleep in a bed or on the floor in between two other people? Whether adults or children (but especially if they are children), that space is narrow, fragile and quite uncomfortable. There is no room to stretch out because you might wake or harm the ones occupying space on either side of you. They are not in-between. They are in a space and sometimes that space runs over into your narrow strip of in-between but the reverse is not necessarily true. The in-between space exists specifically to show the no-man's land in-between two other well-occupied and more settled spaces. Once you find yourself in that space, you must learn to navigate it quickly, lest you be perceived as an enemy to one in the clearly defined space. In-between spaces are not always an oasis. Even the oasis has clearly defined borders for the protection of those seeking her shelter. This in-between space is an uncomfortable and often treacherous space. As a traveler, I have come to recognize the space and when I am there, I govern myself accordingly. There is a code of conduct that is necessary for survival, even in the in-between spaces. Much like traveling in the desert, the in-between space will either keep you or kill you. It is not a place for dalliance. It is a place of purpose.


     Rev. Dr. Hunt's reflection on the text has helped me to locate myself this morning. My location is unsettling for others who are in a particular space with clearly defined borders. I am glad for the opportunity to be on the narrow strip of life's journey called the in-between space. This space would have once been a source of heartache for me but now, I can simply relax and just be...in this space. While I am occupying this space, I am praying for others who are in the in-between space.


Those who are in-between paychecks and poverty.
Those who are in-between sickness and health.
Those who are in-between life and death.
Those who are in-between stages of grief.
Those who are in-between having a home and being homelessness.
Those who are in-between relapse and recovery.
Those who are in-between heartbreak and healing.
Those who are in-between God's call and their response!


I'm praying that you will find peace and purpose in your in-between space today.

Shalom!

A Clearing

Like bedbugs
Some things are just too hard
   to get rid of
      effectively
That is to say
They embed themselves
In your spirit
And require a clearing

A clearing of the mind
To rid plaguing thoughts
That invade like guerrilla soldiers
Taking over - destroying,
   making meals and sport of
   the healthy ones
    as they wage war within the host
    who unwittingly invited them in
   
A clearing of the body
To remove residual dross
Left after love's fire
Has burned out
And the coals are white
        with cold


A clearing of the heart
To release the grip
Of memories now tainted
And promises unkept

And so we burn the sage
We call on ancestors
We clear the space
Letting the healing smoke
   carry off the ghosts
   who haunt the night
    and stalk the day
   and breed and bite
   like bedbugs

ReverendSister's Ink (c) 2013

Jaha's (late) birthday poem

I found myself writing a poem for you for your birthday 

But then I ate it and it tasted like candy 

But today is not a rainy day yet I thought of you anyway 

Cotton candy made me think of Nikki Giovanni 

which brought me back to poetry 

which brought me full circle back to you 

Full circle of course made me think 

of the circle of life and 

our circles of friendships that intersected 

and brought us together 

circles also made me think of 

those small things that we swallow 

that make us feel better 

make the warm fuzzies have sharp edges 

and make the clouds dissipate 

And then I thought how much 

I love you 

for your courage 

your bravery 

your honesty 

your love 

all over the page 

all over the canvas

all over my life 

and so I thanked God for you 

as I sang happy birthday to you 

and ate the poem

that I began writing

you know,

 I think it had onions and peppers in it 

but surely that dollop of 

sweet

honey

mustard

was the clue

and I knew

it was for you!

Happy Birthday!

Reverendsister's Ink ©2013

we...(for the silent ones)

We are lost in our self awareness 

We know we're needy and scary

We don't mean to be

As a matter of fact

We don't want to be

And so we search for a love

Who won't make us explain

Again

Why we clean so rigorously

Or why we appear to languish

When what is true is the anguish

But we are not the norm

We are not happy enough

We are too heavy for your lifting

But we don't mean to be

And so we retreat

Into the arms of danger

To find security

If only for a moment

Then shame claims us

Like lost untagged luggage

Dizzy from too much time 

On a carousel to nowhere

No, thank you

I don't need meclizine

Or antivert

I needed to be seen

Protected

Re-membered

Things I Wish People Understood

Things I wish people understood:

1- Teaching is not just recycling last year's lesson for this year's students. Every day, technology puts students in a position to be light years ahead of the Dick and Jane primers that school districts are struggling to afford. Teaching is an Olympic event and requires cutting edge techniques and constant self-assessment and training just to stay one class period ahead of today's students. (Whether they have had breakfast, free lunch, life coaches or private tutors is irrelevant. These jokers are not the ones you studied about in grad school.  They are not Miss Crabtree's students and your one room school house and multiple choice (i.e. easy to grade) tests are not going to suffice.)

