Girl.Woman.Soul

You Just Never Know

2012-02-05T07:45:00.000-08:00

Soul Ties

2012-01-29T07:43:00.000-08:00

Weed.

2012-01-22T07:31:00.000-08:00

Jesus is my title

2012-01-22T01:57:00.000-08:00

ALMOST (saved)

2012-01-15T08:22:00.000-08:00

Hebrews 6: 4-12

Artist

2012-01-12T08:04:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I feel awkward calling myself an artist... like I am posing. Like I am not quite committed enough or established enough to deserve that title. Nevermind that I've been writing short stories and fiction and poetry since I was a child, or that I've been performing my poetry for over a decade.

Sometimes I look at self-proclaimed artists and feel like they just go harder than I do. They look the part. Their friends are all self-proclaimed artists too. They're all deep and stuff, with their meditation and veganism and locs and yoga and their heavy arsenal of quotes from philosophers, poets, prophets and stuff.

But then it's funny because I may squirm when other people identify me as an artist, but the truth is that little light-bulb that turns on when I'm in the company of other creative people or when I'm exposed to some inspiring, beautiful thing--that light-bulb refuses to dim. Even through traumas like grad school and grief, and even when I've tried to focus on other things.

And why should it? After all, "artist" is like "African American" or "lawyer" or "short"--it's just a part of one's identity. And it really applies to anyone who does anything that inspires, enlightens, ignites controversy, sparks dialogue. Often times artists don't even realize that's what they are.

I was recently in the company of some beautiful, creative women who reminded me about what it is to be an artist. They reminded me that we all are artists, in one way or another. Then I remembered this poem I wrote back in law school... here she goes:

I am an artist
I am and art is
A risk to take
a fist to shake at convention
Politics
Romance
Reinvention
What is art if not the heart blood?
If not the spark plug,
If not the nutrients pulled from the roots of our imagination,
If not self-discovery,
A pointing finger,
Lingering inches from the world’s third eye
Pressing and pushing,
demanding the why’s, how’s, and what’s?
What is art?
Art is what I am
I am an artist
Is art an eye, looking into the inner workings of humanity?
Is it still art if it’s profanity?
S#!t, I don’t know
But why can’t it be?
Art
My alm, my balm, my psalm, my sanity
Cuz art just is and so
an Artist is me
or what I will grow to be
Some day

Things Lost

2012-01-10T07:46:00.000-08:00

When I was 11, I liked to jump in the deepest, muddiest rain puddles I could find. At my Gram's house, the best puddles always turned out to be near the big pear tree at the end of her alleyway. I would plunge in. I intentionally muddied the hems of my pants and made sure that my socks got good and soaked--wet enough to make my mom crazy and get me in trouble once I came back inside.

I miss that.

And I miss riding my bike dangerously fast down Graham street. I miss laughing at things that, in retrospect, really weren't that funny. I miss fantasy--imagining worlds and the future.

When I was 18, I knew that life was a gilded path laid out for me. I would stay up with friends until 2am in the halls of Uj (my college dorm), talking about nothing and politics and love and friends from back home and plans for spring break; listening to music; planning our next campus takeover (shouts out to Blaction!); imagining what life would be like as an adult. It didn't matter if I got two hours of sleep. It didn't matter if I ate pizza for breakfast and Starbucks for lunch.

I miss that, too.

I miss carefree. The ability to just live every day and not get overly consumed by anxiety about money, bills, a loved one's illness, my job, the state of my relationship with my significant other, etc.

It hasn't in all senses been an exchange of careefree or happy for something negative like stress or sadness. Carefree has also been replaced in some instances with substance, pragmatism, responsibility, perspective, and wisdom. These are gifts and tools that I know serve me well, and will continue to do so as they expand. But... sometimes I long to just get my socks muddy. Sometimes I just want to laugh at nothing.

Where does "happy" go when you experience the heaviness of life? You can still have joy, contentment, satisfaction, gratitude, and still feel like "happy" in the eleven-year-old, muddy-socks sense of the word, has escaped you.

Isn't there still room for "happy"?

I may have lost my happy. Or, maybe I just need to look for it in different places?

What makes you happy? In the most lighthearted, innocent, even fleeting sense of the word? How do you preserve that in your life?

I will wait for you

2012-01-08T08:58:00.000-08:00

Writer's Block

2012-01-07T18:46:00.001-08:00

I like. Shouts out to Chris for sharing.

Support this Sister!

2012-01-04T16:59:00.000-08:00

Please contribute your support, then spread the word about this film and this director!

Iquo B. Essien also happens to be the author of Alligator Legs and a dear friend. Support her film!

Anew.

2012-01-04T00:00:00.000-08:00

A few days in to 2012, I am still praying about what this year will bring forth for me, my loved ones, and my community. I know what my personal priorities are--writing, spending quality time with family and friends, becoming more financially secure, and developing my professional expertise--but I also know that God has a plan for me that may or may not shift and realign these priorities. I'm more than open to this!

I can tell you this: I'm so thankful to have made it through 2011. It was a year marked by global, national, and local turmoil and drama. Personally, it was yet another year of grief and loss, as well as a time of dramatic shifts and upheaval in personal relationships, significant career challenges and job transitions, a physical move out of my parents' home and thus a reunion with grief over them, and financial challenges to boot. It was rough! Thankfully, though, 2011 year was NOT marked by depression or loss of hope. Indeed, 2011 taught me and reminded me of some pretty darn powerful stuff: the importance of family; the hope and excitement of fresh starts; the beauty of this world we live in, which I was blessed to see through travel; the gift of health; the gift of friendship; and more. In 2011 I was able, yet again, to dig into my writing and develop more community around poetry, spoken word, writing, and the arts in general. I crave more of this! 2011 also affirmed my convictions about the power of education and my role in advancing equity in educational opportunity. Most importantly, 2011 was a faith journey through which I was reminded of the anchoring, soul-replenishing value of faith in God.

Looking forward, I won't post a list of resolutions per se. I will simply pledge two things: first, to continue to write for GWS as long as God allows it, and second, to take these 2011 lessons with me into this new year.

Happy New Year, friends!

go, baby!

2011-12-11T20:45:00.000-08:00

This baby's got soul. Our kids are absorbing EVERYTHING we do. Who knows? This could be the next Nas (once he starts speaking a recognizable language). Amazing!

poetry revival

2011-11-28T23:11:00.000-08:00

i close my eyes and listen and my mind's all muffled drums
beating like they're bleeding, i know where the struggle comes
from, and it's like walking through a graveyard for dead poetry
stillborn and murdered, there's a killer, and i know her, she's
me, and she be on some ol' "oh i'm so busy"
fills her life with so many to-do's you could lose yourself, get dizzy
from the distractions whizzing past you, taking up your breathing space
so i'm in this grieving place
remembering the sweetness
tasting the time i used to let my mind go boom-clap-bip-bop
now it's muffled, muted, whispered beats, and yet they don't stop
so i don't place any flowers on no headstones for my art
i lay hands on that dead soil and resuscitate the hearts
of those withered things
dried up words like dead moth wings
my prayer brings grace and resurrection
another chance to create life through introspection
my repentance and confession is i fail to count my blessings
in this artform, which feeds me, teaches me life lessons
from now on no half steppin and no time for second guessin
it's just time to unplug my mind's ear, time to hear each session
of drum beats in clear succession...

still working on this, but in its own spirit, i think it's important to throw out what i have so far.

ambition

2011-11-20T22:34:00.000-08:00

you said instead of aiming for the stars
you like to shoot for the moon
you do the practical, won't allow yourself to get consumed
by silly daydreams and fluff
i say the moon ain't enough
(and if i get some stardust i'm gonna savor that stuff)

Writing About Mom

2011-11-15T07:18:00.000-08:00

Those who read this blog regularly know that there are some pretty consistent themes to my writing. One of the biggest themes is Grief. Today marks the 9th anniversary of my mother's transition out of this life that we know and into the next stage. I have grappled with what this stage might look like, with where she is--is she looking down at me? Is she simply resting? Is she with her parents, my father? Is she anywhere?--and while my theological beliefs have helped me find peace with many of these questions, the reality is that only God really knows and it's my job to just accept reality.

I don't really want to write much this year. I just want to feel what I need to feel, go about my day doing the things I need to do, and remember her. One might think that nine years would be enough time to help you not be a mess, but it doesn't work that way. My dear friend over at Alligator Legs put it well when she said:

at moments like these, it is apparent that time is only time; it does not comfort, heal, push you forward. grieving is real work and time does not, of itself, heal all wounds.

That said, I do think it's important to share something about Ms. Charlene. She is remembered and I feel compelled to remind. So here are some things I've written in the past. They still apply, so I think we're good:

You are here.

Dreams from my mothers.

Mother (poem)

Miss you mom.

Thanks for reading :)

mile·stone/ˈmīlˌstōn/

2011-11-14T07:00:00.000-08:00

noun: A stone set up beside a road to mark the distance in miles to a particular place.
An action or event marking a significant change or stage in development. Synonyms: landmark - mile post - milepost

A milestone in the physical sense is a posting along a road that indicates either how many miles you’ve traveled or how many remain until you reach your destination. It’s a sign that you’re moving forward, making progress, getting there. In professional fields, milestones are moments that call for a project team to stop and examine how their work is progressing, asking, “Do we need to change directions? Do we need to modify our course? How far along are we?”

Here I am on the other side of the 30 year milestone. What does reaching this mark along the road really mean?

In many ways the significance of milestone birthdays as opposed to that of others is completely arbitrary. Why do we celebrate a 5th birthday any more than a 6th one? Why is 21 so important, but not 23? Who’s to say that 32 or 28 are any less important or transformational years than 30? That said, I have to admit that 30 does feel different in some way. We can acknowledge the arbitrary nature of days/events like this while also embracing the utility of having something to remind us to appreciate and be reflective and evaluative about life.

In years’ past, on my birthday I would revisit and revise my “plan”-- be it a five year plan, a plan for the year, or otherwise. I have not yet crafted an up-to-date 5 year plan. I did, however, take a look at the one that I wrote at age 25. Imagine the shock and awe I experienced seeing all the things I didn’t do--live in South Africa or Chile or Ghana or Paris for six months, publish a novel, learn Spanish... I can’t deny that I had a moment of panic looking at this list of things undone. I wondered, am I going to look back at the end of my life and feel regret over all the things I haven’t done?! Where did all the time go?!

But this is what I’ve realized: when I wrote this plan I was a different person. Loss and other life experiences change you and they change your priorities. They also change the decisions you make and your motivation behind them. The thing that needs to happen over time is that you should be getting more and more grounded in your faith in your ability to modify “the plan.” Yes, I do kind of wish I had done more of the things on my old 5-year plan, but I also feel like I'm moving in the right direction and I don't feel inclined to change course. That's an excellent feeling.

For me, this 30th year milestone marks a shift in focus, away from my "wish list" of experiences and towards deepening important relationships and growing as a person. I believe it will always be a part of who I am to have a wish list of things to do--places to travel and live, for example. I think having an appetite for new and interesting things breathes life into, well, life. But I also know that this isn't the measure of a life well lived. Instead, I really want to know that I've poured myself into enriching the lives of my loved ones and becoming a better person.

In terms of that goal, a milestone birthday is no better occasion to take stock of how things are going than any other day in life. When you wake up in the morning, this is reason enough to celebrate and also think about how you're doing in terms of your path towards being who you're supposed to be. But since I suffer from chronic distraction, I'm certainly glad for the opportunity this birthday has given me to remember to do some of this reflection.

30 Things I Do Know

2011-11-08T21:03:00.000-08:00

This is not an attempt to be deep, and at any rate this is certainly a shorter list than “Things I Don’t Know Yet.” So in celebration of age 30, here’s my list of 30 Things I Do Know:

1. How to make delicious gluten free chocolate chip cookies from scratch.
2. How to write a poem that comes straight from my soul.
3. How to draw a man's face, starting first with the number 2, 5, or 7, thanks to Uncle Carl.
4. How to make peach cobbler, thanks to Gram.
5. How to listen and talk to a child, thanks to Mommy.
6. How to release myself from a wrist grab, thanks to Pops and thanks to his black belt.
7. How to cry.
8. How to pray
9. How to worry, worry, worry; and that I need to stop that because it’s unproductive.
10. Relationships are the most important thing in life and they’re pretty much all you’ve got at the end of it.
11. God is REAL, even if we humans can’t stop bickering over the details of His/Her whereabouts.
12. Money doesn’t feed the soul, but it sure enough feeds the belly.
13. You know love when you see it, do it, feel it, receive it.
14. It’s important to get sleep.
15. It’s important to get exercise.
16. It’s important to eat healthy food.
17. It’s important to enjoy delicious, not so healthy food, every now and then.
18. It’s important to be able to say no when you need to.
19. It’s equally important to be able to say yes when you don’t want to.
20. It’s important to know how to let go.
21. It’s important to challenge yourself to open up and let people in.
22. Plans are just as important as dreams, even though dreams are certainly much more inspiring.
23. With all the forces out there competing for your time, you’ve got to make space for the things that are most important to you and stay firm on these boundaries.
24. Your passions and inspirations will keep waiting at your door. It’s better to feed them early and often. This way you won’t find yourself weighed down with regret when you finally open the door to find a wasted, neglected thing that could have been beautiful and strong.
25. Re: #24, that said, it’s never too late.
26. Grandma knows, child, grandma knows.
27. Poetry, music, art = medicine.
28. Children are prophets.
29. Grief sucks.
30. Life is short.
(and a bonus: 31. Life is sweet.)

more hotness

2011-09-25T11:08:00.000-07:00

from 1872. that new new! my favorite line is highlighted.

Lord, speak to me

Lord, speak to me that I may speak
In living echoes of Thy tone;
As Thou has sought, so let me seek
Thine erring children lost and lone.

O lead me, Lord, that I may lead
The wandering and the wavering feet;
O feed me, Lord, that I may feed
Thy hungering ones with manna sweet.

O strengthen me, that while I stand
Firm on the rock, and strong in Thee,
I may stretch out a loving hand
To wrestlers with the troubled sea.

O teach me, Lord, that I may teach
The precious things Thou dost impart;
And wing my words, that they may reach
The hidden depths of many a heart.

O give Thine own sweet rest to me,
That I may speak with soothing power
A word in season, as from Thee,
To weary ones in needful hour.

O fill me with Thy fullness, Lord,
Until my very heart overflow
In kindling thought and glowing word,
Thy love to tell, Thy praise to show.

O use me, Lord, use even me,
Just as Thou wilt, and when, and where,
Until Thy blessèd face I see,
Thy rest, Thy joy, Thy glory share.

wow.

2011-09-20T22:51:00.000-07:00

the hotness:

you're welcome if you didn't know.

I Love My Life

2011-08-26T17:06:00.001-07:00

Telling our stories

2011-08-22T22:20:00.000-07:00

I recently watched a great video about education paradigms. It's a short segment and definitely worth the time. As I scribbled some notes down while watching the video for the first time, what kept replaying in my mind was the question: What is the education story of our day?

As the video discusses, back in the day the story went something like this: Education is the great equalizer. You go to school, study hard, and graduate, and you will get a good stable job and be able to make a living to support yourself and your family.

Today we know that that a) doesn't always happen, or doesn't work the same way for all people, b) isn't the only way for a person to achieve security, and c) doesn't carry the same appeal to young people who are thinking differently about the future they want.

Given that, what is that story that we tell our kids to get them excited about learning and getting educated?

What is the story that they tell us about what they want out of their education experience? What do we tell ourselves that gets us motivated to think bigger and more creatively about our approach to education? What are the outcomes we want and how do we then track back appropriately as we design new systems of educating our youth? Final question, what do we need to do to fill in this story about troubles, challenges, and deficiencies in our existing education system, with equally important bits about solutions, successes, and newly discovered resources that are making things better for people?

As these things go, with this on my mind I found myself involved in two very interesting, related conversations. With one friend we discussed the power of storytelling and the need for educators and other education advocates to find and share powerful narratives about successful education efforts and the underlying values that fuel this movement. With another friend we discussed the importance of examining these very values that draw us into the education reform conversation in the first place. Understanding these values is what helps us unearth both the things we're trying to do, the things that fall outside of our work, and the proper methods for accompishing our goals.

