April 22nd, 2021: The Journal Entry Series

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Worry. It has been one of my biggest enemies for as far back as I can remember. Since the time when I was a six year old latch-key kid coming in from school, and waiting for Mama to arrive from work. The window by the front door was where I used to post up, if even she were running a minute behind her usual time. The tears I cried were the fuel of my anxiety. I say, "God is working on me," in regards to why, some thirty-eight years later, I am still battling the same old spirit. It could easily be excused while still in childhood. No one expects you to know better. What about now though? Why has it not yet left me? Why do I continuously find myself holding close companionship with something that, if allowed its way, would kill me? 

 My imagination takes me away. I see freedom in the form of a beautiful butterfly. From the wide expanse of it's wings with their colorful skin crowned in captivating glory; no one would ever know that they came from a dark hollowed shell. Before their freedom, in fact, they were trapped, not just in the transformation shell, but inside a limited body, and under a different name. Yes, worry has entrapped me; prevented me from flying to my fullest potential. I can only wish to be inside the transformation shell now that I've not only entered adulthood, but have been a resident for many years. But worry has me stuck inside the limited caterpillar's body, and only able to crawl along at a snail's pace to freedom. 

 One day though, those wings that I hope for, will be more than just apart of a mental fantasy. They will be real; acquired, mine to keep. One day those wings will help me defeat this life-long enemy, and then I will truly be free.

A Simple Mundane Life

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Words on paper. Those are as solid as one can be.  A real reflection of what is in our hearts.  Things we trouble ourselves to talk about.  They are as committed to the author as one would be in marriage. These words come alive, and can surpass in breath even the writer who scripted them.

If blissful ignorance were a place, I would buy property there, and build a vacation home.  Because, while knowledge is indeed powerful, some of it can be the anchor which holds the learner under water, leaving them to drown in their sorrows.

The "information highway" reaches speeds past that of sound, past the light reflected off the sun and onto the objects which wait for its shine. Last week, last month, last year; this week, this month, this year. We move in a circle of stuff some of us did not ask to know.  Our muscles hurt.  There is simply too much to carry, and we have no more room to shift their weight.

I understand now why, as we age, we move more toward wanting a simple mundane life.  Its the great expectation of waking up every morning and knowing what is going to happen with no unwelcomed surprises. Life starts, and it seems we are so willing to explore all the possibilities it can bring.  The world is full with oyster pearls, and we believe we can gather more than our portion's share.  Then, the reality of being a "responsible adult" hits, and we begin the process of second guessing our choices, climb onto our circular-shaped stones, and begin our journey down hill.

Yes, it can very much look like a dark future to look forward to, but it doesn't have to be. There are resting places along the way.  We need those in order to regroup, and build strength in order jump back on our circular stones, and keep riding the never-ending hill of waves.

It is a challenge indeed, while riding those waves, to long for a resting place that seems all too far away. I find myself stealing away moments to rest, while at the same time making moves to emulate an undeterred champion. This works for those who are watching. It makes it look as though I am rooted in strength, not because it is what I am feeling, but for those who need to see that picture to prevent them from worrying, I am glad to paint it. Yet, I wonder, just how long this strong tower image will hold up? Because, I am certainly not a strong tower on the inside.  This is the place only visible in part by me, and in full view to the Creator.

The tower is crumbling, not because it only holds up under the right circumstances, like those of many others, but because the consistent pressure of the weight being stacked high upon its head, has been sitting there far too long. It is trying to do a new thing with old tools, drawing from old resources for a new reality, and wondering if the two will ever meet in perfect harmony. 

There is hope still.  One which never leaves, but resides well with me and those who refuse to allow living drive the life right out of us. We look to it in order to find peace enough to sleep at night. Solace is found within dreams and visions.  They craft a clear picture of God's voice, which in the noise of the business from the day, can go unheard. He leans in to the level of our understanding and assures us that our hope is not in vain.

Mundane, in the dictionary, is defined as both dull and lacking excitement, as well as being "of this earthly world rather than a heavenly or spiritual one."  To me, it can be a place we run to when we grow old, or a place we run from while we are still young. Either way, we understand the meaning of its purpose most deeply during the quiet stillness of our journey. It is an oxymoron, in that it can be both good and bad; confined to the fear of it in our former years, and escaping in it while we wait for these temples made of dirt to pass away.

