The drug sleep

It's ironic that I am writing about sleep...when I can't seem to quiet my mind for a stretch of 5 hours so that I can sleep. My favorite song is Wildflower (by New Birth) simply because of the line, "Be careful how you touch her/she'll awaken/sleep's the only freedom (oh) that she knows". I wrote this after a day of drug-induced sleep which is the only treatment for the vertigo which plagues me.

The drug sleep

The drug sleep is a dreamless sleep
It is a heavy lead blanket that does not heal
but instead, it merely suffocates
and whatever can withstand the suffocation
will survive
It does not heal
I repeat
It does not heal
instead
it offers solace
to make suffering easier
but there is no comfort
and there is no way out
there is just this thick
miasma
of sleep
without dreams
a sinking into an abyss
without dreams
a drowning in silence
without dreams
I'd rather swirl in
vertigo's vortex
than be rendered dreamless

No Means No

No meant No

I told him I had to have it
He told me no
I told him that I needed it
He told me no
I would have done anything for a yes
I needed him to give me a yes
I became desperate for his yes
But he told me no
I began measuring our relationship
by the yardstick of his no
I doubted myself
I cooked his favorite dish
I perfumed the right spots
I made myself the absolute incarnation
of his every fantasy
And yet, he told me no
Was I not pretty anymore?
Did he not love me anymore?
Had I done something wrong?
What was this No?
I panicked and feared that I
might have to use force
I would MAKE his No into a Yes!
I have ways of making a No a Yes!
I feared that I would need the big guns
of tears and irresistible seduction
because I had to have it!
He stepped across the threshold
Concern etched across his forehead
I prepared the teary eyed greeting
(Just in case it worked this time)
He looked into my red eyes
Frowned a little
and spoke to me
"I know you need and want this from me
and I know that you know that I love you
but, baby, my answer is still no.
I will not do this. We always said
that No would mean No, right?"
I nodded my yes.
"Okay then. As much as I want to say
yes to your every request...
and you do look fetching
in your special request dress...
and you smell even more delicious
than the meal on the table - but
No still means no."
I accepted his No.
It was our arrangement to accept
that No meant No
regardless of who said it.
No does not demand explanation
although it appreciates it
No meant no
So, I had to buy my own feminine products
Because he clearly,
emphatically,
unwaveringly
said...No,
I will not buy those items
Not even for you!
It is not a measure of my love for you
It is simply my own personal limit
and baby,
No means No!

learn to love poem

It's a draft...publishing pushes me to keep working on it...

I want to learn to love you

I have spent my whole life
trying to love people
who let me love them
wrongly

Now, I want to love
rightly
But I wonder
if anyone knows
what that looks like
in real life

What does it mean to you
to be loved
is it security
is it love languages
is it quantifiable in data
like ones and zeroes
or is it messy
like real life

maybe I won't know it's love
until I know what it's not
but
I need you to teach me
so I can love you
Rightly

I want to learn
to love you
rightly

Advent-ageous Prayer (Malachi 3:1-4)

Today, Malachi 3:1-4 has me thinking about what it means to be cleansed and purified. First, it means that the Refiner can see the dirt that is embedded within my person. These are not necessarily defects, but rather impurities that have become a part of me because I was not careful or because I wrongly assumed that I could get close to them and be immune to their effects or worse yet, because I thought that I might play in a strange sandbox and later just wash away the sand but anyone who has ever tried to get sand out of a black girl's hair knows that it is an arduous process that requires expert cleaning and sometimes means a few grains of sand may stay lodged in the natural kinks and curls of the hair for a while. I was thinking about the refiner's fire and since the closest I've ever come to that kind of fire was in the kitchen when I've cooked with wine and waited for the heat to burn off the unnecessary alcohol, I had to take a minute to really think about that process.

This is not just an external cleansing of surface dirt. The refiner's fire melts the gold or silver, changing, but not harming, its physical state for the moment while impurities rise to the surface and are skimmed off by the refiner. This is not a microwave process. This process takes time and the gold and silver must yield fully to the process. This made me wonder if I have come to the refiner's fire repeatedly with newly washed, sand-free hair, clean ears and fingernails, a freshly scrubbed face and the nerve to give up my turn in line because I feel clean enough to make it just one more day. Have I come to the refiner's fire after taking a bath and merely left the refinery in the emperor's new clothes - still having internalized the real dirt and grime that only the fire can burn off? I wonder if I have yielded to the refiner's fire and the Refiner's touch or if I just yelled, "It's too hot! I'm melting! Please stop!!" Hmm...