Serendipity. You know things are going well when the universe drops gems in your hand. Specifically, just randomly on twitter I came across this great resource created by The Black Girl Project. It's an e-guide to college and what I like about it is that it takes me back full circle to the lingering question I had from watching the video about our education story. This project and its contributors are re-writing that story as we speak.

Here's the video I'm talking about:

As I gear up for the school year and my upcoming work helping students prepare to apply for, get into, and then stay in college, I've got my pen in hand to put my two lines into the storytelling piece as well. And perhaps more importantly, I hope to help more of our youth contribute to that storytelling process too.

Are you the person the person you are looking for is looking for?

2011-08-18T09:35:00.000-07:00

I know, that's a mouthful. But it's worth repeating to yourself. Are you? Are you that person who your ideal mate would be looking for?

A few friends of mine have gotten married this year or will be getting married soon, and I never lose my enthusiasm for these new unions. It's a beautiful thing to see, especially since we see, hear, and sadly also experience so many stories of love not working out. It's good to be reminded that good love is happening around us every day. But as romantical as these weddings are, we all know it's not like the fairy tales. I ain't saying nothing new when I say that those unions that are really, really good, are the product of a lot of thoughtful work, reflection, sacrifice, and investment.

I recently had a conversation with my cousin about The List. You know what that is. Most of us have one even if it's just a mental checklist. Some of us even have several editions of it, printed up, laminated and taped to the fridge or bathroom mirror. (I don't, but hey, no judgment! Visualize!) The List is a person's requirements for an ideal mate. What is she looking for in a partnership and in a partner?

Crafting such a thing is, I'd argue, a great tool for helping make sure you are seeking out the right types of people, making the right choices, etc. But as my cousin and I were discussing, it's just an outline and in real life modifications, amendments, and redactions take place. And some people go just plain overboard, with height and weight specifications, what his fingernails must look like, precise income ranges, even skin tone. I just think that's too much! But I do think the exercise of identifying what you want/need can be good if done practicably and sensible.

At the same time, how many of us flip it and ask ourselves how many of these must-haves we actually have? You know, so that the person who fits our needs would actually give us the time of day when they met us? In other words, how often do we ask ourselves if we're that great catch that we're seeking?

I'll never be tall (Mom, why didn't you give me your height?!?) so there are obviously some things on my list that I will never fulfill myself. Lots of those things are silly anyway. I mean, if he's got everything I'm looking for except for height, I think I'll be alright. But the true character traits--humble, hard working, passionate, kind, driven, compassionate, giving, God-focused, intelligent--now those things are worth some self-assessment. As another friend recently said, it's more important to work on being the right person, than to focus on finding the right person.

You know what's even better than our lists? God's list. I've heard this passage frequently, you know with all the weddings and what not, but 1 Corinthians 13: 4-7 provides a great one:

4 Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5 It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6 Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7 It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Pretty good list to me. What do you think? What are we doing to make sure that we fit the bill too?

For more, check out this "Are you the person the person you are looking for is looking for?" sermon and this "Be the person you are looking for" blog.

listenin...

2011-08-16T07:08:00.000-07:00

A Throwback

2011-08-08T15:58:00.000-07:00

Here's a throwbaaaaack. I think I wrote it about 4 years ago.

my brother
uttering mothering, almost smothering, words
sending my heart fluttering like butterflies tumbling down to absurd depths
then taking flight
racing, beating, tracing light
shaking, making, creating right
when wrong seemed all there could be
but starry nights and the heights of flying eagles remind me i'm still free
and fresh mountain air in my lungs remind me i can still breathe
though i may drown
cuz you be so way down deep in who i'm is
like from since back when we were two little ashy knee'd grinning kids
so much a part of me that you're like my heart to me
or maybe a twin soul, living whole and yet apart from me
but still connected...
please know i don't forget it
and it will not go neglected
that little yellow flower that you planted in my heart with your words

More awesome, inspiring stuff.

2011-08-04T09:53:00.000-07:00

A few posts ago, I shared links to different awesome, inspiring stuff. More please? Yes, thanks.

I love music that celebrates Seattle, blackness, hip hop, and/or reminds me of 1996-1999, the years when I discovered my love for soul music, first in the form of hip hop and later in the forms of jazz and r&b/neo-soul. Some joints that are relatively new or brand new, and which have that same old life-breathing effect on me include The Physics Three Piece Album
and also this song:

Also, because I am one, and because it's just smart and funny and relevant and unique, I totally heart the Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl web-series. Am I semi-obsessed? Sure, whatever you like. This is my favorite webisode I think:

Watch, listen, love it. Have a great day!

Daddy.

2011-08-01T08:10:00.000-07:00

Happy Birthday Dad! You would be 60 today. I love and miss you!

Dad, Tori, Bill, and Me in front of the White House. Dad trying to regulate against someone trying to get in the shot.

On Remembering

2011-07-29T16:44:00.000-07:00

I forget things. People recall events I can't remember, offering detail upon detail to help take me back in time, but to no avail. Sometimes I wonder if the pain of loss has affected my memory or my desire to remember. Like, remembering is a dark place, a deep place, and traveling there is too exhausting so instead I bury my memories, pack sand on top so that I don't go back unless I really need it... But I think remembering is very important.

Each soul has a story. Some are sorrowful, others reflections of the joy that is possible in this world. Most are complex weavings of the tragic, the comic, the ironic, the fateful. Untold stories are the most troubling and disheartening of them all because they are lonely stories that gather dust, losing flesh, waiting in vain for an eager ear to consume it, maybe even carry it on.

Three years now from the death of my father, and almost nine from that of my mom, I see now that the nature of my grief has changed over time. I am grieving not just for the loss of their contribution to my future, to the twists and turns to come of my own soul story; I also grieve the lost pieces of their own stories, those they left untold, those which perhaps they intended to tell a friend, maybe even me, one day.

Sometimes I imagine what they would have said to me one day. When I got married, had children. What interesting anecdotes from their own lives they would have shared with me as tools to apply to mine. What confessions would have surfaced with time. What yearnings. Ours was a safe space, so know that these things would have happened, eventually. Did God want me to figure it out without these tidbits? On my own?

I found my dad's journal. In it he disclosed hope, gratitude, and vulnerability that I saw in his depths, but which I hadn't seen explicitly in such a raw and honest form. I know it wasn't my journal to read. I know that wasn't cool. But it was like I was hungry for some newness, some new piece of him that would signal to me that even though he's not here, there's still more to discover about him. I was hungry to feel like it was possible for him to share more with me.

I had a similar experience with mom. In fact, I've discovered several little notes to me in journals and books over the years. It always makes me cry and always makes me glad that I didn't toss all my parents' stuff without making sure I wasn't getting rid of something valuable.

These experiences reaffirm my conviction about journaling. Not only do I learn new things about myself through the process of journaling, but I also preserve parts of my story for someone to find when I've moved on from this place, or for me to prepare to share with them. As I return from Thailand, I'm glad I've been pretty consistent about chronicling this experience. If my mind can't remember, at least I can read about it! And there are lots of great lessons to learn from looking back.

Thailand Haikus

2011-07-27T09:46:00.000-07:00

#1--Travel Lust
Worlds to be explored
Islands hopped and mountains climbed
Wander, wayward soul

#2--My View
Longtail boats adrift
Waves crashing, lapping, singing
Ocean breeze whispers

#3--Floating
Rest in ocean arms
Feel yourself being embraced
by your Blue Mother

#4--Ocean Song
Listen to the waves
Hear their song as they come home
and then part again

#5--Girl on Beach
The baby girl laughs
Splashes, kicks, swims, runs, and plays
We should follow her

Koh Lipe: Beautiful Paper Island

2011-07-24T10:06:00.000-07:00

(Written on July 22)

I'm not quite sure what day it is! I think it's July 22. If so... happy birthday Maiz!

Upon arriving in Bangkok late Tuesday night, KPeezy and I roughed it like soldiers and took a day's journey to Koh Lipe. First we took the commuter rail, which was just like the Metro/Subway/LightRail/CalTrain. We took that to the rail road station, where we stepped back in time and boarded an old school railcar for a 15 hour trip down South. Some cars had no glass in the windows. Our car was a sleeper car, and it had bunks that come down at 6:30pm. Trust and believe that we got in our bunks and called it lights out early, but I did get up a few times to peer out at the countryside, the lovely farms and gardens and forestry.

We arrived in Hat Yai around 7:30 am the next day and we were greeted by lots of hustlers trying to get extra baht from us. Kiran was a professional squasher and she put all that to rest. Instead, we took a taxi (it was a truck, the flatbed of which had been converted into two rows. It had a souped up stereo and flatscreen situation going at the rear of the cab. It had a roof to protect us from the elements.) to the minivan station. The minivan took us for two hours to the ferry. The ferry took us for one hour to the island. Once arriving on the island we boarded a vehicle that is like a motorcycle with a sidecar that has been converted into an area that will seat 4 or 5 people. Kiran sat on the back of the actual bike. Dude was NOT gentle with the turns and bumps. Yikes.

The harrowing journey spat us out on Paradise Island, complete with palms and forest, longtail boats peppered along the coast like sprinkles on blue frosting, and a smattering of grass-top huts, cabanas, and bungalows, depending on which of the dozen or so resorts you were passing through.

Our resort, CastAway Beach, boasts beautiful cabin style bungalows with grass roof tops, hammocks, and mosquito netting canopy beds (probably more necessity than glamour, but still), as well as high ceilings reminiscent of an attic or a cottage in the woods. Gorgeous!

I said that on this trip I would seek out new forms of beauty. Well I've already seen it.The board ride to Koh Lipe afforded me a moment of pure awe and gratitude for what God has done on this planet. Even a sight as simple as people fishing from their boats, with the sun showering down on them and the water glistening and the air and the heat and the sky and... everything, it was all I could do not to shout for His glory. How insanely beautiful.

Not beautiful is my reaction to the malaria pills. I hate medicine and for this medicine, apparently, the feeling is mutual. Dizziness? Check. Nausea? Ok. Wooziness? Yep, you got it! Not cool. But I've figured out that if I just have tea and rice for breakfast with this bitter little pill, my tummy appreciates it. And of course I am glad to be able to take precautions against malaria. Yes, malaria would be far worse than dizziness.

I'm on an elephant right now. Maybe.

2011-07-21T11:00:00.000-07:00

Right now, as in the time at which this post will publish online, if God wills it I am in Thailand enjoying beauty that is new to me, food that is filling, and my homie Kiran's wonderful company. But right now, as in the moments spent actually typing this blogpost, I'm just at home preparing for the trip and writing and thinking about all the good times to be had.

Because life is short, I have decided to take this trip to the Land of Smiles and to leave my computer behind so that I'm not overly wired out there. But because I am a writer through and through, I still have my good old fashioned journal and pen, from which I intend to transcribe volumes and volumes of interesting, deep, and entertaining content to later post on this blog.

I have pre-scheduled a few posts until my return. Other than that, just picture me on an elephant... Or kayaking through a river in the jungle... Or praying at a temple... Or bartering at the marketplace... Or just picture me rollin...

I recently learned that the Thai people believe that life should be "sanuk/sanook," or that life should be fun. To that end I hope you're having fun somewhere and I intend to be doing the same thing!

Psalm 34:1-10

2011-07-17T08:28:00.000-07:00

I really like this Psalm. It was read at my uncle Carl's memorial service. It embodied his attitude, especially in his last days with us. It is definitely on the aspirational side for me. I want to live like this. Love it:

1 I will bless the LORD at all times;
His praise shall continually be in my mouth.

2 My soul will make its boast in the LORD;
The humble will hear it and rejoice.

3 O magnify the LORD with me,
And let us exalt His name together.

4 I sought the LORD, and He answered me,
And delivered me from all my fears.

5 They looked to Him and were radiant,
And their faces will never be ashamed.

6 This poor man cried, and the LORD heard him
And saved him out of all his troubles.

7 The angel of the LORD encamps around those who fear Him,
And rescues them.

8 O taste and see that the LORD is good;
How blessed is the man who takes refuge in Him!

9 O fear the LORD, you His saints;
For to those who fear Him there is no want.

10 The young lions do lack and suffer hunger;
But they who seek the LORD shall not be in want of any good thing.

Amen.

Swinging.

2011-07-14T08:42:00.000-07:00

Sometimes to start you have to just start. So this begins as a post about nothing, except I suppose life updates and reflections thereon. It's starting as a post about nothing because I feel like I have too much to say and the pressure is getting to me a little bit. So instead of expecting myself to write an epic work of staggering genius, I am just going to write this post about nothing and see where it takes us. (Right now, the inner-voice that is overly critical is saying, "That's right, Kia, set that bar nice and low!" But it's okay because that sassy inner-voice just retorted, "My low is well above the average girl/woman/soul's reach!" Watch out now! Just kidding. Sort of. Haha.) Anyway, here she goes:

I'm having one of those moments of clarity right now. More like a month-long "moment". There are definitely still some areas of my life in which things remain to be understood, but I think that's just part of the territory of being an over-thinker who nonetheless relies heavily on intuition, feeling, gut. So there's that, but in general, I feel like right now I see what I want, I see what I need to do to get there, and I feel like God is preparing me for a season of tremendous hard work that will be followed by a season of abundant harvest. It just might be the natural order of things. So many things have seemingly gone wrong in the past several months, perhaps it only makes sense that there's nowhere to look but up. I say this as a person who doesn't throw pity parties. Stuff has gone down. My family has experienced loss yet again, and to cancer at that. This has been a transformative experience, about which I will share more soon. It has been life changing and for that I'm grateful, even while it has been a very rough time. There have also been many points recently when I've felt my career path has been completely overrun with barriers and blockades, including those I put down myself. Some important personal relationships have changed, fallen away, and broken off, and as a result reshaped some very core aspects of my daily life and forced me to examine who I am and who I want to be. So in a nutshell, it's gone down. That's right. It's been real, son!

But, like I said, I feel like things are on the cusp of turning upward in a big way. Right now I am preparing to travel to Thailand and visit a good girl friend, I'm getting my new, wonderful living space the way I want it to be, and I'm catching up on some much-appreciated quiet time. Thank you God! I feel like I'm getting a brief little resting period before it's about to be on and poppin. I can feel it. And it feels great.

It also feels scary. Maybe because otherwise things would be too easy? Or things would be boring? Maybe both. But it reminds me of how I felt the other day when I took my nephews to the Family Fun Center (arcade, laser tag, rides, batting cage, go-carts, you get the picture) and we got on this thing called the Flying Swing. I don't have good spatial/depth perception but it felt like this thing took us up hundreds of feet in the air. You're just swinging around as you're strapped onto the metal pendulum and there are points where you're in the Superman position, just chillin in the air hanging on to this piece of metal but feeling like you might as well be on a shoe string. As we swung upward, I felt my stomach lurch down, I felt my throat close, my eyes widened, and I definitely felt a bit of dread. My nephews screamed. Billy even gave the signal to stop the ride, then proceededto beg the conductor to let him stay on. Embarrassment! But I digress. Once we were back up and running, as we made it to our high point and lingered in the air for what seemed like several seconds (couldn't have been, could it? No. Funny how the mind works though), all the yuckiness and dread went away and it just felt exhilarating. I looked around with intention (and not merely horror/anxiety), I breathed my surroundings in, I relished the sound of my nephews squealing, and I found that I couldn't stop laughing. It felt good!

I feel like the past month or so has been about swinging up. It's been cold metal strapping me down, second thoughts about whether this is a good idea, clammy hands, uncertainty, fear. Even while knowing that God has my back, that this ride is going to be rewarding in the end. I've had lots of that queazy, uneasy feeling lately.

And now I'm ready to laugh and to see the upswing.

Watch out, because Annie Sunshine is about to make an appearance--just briefly. She wants to remind you, as I have been reminded, that it's true what they say about how our dark moments provide the contrast through which we can truly appreciate the light. Even if you're like me, and there are some lingering shadows, and there remains some heaviness that is making the upswing a bit more labored than you'd like, just try to stay focused on that point of exhilaration and joy. It's coming.

Let's All Graduate!

