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)