2- Teaching includes time for preparation and time for grading...the students' work and your own. I'm not a great teacher because I use great slide presentations. I am a great teacher because I listen to my students and do not assume that I know more about their learning than they do. I prepare like it all depends on me and then pray because it all really depends on God.

3- I am ordained clergy. This means that I will never be afforded the luxury of being a "pew member" of anybody's church. Yes, I graduated from seminary, but no, I do not want to be a pastor. Why? I am not called to be a pastor. We don't just jump up and show God our resume and treat God like a placement agency! God is the Agent who makes "the call" and tells us where we are to go. I am a teacher and a good administrator. Trust me, you don't want me to have the final say on things in a church. You want someone who has a pastor's heart. Would you want a Doctor who was trained in medical school but was better with charting than with diagnosing and caring for you? Right. Me neither. So, don't look at me like I'm crazy when I attempt to explain to you that not all are called to pastor. Some of us are called to other things. This also means that I am held to a higher standard...so my decisions about what church I will "choose" to join is not ever REALLY my decision at all. It is an active choice to hear what God is saying to me about what I am called to do and where I am called to do it. Joining "my mama's church" is not a luxury I have anymore. So, don't push or pull on us when we are trying to hear from God. Just pray with us so that we might....oh,  I don't know...Hear from God!

3a- A call to preach is NOT synonymous with a call to pastor. All pastors preach to their congregations as God gives utterance but all preachers are not called to care for the flock. Some preachers are given a word to plant in due season and the pastor then cultivates the congregation to be good soil and produce good fruit from the preacher who just came by to share a word from The Lord. (I'm not talking about hucksters, I am talking about real preachers. No shade, just a distinction.) Some excellent preachers would make terrible pastors and some pastors are not the best preachers. If you find yourself in a church where they are one and the same...you ought to stop reading this post and whisper a "Thank You, Lord" prayer...RIGHT NOW!!

4- Incarceration in unemployment is not the same as "me time", "time off", "down time", "play time" or any other designation that implies that this is fun and relaxing. I can't share all of the details of money management but I can tell you that there is more behind the scenes than you can imagine. What you spent on lunch last week is what I "earned" on unemployment because of a technicality with my filing. There is no "appeal process" or "person to speak to" and by the time you find it, it's too late. So, cherish your job, no matter how much you dislike it today. This thing right here...is complicated. (To clarify: I am not whining about collecting unemployment, I am merely pointing out that it is complicated and many people forget that I'm not just working from home because I chose this life and I'm secretly independently wealthy and capable of making ends meet. I just don't always share the actual numerical disparity between my ends.) So, when I don't take your hour long call in the middle of the day, don't be offended or think that I should answer because I am sitting home doing nothing. That's insulting. My part time work is still time consuming and my search for a new gig is also time consuming. I probably work just as hard as you most days except that my commute is shorter and my coworkers (the dog and the plants) are more pleasant. 

5- There are things that I can only tell Jesus. There are parts of my life that are open to anyone who inquires. There are other parts that I can only tell Jesus. I often wish I could share these things with someone at the end of the day, just to have a human being share the load. I have my own things in the Jesus Only box and I have other people's hurts, cares, concerns and deep secrets in the Jesus Only box. My heart is full of love and breaks open in prayer every day. These are the things that I can only tell Jesus. What you see is indeed what you get but what you see is not all there is. There are things that I can only tell Jesus. 

These are just some of the things I wish people understood...

I remember...