2011-07-04T16:18:00.000-07:00

Cross-posted on The Education Capital Project:

Lately I've been having some very inspiring conversations with passionate people who are working to establish equity in our public education system. Topics have included the importance of ensuring that job availability and job-readiness are part of the college readiness conversation; reducing disproportionality in gifted and advanced placement programs; teacher accountability; the success of STEM programs; and other fascinating issues that inquire into the substance of this educational equity work we're all doing.

In the midst of these exciting conversations I've also found myself in the middle of a graduation bonanza--no weekend has passed by without a friend, mentee, or relative graduating from something. I've found myself often drawing back to the education equity conversations I've been having, thinking about the value and the importance of education and reflecting on all of these ceremonies and parties to commemorate graduations. It has me wondering how we can duplicate the successes that happen every year (evidenced in part by these graduation ceremonies) in a way that produces systemic progress? How can we look at what's being done well and what's being done right in education, and duplicate it in a way that advances an agenda for educational equity?

I think to do so, we have to change the graduation conversation. We have to recognize and state out loud something that I know we all already know, but something that gets lost in the excitement of graduation. Namely, this work is not simply about conferring more degrees to more people; it's about transforming minds and equipping people with tools for life.

So to go to basics, I looked at the definition of "graduate":

Graduation, grad·u·ate (grj-t)
v. grad·u·at·ed, grad·u·at·ing, grad·u·ates
v.intr.
1. To be granted an academic degree or diploma.
2.
a. To change gradually or by degrees.
b. To advance to a new level of skill, achievement, or activity.

I was really struck by definition 2b. If we think of graduation as advancement to new levels rather than cap, gown, diploma, and if we see it as simply one step along the way, then maybe we change the way we do the process of getting people to the ceremony. And maybe in doing so we necessarily address the factors that get folded into graduation data, like intrinsic/extrinsic motivation of students, teacher expectations, core competencies, etc.

The obvious truth is that we all know it's not really about just getting the piece of paper, that instead it's about getting to a new level of awareness, competence, and skill. And we know the degree is not the end, nor is it a guarantee that a person is prepared for the work they want to do. Everyone knows that person who graduated from the elite university but couldn't think his/her way out of a paper bag, and conversely everyone knows the whiz kid who didn't go to college but is an amazing intellectual force. That piece of paper, however, is important. It's what gets many of us the opportunity to put our new skills and knowledge to use. It's also a tool that helps mitigate the racial and socio-economic biases that exclude many people from opportunities to use their gifts/talents.

Graduation is often necessary but not necessarily sufficient to equip young minds for what they want to contribute in this world. I think it's important that we all remember this. We've got to work and study hard so that we can "graduate," or advance to a new level of awareness, about the value of education. We must be willing to constantly test and challenge our notions of what education is for, what works in education, and what the work looks like to increase access to it for all people.

Different Awesome Inspiring Stuff

2011-07-01T17:55:00.000-07:00

I've had yet more loss in my life as well as some pretty big transitions and changes. While some of this (like my recent career switch) is inspiring beyond measure, much of it has left me feeling... well, a range of things, among which includes feeling bogged down in my writing practice. No bueno to that. So, when I find myself unable to draw on my own internal creativity I draw on others' for a little push. There are some seriously amazing thinkers and writers that I have the blessing to know, admire, and call "friend". Their work is helping me get back to my craft, and hopefully stay there.

Just in case anyone else out there is in need of a little inspiration, here's a short list of the awesomeness. I love these people and what they have to say. They're pretty much amazing. Yep:

I Dreamed A World blog by Kimberly Brown, youth advocate and Philosopher Queen.

Gabriel Teodros by Gabriel Teodros, teacher, amazing hip hop artist and social justice advocate.

Alligator Legs: Writing, Art, Life by Iquo Essien, beautiful African woman, writer, film maker, and dancer.

The Education Capital Project, a new, burgeoning hub of conversation about education and equity, founded by teacher, doctoral student, and food justice advocate Amber Banks.

Urban Cusp, an awesome new magazine highlighting progressive urban culture, faith, social change, and global awareness, by minister, poet, and teacher Rahiel Tesfamariam.

Simultaneous Duree by Professor, critical thinker, and connoisseur of vegetarian delicacies Matt Birkhold.

Go be inspired! That is all...

Warrior Woman

2011-04-26T08:58:00.000-07:00

I don't know what the 4:30 am poem is going to end up being, but here's a shot at a part two. I think the poem is now called Warrior Woman.

She is her mother's daughter
She remembers what she taught her,
She dips her feet in pools of cool warrior water
And is ready for battle
All horse and saddle, bow and arrow, eyes narrowed,
She breaks chains and makes bars rattle
She aint playin
She's ready for war, know what I'm sayin?
Muscles flexed and mind focused
Her foes don't know what they in
For
She knocks on doors and then she promptly breaks them down
Asks nicely and politely and then quietly shakes them down
Makes them sound alarms, ring bells and raise their hands
In the air and she don't care
She's got a list of demands:

I need air
I need to breathe and see my babies grow
Not as neglected weeds on rocks and dust
but oaks whose branches go
towards the sun towards the sky
whose roots are strong and deep
whose leaves are green and trunks are strong
against whom i can weep

I need to weep
I need to cry and know that I'm not weak
To let my tears be cleansing waters
for my weary cheeks
And steady jaw and faithful soul
To let my tears run hot
To let them purify my heart and clarify my thoughts

I need thought,
I need a spot to stop and think and pray
To talk to my creator about my purpose and His way
And plan for me, this soldier girl
Who's fighting for a reason
Who's arms are steady, mind is ready
to struggle for our freedom

....

You know, it's interesting, I usually don't write a poem in multiple sittings. It's kind of a cool process.

Today, I woke up.

2011-04-21T01:10:00.000-07:00

So, a whole lot has been going on recently that has been challenging me personally, professionally, and spiritually. I think the past few months can be described as: a time of frustration and stagnation, followed by a time of reflection and inspiration, and finally, a time of mobilization (now, thank God).

I don't know about you, but I feel like sometimes my soul falls asleep and my body/ and mind just operate in drone-mode. Maybe that's weird to say. It definitely is weird to say. But it's true. What I mean by that is, there have been times when I haven't been careful and conscious and I've slipped into a strange way of operating that renders me as powerful a change-agent as a piece of gum on the sidewalk. And thank God something shakes me back awake and I realize that, no, actually I'm a person with passionate views and ideas and talents and values to uphold, work to do, relationships to cultivate, plants to water. But before that, I'm just going about my little robot-business. If someone pushes me over, my arms and legs still move. If someone picks me up and turns me around, I keep walking straight in the wrong direction. Not okay.

In what ways are you asleep right now and just need to be shaken up a little bit? What's a daily reminder you can create for yourself to stay motivated and keep going? Do it.

The 4:30 a.m. Poem

2011-04-17T22:34:00.001-07:00

Middle of the night, I dream up this poem and can't go back to sleep until I write it down. We'll see what happens with it next but I'm so thankful that God inspires me even in my dreams, especially when my waking moments are sometimes too stressful or distracting to pay attention to the poetry. Thought I'd share it as a reminder that even when we sleep, our passions are working in us and on us. Here she goes:

She is her mother's daughter
She remembers what she taught her,
She dips her feet in pools of cool warrior water
And is ready for battle
All horse and saddle, bow and arrow, eyes narrowed,
She breaks chains and makes bars rattle
She aint playin
She's ready for war, know what I'm sayin?
Muscles flexed and mind focused
Her foes don't know what they in
For
She knocks on doors and then she promptly breaks them down
Asks nicely and politely and then quietly shakes them down
Makes them sound alarms, ring bells and raise their hands
In the air and she don't care
She's got a list of demands:

...

I don't know who this poem is about, but I like her and I hope she is me.

It's not just a three day weekend

2011-01-13T18:17:00.000-08:00

Introducing Seattle Urban Education Examiner... me!

2011-01-05T23:32:00.000-08:00

Hey y'all. FYI, I just started writing on the Seattle page of Examiner.com. Exciting times! Here are my first two posts:

Mark Your Calendars: Education Advocacy Trainings THIS Saturday
For folks who made a New Year’s Resolution to become more civically engaged, this Saturday, January 8th presents two wonderful opportunities to learn more about getting involved in education advocacy in Washington State.The Washington State...

A look ahead: Seattle urban education in 2011
With most Seattle schools out until January 3, much of the education world is now on a much-deserved vacation. This vacation time and the impending New Year create an opportune moment for more than sleeping in. It's a chance to reflect about...

More to come soon. Check out my profile on the Examiner page.

If you could create your dream job from scratch...

2010-11-29T23:49:00.000-08:00

what would it be?

Please post!

Ever run 26.2 miles in one morning?

2010-11-26T16:16:00.000-08:00

Me neither. But my brother did! Yesterday he finished his second marathon. He's always been an athlete, but until last year, he was never really a runner (although his years playing college basketball were definitely good training).

Bill has shown time and time again that when he focuses on something, he is FOCUSED, MAN! You can't steer him off course once he's decided he's going to do something. The fruits of this, in addition to his marathon accomplishments, include his own business, a degree from Cal Berkeley (boooo Bears! Give 'em the axe!), and a beautiful family of little scholar/athletes. Bill is never satisfied with his past accomplishments, but it's a healthy dissatisfaction. It's ambition-fuel that pushes him to do more.

I'm excited to see what he does next. Congratulations, Bill! Love you bro!

Dreams

2010-11-18T12:10:00.000-08:00

I'm on a writing-roll and have been reflecting lately on my childhood. Something that recently returned to my memory is the fact that as I child there was a period during which I felt over-run with bad dreams. I don’t remember exactly what happened in my recurring nightmares, and I don’t remember how long they lasted, but I feel as though they haunted me for much of my early childhood. It seems I was plagued by the same three nightmares from age 5 to age 10. The falling dream. The Big Bad Wolf chasing me through the alley. And the dream where my mother is not my mother--she’s some woman who looks exactly like my mother and who everyone else believes is her.

What I do remember, though, is how I coped with the bad dreams: placing shoes at the foot of the bed to scare monsters and ghosts away, something I had read about or heard about somewhere; confronting the ugly wolf in the middle of one of the worst chase scenes; telling myself, “I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming…” until I woke up.

I wish I could put shoes at the foot of my bed to scare away the fear, the grief, the anxiety about things over which I have no control. I wish I were brave enough to confront the ugly wolves of my wakened reality--indecisiveness, self-doubt, circumstances at work, etc. And if all else failed, I wish I could, in the midst of the storm, just convince myself that I am only dreaming.

But what are the coping skills of reality that do work?

One thing I’ve been working on is strengthening my faith in God in a real and substantive way. After all, faith is passing through storms, confronting ugly demons, and seeing your circumstances for what they are but also, importantly, for what they can become. Faith is believing that God’s plan is for you to survive these “I wish this were just a bad dream” moments and to look back at them with a clearer understanding of His plan for you. It's the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things unseen.

I'm interested to hear from others. What are your bad dreams? How do you confront the Big Bad Wolf?

A blog I really like and a post you must read. That is all.

2010-11-17T12:06:00.000-08:00

Check out this sister's blog, entitled I Dreamed A World. It's awesome! Seriously.

If you don't have time to browse everything, you have to read this post, Put A Ring on It. I have one word: insight. The post asks you to reflect on what commitment really means to you. I hope you'll at commit to reading the post! Check it out:

While marriage is often put in a league of its own when it comes to commitment conversations, in reality, every commitment we make or avoid defines the course of our lives in the same manner that marriage defines our direction. We make decisions everyday to flirt with, date, or marry the circumstances of our lives….our jobs, our families, our spirituality, our passions, our purposes and even ourselves. (Keep reading)

Happy reading! 'Nuff said.

when in doubt, don't.

2010-11-16T15:03:00.000-08:00

"when in doubt, don't." i read that the other day in an article about the importance of hitting pause when you don't know which direction to take. when you're doubtful about which way to go, don't go. just be patient, be still, and wait for a clear answer before you take off running in any old random direction.

i like it. often times i feel like i'm the turtle in the race. i feel like, why am i not just pushing forward like so-and-so? why can't i just move like such-and-such? well, this advice of "when in doubt, don't" nudges me and reminds me that maybe i'm supposed to be still for a minute so that i can make the right move instead of moving for movement's sake. there's nothing wrong with pausing if you're doing it to make your next move your best move.

but the danger in that advice lies in the fact that some of us are perpetual doubters. self-doubters. others-doubters. debby-downer-doubters. now that particular brand of doubt is dangerous. for instance the other day i was given some positive feedback about myself that surprised me given its source and timing. it also caused me to realize that in underestimating my own potential for leadership and growth, i had been exercising self doubt and may have blocked off some nice opportunities for myself. despite being proud of my accomplishments i admit that i often strain to see what others see in me. i hate to admit it because i know its silly not to see yourself as capable of doing anything you put your mind to. but i still have to say, i do it more often than i should.

to not take a risk or put yourself out there due to self-doubt means missing out on a wealth of opportunities--for personal development as you learn more about what you can do, if put to the test, and even for personal development as a result of productive failures.

while in some areas of life the advice, "when in doubt, don't" can ring true, when the doubt you're experiencing threatens to impede your own personal growth or advancement just be sure not to get stuck on pause.

Mom,

Today marks the 8th anniversary of your departure from this world. I was a girl-woman when you left--had just turned 21, was trying to figure out life after college, was in love with a silly (silly) boy, was in the midst of trying to assert my adulthood but clinging to you as your little girl because I knew what was about to happen. I knew what was happening and I didn't understand what I was supposed to do next. I didn't understand what it meant to live without you here with me.

I remember so many things about that evening. I'll keep them between you and me. But the main thing I remember is just the numb, silent, stilness of my mind afterwards. What is this? What now? what does this mean?

In the years since your passing, I've thought about moments like when you told me I'd be okay if you were no longer living, and I got angry, but you just had this knowing look on your face that both scared and reassured me. I remember one time, long before you were sick, when you took me to your own dad's gravesite. I remember just being in awe of the idea that you can still feel so connected to someone after they are long gone from this world. In these past 8 years, I've come to understand. While I still wonder "What next?" all the time and have moments where your absence is a sharp, deep pang that just has to run its course, I now know one thing that comforts me: you are still here. It's just different.

You were there in that room, with your brothers and sisters, when I was sworn in last week. I could feel you. You snuck up on me! And I know that you know my own plans, and that I shouldn't feel any pressure to follow a path that you or any one else prescribed for me, but that I just need to cut my own path and not look back. I will. I am.

I just want to say thank you for your continued presence. This is a day--a season, really--when tears will flow unexpectedly. Maybe it will happen as I order my coffee or as I'm brushing my teeth or maybe, even, while I'm working with the kids in my program. But it will happen and it's okay. Because it is merely a reminder that your love is still so real and so relevant.

I will be crying because I wish I could hug you. See what you look like as you grow gracefully towards 60. Hear your laugh. Even scorn your advice. I will cry because I wish I could do this but I will also cry because, beautifully, I still feel you and I know you're here and I'm so thankful for that.

in this world

2010-11-14T18:18:00.000-08:00

this weekend i started reading this great book by j. california cooper, an author whose work always, inevitably, moves me and strikes me in its simplicity and accuracy as it depicts the human condition. she just gets it, puts it down on paper, and it touches you.

this new book i'm reading is called "some people, some other place." the narrator is a being that is not yet born. i guess she's a soul preparing to be born, telling the story of to whom she'll be born and the world into which she'll be born. the narrator begins by telling us about the world she (i assume it's a she, but actually i don't know) currently knows: the world as she sees it before entering the compromised state of being human, a world to which we each belong even though we might have forgotten about it.

she describes the process of transitioning from her current state of full awareness of what the world is all about, into her muted awareness of this reality once she becomes a human being and has to learn how to survive as such. she explains that as babies we are unable to talk for so long because we need this time to unlearn what we already know and focus on the task at hand: survival in our human form.

this struck me as really interesting, especially since it seems like so many of us spend time praying and meditating with the hope of learning ultimate truths about life... maybe truths we know somewhere deep inside but have suppressed as a result of our humanity?

what would this narrator say to another soul about the world? or what would she say to a human being seeking to understand the world better? Maybe this:

The world is made up of people. Billions of different souls with different experiences, different perspectives, different personalities, different sources of suffering and joy. This is beautiful.