Dear God,
Please melt me today and cleanse me of the impurities that have become so familiar that I no longer see them for the dirt that they are. Today, I offer myself to you in the hope that I will be made ready for your return. Today, I ask you to cleanse me so that I might go into the valleys and fill them with the hope of your return. As liquid takes the shape of its container, allow me to flow into low places, bringing hope and peace and joy. Today I am yielding my ears and my heart to hear your clear call to repentance. Today, I will wait while You pin my impurities to an old rugged cross and instead of leaving the refinery in the arrogant delusion of wearing the emperor's new clothes, I leave in a reversible robe of righteousness - white on the inside, camel hair on the outside. This is my Advent-ageous prayer for today.

Amen

I am not the Grinch who stole Christmas

Every year around this time, someone inevitably refers to me as the Grinch. Why, you ask? Largely because I do not enjoy the "holiday season" like most people do. I like watching people get excited about decorating their homes with lights, lawn ornaments, bows, and shiny paper. I like seeing new babies drowning in those big red hats with the white fur trim. I like seeing the family portraits with the holiday background and if you send me one, I will put it on display in my living room. If that makes you happy and does not harm anyone in the process, then deck the halls and fa la la all you want, but please do not be offended when I am not inclined to follow suit.

As a child, I was never as interested in a tree and the boxes beneath it (like I didn't know that the biggest ones had underwear, tights, turtlenecks and socks? Santa my eye!) as I was in the story of the baby in the manger. My mother tells the story of how she was physically ill when she found out that there was no Santa. We don't share that experience. I'm not sure if I ever believed in Santa but it was not because my parents didn't try. I enjoyed the cartoons that meant Christmas was on the way and would fight you if you got in the way of Rudolph's Shiny New Year or The Year Without A Santa Claus! Okay, I digress...

Christmas has always been a lovely time of waiting for Mary's baby to be born. I always wondered why we had Christmas pageants and parties but never threw Mary a baby shower. I felt like we should have helped her get ready for the baby because that's what we do when a baby is coming into the world. She was married but she was still a teenager. And she sang that really cool song, the Magnificat (the one she learned from the liturgy of mothers who came before her...so...umm...where is the legacy of the women in this story?) Were the same angels we heard on high her midwives? Who caught Jesus as he came through the birth canal? No one ever answered those questions and no one seems to want to ask them but I've held them since childhood. So, I'll beg your forgiveness if I'm not singing and swinging and getting merry like Christmas as Mother Maya says. I'm waiting to see how the story turns out. I like Advent's call to quiet reflection and delicate anticipation. There are some parts of the story that I need to carefully consider because we may not see these scriptures in the Christian worship schedule until next year this time. Mary has all three trimesters in the course of four weeks! And then there's the thought of a pregnant teenager...umm...I'm a mother and teacher of teenage girls...I need a moment here. I want to hug Mary and protect her as the elder women are supposed to do. I want her to know that there is truth in the angel's proclamation that she is blessed and highly favored. But that as the bearer of the Word, I need her testimony. I need Mary to be okay. I need Mary to know that she is my model for what a woman in ministry looks like. She is the bearer of the WORD. That word will speak long after lights blow out and tinsel loses its shine.

So, if you don't mind, I'd like to think on these things. I'll sip egg nog if you invite me but you won't find a tree in front of my fireplace. I'll sing a carol or two if you ask me to join in with your reindeer games but as for me and my house, we are waiting for our turn to hold the baby. The stores will be open after December 25th and the sales will be better. So, you see, I'm not the Grinch who stole Christmas. I'm the woman who is keeping watch over Mary until she delivers the baby who delivered me!

Shalom!