I remember the moment that I became this woman

I remember what it was like to live carelessly 

       with no regard for the matters of the universe.

I remember thinking that it really would be okay

I remember feeling safe and knowing or thinking that life was going to be like this always

I remember the day that the universe cracked wide open and I dangled helplessly

        in the vortex that whirled around me

                        taking all stability with it

I remember the moment that the vortex spat me back onto the earth 

         which would remain forever shifting under my feet.

I began working on tikkun olam

          but i was mistaken

I was not working to recover the world

I was desperately trying to spackle my own world back together

I was trying to pour concrete into the cracks which threatened to trip me

         and scrape my pretty little knees which had never been knobby

I was trying to stitch together the fabric that had been torn apart

        left irregularly jagged, not as if cut with sharp pinking shears

             but rather torn pulled apart not on the seam                                    

                 but in the places where the fabric had been woven together in the beginning

I wanted to glue the clouds into the sky lest they move and shift again

I wanted to measure the water as it fell from the sky 

      to ensure that the ground would accept her rains without being overwhelmed and flooding out

I wanted to repair my world which had all at once split wide open

      a world flayed like a fish...gutted

        with innards tossed aside as refuse while flesh cooks on a bed of coals

My world had become nothing but a caught fish writhing on a hook

         flopping around trying to avoid the sharp knife

              designed to strip it of its scales

                 leaving it vulnerable and facing certain death

I played God and tried to recover my world 

          but it was too late

                 it had already been torn asunder

And I scrambled to repair it

By capping toothpaste and

Making beds with impeccable hospital corners

Washing dishes and putting them away

Lining up my shoes and alphabetizing my cds

Dewey Decimaling my books

Sizing and colorizing my closet

But to no avail. 

The world is still the same as it was 

    when the vortex spat me out

        onto cracked concrete

That claws at my knees

  When I pray

©Reverendsister's Ink 2013

Sick and Single: Only one is a condition

For No Shame Day I intended to write something far more eloquent. Instead, this is what I came up with. When you pray, remember those who suffer...

Sick and single - only one is a "condition"

"When in the darkness, I would grope, faith always sees a star of hope." Beams of Heaven

No, it does not. In the darkness, in that living, breathing metaphor for the mental illness that plagues me, I do not always see a star of hope. Perhaps my unembodied faith does, but I do not. I see only the thick darkness that is pierced by streetlights and on a good night, the light of the moon when it is properly positioned with respect to the sun. 

Being ill is bad enough and to relieve the world of the burden of caring for us, we take it on boldly. But in so doing, in our attempts to avoid sounding like we are chronic complainers, we often endure it alone. No one wants to be alone when she is sick. Surely, I can manage to pour a glass of water and dump a pill or two into my own hand. There is relief for the physical symptoms that can be found in small pills with numbers or letters etched into them. But the real healing from the pain of mental illness often comes from the gift of presence. A silent, understanding presence. The kind of comfort that we remember from childhood when we could climb into an adult's safe lap and feel loved. That is sufficient. Just to be loved is enough. Just to know that mine are not the only eyes trying to pierce the dark midnight of depression. Just to know that this too shall pass, but until it does, I am not left to bear the burden of it by myself. A hand to hold or a gentle caress of the cheek will keep the darkness at bay if only for a moment. Yet, for the single ones, that small gesture is often more elusive than the cure itself.

When the mind and the body change the rules by which you live, you find yourself trapped in a prison that tortures you and it feels as if you are in fact the guard. The ultimate betrayal is that your body has become your prison and your mind is the warden who forgets to feed you and who by default, assigns you to solitary confinement where you are abandoned by that which has imprisoned you and then the punishment is complete, for you have not even your mind to accompany you in this prison. This is the unimaginable reality for some and the overwhelming truth for others. 

The secret of mental illness - whether depression, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder or another designation - is the reversible cloak of darkness and solitude. We will try to hide and can only hope that someone will seek us...find us...touch us...help to heal us. Some of us are sick and single...only one is recognized by the medical community - as a condition.