There are people who need nature to live—need to be in the dirt, in the fresh air, in the sun, digging things up and planting things in and climbing up or scaling down or swimming through. There are people who need cement, mortar, and technology to live—need to be in a clean, whitewashed environment, need metal and brass and need to revel in humanity’s genius, to take advantage of these conveniences, to master them and manipulate them and own them. There are people who need other people to live—who must be in the middle of the crowd, making it laugh or cry or captivating it with their stories, who must be held by a stranger or a loved one, who must see other people and understand them, who want others to understand them. There are people who need to explore the contours of their inner mind in order to live—who need to reflect, to meditate, to sit in peace and solitude and quiet, who need to write but don’t need to share what they’ve written, who need to pray but also just want to listen. There are people who other people want to be and there are people who everyone pities. There are people who are beautiful and people who are ugly, either physically or internally, or both. There are people who are just beginning to figure it out and there are people who think they’ve got it figured out and there are people who know they know nothing. There are wise people and there are wise-asses. There are smart people and there are smart-asses. There are ignorant people and there are people who are humble blank slates, sponges waiting to be filled.

All of the world is made up of people and this is all God’s image. To think about the world outside of oneself is to contemplate God, who He is, what He is. It is difficult to do, but important because it helps us understand. Maybe all the world is a composite of God’s heart. And maybe contemplating what it is that makes the world what it is and humanity what we are is a good start to understanding God a bit better.

If we want to see ourselves we have to see outside ourselves, be open to differences, shared experiences experienced differently. Can humanity do that?

2010-11-07T23:23:00.000-08:00

it's sunday night and i have to be up in six hours and i can't sleep. my mind is brimming from a full weekend. saw for colored girls... started my vision board... and spent sunday afternoon with family and friends and just feeling so full of love.

from the movie, the poetry inside of me is just percolating, bubbling phrases and sputtering images that are begging to be, begging me not to neglect them, myself. there were moments when the transition from poetry to the screenplay was awkward, but i have to say i really enjoyed the experience of that film. there were scenes that definitely moved me. there were scenes that didn't, and that's fine. but the point is the film did something. it made me feel something. and it reminded me that that's what i love about poetry and about writing in general. it's a gift to share. even though i'm no ntozake shange, i believe i have a story to tell. i know i do. and i'm telling it bit by bit. watching the movie put a fresh log in my fire and it feels nice.

also my birthday was a few days ago and that has me thinking about the future. next year is the big 3-0. i'm excited. i'm nervous. i feel a sense of urgency around making my goals HAPPEN. not that 30 is the cut off point, at all, by any means. i just want to know that i'm living each day fully. i had a little gathering of girlfriends and brunch and making our vision boards. it opened a door for me and now it's like something inside me keeps whispering, what's next? it was inspiring to share the time with girlfriends and hang out, chat, laugh, listen to music, and take a minute to ask ourselves what our visions are for our lives. it was exciting see what we all have in store for our lives. it was validating and eye opening to see what themes we all had in common--both the questions we had and the points of clarity we shared.

from the time with family i'm realizing that i'm at the beginning of a new era for myself. in a lot of ways, my twenties have been dominated by loss. i've defined myself by it. it has shaped me, no doubt, but lately i've begun to see more fully just how amidst tremendous loss i've been flooded with so much love, an outpouring of it that at times is, frankly, overwhelming. but in a good way, in a way that says, girl, you better take all this love and just be glad!

i'm gonna be so tired in the morning. but i'm going to just live in this moment and feel the gratitude. it's good.

Happy Birthday 5K for Mom

2010-09-29T18:16:00.001-07:00

The old adage goes, "The race is not always given to the swift, but to those who keep on running." ~Author unknown.

I thought about this as I ran down Embarcadero in San Francisco on Sunday, an abnormally warm and sunny day for San Francisco in near-October. I was running about a 12 minute mile, which was slower than my pace even as I practiced for the Race for the Cure. The difference? Everything that the race signified for me, and for the two thousand or so other people who gathered to run that morning, had finally made its impact on me. It wasn't weighing me down, per se. It was just... significant. It was something I needed to observe, which meant I was running a little slower than I wanted to but experiencing the event the way I needed to.

I'm running for Mom. On what would have been her 57th birthday. I'm seeing women and men that look like the world--they're from everywhere, they look like everyone. And we all want breast cancer to be a thing of the past, and we all want to do something beautiful and celebratory to honor those who've fought it, be they survivors running alongside us, or loved ones we now miss. I'm running for Mom and the lady next to me is running for Aunt Kristin, and the little boy to the left of me is running for his Nana, who is here at the race waiting for him to reach the finish line. And the Stanford Rugby women and the Cal Cross Country men with their pink shorts and tutus, they're running because they can and should run, because they have the lungs and legs and spirit to do it.

As I took it all in, I can't deny that it was bittersweet. I absolutely thought, Mom should be running here too, with a hot pink Survivor Shirt on.

As I encouraged myself to keep running, swift or not, I also thought about those who couldn't run. I also wondered, for the millionth time, why do bad things happen to good people? Why do good things happen to bad people? Why do things happen the way they do?

Some say that old saying about the race not being for the swift was a reference to Ecclesiastes 9:11, which reads: "I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all."

In other words, to answer my questions, "Who knows?"

I sure don't. But I do know that I believe God has a plan for me and my life, and that as clueless as I may be to how it will all pan out and why, I'm confident that I'll be okay. I also know that as long as I can live--and run, walk, smile, laugh, fight, survive, WRITE--I will do it with gratitude.

Fall's Coming (Haiku)

2010-09-16T07:00:00.000-07:00

One last stolen kiss
Lingering, still, on summer
Warm September day

For mom, against cancer!

2010-09-13T13:16:00.001-07:00

September 26th is my mom's birthday. She would have been 57 this year. I try to picture the 57 year old version of her. Can't. I'm sure she would have still been as youthful as she always was. She's been really really on my mind lately. I mean, more than in the usual every day way. So I wanted to do something special to recognize her this year.

I thought about signing up for the Breast Cancer 3-Day, which is a 60 mile event that takes place in Seattle on her birthday weekend. It sounds like such an amazing and inspirational event and I was getting really excited about doing it, until I went on an 8 mile hike that kicked my booty and reminded me that I actually have to condition for these types of things. (Note to self: "you are neither 18 nor invincible. Act accordingly." #myahamoment)

But I did some research and was so happy to find out that there's a Race for the Cure in San Francisco on her birthday. A 5K, this is much more within my current abilities (but shout outs to Mirenda darling for doing the 3 day and signing up for the 5K this year!). So in honor of her courageous 11-year battle against breast cancer, and to celebrate what would have been her 57th birthday, I will be participating in the 2010 Race for the Cure in San Francisco. My goal is to raise at least $570 (but $5700 would be nice!) to support the San Francisco Bay Area Affiliate of Susan G. Komen for the Cure in its efforts to fund breast cancer screening, treatment, education and support programs, as well as Komen's national research grants program.

Interested in donating? This can be done online by clicking here. Your tax-deductible contribution will help women who need it now, by supporting local breast cancer programs, and will help protect women in the future by supporting Komen's national research grants program.

I will keep you posted on my progress! Also, please add your loved one's name, or your own name if you're a Survivor, if you want to give shouts out to those you love who have fought this disease.

No thank you.

2010-09-11T10:44:00.000-07:00

Doing another writing excercise from the book, An Old Friend From Far Away. Thanks Jace! This one asks you to write for ten minutes and everytime you feel yourself coming to a pause in typing, you are supposed to write "No thank you..." again and finish that sentence however the spirit may move you. I like it. Here she goes:

No thank you, I am not interested in living a compromised life, just because you lived it and you're "doing okay" and so I should follow that course too.

No thank you, I will not have a stale life where I settle for less than my wildest dreams because that's the practical thing to do.

Do you ever feel like as you get older and more "practical," some of the magic of being a dreamer fades? I hate feeling like I'm sinking into, rather than blooming into, adulthood. I think a lot of us abandon parts of the child within that should actually be given the chance to flourish now that we have more agency than we did as kids. It makes me think of the movie Drop Dead Fred, where the little girl would always imagine what she would be like when she grew up. Then she did, and it was just a sadder, less vibrant version of what she could have been.

Now, I'm not saying this is me. I'm not some shriveled up prune or anything and I don't feel like I've strayed so far from the path that I'm not the same person. But I do sometimes find myself fighting to hear that inner voice--call it intuition, the Holy Spirit, your conscience, your heart, or just YOU--when really it should be the world outside that's struggling to get a word in edge wise. It should be all the nay-sayers and those who aren't me but think they know all the answers that have the most trouble breaking through to me; not myself, the person who God speaks to about what His plans are for me. Seems almost ridiculous to even have to write that, but I know too many people who have looked up one day, looked around, and not recognized themselves, so I have to stay aware of the danger of that happening.

I'm going to take up meditating more often. In a recent post I wrote about how writing is like my meditation, and how meditation is like the soul's way of speaking. Well I gotta listen to that. I'd encourage others to do the same. I will say that as the praying type I find it easier to rely on my own sense of self when I'm tapped in to prayer. After all, that's a type of meditation, isn't it?

I don't know why I'm on this whole, like, "Here's some advice" tip lately. Last post it was about self-reflection during the Fall season. Today it's about listening to that inner voice... I hope I'm not being redundant! But for some reason that's the message that is resonating with me right now, and so that's what I gotta share on this blog.

So, anywho: no thank you to anything that silences my inner voice or sets me off course from my designated path. No thank you to anything but living an authentic life.

Itchy

2010-09-10T11:00:00.000-07:00

In my front yard a couple of weeks ago, I worked hard pulling up all the nasty weeds that flourished from my neglect of the garden throughout the entire summer. It was serious labor. It was a legitimate work out, y'all.

Later that evening, feeling that sense of accomplishment one feels from both meaningful physical activity and a successfully finished project, I sat on the couch with my feet up and a blanket over me, watching t.v. Slowly, I began to notice the beginning tickles of a bug bite on the back of my ankle. And then another on the top of my foot and then another. The more aware I became of it, the more bug bites I began to discover. I think there were six or seven on my two feet. Gross.

This reminded me of the time I had chicken pox. Well, I believe Monty had it first; then Chantel, then me, then finally Chalon. I might have the order wrong, but in a short period time we had a little chicken pox pandemic going on at my Gram's house, where my cousins and I all went after school when we were kids. I remember the discovery ("Is this it...? Is that a... a chicken pock?"), I remember how my mom fretted over me and made me not want to get better because I liked the attention, and I remember Calomine lotion, that pinkish white stuff with its distinctive smell that sat in my nose, taunted me into wanting to actually taste it even though I knew it would be disgusting. I could never bring myself to do it, thank God. And I remember the oatmeal mix. Now that I wouldn't be surprised if I had eaten... Terrible!

I'm sure I must have felt sick and miserable. Chicken pox are no joke, after all. But seriously, all I remember now is that my cousins and I still got to play together because we all had it, so there was no harm. And I remember sitting on the floor at Gram's house, with blankets all over me, just straight chillin. When people reminisce about the 80s, I think about stuff like that time we all got the chicken pox. Must have been '86. I feel like that music video for the song Supersonic was out and I can picture us singing, "the S is for super and the U is for unique, the P is for perfection and you know that we are freaks..." and I can see the adults looking at each other because they hated for us to say the word "freaks" but they wouldn't explain why.

Ahh, good times. I don't know why I'm writing about that! Except that it's funny how one thing can take you all the way back to some other, seemingly completely random thing. And it's interesting how sometimes the most draining and miserable experiences can be mitigated, even transformed into wonderful memories, just by the sheer presence of good company and loving people.

Change gon' come

2010-09-09T07:51:00.000-07:00

The rain this morning felt appropriate; the grey, interrupted by short flirts of sunshine, almost comforting. Outside my window at work, leaves on the maple tree are starting to brown a little and something in the air this morning smelled of the crisp coolness of Fall. While these things signal the end of hot sunny days and sunglasses, I actually welcome it.

I can never say that I want Summer to end, but there's always something about Fall arriving that makes me feel like things are happening in a fresh or exciting way. School starts, for one thing. Because I work with students, that means gearing up for new programming, winding back up to the energy level required to deal with K-8th graders. I also have a Fall birthday, so perhaps the start of the season gets me thinking about this marker of my time here on earth, gets me taking inventory on what I've done and what I want to do.

Fall feels kind of like New Years to me. This time of year is when I find myself more motivated to get things in order and clean house. Right now my priority is finishing my writing project. I've been writing more often, thankfully. Every day.

I have some other professional goals that I am newly motivated to pursue as well regarding my passion for education. I don't know why I'm being so secretive about it, but suffice it to say that I've got lots of ideas and I'm looking forward to figuring it all out.

Welcome back to school, kiddos! And for the grown ups, I hope this time provides a good opportunity for you to do some nice self reflection.

Writing back to the heart of me

2010-08-28T19:00:00.000-07:00

Having "one of those days" and wondering what has me all off. Of course I know what external factors contribute to the melancholy, but that doesn't make it feel any better, nor does it explain why I just can't shake it. I tried to rally myself to go out and be social but just couldn't get that together. Tried some retail therapy, tried getting some things crossed off of my to do list, tried some pampering, tried prayer... It all helped a little, but that deep-down blah feeling just wouldn't give.

Then I realized it: I haven't been writing. Like, at all. Haven't been making time for it, haven't even been reading other people's work lately. And because writing is my way of checking back in with myself when I feel out of whack, I think that may be a big part of the problem today.

I came across the following quote today: "Meditation is the tongue of the soul & the language of our spirit.”--Jeremy Taylor. So true. For me, sitting and writing sometimes helps me plug back into what my soul/spirit are trying to say to me. Neglecting to write often leaves me feeling like I'm out of touch with myself, like I've been ignoring that inner voice for so long that I've gotten a little lost.

Recently I've put a lot of time and effort into goals like studying for and taking the bar, getting my office at work organized, cleaning out the garage at home, etc. I have so much more to do, and so little time, and so little money, and I'm feeling a little overwhelmed. But even when I'm successfully getting things accomplished, I feel like those things aren't meaningful if I'm not also in tune with what's most important to me.

Perhaps all else will start to flow together if I first and foremost remember my heart, which has a deep passion for writing and the creative release it provides for me. And at the same time I remind myself that my largest goal for the year is yet to be achieved: to write a book. I need to refocus on this, both because it's cheaper than the therapist's couch (I know), and because it's who I am. I got an encouraging note recently reminding me that sometimes other people enjoy my writing too (thanks Ratha!), so that gives me all the more reason to motivate myself to jump back into the craft and get myself back into the writing practice. Perhaps this will help me get it together and feel a little more "in touch."

Yeah.

I feel better now.

Thanks for reading.

Midnight Thoughts

2010-07-20T23:43:00.000-07:00

So I should be studying, or sleeping, but I'm finding that I can do neither. When I try to study, I feel myself aching to go to sleep. When I try to sleep, my mind is racing: What are the elements of murder 2 again? And when is a warrantless search justified? What are the 4 types of easements? Is an income generating property acquired before marriage community or separate property if both spouses work to maintain it? What makes a valid codicil? What is Indian Country? Why do they still call it that, in 2010?

Gross, right?

Meanwhile, real life is going on. Dumb stuff (Oh shoot, I didn't run the dryer, the towels are going to be all wet and gross. I keep forgetting to buy soap! I didn't pay the electricity bill this month. I need to work out). Random stuff ("Hello, Ex-who's-now-married, you're in town from across the country? So awesome!"). Serious stuff (Father-daughter dance at good friend's wedding has me bursting into tears. Relationship challenges. I miss my parents. I miss my friends but I can't hang out or talk).

What do we do when the task at hand calls for 100% focus, but we're, like, human and real, thus creating little nuisances like bills that must be paid, incomes that must be earned, relationships that must be tended to?

I don't know the answer. I know I've tried to achieve balance, but right now I'm just feeling the intensity of it all.

I know it will be okay. I know that I will keep studying hard and keep praying and keep trying to be focused. And, if I don't pass... I'll pass. But if I don't, I'll be okay. I know too many incredibly smart people who've had to take this thing again, and lived through it.