Calling Audibles

Calling Audibles

I did not know her, but I cried and grieved (and still cry and continue to grieve) for Kassandra Perkins. Out of the depths of an understanding of depression and the firsthand knowlege of suicidal tendencies, I also weep for Javon Belcher. This morning, I wonder how it is that an organization like the NFL can provide top notch physical care and in some cases, rehabilitation for these athletes and leave their minds unattended...or so it seems. Many of these athletes are "far from home" in a lot of ways and we certainly have not learned (or taught ourselves) how to live with the trappings of new wealth yet. Who preps the players for life beyond the field and who watches to see if they are playing by the rules off of the field. I mean, if you need a referee to remind you of the rules of a game that you play for a living, then might it also make sense that you'll also need a referee to keep you in line in real life as well? I wonder if any of these athletes have been coached in the fine art of living or if they are left to be seduced by all of the demons that money can buy as long as they don't drop the ball...literally. When the players are at the line of scrimmage, there is a term called an "audible" which means that someone changes the play - out loud, or audibly - and then, all will act according to what they hear. Is there no one to hear the audibles that are being called off the field as well? I can only wonder because I may never know.

This post is not bashing the organization, nor is it intended to place undue blame on anyone or any set of circumstances. I am just asking questions. Had Kassandra called any audibles that fell on deaf ears? All we know of the story is what we were told and as long as victims of domestic violence contine to be afraid to call audibles because they go unheard or unheeded, all we will hear are the obituaries of the victims at teary eyed funerals and memorial services. I will say more on domestic violence later in the week as I work out the kinks in my own story but I pray that we will both continue to call the audibles and hear the ones being called.

Maybe that wasn't just an awkward nod.
Maybe it was an audible.
Maybe that wasn't just a tight hug.
Maybe it was an audible.
Maybe that wasn't just a strained smile.
Maybe it was an audible.
Maybe she didn't really bump into the door...again.
Maybe it was an audible.
Maybe that pet name isn't just a sweet pet name.
Maybe it's an audible.
Maybe those grits on the stove are not breakfast.
Maybe it's an audible.
Maybe it wasn't a double homicide/suicide.
Maybe, it was an audible.


Shalom...

Advent and World AIDS Day - thoughts

Advent is a season of waiting for what we think we know and still maintaining an element of surprise and relief when it arrives. Those of us who work out our faith in the shadow of the resurrection have it pretty easy. We have a written record of this beautiful story of a God who puts on flesh as an act of love and then lets soldiers rip the wrapping at the crucifixion. Our waiting is tempered by a kind of knowing that sometimes gets in the way. It's not hard to wait for the gift that you know is coming...especially when all of our Christian rituals remind us that the One shows up year after year - whether there is a live baby or a chubby cheeked plastic doll in the manger scene in the annual Christmas pageant. We do all of our shopping and prepping because we know that there is a deadline on our calendar that reminds us that what we have waited for is surely going to appear. I wonder how our lives would change if we lived as those who can only wait with the hope that someday, the Messiah will come and save them...from Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome.

Today is World AIDS day. I don't know anyone whose life has not been touched by the ravages of this disease...if only tangentially. Today, I pray with those who are waiting for a Savior to make them well. Those who suffer with AIDS know what it is to wait for something (the cure) that seems possible yet proves impossible in it's failure to appear. It's hard to believe that there isn't enough brain power to find a cure. It's hard to believe that there isn't enough money being poured into research to find a cure. It is hard to believe that no one is angry enough to demand that our government agencies check their/our priorities and find ways to put the quality of human lives ahead of egocentric pissing games. (I'll stop here because I feel a rant coming on and that's not my intent today.) I'm simply saying that in a world of inventions, conventions and small God-made-but-man-attributed-miracles...it seems like there just has to be a cure for the disease or at least some cure for the apathy that some of us show towards those who suffer. This is not the more excellent way.

There is a quote on the AIDS quilt that reads, "We're both dying, you and me. The difference is that I know it, and you don't." As I wait for the Savior to be born in a manger yet again, I also wait for a well-equipped world to find a cure for AIDS. I pray for my own heart to be mindful that no one dies from AIDS. People who have AIDS die from the same things that people who don't have AIDS die from...they just die sooner. I pray that I would put the need for human healing in a position to eradicate my need to judge, pre-suppose and feel superior because this physical suffering is not my particular physical suffering. I pray that as we enter this season of anticipation and waiting for the One who was, and is, and is to come that we would remember those who wait...for a cure and perhaps this year, we might offer them our space in line as we wait...

Shalom