Betrayal

She speaks to me and 

She hears me when I speak

She knows my heart and my thoughts

She is my closest ally most times

There are days though,

when she abandons me

I do not know where she goes

I do not know who she meets in 

her secret

clandestine meetings

without me

I do not have any trace of her

only memories of fun times together

I remember and cling 

desperately

breathlessly

because it is all I know 

I do not know if she knows

how it hurts when she leaves

I do not know if she realizes

that I ache when she is gone

 I lose all orientation

I lose my will to live

because without her 

I cannot think and 

I can barely breathe

and there is no life of the mind

when there is no mind

She knows all of my secrets

I wonder if she is telling them

In her absence, I wonder

 if I am telling them

by accident

without her as my guardian

She guards my mouth 

and when she is absent

 who knows what i will say

to the careless listener

who is rendered speechless

in the presence of

the revelation of

the life of my  mind

which is now gone again

I trust her with all

of my thoughts

all of my wandering

traipsing

lilting

running

thoughts

I love her but she betrays me

she leaves me

she leaves no number

I cannot find her

And I need her so

Sometimes

She returns and we

come together again

and then we fall

into our rhythms again

 the rhythm of clear thought

the release of clinging

the release of anxiety

for with her,

I am safe again

She is me 

and I am she

but my mind is a wild thing

incapable of commitment

only brilliant flashes

and moments of grandeur

and winged feet

that carry her away

leaving me feeling

like even the life of my mind

is suicidal

Reverendsister's Ink (c) 2013

.

(Saying) my name

I had a name

I heard you

Say it

I remember it

rolling off of your lips

like sweet sticky peach juice

after that first bite

tried to capture it again

tried to pull it back into your mouth

and you found that

you could not

it had become a drop

it had fallen to the ground

attracting hungry ants

with all of its sugary splendor

and they consumed 

what they did not know

was my name

having fallen sweetly 

from your lips

I had a name

until you changed it

and you said it

with heat and fire

aflame on an arrow

meant to pierce my heart

but it hit the bone

and burnt the marrow

and I began to die

Please,

do not utter my name

for it is not safe 

in your mouth

where flames char the vowels

and crisp the consonants

Please, 

forget my name

for it is not safe

in your mouth

Now, I long for One

to change my name

Sarah and Sarai

Mara and Naomi

Esther and Hadassah

What shall my name be

I know I have a new name

over in glory 

...and it's mine

     ...all mine

But Dear God

when You change my name

say my name

on the wind

say my name 

on the stars

say my name 

in the voice of a child

say my name

in the loving tenor of a man

say my name

on moon's bright beams

Oh Dear God

say my name

on blades of grass

and petals of tulips

say my name 

in syrup and in honey

say my name 

in rain's pelting drops

Oh, My God

say my name

call me

over and over

say my name

over and over

But Oh My God

my soul cries

for You to say my name

when You say

You Love Me

so I will know

it's me

to whom You speak

when You say my name

in water, wind and sacrament

Carla, I love you

so do this in remembrance of Me

Though you cannot say My Holy Name

Carla, I love you

for you keep My Holy Name

safe in your mouth

Carla, I love you

and I have called you 

by name

I have called you by 

your new name

My Beloved

in this, hear and know

you are mine

and you are loved

Gave and Took (in progress)

Gave and Took

Most relationships have a balance

of give and take

When I look at ours

I see that one of us gave

and one of us took

There's a reason

why give and take are

in the present tense

as actions going on

right now

continuously

as opposed to what actually 

happened

in the past but continuously

one of us gave

and the other took

The math was bad

but no one checked our work

one of us gave

and the other just took

The giver developed a condition

of congestive heart failure

from a lack of reciprocity

in the give and take

a condition made acute by 

the took and taking

No transfusion will 

cure the condition

Liars say that

time heals all wounds

I daresay

not so

love and attentiveness

and restoration of the gift

back to the giver

 with a fence to protect 

and guard against

another who merely

blindly

selfishly

takes

like a child on halloween

with hands out and expectations high

only in it for the goods

publicly on the take

with the world's blessing

all trick

no treat

The give

eclipsed by

The crook who only took