Amen and hallelujah. Back to work. Or sleep. Whatever comes first.

P.S. I miss writing.

Closed for maintenance?

2010-06-30T00:28:00.000-07:00

Of course the time when I feel I have all these thoughts coursing through my mind so much of the time, and so much I want to write about, and when I have found myself having more and more intersting conversations about purpose, passion, politics, all the great "p's" of the human condition, of course that time would coincide with me studying to take the bar exam in a month.

Lawdamussy.

So aside from the very sporadic, very short rant of a midnight i-can't-sleep-gotta-get-up-in-5 moment, I will check y'all in a month (God willing!).

Until then, I do hope you'll peruse all the ingenius content already posted on this a-here girlwomansoul's blog.

Thanks!

In My Father's Closet

2010-06-22T22:54:00.001-07:00

Who knew that throwing away my dad's expired vitamins in the back of the cupboard would send me deep into contemplation?

A few weeks ago, to make room for new roommates I undertook the fantastic task of cleaning out the kitchen cabinets to clear the way for new stuff. For those who don't know, I live in my childhood house. I moved in when my dad was very ill and he shortly thereafter passed away. That was going on two years ago and I haven't moved out since, although I plan to move out in the Fall. It's weird because it's always been my house, but now it's like, my house. All that to say, because there was never any true cleaning out and filling up of the space, a lot of stuff has stayed the same since Dad passed away. So when the new roomies came there was a need to make room for the new.

So I'm cleaning out the kitchen cabinets and I find all kinds of goodies--expired prune juice, glutinous pancake mix from 2005 (seriously, that's dangerous. Google it), old vitamin supplements--stuff, stuff, stuff. And it felt so good to throw the stuff away. (It also felt quite wasteful. I took care to compost and recycle what I could. But I just couldn't help but feel a little guilty about all these products that were purchased and never used.) And because it was just food it wasn't really an emotional experience. (To contrast, I won't even begin to write about cleaning out my dad's closet. I still have half of his sweatshirts and t-shirts. I still have some of his size 10 men's shoes. Oh boy.) No, instead it was just... interesting. To think about the "stuff" stuff that we leave behind, the truly unsentimental things that nevertheless are a sign that we were once here... interesting.

But I am now inspired to minimize, minimize, minimize, so I can have plenty of room for things that matter like relationships, activities and issues that inspire me, dreaming about Possibility, refining and revising my own boundaries, etc. And that I really mean, not in a mushy fluffy way, but in the real sense that when you feel like you've got too much stuff you don't feel like you're able to get up and move to where you need to go when you need to go there. I'd be screwed if I had to move to Central America in 3 weeks (but not if I had to do it in 3 months... see above where I said I am now inspired to minimize).

Now to take it to the pie in the sky existential place I somehow always find a way to visit no matter how mundane or simple the issue. The experience of cleaning out the cabinet set me off thinking about letting go. When do you let go of things, and when do you ignore the expiration date and stretch it out? What things in our lives simply don't have an expiration date and will always be in our shelf, maybe in the shelves of our heirs after we pass away?

They better be more important than some old prune juice, I tell ya that.

Speak to Me Update

2010-06-12T07:59:00.000-07:00

The Speak to Me Event was fantastic. It was a very small, intimate group and the Gallery is a beautiful space. The poets boasted a range of styles and talents and really brought it, yours truly included, if I do say so myself.

About the Artwork
Because of permission concerns, to view the painting I suggest you just click here and you should be able to follow the link to the portfolio of Shirley Rudolph, the artist who created the painting "Temporary Fix," which inspired my poem, "A Poem for People Looking for Answers."

It's a great painting. An array of country flags set across a black background are then overshadowed by stark-red question marks splattered into the foreground. Slogans and phrases related to politics, political ideology, and political dialogue are quietly placed around the flags.

The painting was the visual representation of how I often feel about following world politics, and the following is the poetic inspiration that came from it:

"A Poem For People Who Want Answers"

An ocean of ink spills across page,
A cleansing, rewriting worries into problems solved
Painting this troubled canvas til it looks like Freedom,
Is ready to wave itself high

Fly, above war torn families who can’t stomach a Memorial Day barbecue
Above fist-pumping youth on the Gaza, now just bodies, who wanted answers and got them, wanted aid and got none

Above "Dear Leader’s" muffled masses, fearing nuclear vengeance from unexplained sunken warships

Ready to wave itself high, fly
A freed bird, unsoiled by blackened waters
Untouched by dark addictions that have long seeped into the culture of we changelings, we hopefuls who said, “Yes We Can!” but didn’t know how we would

If I could, I’d let the ink spill across every newspaper page
Paint over rage and hateful laws that tell us the solution to all of our angst is to question each other’s right to be
Right to stand on this patch of soil or that
Right to speak this colonial tongue or that
Right to write our opinions on page, paper or web, and invite others to dialogue

I’d paint mountains into those sharp lines that trace the movement of the Euro, the Dollar, the Yuan
Splash blood-red dancing question marks across each country flag, begging the question

Who are we?

Will we ever be able to gather all our politics and in one giant cipher have a moment of reckoning where we see our own political guesswork as it is, acknowledge how fragile we, and our so called solutions, really are?

Will we ever commit to discarding flimsy slogans and empty rhetoric, because deep down we all know we need more than a strong cork to plug this oil spill?

We need real, true, progress that only happens through struggle, through community, that only emerges when we refuse to act with impunity, when we accept ourselves as flawed, fumbling, bumbling things who've been looking for a temporary fix to long term problems and have only found ourselves getting dirtier and more confused in the process

If I could, I’d let ink spill across newspaper page and canvas, rely on divine inspiration to paint a clear picture of who we are and who we must become if we intend to leave this place in one piece and in working order for our children
I’d paint over this troubled canvas until it betrays a glint of hope, and I’d let the page wave high, fly, like a freedom flag we all would willingly and sincerely salute

An ocean of ink spills across page,
A cleansing, rewriting worries into problems solved
Painting this troubled canvas til it looks like Freedom,
Is ready to wave itself high

The event was inspiring, a great communion of artists. I'm glad I was a part of it!

I learned from the experience that when I pour a little into my craft, I get good results--people seemed to like the delivery of the poem. (In fact, I won $25!) More importantly, this means that if I were to pour even more into my creative interests, I just might approach the level I am aiming for.

Gotta get on it then.

Thanks for reading.

Speak To Me--Tonight

2010-06-03T10:26:00.000-07:00

So it just occurred to me that I'm excited about performing a new piece tonight! It has been such a busy time it's like I don't allow myself to get excited about the next moment until it's upon me.

What's tonight? Speak to Me: Visual Art Poetry Fusion Show at C Art Gallery. If you're in Seattle, come through!

Thursday, June 3, 2010
5:30-7:30 p.m.
C Art Gallery
855 Hiawatha Place South
Seattle, Washington 98144

The premise is pretty cool. I've been to plenty of shows where a visual artist will create a new piece as a poet spits, but this is the other way around. The poet will perform a piece inspired by a painting. The painting will be presented and the poet will perform.

For more seasoned peformers, this may sound like no big deal. But participating in this is great stretching for me and my creative work. First, I have been wanting to put myself out there a bit more lately. Second, usually I just kinda sit back and say, "What shall I write about?" Or on a whim I decide, "I'm going to go to this Slam/Open Mic, and I'm going to perform X piece." This was a different experience for me. I had no idea what the artist's piece would look like, who the artist was, whether I'd find inspiration in it, etc. And I had to put myself out there by providing prior work as a means for them to select me as one of the 6 poets.

I'll be interested to see what the artist thinks of my interpretation of her piece. Can't share it now, but I'll post an update on how the whole thing went a bit later.

Spring Cleaning

2010-05-18T10:06:00.001-07:00

So this past weekend I went off to NY for a whirlwind trip. I took a red-eye Friday night, arrived at 6am, and didn't stop hitting the pavement until I got to the airport on Monday evening.

What was my business? Had to retrieve some boxes from my past life, go through them and ship back to Seattle anything I wanted to keep.

I easily throw away the first group--expired toiletries, broken decoratives that I had used in my Brooklyn apartment, three-quarters burned out candles, shoes that the Salvation Army wouldn't salvage. Then came tougher stuff--papers from law school that I won't let go of because I over-value my intellectual property. Photos of people who I could not identify but hesitated to get rid of, because isn't it bad karma to throw away someone's photo? Then came gems--heartfelt cards my mother sent me in college for my birthday and Valentines Day; old love letters; poetry written on napkins from 1999, 2003, 2006; journals.

I felt like I had accomplished a great task when I was able to reduce 4 and a half large boxes down to three small ones, giving one great box of things to Salvation Army and another box of linens and dishes to my friend who housed my stuff for free in his attic for almost two years, and throwing away another large box of stuff.

With the loss of my parents I have been faced with the task of throwing away their stuff as well--something which, almost 8 years since losing my mom and 2 years since my dad died, I still have yet to complete. I often wonder whether something I consider trash is something they would never have consented to being thrown away. What does it mean to throw away, recycle, give away, and sell things that were once part of you? Why do we let things become such a part of us? And how do these same things eventually transition into discardables?

These and other random thoughts passed through my mind as I sat in my friend's dusty attic, sneezing incessantly, sifting through all sorts of things like pictures from my childhood, framed degrees, old papers and books from school and work, old jewelry and knicknacks, etc.

When the stuff I've shipped from New York arrives in Seattle, I wonder if I'll throw away anything else? Oh, life. Maybe. I'm on a minimalist kick. I need less baggage!

One thing I don't think I'll ever willingly throw away is my stuffed camel, Chosun. He's no teddy bear. He's unique and thoughtful. He's got more substance than a mere bear. He's been with me for 28 years. He's here to stay. Which is good to know.

Gram

2010-05-09T13:39:00.000-07:00

Home is...

2010-05-04T22:11:00.001-07:00

This is what my homegirl says about where home is for her. Check it out and please thank her for sharing!

People Watching

2010-05-02T13:33:00.000-07:00

It’s wrong and creepy and voyeuristic, but I just can’t stop myself from watching this couple that is sitting in the car parked right in front of my window. I’m at my favorite coffee shop, have just finished up my Bible study, and am preparing to write. I look out at the warm gray gloom that is any given Sunday in spring in Seattle, and I see them, sitting there in the car, her face covered and his arm around her shoulders.

I’m touched by their tenderness. The woman is clearly truly distraught. I imagine scenarios. Maybe they are breaking up—perhaps she has cheated on him and is overcome with grief over what she has done. Perhaps he has just informed her that he has found someone new. Maybe she just learned that her brother has died. Maybe they just lost their baby. Maybe she is simply overwhelmed by a range of mundane things—the unpaid telephone bill, that leaky shower head, and the final straw, the fact that their dog didn’t hold his bladder this morning—things that, lumped together, form one big overwhelming, dreadful sense of void. Then it occurs to me that maybe the two are not a couple, but friends, or siblings.

Either way, the man is a tree for her to lean against, a willow to cover her. It is beautiful, although her grief seems very real and raw and painful.
I have now decided to turn my back to them because I know recognize this moment and I know it needs to be theirs alone. But I can’t help but wonder—what happened? I can’t help but appreciate that no matter what the circumstance a friend’s arm can be a blanket in a cold world.

Who is a blanket in a cold world for you? I am blessed to count many brothers and sisters as such.

And of course, there is God, my ultimate Blanket in a Cold World. Today I have been reminded and then reminded again that even in the midst of the deepest sorrow, we have to remember our blessings--the blessing of a good friend, a loving hug, a reminder that we are loved. So I'm feeling Thankful.

Been a long, long time comin'.

2010-04-22T21:27:00.000-07:00

Warmin back up...

Been doing a lot of thinking since my recent writing frenzy, mainly about how to build a more regular writing process, and also how to step my spoken word game back up. As an update, I did make my 100 page goal! Three days after my goal deadline, but I'm proud of myself for trying and seeing it through. One thing that I experienced in the process was a lot of internal pressure for each word I write to be something I consider golden. I think I'm over that now.

For some reason, the blogging piece has been lacking lately. But I just felt a need to post as an update the fact that I am still writing, regularly.

More to come soon.

It's D-Day...

2010-04-08T09:44:00.000-07:00

I'm SO close. So close! I'll announce my final page count by the end of the day. Lordy.

My Lifetime Summarized in Ten Minutes

2010-04-06T09:39:00.000-07:00

As I contemplate the direction of the Soul section of my writing project, I see that there are so many things one can cover. What is soul and what is the soul? What is soul in terms of artform and what is the soul in terms of human form? What makes us who we are? What are the common links that make humans human, and what are the unique ingredients that make one soul distinguishable from the next?

To explore some of these questions I pulled some exercises from a fabulous book on writing memoir and one such exercise asks the reader to tell the story of her life, giving herself ten minutes to complete the task. Serious stuff! I’m game. My Life In Ten Minutes. Go:

Well there are details like how I was born in Seattle and first lived in a tiny two bedroom brick house with a dobermin puppy and my mom and dad and my brother Billy and some goldfish and rabbits, and a strawberry shaped toy box. And how we moved in with my grandma while our new house was being built, and how vast and mansion-like this new house seemed, with its extra rooms—I had a room just for toys! And the mysterious green forest across the street from us and the other that I explored that was just one house down from us.

And then there are details about school and being the quiet one, the short one, the youngest one in the class, the smart one, the “gifted” one that the teachers liked, and then shortly later one of the only black girls in the class, one of many “gifted” students and. And how I put quotes around that to this day because from this experience I learned how children are tracked and segregated and some are made to feel special and others are made to feel mediocre, and these expectations are set and most of the time we live up or down to them, depending where we fall. And how in school I generally liked boys who didn’t like me but once I liked Jeff Zimmerman and he liked me back, but he was white and I was afraid, even in the third grade, to understand whether that meant anything of any significance at all.

And then there are details about what kind of child I was, like how I wrote in a journal from the age of 8 and how my mom was tall (5'10") and elegant and I always thought I’d be tall too, and how here I am, 5’4” and all, but that’s an inch taller than I was when I went off to college so I guess I shouldn’t complain. And mom would always tell me I should be happy to be petite, that it means I can date anyone of any size or height, but how I used to only date tall boys/men.

And there’s how my mom died when I was 21 years old and she was 49, of breast cancer, and ever since then I’ve been petrified of breast cancer and convinced that every single secret vice or indulgence or sinful thought or selfish act will ultimately lead to my demise from breast cancer. And how my dad died when I was 26 and he was 56, from lung cancer, and how I was absolutely furious at God and the world and confused and missed my daddy and was utterly pissed off because we had just now started to “get” each other, and I had just now started to accept the past in terms of him and mom, things I couldn’t change but had held onto in bitterness for so long.

And how I went to law school but got on the plane from Seattle to D.C. to start the first year and from when I stepped into the airport terminal in Seattle I knew something wasn't right. How I endured the first year and now carry many scars from the experience but also some medals of honor. How I finished and saw my dad smiling with pride there at graduation. And how I had moved to New York and not taken the firm gig and thought this was a pivotal moment in my life but also found myself sucked in to New York City in a way that didn’t exactly nurture my spirit but if nothing else did earn me yet a few more stripes and give me some adventure and some laughs and many funny “remember the time when” stories to share and review with my friends.

And how when dad died I moved back home to Seattle and took a job that I liked but knew that wasn’t the end of my story, but just the beginning.

As for the future, I see many possibilities, but I suppose the optimal is: I then move on to grad school and become a published writer. I become a professor of African American studies and a writer of poetry and essays and short stories. And I write and profess and mold young minds and speak about and think about and meditate on and write about blackness and identity and creativity and soul. And I learn languages and travel and marry a wonderful man and am not afraid of cancer or life anymore. I drift into public service, helping shape education policy and reforming public schools. I’m not beaten down tired by work—I serve thoroughly and with love and diligence and I am energized and refreshed and happy and in love with life and work and all of it.

And when it’s time to retire, I don’t. I keep going. I am consulting, teaching, and always writing, because it’s my life’s work, my lovework. So I don’t mind, in fact I would mind not being able to do it.