Living Ashes

Sometimes we can get caught off guard by how unbearingly unbearable this life thing can really be. I was amazed at how quickly I spiraled in what is to me, one of the most cleansing sanctuaries I hold very dear.

Despite the fact that I may have undiagnosed OCD, because my obsession with cleanliness is bordering on unhealthy, I feel my shower to be the place where I can completely unwind, and clean not only my exterior, but experience the deep inward flow of cleansing from the inside, through song, prayer & meditation. 

 My family and I just came off of an exhilarating high. I say that because this weekend was our first time going our separate ways, and enjoying the individuality of who we are as single units (who are still very much apart of a bonded whole). My mother-in-law and I are unlike most I know, in the fact that we do actually get along. Not only do we get along, but in the twenty-two years I have been married to her son, she and I have developed such a closeness to where she is one of my best friends. We spent the whole weekend shopping, eating, sipping wine (well me, not she), and watching movies to fall asleep to. These are a few of our favorite things.

My plan had been to get away and make up for the times we had not been able to go out and do those things when she last came to visit. It was a welcomed escape, because it meant I would spend less time worrying about my youngest son who was driving out of town with his new girlfriend for the first time, my oldest, who was playing in a football league amidst the pandemic (and still refuses to take the vaccine), and my husband who drove out of town using my car (my other baby), with a heavy foot and eagerness to speed (help me Jesus). It worked. My plan that is. 

Singing in the shower ,to one of Kirk Franklin's up-beat contemporary gospel songs, and in the midst of "Smile"-ing right along with the words coming out of the speaker from my iPhone; I was hit with the dreaded feeling of helplessness, which comes along with sorrow, and swings hands as they take a slow "romantic" stroll across your heart. 

 April 2nd was the day, two years ago, my Daddy left this world and moved to the next. Normally, I would post a tribute to him, on my social media accounts, to honor his memory, but this year, I just couldn't do it. One of the hardest things in the world is bearing the weight of one's grief. It gets so heavy, at times I have set it down, turn away and not look at it, yet knowing it is still there. 

I still have Daddy's ashes with me. Although, in the Catholic faith, everyone who professes to be apart of this church must be buried. But my father was not Catholic (nor am I). He made that very clear. Yes, he believed in God, just not the strict traditions practiced by that particular faith. The priest presiding over his funeral told me that I must promise to bury him in order for him to perform the service. There was a desperateness in my answer. I knew there would be no one else I could find to perform Daddy's funeral just before it was set to start, first because I had no clue of who to reach out to in the sticks of Crowley, Louisiana, and second, because my family had put an astronomical amount of pressure on me to see to it he was buried in the catholic way. My answer was yes. I have to admit though, I broke the promise, & lied to the priest. 

The truth is, at that time, I didn't know what I'd do with Daddy's ashes. One thought was to bury him in Ft. Worth, because it was a place he held dear to his heart. Yet, it has been two years, and he's still here with me. To be honest, the longer I keep him, the more difficult it becomes to let him go. There is a sense of comfort in knowing my Daddy is close by. I pass his ashes daily on my way out the door. A part of me is in that box with him. Just like a part of him walks with me out the door. 

Sometimes, in passing, I accidentally bump the cabinet where he resides, and the door hiding his ashes pops open. These are when the dread of his absence is reborn. I can't explain the sudden shift, but when it happens, when the door is open even just a crack, the rush of grief I battle to keep at bay takes over. It is a puncturing wound filled with salt. I am weakened then, and racing out of my own head to find some sort of strength. I wonder now, if that door had been cracked open while I was still in the shower? 

In grief, we somehow manage to be among the living, while at the same time floating above ourselves as if to escape life itself. You hear the goings on around you, but only as if from a great distance away. You know the world still turns, even as you feel cemented in one place. 

Time does not heal the wounds. It only makes their weight lighter to bear, like a scab over a knife cut. Even when the wound fully heals, the scar left behind reminds you that your hurt is still there. Daddy's ashes are a comfort, and they are my scars. It may hurt to remember, but I never want to forget.

The Golden Obstacle

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Oh sweet golden one he is

Or who he’s said to be

He acts as though

He wants not the center 

Of attention 

That he so diligently seeks

Could it be the fond reminders

Of what life used to be?

That brings him back

To a place where ”he”

Is all they could ever see?

No!