And I have at least one child and he or she is a good person. And I remain close with my nephews and niece and I meet their children and love them like a grandparent would love a grandchild.

There are the details and the accomplishments and the paths I take in career, love, geography. Is this my life story? I think there’s more I have to say about who I am. More at the end of it all that I would want people to know. Like I am a person who loves people—who really does try to see the goodness in people and sometimes this means that I see people for their potential and not for their reality and sometimes this means I open myself up to people who do not mean well, and I don’t really care, because usually it means I open myself up to good people. Like I am a person who someday (at the age of 28 perhaps, if I get on it quickly enough) learned to say no when I needed to, but remained willing to say yes when I really needed to even if I didn’t want to. Like I am an artist and a person who values creativity and difference and authenticity and loyalty to who you are. Like I’d love to be a good storyteller, I mean spoken stories. I’d love to be the person people gather around and listen to and laugh with, although the thought of this simultaneously freaks me out because I don't like to be the center of attention unless I'm teaching or performing spoken word.

Truthfully, I can’t really see my life story past age 50. I hope that’s just because I’m too young to see that, and I have trouble seeing beyond five years down the line. I hope it's not that my parents’ short lives have impeded my ability to see the possibility that God’s plan is for me to live a long, beautiful, prosperous life. I appreciate that I don't take this for granted and that I know God's will is His will, but I hope I also don't go too far into limiting the possibilities.

The mysteries of time and place and other future details aside, my plan for this life, what I truly hope to be able to say in my “story of my lifetime” is that I served God well in this lifetime, and humanity too.

What's your life story? It's okay to give yourself a little more than ten minutes to write it out.

Stripping.

2010-04-05T09:28:00.000-07:00

Finally watched Erykah's video. Happy that I heard the song and came to appreciate it for what it was before seeing the video, because I think this allowed me to digest this creative work of hers in a different way. But, the way I take the lyrics to the song and the meaning of the video and all, I totally feel her (and am considering incorporating more grits and cornbread into my diet. Haha).

When I heard her song it was like a breath of fresh air. I could imagine myself driving or riding with the window down and the sun hitting my face and a brisk wind blowing and maybe the song playing:

So can I get a window seat
don't want nobody next to me
I just want a ticket outta town
a look around
and a safe touch down
can I get a window seat
don't want nobody next to me
I just want a chance to fly
a chance to cry
and a long bye bye

but I need you to want me
I need you to miss me
I need your attention, yes
I need you next to me
I need someone to clap for me
I need your direction
somebody say come back
come back baby come back
I want you to need me
come back come back baby come back
come back come back baby come back
come back come back baby come back

People, I say I feel her on that! We all have moments of just wanting to get away and be free and indulge in a little solitude where we have the freedom to just do whatever--to have a chance to fly, a chance to cry. That's a gift we don't often get in this busy world we live in. It's something I probably should carve into my life since it's not really an option that's going to be set in front of me.

As for the video, I think this was Erykah's way of just taking that gift for herself. She literally allowed herself to just strip off everything that was weighing her down. She needed to get out of whatever it was that was restraining her, to do what she needed to do without worrying about whether people were looking (which, most of them weren't, interestingly. Something I think worth exploring, too). Isn't that what we all kinda wish we could do sometimes? I mean, I'm not exactly looking for the opportunity to show all my business to the whole world, but in a sense by doing the writing I'm doing, I kind of am. I'm opening myself up and sharing pieces of who I am with others, and the goal is that I'll do that with no apology and no explanation beyond that which I wish to offer.

But in the end, what's the cost of this? In this world is the act of seeking freedom in a radical way something that has potentially fatal consequences? Why did Erykah get assassinated in the end? Or, did she just die to the world she knew before, the world where she even seemed a little bit invisible? After all, in the end there she is again, radiant and smiling (with her eighties slash blacksploitation slash whatever-looking but she's still rockin it hair).

Anyway, the video just sparked a lot of reflection for me. It actually got me back on track with my writing, too. Good stuff.

what will it be, what will it be?

2010-04-05T00:15:00.001-07:00

i just found this in my e-pile of half-written poetry saved on my comp. what will it become, what will it become? it's totally unfinished but i think i can do something with this so i'm sharing this little fragment of what it is in hopes that it will then inspire me to revisit the piece and complete it. in fact it already has inspired me to do that. thanks for reading! comments welcome.

no title yet

I’m so sick of love poems and broken hearts
They’re off target like a blind man throwin’ darts
I’m trying to start it like the way a fire grows in sparks
And builds upon itself like a tornado’s blowin’ starts

I’m sick of butterflies, breaths held, and eyes closed
Ain’t got no time to indulge in the heart's sigh-woes
I’m tryna find the flyer higher prose that gets us out our silos,
Discover rhymes that help us climb together to the higher roads

Cuz the path to revolution ain’t paved in gold
It ain’t gilded, golden bricked, it can't be bought or sold
We gotta build it with our hands feet bodies, our souls
We got to nurse it got to feed it so it grows and grows

So it goes and goes like jump forward git back
So I feel u feelin’ me even if I ain’t said s#!* yet
And you get that, and we accept the kismet
We just let we do our thing like it ain't been did yet...

That's what I'm tryna do, I ain't tryna sigh at you
I ain't tryna vy for you, I'm just trying to die for you
I'm just trying to die to self, share with you what makes me melt
put my ego on the shelf with poetry that can be felt

Poetry that can be felt by everyone down to the core
I'm talking home grown soul tongue sown and not no grocery store
chain conglomerate made, processed, manufactured thing
no I'm talking poetry that grows from me and blooms in the spring of my mind

I'm not talking blue violets or tired lines
I'm talking dirt and fertilizer, rain and sunshine...

that's it so far. i was in a totally different frame of mind at the time i started this--it is actually one of those subway poems, one of the poems i wrote on the c-train. so that was at least two years ago. time flies. wow.

thanks for reading!

Give Thanks

2010-04-04T01:24:00.000-07:00

Word Poem (perhaps worth considering)
by Nikki Giovanni

as things be/come
let's destroy
then we can destroy
what we be/come
let's build
what we become
when we dream

Shout outs to Nikki G! Dream big--we are works in progress if we are living up to our purpose and potential!

Week 3 Progress Report

2010-03-31T01:59:00.000-07:00

Page Count: 79!

Why I Write

2010-03-30T22:39:00.000-07:00

I write because I have a story to tell and because my soul demands that I tell it in written form and through the spoken word. I write because it is who I am. I write because it is my therapy. I write because I want to share something lasting with others and with the world. I write so that I can make new friends long after I'm gone from this world. I write because I always have. I write because I always will. I write because it would make my Gram proud. I write because not doing so would be wrong. I write because the future me will want to know what the present me is thinking, just as the present me benefits tremendously from what the former me has to say. I write because it helps me remember. I write because it helps me forget. I write because it is what I love to do. I write because it is the way I pain, sing, and dance; it is the way I communicate soul, identity, pain, love, aspiration, inspiration, imagination, shame, delight, curiosity, anxiety, joy, and art. I write because it is my worship--it is my way of giving glory to my creator because it is fulfillment of His purpose for me. I write because that is what I must do in this life, if I want to do this life well.

This is beautiful

2010-03-30T22:37:00.001-07:00

http://alligatorlegs.blogspot.com/2010/03/wake-keeping.html

Three Minutes...

2010-03-29T22:18:00.000-07:00

From "An Old Friend From Far Away," a writing exercise. Spend three minutes writing each of these:

The Best Song of My Life:

I don't think I can do song, but I can say the best album for me for my life has is by Erykah Badu. Is it Orange Moon? It's the album that has that song on it. It must have come out around 2001 or so, and ever since it first came out it has spoken to me, calmed my spirit, got me riled up, got me crunk, got me dancing, got me feeling better, or allowed me to sit in my own self-pity without feeling too, well, pitiful. I love Erykah's soul-voice. Actually, now that I think of it, if I had to have a soundtrack for this blog, that whole album would probably be it. She's the bomb, that lady. You know how you hear a song and it transports you back to a time in your life? That album is like that, but each song takes me back to various points in my life. It's awesome.

What I Can't Live Without:
Hmm... I want to say the organic gummy cubs from PCC grocery, or something silly like that. I honestly don't know, at least not right of the bat. Well, I've got three minutes to try and figure it out. I would say it would be very difficult for me to live without access to music. But then again, I was just writing about the best music of my life so perhaps that's why that comes to mind. One thing, as crazy as it sounds, that has been a part of my life all of my adulthood, has been the routine of going to a coffee shop, posting up with a notepad and pen or a good book or my laptop or just a pencil and some napkins, and doing something word related--writing, reading, or both. I guess I would be hard-pressed to try and live without the ability to write down my thoughts or create new art through words. I don't even want to think about that.

What I Can't Forget:
There are things I wish I could forget that I cannot, like scenes from my life that changed the way I saw life for the worse or just were filled with so much pain that I am now unable to be the carefree, happy-go-lucky person I used to be. People are often surprised to hear pieces of that story because I can be such a cheerful person. But my cheerfulness is just a way I approach my daily, public life. I also have dark moments and I have to say these probably come from things I can't forget but wish I could. I won't even get into it much further than to say if I could forget them I would. On a lighter, happier note, I don't think I could ever forget John 3:16 or my ABCs. Those were so ingrained in me at such a young age I would literally have to be lobotomized to forget them.

At night I think Of:
So many things that sometimes it's difficult to get to sleep! I think about my life and my purpose and time... how it just flows on by without our consent and out of our hands. As I approach 30 I'm beginning to recognize the fact that the time is now to live out our dreams and try new things, take risks, live fully, make mistakes. I think about death, too, which is a morbid and dark thing to think about, I know, but it's there... just somewhere in the future, so I think about it. I think about mundane things too like what bills I have and haven't paid, what I will get or make for lunch tomorrow, what I will do first at work, how long I can truly stay in bed and still get up and make it to work on time. Sometimes I think about my family and wonder what they are thinking right now. Sometimes I think about things that I avoid all day, but in the quiet of the night they come back around to the forefront of my mind and look me straight in the eye, demanding my attention.

Okay, that was three minutes apiece. I like these little exercises in here. Thanks for reading my totally random thoughts.

Page Count: 41

2010-03-23T23:30:00.000-07:00

Progress report: 10,175 words, about 41 pages (based on the standard manuscript page length of 250 words)!

Let me just say, Woop woop! Well, actually let me slow my roll and not start celebrating just yet. After all, I have 16 days to write the remaining 59 pages. That means I gotta be on point and write about 3.7 pages per day.

Prayer, y'all, prayer.

Funny how it all comes together...

2010-03-22T01:19:00.000-07:00

I wrote this poem a good while back but as I delve more deeply into the writing process (no ugly facebook profile, that's my vain motivation!) it is requiring me to re-explore my past. The poem is, quite obviously, about having a broken heart. Interestingly I think it works as a good precursor poem to the new one I'm working on, Lumps and Scars. So I just tacked that one on to the end to see how it flows--what do you think? I think it's very interesting how things come together... Here it is (for now, untitled):

You didn't know how to love me so I had to do it myself
Had to grow bigger arms that could hold me, fight for me
Had to brew my own tea to sip when weary
Sing my own comfort songs and run my own bath water and craft my own pep talks

Don't mistake my independence, my strength, for inaccessibility or coldness
I welcome a tea-partner
someone with whom I can stand back to back, fighting,
chest to chest, holding,
or hand in hand, singing

But you didn't know how to be that person so I had to be it myself
Had to write our names in the sand and watch the tide wash them, wash us away
Smell the salt air, let it stick to my lungs
penetrate my wounded heart like rubbing alcohol
Embrace the pain, knowing it was only the beginning

I'm embracing the pain because I know it's the beginning
I know it comes right before beauty, like birth
I'm letting the hurt work in me to create newness and life and joy
I'm allowing myself to feel it, letting the salt sink into my wounded heart

A scab is a shelter for my healing heart, ugly only to keep the thieves out
black-blooded armor that will only peel back and pour sweet oxygen onto fresh flesh when it is strong enough

I pray patience and gentle handling of this miraculous healing work
No rush, because deep scars yield bitterness and I only need quiet, loving reminders to be kind to myself
I only need scars that tell stories I can tell without my voice cracking or tears spilling out...

And I've got them, lumps and I've got scars
and I've cried tears
and counted stars
and wished upon them
Seen them shooting across the sky while leaning against my love's chest
and I've plucked flower petals with bated breath
with faith to move mountains, and hope that their outcome would lead to love

I've got scars and I've got lumps
and I've run races
skipped and jumped
suppressing grunts and gasps and grumbles
Holding it all together, watching my faith crumble into smaller-than-mustard seed remnants of innocence
but balancing it all in my hands, cupping it closely like water

I'm Hope's daughter
and She reminds me that
these lumps and scars are warrior-markings
they make me beautiful
they are physical proof of my dutiful, diligent nature
that, when this part of me sleeps i can easily wake her
with my cry for freedom
my freedom song

I've come a long way, running through brick walls and scaling fences
pushing through brush, crawling through trenches
conditioning my muscles with this resistance
crying freedom in every instance where air fills my lungs

I've clung to this warrior identity
sustaining lumps and scars and cuts and bruises
holding mustard seeds and water in my hands
Because I know the Plan and I'm running after it
With all my strength

Page Count: 13

2010-03-16T18:32:00.000-07:00

Not bad for week one. But I gotta have 42 by next week so I better re-up!

100 pages by April 8th or an UGLY FB PROFILE pic

2010-03-15T19:54:00.000-07:00

So last week on my Goals Group Blog I acknowledged that I needed to implement some drastic steps to get my goal of writing a book by Nov 4, 2010 accomplished. In that spirit, I pledged to write 100 pages (out of an estimated 200-page piece) by April 8th. The rationale for this semi-crazy proclamation is that I'm way behind on my goal and I really want to achieve it.

Since the original posting last Tuesday I have made significant progress (final page count TBA tomorrow). I have made a concerted effort to sit and write this past week, and I am prioritizing building it into my routine, slowly but surely.

But... I was thinking, I need a little more heat under my butt. This ain't no good faith deal. What, you thought I was supposed to just report back that I did it, no verification necessary? Naw, naw, naw... I need PRESSURE!

So, as truly vain as the motivation may be, I think this will be effective. Here's what I'm adding: if I don't achieve my goal in time, I promise to put up a truly embarrassing photo of myself on facebook and leave it up there until I have written 100 pages. And if I don't come through on this or if folks are unimpressed by what I consider to be an embarrassing photo, I give my friends free license to go ahead and find a photo that is more suitable for the occasion and post it to my wall or even put it up as their facebook profile.

So, dear friends, please do me a favor and find a horrid pic of me and be ready to post it if I don't come through! Also, because I don't want to just publish 100 pages of my product on the blog, please let me know if you'd be willing to be my third-party person to verify that I actually did it.

Yikes! The lady, she means business! I'm scared of myself!

On De-stressing

2010-03-07T21:41:00.000-08:00

Okay. So I've been feeling super stressed out lately. My dear old dog is sick, a young lady I mentor has been struggling with some extremely serious issues, my job has been more demanding than usual, and I have been presented with some significant decisions regarding my dad's house (my house, I guess, now) and my short term future. So, yes, it's been a little crazy. And I promise not to complain too much, but to make matters worse I have acted in backward fashion and added to my plate in terms of community involvement/obligations instead of paring down, meanwhile cutting down on my writing time (hence my recent absence).

I'm not the only one. I have a handful of friends who have recently expressed to me that they feel very overwhelmed by the various stresses in their lives. Be it a sick parent, the ongoing grief from the loss of a loved one, a change in relationship status, stress at work, relocation, or a battle with mental health, we all have brushes with stress.

So how to deal? I don't know. I know that for me, it helps to write... and pray... and allow myself a day or too to feel glum. But if none of those things work for you, I thought I'd share something I found while looking into resources for my mentee. A simple little list of reminders of things you can do to mitigate the effects of feeling stressed out.

Self-care strategies for dealing with stress, trauma and crisis (courtesy of Crisis Clinic):

1. Stay away from mood-altering substances, including drugs and alcohol
2. Get plenty of rest so that you feel rested and relaxed
3. Eat well-balanced meals
4. Practice stress reduction techniques such as deep breathing, mediation and visualization
5. Give yourself permission to feel bad. Schedule it in your day
6. Let yourself cry
7. Give yourself permission to feel good
8. Make small decisions daily to get control of your life back
9. If possible, put off major life decisions
10. Give yourself permission to focus on someone outside yourself
11. Structure your time and develop a routine
12. Lower expectations on what you think you “should be doing”
13. Take breaks from periods of isolation
14. Talk it out – even with a professional
15. Give yourself permission to do something that could feel good to you
16. Give and get physical touch. A hug can do wonders
17. Exercise – even a little bit
18. Remind yourself that your reactions are normal
19. Engage in practices that are meaningful to you such as prayer, walking in the woods, sitting quietly, reading inspirational material, talking a bath or journal writing
20. Do something that puts a smile on someone’s face

Smile :)

Listening to my grief

2010-02-27T19:21:00.000-08:00

Thought I'd share this. I recently was interviewed on a local radio show, Here for You with Candace and Winona, about recovering from grief and loss. After the interview I felt good because the whole thing was actually quite cathartic. But a few hours later I was hit HARD, y'all. Everything that I had been dealing with truly hit me and it was quite an experience sitting in the reality of it.

The writing experience has always been a form of therapy for me as I've processed grief, but talking about it on the radio show was a whole new thing. Listening to the story of the brother who also spoke about his grief was also quite an experience.

Anyway, I'm currently listening to it and will post something later if so moved. But check it out if you want. Thanks for reading (and listening).

Love recipe

2010-02-14T08:53:00.000-08:00

You measure and I'll pour
and let's stir this pot together
Set it over a warm fire
and see what we can make
I don't usually follow recipes
I just let the flames blaze
Toss in a few spices
Rely on nose, fingertip, tongue, even eyeball
Crack my knuckles and dive in
blind-hoping it all comes together deliciously
And if not I'll eat it anyway
But for you...
I want to cook with some intentionality
I won't abandon my creative freedom
but I don't want to burn the rice as I sometimes do
I want you to eat and be satisfied
with hearty, love-filled, soul-feeding goodness
And I want you to know that this dish
was made just for you

pondering love

2010-02-10T11:13:00.001-08:00

So, bell hooks has some WISDOM on the subject of love in her (aptly titled) book, "all about love: new visions." I read it years ago, but this weekend I cracked her book open again and, wow, is all I can say. This woman breaks it all the way down to the ground, puts it back together and then breaks it down one more time.

Just one of the insights she shared that really resonated with me was this: "Commitment to truth telling lays the groundwork for the openness and honesty that is the heartbeat of love." How often do we put up fronts or wear masks in relationships, not just romantic ones but all of our significant relationships? But when we decide to allow ourselves to be ourselves and the other person accepts, even embraces and nurtures that, that's some deep stuff.

I think the commitment to truth telling starts within. You have to be honest with yourself about who you are, what your vulnerabilities are, what your flaws are and what makes you fabulous, what you like and what you hate, etc.

lumps and scars, part two

2010-02-01T09:32:00.000-08:00

i said i was still working on it. well, here's phase two. i've figured out now what this poem is about. like, i knew i was going somewhere with it, but to be honest, i wasn't sure where. haha. it sounds strange, i know. but anyhoo, i've added to it in light of this new perspective on the piece.

I've got lumps and I've got scars
and I've cried tears
and counted stars
and wished upon them
Seen them shooting across the sky while leaning against my love's chest
and I've plucked flower petals with bated breath
with faith to move mountains, and hope that their outcome would lead to love

I've got scars and I've got lumps
and I've run races
skipped and jumped
suppressing grunts and gasps and grumbles
Holding it all together, watching my faith crumble into smaller-than-mustard seed remnants of innocence
but balancing it all in my hands, cupping it closely like water

I'm Hope's daughter
and She reminds me that
these lumps and scars are warrior-markings
they make me beautiful
they are physical proof of my dutiful, diligent nature
that, when this part of me sleeps i can easily wake her
with my cry for freedom
my freedom song

I've come a long way, running through brick walls and scaling fences
pushing through brush, crawling through trenches
conditioning my muscles with this resistance
crying freedom in every instance where air fills my lungs

I've clung to this warrior identity
sustaining lumps and scars and cuts and bruises
holding mustard seeds and water in my hands
Because I know the Plan and I'm running after it
With all my strength

At a recent poetry joint a performer noted that she'd worked on one piece for two decades. Well, that's inspiring. Reminds me i can take my time and let my creative work product become what it will in its own due time, as long as i keep tending to it.

Where My Heart Is

2010-01-31T20:59:00.000-08:00

I've got this great book on memoir that my dear friend JC got me for my birthday (thanks, Jace!). One section asks the reader/writer: Where is home? The trick is, just write for 10 minutes or so and see what happens. Here's what I got:

Home is...

...a split level house in the South End of Seattle. It's that house on Christmas in 1988, filled with the scents of homemade food. My big brother is home from college. I'm seven, toothless, smiling, wearing ruffles, warm, watching my handsome uncles tease my lovely, elegant aunties. I'm listening to my mom's laughter travel from the kitchen to every other room in the house. I see my dad standing like a redwood. I hold my Gram's hand, comb my Mother Dear's hair.

Home is a two bedroom home in Holly Park, a public housing section of Seattle where my grandma Mother Dear cooked the best stew and grew the best greens and filled crossword puzzles, stitched quilts, collected bric a brac, watched Mr. Ed, made me eat a teaspoon of honey and lemon and a sprig of spearmint when I was sick. It's her big hands, her soft hair, her gentle laugh, her warm hug, her sweetness.

Home is a two story brick house where my grandma Gram welcomed everyone, young and old, to make themselves comfortable and at home. I have a room there in my pre-adolescent years and it's there where i feel safest to be curious, different, creative. My imagination flourishes there, under the shade of her crab apple tree and behind the old shed that leaned into itself, even in the dirt of her rickety red, falling-down hot house, or in the ocean deep puddles under the pear tree after the rain, in the wormy worlds of the flower bed.

Home is mom's apple tarts. Gram's peach cobbler. Mother Dear's cornbread. Dad's cinnamon lattes. I can replicate them just close enough to be reminded that I miss them.

Home is, funny enough, wherever I am writing--just me and my thoughts, maybe a sputtering espresso machine behind me, setting the tempo to the slide of ink over paper or the click-clack of computer key. It's wherever I am that allows me to look back and smile, to look forward and know that it'll be alright.

For anyone who feels so inclined, Where is home for you? I'd like to know!

Surf/Love Calls

2010-01-14T20:33:00.000-08:00

Snapshot moments have me riding serious waves
Boogy boarding
Hopin the dips and sways send me higher
Never down

But sometimes your choppy waters cut me cold
Slip salt into old wounds
They sting like new
Leave me gasping, gulping for air

I shake off dispair
But I consider swimming back to shore
I'm not too far out there just yet
I could make it home safely

Then I think of The Big One
This could be it!
The Big Air!

That wave that sends me high flyin
salt water kissing my face
making the wind whistle at us

I picture a smile, ocean deep eyes
And figure there's no harm in trying again
Just once more

Pray for L'Haiti

2010-01-13T19:36:00.000-08:00

I hope and pray that the Haitian people can receive the comfort and relief that they need right now. You can text YELE to 501501 to donate $5 to the earthquake disaster relief. Also, American Airlines is taking doctors and nurses to Haiti for free. Please call 212-697-9767. And a friend and trusted source highly recommends Partners in Health as a good organization to support as they send aid to Haiti. And if you do #Haiti on twitter, you'll find lots of stuff too.

As I work on the "Soul" section of my writing project, I have been doing more Bible study and reflection lately. So perhaps that's why in regards to Haiti, in addition to my heart just going out to the victims and survivors on a purely human level, so much is also on my mind about the disaster from a spiritual standpoint.

I recently read this passage in John where a man who has been blind since birth comes to Jesus and asks for healing, and receives his sight. There's actually a LOT going on in this passage but the thing that stuck out for me, and which applies to the Haiti disaster, is the fact that the disciples were stuck on one question about the guy: they wanted to know why this man was afflicted with his condition since birth. They wanted to know if his situation was the result of sin. This reminds me of Job's story--how all his homies came to console him after he lost his kids, his land, his animals, got sick, etc. Anyway they come to comfort him and end up just insinuating that he must have sinned against God, and that he should just get over with it by cursing God. Gee, thanks guys, that helps.

Now, 2010, enter Pat Robertson's judgemental ass and his cockamamey (excuse the spelling) rationale for why this disaster befell the Haitian people: he claims they made a deal with the devil a long time ago. Are you freaking kidding me?! Pat, you need to check yourself! Seriously. His response is sad, crazy, and sick. But so consistent, I guess, with the way human nature works a lot of the time. I think a lot of us do that on a smaller scale; we see someone who is down on their luck and we wonder what they must have done to get there. Perhaps this is just a natural response, but for me I'm going to try to focus instead on what I can do to help another person, rather than judging and assessing what they must have done wrong to deserve their circumstances. Cuz if that's the way things work--we're all in for it.

A comfort: God isn't like that. Yes, the Bible says that the wages of sin is death, and that sins get punished. But luckily, with God we have second chances and we have grace. Also luckily, Jesus was (and IS) about healing people, saving people, rather than condemning and persecuting. I'm still figuring a lot of stuff out about myself, my spirituality, religion, etc., but at least for the moment, I'm very comforted at that thought.

Again, I hope and pray that Haiti can find some comfort. Haiti, j'ai une coeur blesse pour vous.

Lumps and Scars

2010-01-02T18:11:00.000-08:00

Still working on this.

I've got lumps and I've got scars
and I've cried tears
and counted stars
and wished upon them
Seen them shooting across the sky while leaning against my love's chest
and I've plucked flower petals with bated breath
with faith to move mountains, and hope that their outcome would lead to love

I've got scars and I've got lumps
and I've run races
skipped and jumped
suppressing grunts and gasps and grumbles
Holding it all together, watching my faith crumble into smaller-than-mustard seed remmants of innocence
but balancing it all in my hands, cupping it closely like water

I'm Hope's daughter
and these lumps and scars are warrior-markings...

Still Writing...

2009-12-27T17:27:00.000-08:00

My outline for my "writing project" is materializing. This is a comfort. I have so many ideas about what I want to do, so many ideas that for a while the idea of actually sitting down and making some of those ideas real was a little overwhelming. I love how I am able to think myself into such a frenzy that it completely obliterates the action piece.

I have been primarily writing in an actual physical journal, hand to pen and pen to paper. It's the best way for me to write poetry. I've also been reading my old journals. I am so glad I kept them. There's some good stuff, both for comic relief and also because it's allowed me to step back in time and remember who I was. It's amazing how much of me was set in place at, say, age 9. I really had my writing voice at an early age.

This week I have off from work. I was supposed to be kickin it in NYC, but I came down with something nasty that kept me in the bed and off the plane. Because I wanted to be back home for New Years, I ended up just postponing my trip. I think it all worked out for the best, although I am terribly sad not to get to see my NY girls. I think it worked out because right now I probably just need to have an extended period of time to devote to writing, slowing my pace, and reflecting.

You don't have to eat the whole elephant in one sitting

2009-12-02T20:15:00.001-08:00

Cross posted from TheBlueprintChronicles blog.

So November was National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and there's this cool website where you can sign up and set out to write to your heart's contentment, with the goal of writing a 50,000 word novel by the end of the month.

I am thoroughly amazed/awestruck/inspired by/proud of my sister-friend, my homegirl, and one of my super duper bffs, Iquo. Like myself, she endeavored to take on the crazy NaNoWriMo project... and she did it! Knowing Iquo and what she's capable of, I know that she put it down and represented, and I'm uber excited to read the final product or one of the drafts leading thereto. It's gonna be awesome.

I, however, did not quite make it to 50,000... or even 10 percent of that. I got to a sweet little 3,700 words. But that's okay! Seriously!

I don't juxtapose Iquo to me in order to praise her and beat myself up or disparage the progress I did make. And this is why: you don't have to eat an elephant in one sitting. You can ziplock that sucker up, put it in the freezer, defrost it on setting 1, and eat it in normal, human sized servings over a reasonable course of time (sorry, vegetarians and PETA people!). I am super proud of my friend, but I'm also proud of myself: proud for moving forward in the direction of my goal.

My BPC goal, by the way, is to write a book that merges my writing passions with my personal story, some of which I've shared and other bits of which I will probably share in future posts. I want to write about identity and spirituality. I want to write about loss. I want to write about love. I also want to write about other women's/girls' stories that I find particularly moving and incorporate those in as fiction. I may even want to get some co-contributors. I mean, this thing just keeps growing and growing. That's why I am currently calling it a "writing project" rather than assigning it to any specific genre of writing in order to allow myself the freedom to figure out where it's all going.

This project may end up with me writing two books--one that I develop solo style, another that tells our collective story through multiple writers' voices. It is certainly an evolving idea. I have to shout out my BPC crew for supporting me as I have voiced a bit of frustration with not knowing exactly what it's going to look like in the end. They pointed out that sometimes writing-- just by nature of the creative process-- just takes on a life of its own, and you have to be flexible enough to allow that.

That said, I'm currently working on creating a clear action plan to help anchor all my free, pie-in-the-sky type writing into a realistic goal. I need to nail down something that I can do in a one year timeframe so that I don't find myself stuck with three elephants to eat in two days.

So, I'm working on the plan, and in the mean time, I'm writing. 30 words here, 250 there, 3,700 one month, 15,000 the next--it'll happen!

Want Ad

2009-11-22T09:16:00.000-08:00

THROWBACK!

I wrote this a few years ago but really feel its relevance today. By that I mean I've been having a lot of conversations lately about what's really important in life--be it in the context of career, family, friendships, romantic relationships, lifestyle, etc. I guess this poem touches on that theme, "What's really important?" and answers the question as relates to me. Here she goes...

I’m looking for a walking partner
Not someone to cover mud puddles
Or push me forward
Or pull me back
Or talk my ear off w/ sweet nothings
Nothing like that
No
Just a partner to walk
Through the grass with
To sit on damp soil that soaks through back pockets
And breathe in the smell of wet, algae covered rock, bamboo, and yes, the occasional ducks’ droppings
And to laugh at how pleasant these strange things can be
When they evoke memories
Of spreading bread crumbs
And eating popsicles
And collecting dirty feathers and ugly sea shells and lake pebbles and earthworms
Someone who will point to a turtle peeking out of the water and into the world above his cool hiding place
And who will smile as if it’s the first time ever a turtle has done this
And who will smile at me as if it’s the first time ever I have sat with him
Although we sit together all the time
Whenever we walk together
Someone looking for a weather ready walking routine
Come rain or shine
Who will be all mine
Yet his own
And who will know that we are God’s even before we are each other’s
Not just anyone will do
I know there are plenty of folks who
Can walk
But I want, I need
A walking partner whose hand mine fits in perfectly

Girl Woman Soul

2009-11-20T00:06:00.000-08:00

This is the poem that will open my book (Copyright Kia Franklin 2007):

Girl Woman Soul

Little girl
You are beautiful
You must find hope in that
Your mind is rich, your heart is deep
And yes, your skin is black

Woman-girl
You are a gem
A precious, precious, thing
Don’t lose sight of who you are
or let go of your dream

Young lady
Who did you want to be?
Don’t you know you can become it?
What happened to your innocence?
Did you lose it or run from it?

Young woman
It is now your time
To see You for yourself
To question those who question you
To own your life, your wealth

Dear soul
You are a child of God
and part of his design
Can’t you see it coming to
a clear-intentioned line?

Don’t let your fears of greatness
Leave you timid, quiet, dim,
Brighten up and do your thing
Find your strength in Him!

Be the change you want to see
Be the light you are
Be the black and midnight sky
that holds the brightest star

Little baby, little girl, young woman,
Dear sweet soul
You’re brilliant, you’re beautiful
Go let the whole world know!