No.... Not him,

He holds no claim to arrogance

Nor does he live in doubt

That everyone’s feigned attention 

Is what he can live without

It does not matter

If it’s real

So long as he can be

The place where their devotion 

Lies, 

Pouring over in loving streams

To be the obstacle 

Of his own delusions,

Not soon realizing 

He doesn’t hold the axis

Of which their world does spin

Too busy looking inward

To be aware of the reality he’s standing in

All things great or small

Seem to point back to him

In his mind

What other way is there to be?

A golden obstacle 

Has been his crown

Holding too tightly for release

The Leaning Post

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 Today, in church, I witnessed something few of us pay attention to. The weight of burden on my pastor’s shoulders had come to the point of almost unbearable. It was a gut-wrenching blow to my consciousness to see the man we all lean on for strength and council, plus constant encouragement, be broken in that manner.

My mind raced with thoughts of what it was I could do. Pray, was what he asked of us, and yes, I could most certainly do that.

I reflected on these past few months after losing my job, and going through my own personal struggles in life. I saw how when my son was in trouble, after his father and I did our part to help bring him out of it, the next person we thought to lean on was our pastor; my son included.

When I went to him, he smiled, and made himself available to my son, fully expecting for him to do his part and reach out to him, so he could be there. He says these things not just in word, but I have seen with my own eyes how he’s made himself available to myself and my family, counseling us whenever we need. And what have we done? That was my question. What have we done to help carry the weight of the load on this one man’s shoulders?

I racked my brain through the years that my family and I have been members of this church. Sure, we helped and paid our tithes, but were our efforts enough? Because if that were true, why is it that we still allow for him & his family to carry the bulk of the load?

On the drive home, I was hit with a vision of a leaning post. This was how I imagined my pastor must have felt on that pulpit, pouring his heart out to us. Every day people pass by a leaning post expecting it to do its job with no thanks (or even help) required. And every day, that post is just where it is expected to be, doing the job it is expected to do, never bending under the pressure, and most certainly will not break. At least that’s what others think.

Sometimes we forget, our pastors are people too. Commissioned for a great assignment, yes, but still in need of lifting up just as we do.

 The Leaning Post

Set in the middle

Of a busy passage way 

Was a post 

Built solely for the purpose

For which those who grew weary 

Could lean

Daily they passed him

By-and-by

Using him to ease their pain

And bring comfort to their many aches

Always pulling

The strength from his strength 

Taking from him for themselves 

All there was for them to take

The reliable leaning post

Never gave in

Not once bending

Under the stress of their weight

Even as chips of his luster 

Over time

Began to fade away

Often over used

But rarely ever not needed

He weathered all storms 

Looking all but worn

Save those chips from his paint

Which patterned with age

As time moved on

The people, they watched & watched

As those chips took form

Waiting for him to give way

Yet, something in him, they could not see

Prevented the leaning post

From shattering 

Under the depths of all their weight

He was anchored down

Roots bearing deep 

Deep into the solid ground

Streams of power chords

Running through his veins

They reached up

All the way up

To the source of Light

Shining at the head of his base

It wasn’t until 

The earth came alive

And one day began to shake

The leaning post rooted

So deeply and still

Could not stand 

Under its ravenous quake

When all things were cleared

And folks came back 

To meet in the street

The old leaning post

They saw, what was to be

The oddest sight they’d ever seen

The leaning post

Which each depended on

Had itself began to lean

They all looked around 

Wondering how

He would get back to 

Giving them a place

To lean

One by one

All went on home

Until the street

Where the old leaning post

Now, himself leaned, 

Became empty 

Save for the lone post

Being all that there was to be seen

Returning with tools of their own

To rebuild his towering strength 

Each person worked diligently

Until his paint shined 

With a lustrous sheen 

Together they toiled

Helping the post stand up tall

And polishing the outer layer 

Until the leaning post

No longer leaned 

Thank you Pastor, for being our leaning post.

More Than the Sum of A Few Chosen Parts

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A friend of mine recently posted on social media something that triggered a memory for me; more so, a thought which used to cross my mind back when I was in school as a student, and then as a teacher. 

I used to wonder why during Black History Month we were only taught one part of our history. I wondered why “they” only shined us in the light of slavery, and not much else. 