C West's new book, More on Dreams, Freestyle Poem

2009-11-18T23:13:00.001-08:00

bought dr. cornel west's new memoir and attended his book signing tonight. i like that brother's spirit. something about him. i was reading the chapter he wrote about his father's passing and thinking about how universal certain human experiences are, and how powerful it can be to read/hear another person's account of one of those experiences if you've also been through it. well, of course no two people have the exact same experience-but it's still something when they share their perspective and you really connect at certain points. i truly think that is what i'm searching for, searching to be able to do, in my writing. i ain't no cornel west, but i think he reminded me that if i have a story to tell, i should tell it, and maybe it'll resonate with someone else.

as i mentioned before, after i opened up pandora's box and declared my willingness to just take in my dreams and let them lead me where they want me to go, i have been having all these crazy dreams. the great thing about all of it is that it has made me think back to certain formative life experiences and it has compelled me to start writing about them. so i'm just going to keep working on telling my story and writing out my dreams, and we'll see where it takes me. let's try that now with a free-write poem. work in progress, y'all. work, in, progress.

this girl/woman/soul
closes her eyes and finds a quiet space
tells her mind to slow its race
and listen to itself for a minute

this girl/woman/soul dreams dreams
and it seems
that they're made of words, love, pain, and all types of things
things that have just been sittin here waiting
for my arms to take them in
for my mind to stop debating
to acquiesce
for me to just say yes to the true parts of me
close my eyes and blind faith leap into a future that, though hard to see,
is there
waiting for me to share this with the world
feed the soul, hug the woman, and protect the little girl
that i am
that we are

we girls/women/souls
we dream dreams and make plans and try to make ourselves whole once again
and, me, with my pen i sew stitches
mend rips and tears
with my pen i scratch itches
that agitate my creativity
and blot my tears
that open up new identities
and clot the fears that be flowin through my psyche some time
with my pen i write rhymes and gibberish
profundities and frivolities and whatever else i wish

with my pen i dream dreams
for my soul for my sanity
with my pen i reach out and touch my own humanity
uncover my own vanity, my ego, insecurities
dig it all out deep and clear out the impurities
cuz no there ain't no sureties but this i know for certain
this pen is my blanket that i snuggle when i'm hurting
when i'm workin it all out this lifetime
it helps me dream dreams and shine lights so i can find my lifeline
and keep a goin
me, this girl woman soul
that's what i'm knowin
so that's what i'm going to do
just keep dreaming and keep writing and keep being...

Excerpts from my writing project

2009-11-12T21:10:00.000-08:00

As part of the NaNoWriMo thing, my goal is to write 50,000 words. So far I have a grand total of 1300. Yes, as in less than 3 percent of my goal at more than 30% of the way through the timeline. But also, as in more than 0 percent with more than 50% of the timeline to go... thankyouveryMUCH!

Anyway, I thought it would be cool to share little excerpts from time to time of what I'm writing, so here goes... a piece from a section I'm writing On Dreams (inspired by the strange and vivid dreams I've been having and the dream-centered conversations I keep finding myself drawn into):

Dreams from my Mothers.

My mother's mother, Gram, always said she never had any dreams. She always told me that all of her life she could never remember having one single dream. And she wished she could.

Then, one day, when I was in my early twenties and she in her early eighties, I called her to say hi and she told me that it finally happened. She had dreamt something! She spoke with such excitement in her voice, like a schoolgirl who finally got her period or had a first kiss. There was a beautiful innocence that came forth in the way she spoke, and even though I was 3,000 miles away I could see the light in her tea-colored eyes, her apple cheekbones rising high and beautiful above her smile. I could hear, alongside her melodic, slightly-Southern accented voice, the smile on her brown face.

I can't remember the details of her dream, although she did tell me. And now that she has left this world I can't ask her to recall the dream for me. But that's less important than the joy of hearing her tell it, connecting with her on such a simple, but significant level. I'll never forget how it felt to be able to share that with Gram.

My mother, she dreamed all the time. And often she would dream out loud. She told me about the beautiful house she wanted, the places she wanted to go, the things she wanted to do, her dreams for me, her dreams for my brother and his family. She told me about dreams she had as a girl, some of which she had to put on hold in order to embrace adult responsibilities. She spoke without much bitterness about dreams she'd had snatched away from her by inequities like sexism and racism--dreams deferred by life's reality.

One dream my mom always had was to go to Paris. She had wanted to go since she was a teenager. After battling cancer for seven years, obtaining her master's degree and teaching certificate, raising two children and practically raising many others, my mom finally decided that Paris could no longer wait.

It was the year 2000. I was an adult: I was 18. So in my view we were going to be two women out in the world, exploring Paris, la ville d'amour. She booked a ticket for herself and one for me. The flight was a mother-daughter slumber party in the air. We watched a ballet movie (which was perfect because she had been a dancer in her twenties), chatted, read magazines, giggled, and planned out the fabulous time we would have together.

We arrived at Charles de Gaulle airport and people were smoking inside the building, talking loudly on cell phones, rushing around. We just looked around and clung to each other so as not to get separated. Looking back now, and after having lived in New York City, this makes me smile.

Another thing I remember was that as soon as we stepped off the plane we noticed that there were black people there from all over the world, in all types of traditional and Western dress. We marveled at this. Even though we both knew that Paris was a major metropolitain city where the African diaspora was represented in full effect, it was one thing to know it and another thing altogether to see it.

We got in a taxi and noted the fact that it, and many of the other taxis on the road, was a Benz (owning a Benz was another one of my mom's dreams, but she always complained that my dad was too cheap). We arrived at our hotel and discovered that the star system wasn't quite the same in Europe. The hotel was crappy. But it would do, because we weren't planning on sticking around our room for long. The bathtub was great, and the restaurant across the street was delicious in an unassuming, Parisian street cafe type of way, so we were happy.

The trip lived up to our expectations. It was truly one of the best memories of my life. My mom was a better storyteller than I am, so I wish she were here to tell it from her perspective. I'm sure she'd tell how she felt to see the German men hitting on her little girl. She was horrified and I found it absolutely hilarious, and of course, I didn't mind the positive feedback!

She would probably tell about our snooty waiter, who wouldn't give us what we wanted and then snatched the money out of my mom's hand, compelling me to start screaming at the top of my lungs, "Ne touche pas ma mere!" I was livid and seriously ready to go to blows with the man. But later on that night we cracked up about the whole thing.

She would also probably tell about our experience at a random nightclub, where we danced to Eminem with two men, I think they were Senegalese, and their ages were probably smack square in the middle of ours. We couldn't stop laughing at the fact that were were dancing together, to Eminem, at a nightclub, in Paris, with men who were way too young for her and way too old for me. I can still see her face and the disco lights and our purple and pink clothing. I'm smiling right now at the thought of it.

There is one moment I regret from the trip. We were walking down a crowded street. I can't recall what famous landmark we were visiting. Was it Champs-Elysees? I don't remember. But my mom reached out to grab my arm and I snatched it away from her with unnecessary force. I don't know if I felt like she was crowding me, babying me, or what. When I saw her reaction, the pure hurt on her face... if I could take that moment away I would do so in a heartbeat.

Speaking of snatching, I feel like my mom was snatched away from me. Like we were deprived of the time to dream out loud together, to live more dreams together, to make mistakes and hurt each others' feelings and then mvoe on together. When she died, I was 21. I had canceled my Paris Study Abroad plans against her wishes, because something inside me told me I needed to be close to home. Something inside me knew the cancer had returned, even though she wanted to keep this fact a secret from me. I feel like mom had more dreams to make; decades of new firsts to experience and share.

I feel cheated, but then I remember that no one is guaranteed time. I don't know when my last chance will be to strike pen against paper and write out my own dreams, revisit fond memories or imagine new realities for myself. So I really can't say that I was cheated, that I was entitled to any more time with her, that I'm entitled to tomorrow for that matter.

But my mom, sometimes I see her in my dreams. Sometimes the dreams are amazing, like when I'm soaring over ice-blue water and she's with me, although I can't see her, right by my side. And we're laughing in pure bliss. Sometimes the dreams are traumatic, like when I am transported back to the day of her death.

Dreams are a wonderful reminder that we are alive. You have one, and then you are kicked back into consciousness, and then you are able to reflect on what just happened and figure out if it applies to your reality. My mom did this both awake and asleep. That's just one lesson I've learned from her.

Encouraged and motivated

2009-11-11T11:42:00.000-08:00

Much kudos to my Aunty Sarah for finishing the manuscript for her book!!! I am reading it right now and so happy for her and proud of her. This is encouraging and inspiring!

This exciting news has come at a good time for me as I work on my own writing project. Right now I'm doing some memory-based writing because I've been having these vivid dreams that have made me realize I need to look back a little. It has been, to say the least, difficult. See this post on TBC that gives a little more detail. At the same time that I know I need to do it, the struggle involved with confronting some memories is so heavy that the result has been some serious foot-dragging on my part.

But a wise woman once said: "writing is the act of reaching across the abyss of isolation to share and reflect." I think that's an important act, for the writer and the audience. I think it's worth the struggle. So, today is a holiday, and I'm sitting at home with the t.v. off, no distractions. And with this little nudge from my aunt, I'm going to do some thangs today on the writing front.

That's it for now! Time to get to work...

A novel in a month--is you crazy?

2009-11-02T23:46:00.001-08:00

So I'm doing the National Novel Writing Month contest. AlligatorLegs inspired me to do it, and the BluePrintChronicles project is reinforcing the importance of this decision. Like many of us, I have so much creative energy but I somehow keep finding ways to neglect it. No more. I'm writing and that's that.

I'm going to start off by going back through all the poetry and short stories and essays I have accumulated over the years. It's scary to think about it, but I literally have a decade's worth of creative writing stored and filed around me, just sitting there gathering dust. The vast majority of it may very well be patently bad writing. But I KNOW, from the rush I get from a well written or well performed poem, from the positive feedback of well-regarded peers and mentors, and from... just my core, that some of it is good and worthy of sharing with others.

Who knows what that means, to share it with others. It may be on this blog. It may just be on the NaNoWriMo website. Who knows? But God willing, I'm writing something significant in November 2009, the month and year that marks my 28th year on this planet. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

Here's a little something:

I am an artist
I am and art is
A risk to take
a fist to shake at convention
Politics
Romance
Reinvention
What is art if not the heart blood?
If not the spark plug,
If not the nutrients pulled from the roots of our imagination,
If not self-discovery,
A pointing finger,
Lingering inches from the world’s third eye
Pressing and pushing,
demanding the why’s, how’s, and what’s?
What is art?
Art is what I am
I am an artist
Is art an eye, looking into the inner workings of humanity?
Is it still art if it’s profanity?
Shit, I don’t know
But why can’t it be?
Art
My alm, my balm, my psalm, my sanity
Cuz art just is and so
an Artist is me
or what I will grow to be
Some day

art

2009-10-31T09:07:00.000-07:00

Did you know jazz could dance?
and poetry could sing
and music could paint pictures and bring
brilliant color to a still life black and white?
Have you seen brown arms waving stories into the night
writing memories in the sky?
In my mind’s eye
It all comes together
And tastes like cinnamon and curry
Smells like mint leaves and shea butter
Feels warm, soft, strong, like an un-ripened plum
Sounds like water
Looks like beauty
It is simply and truly
Art

grief

2009-10-31T00:53:00.000-07:00

dark waters bubble and mix
weigh bright eyes heavy
dim their fire
warm within like humid, april air in ghana
thick and uneasy
cool outside like still, stale november chills in seattle
where's my quiet warming?

the stuff of dreams

2009-10-28T23:56:00.000-07:00

so, a group of friends and i have formed a small group to encourage each other and be resources to one another as we seek to identify and accomplish an ambitious goal. (then we created a blog about it. wanna see it? here it goes.)

at the time of posting this, the front page of that blueprint chronicles blog has my most recent contribution. writing that post took forever. i was whizzing on through, writing about dreams and dreaming and dreaminess, all of that good stuff, when all of a sudden i came upon the part where i had to write about my own darn dreams, and that's where it all seemed to come to a stand still.

for one thing, in that post i opened up about the fact that i've been having these dreams lately in which i see my parents. either i'm interacting with them or they are away from me and i just see them from afar, or something. this is a very weird experience for me, seeing them in my dreams and then waking up to the reality of their absence. i won't get into all of that too much more. that post can be read here.

all this talk of dreams has me re-reading robin d g kelley's book, freedom dreams: the black radical imagination. it also has me looking back at old journal entries in which i recorded my dreams. boy, i tell you, some of them are pretty heavy. but since i've already done heavy for the day (or maybe the week), here's something lighter: a poem i wrote after meeting someone who ended up being in my life for a while. he and i had a 6-hour-long conversation sitting outside my dorm room at howard u., in the middle of the night. i walked into my room, saw that the sun was up, sat down, and wrote this, among a few other pieces:

last night i sat awake and dreamed
that i could capture my feelings into a sweet pill
enrapture you in the sweet thrill of my emotions
i dreamed i made a potion for you to drink
that would anchor your heart and sink it
to the bottom of your shoe
weighing you in love for me
could this be?

it's a little cheesy maybe, but aw, i think that's sweet. i wrote it september 28 2001... over 8 years ago! wow, time is something else. i hope my friend is doing well these days.

poetry, oh how i miss thee (and other random things)

2009-10-21T00:54:00.000-07:00

so this is a very random post, but i haven't been posting lately so i thought i'd just jump on in. i have also neglected poetry lately, and plan to return home tomorrow by either a) spending some quality time with a pen and pad, b) spending some quality time at the spitfire spoken word/open mic joint, or c) both. will follow up on the blog about that afterwards.

so here are some updates. first, i started working a new gig, something i really like and will discuss in further detail in the near future, God willing. i also took on a new personal project with some girlfriends--a goals/support group that involves doing big things and chronicling our process of goal-achievement. it's pretty dern awesome, 'f I do say so mu'self. check that out at The Blueprint Chronicles Blog. we just got started a few days ago so you have time to catch up. it's sure to be a heck of a ride. i will be blogging tomorrow at noon, pacific time, fyi.

and what else is going on? well, i'm preparing for what is traditionally a tough portion of the year for me--november. my birthday is the 4th, and i usually am very intentional about celebrating life and giving thanks for it on that day, but i also always miss my mom, and now my dad, on that day. also november marks the 7th anniversary of my mom's passing away and thanksgiving, a holiday for which family is the centerpiece. i put all of this out there not for sympathy, but more for prayers, and also as a way to acknowledge the challenges to come but remind myself that that's all they are: inevitable challenges that i'll get through and be ok afterward. we all have those.

somehow it all goes back to the garden, lately. it's like this: i planted some bulbs the other day, beating the fall frost by just a few days. anticipating the days where i'll potentially be hit by grief, acknowledging that, and deciding to look ahead to the days afterward is kind of like that. i know better stuff will come along in the future. and i also don't know just how frosty the frost will be. who knows? maybe seattle will see a little taste of some more warm weather before we jump into the cold and rain that makes us appreciate our beautiful summers so much. either way, there shall be tulips this march. and there will be poetry tomorrow. and there will be sleep tonight!

Happy Birthday CJ!

2009-10-18T10:44:00.000-07:00

Happy birthday to Clarence in Africa! Love and miss you! You are my brother from another mother. Speaking of which, I stole your phone number from your mom :) Be blessed today. Hugs.

Diaspora Man

2009-10-12T13:12:00.000-07:00

This is something I wrote about 5 years ago after a seriously eye opening conversation with someone who ended up becoming a good friend of mine. Although clearly I was crushing on him a little at the time I wrote this! This is the first half of the poem. I gotta board my flight back home, will finish up when I return. But I wanted to put something out there after my extended absence from the blogosphere. Peace!

Warm brother smothers me with poetry like prose
His locks, his cloths, his whole being just flows with music
And I could listen to it intro to bonus track
A creative opus that got me leaning my head back

Diaspora man can I touch foreign lands with you?
Speaking of travel, could I maybe hold hands with you?
In other words, fly me to the moon
Where we'll sing songs of revolution set to the jazzy tune of my heart
In other words, their in the tune of this art form
Sung smooth and low so they slowly make my heart warm

Like ripe mango on African fruit stands and loving smiles
Like a lazy afternoon that got me Dizzy runnin Miles from my cares
Of all the pairs of eyes I've met this lifetime
I've never seen two so different and yet so like mine...

(More to continue... thanks for reading!)