Everything we did was born from it, as if that part of our past was where we started. I remember how, as a teacher, it used to piss me off to read all of the richness in our history through my own research, and then see a minute part of that in our school books. Even in seeing the part outside of slavery, those things were “conveniently” left out of the curriculum. Glazed over as if they had never happened. 

What’s worse, is eventually, at least in my particular school district, the curriculum had moved so far away from studying Black History, the students didn’t even know there was a month to celebrate it. My heart was broken the day I was asked by one of my students, “What’s Black History Month?” It was a punch in the gut to know the contributions we gave to the building of this nation, had once again become a non-factor in the minds of our future generations. One which risked being passed down through time to those who choose to repeat history instead of learning from it.

I am of the mind where everyone’s history should be celebrated, and not just in a month which happens to be the shortest one of the year. History is being made all around us. It is a 365 day a year job. No one race should dominate the statutes of its making because no one race is responsible for it alone. 

 To leave any one race out of the making of history, whether it be good or even bad, is to do a disservice to the citizens of the world. Don’t hide the shame; expose it for what it is. Don’t hog the glory, because you are pirating that which rightfully belongs to someone else. A full cover-up of true events can only be masked for so long before it all gets exposed as lies. 

History, up until this point, has been full of lies. White-washed, and hidden to save face for those who took part in its painful and vile operations. This month the nation celebrates what black people know should be recognized all year round. 

Pay attention to the facts you learn, and even as the Bible states, research those facts for yourself. Learn what truly happened & use the knowledge to go forward and do better. Learn that this world cannot function on the sum of a few parts, but only on the contribution of all working together, do we succeed. 

 

Children of Man

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Last night, in the kitchen with my oldest son, I realized for the first time all of the emotions my mother fought so hard to get me to understand back when I was his age.

Life is truly a balance when you become a parent. You want to see your children experience all of the good, give them all of the best gifts, and protect from any harm you ever personally knew, plus more. Yet, you also want to prepare them for the fact that the harshness in reality is very true, and in your raising process, you hope to armor them enough to withstand it. 

Like me, my oldest sees the conditions in which he feels we allow for our younger son to take advantage. Also like me, my eldest feels that it is his place to vocalize his objections in the way we parent.  He does this with full intention of what he feels he is offering us in the manner of help, but not realizing that as the actual "experienced" parents in the household, we know what we are doing, as well as what we deal with.

In my late teens, and early twenties, I consistently filled my mother's ear with how lazy and selfish my younger sister was.  Being that I was her sister, I thought it gave me every right to make judgements on how my mother should raise, and respond to her. In the heart of my thinking, I felt I had every right because, I mean hey, I was her sister, and the only one who loved her as much as my mother did....

I was so wrong.

Its funny how, when we enter adulthood, we come with the mentality of a know-it-all, and nothing anyone else says, or does, can convince us different. Life has a way of circling back though.  It will push the reality of truly not knowing a thing about it, without experience, in your face with a vengeance.

In the kitchen, as I sat and listened to my son complain about his little brother, and tell me how we allow for him to take advantage of us, for a moment, I was my mother.... Hurt. Not from feeling taken advantage of, but from someone outside of me and my husband's two-parent arena, speaking poorly about our child. 

When it comes down to it; no matter what they do, your children will always hold a place in your heart few can only dream to touch.  There is love, indeed, to be shared with everyone, but the type of love for a child runs well past the one you have for sister or brother.  It is one which will have you risking hell and high water to see them provided for, and safe. One which can only be compared in a much smaller sense, to God's love for us. It never ends, it never fails, is long-suffering, and will never give up the hope that what has been invested will yield a great return.

That is how my mother sees my little sister, and hearing me say anything derogatory about her, pained her heart, just as it did mine when I listened to my older son in the kitchen last night. 

As a parent, I would love to teach my children, and have them learn about life the easy way.  I would love for them to take what my husband and I have to say from experience, then go out and make better choices as a result. But, what I've learned in living, is that there is no better teacher than life itself. It is only through experience we gain the 20/20 hindsight we all long to see. 

I've given up trying to make my children understand what it is to be a parent.  I will even have to take a backseat on trying to make them see what it means to be an adult. Those things will come eventually.  They will each have their day in the kitchen with their own sons or daughters.  The light will come on inside their heads, their hearts will ache for the sake of their seed, and their eyes will open to the words repeatedly preached to them by each of their parents. 

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Wow!  Thank you Mama.... You put up with stubborn old me.