I Am His Strength Made Perfect

Before I could open my eyes good, You were there to greet me. Good morning, God. "You are weak," You said. I had been trying not to deal with it. It wasn't that You called me weak, you were only reminding me what someone else said. And those words had been silently taunting me since they were spoken. Some things roll right off my shoulder but something about that opinion caused me pause. Am I weak? I pondered. What do you believe? You asked.

In times past when faced with these daunting questions about myself, I would automatically start sifting through relics from my past for answers. You know those boxes you keep in storage behind the Christmas tree ornaments and seasonal clothing: how I was parented, what my daddy said to me, my strict upbringing, relationships gone bad. Those were the normal bags I'd pull out of storage and go through. Ah yes, and those boxes closer to the front: what I dealt with in my marriage, post-empty nest singleness.  I call that my "now what" box.

Not this time. What I believe has to do with my now not my then. For I have grown into the Wiser me, much like a 2 year old foot grows into a size 10 shoe. Actually, my shoe size is a 6 1/2, but you get my point.  I've nurtured the wounded child, educated the naieve adult, de-stigmatized the divorcee and become comfortable in my own skin.  So instead, I look in my big gurl closet – the one in my bedroom - for the answer. I look among the clothes that I have hanging now. Yes, those Misses size 6's that fit me perfectly.

This garment is my favorite! When I hold this one up to me, I think I'm my most radiant. The parenting of my son. I raised a fine young man. And though my role has changed, my son still considers me a safe place.  Ummm, I love that Golden color.  Looks good against my skin.  Next outfit. Yes, my favorite work outfit. I have a great job. I work flexible hours, work from home 2 days out of the week and pretty much go and come when I please. It didn't just happen though. I was assertive and it paid off.  On this hanger is compassion. Feels like silk.  It was tested when a family member rejected me and said it was my fault.  I could have pointed out her faults in retaliation  Instead, my Silky Self recognized her pain and responded with empathy. 

Oh yeah, this sweater. As I run my fingers along its fabric, it is a little more coarse than the others. Not my favorite piece cause it doesn't feel very good. It's called admitting when I'm wrong. I don't like this one that much but I've had to wear it a few times. Humility. I put this garment on just this past Tuesday morning, in fact. I admitted that my temper gets the best of me sometimes.  Those hidden triggers that cause me to go on the attack. They've been there for a long time. I've minimized them, even thought I was better, cause normally I'm a pretty cool person. But ooh-we, when someone detonates one of those suckers, KABLAM! That is a problem.  My Wise Self knows that it needs to be dealt with now.  So, after I apologized, I found an anger management session in town and went that same night. 

Now I have to be honest.  When someone you love is critical, even if it's constructive, it doesn't feel good.  I use to take what someone said to me and defer to their opinion of me.  Not any more.  I've learned over the years to appeal to the Spirit of Truth, the Wise Counselor, the All-Knowing God who Created me and makes no mistakes.  What others say might be true, but only His opinion is The Truth. 

When I went to the endodontist and was silently struggling, my Creator sent his answer through two unlikely people.  I couldn't stop crying. I had gotten a needle in my gums and it was as if my heart resounded its pain in response.  It was then that the Asian dental assistant said to me "You cry. You have soft heart. That's good. So many woman trying to be so strong. Keep pain, hurt inside. Not good. Think crying is weakness. Tears are gift. Cleanse soul. Heal heart." She patted me and said, "cry and you will heal."  She wiped my tears. No one in the room but her and me. Then the endodontist came in to check to see if I was numb enough. During the root canal, he exclaimed, "You are a strong woman! With your tooth this inflamed, I don't see how you could have functioned as long as you did. A week? Most folks couldn't have done that." The dental assistant agreed. "You're a tough little cookie!," he said.

In the final analysis, it's the Truth of your words that speak the loudest.  And let's say, worst case scenario, I am weak.  Your strength is made perfect in my weakness.  That's Your answer even for that. Sooooo, I guess you could say I am your strength made perfect.  Perhaps even, this is my anger management: I don't have to retaliate. Simply stand in your strength.

Nothing But A Bag

"Sorrow and silence are strong, and patient endurance is godlike."(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

It was quarter of 12 noontime. There was a knock at the door. Your knock. I recognized it cause you knock like the police. I was tempted to joke with you about that like normal, but I had to remind myself nothing about this would be normal.  I had lost track of time. Startled yet expecting you to come, I got off the sofa and walked to the door. It's time. Reminded me of the knock on the door when it was time to get into the limousine and go to the church. Not for a wedding but for my dad's funeral. There's that jumpiness when you hear the words, "it's time."  It's like a jolt to your system.

There was finality to this knock. This would be the last time I'd see your face. This would be the last time I'd hear your voice. I opened the door and there you were, bag in hand, looking at me yet not looking at me. I couldn't look into your eyes. There was no entry. I was no longer welcomed. All I could do was take the bag you were holding. My things. My things all neatly placed with the utmost care in a bag.

It amazes me that it all comes down to a bag. A lifeless bag. What of all that we shared.  What of the laughter. What of the dancing. What of the long talks. What of the shared meals. What of our feet touching and legs intertwined.  What of our hopes, dreams for the future. What of the first time you sang to me. What of our first picnic. Our first walk in the park, sitting on the swings like little kids grinning at each other. Our first kiss. Our first of so many firsts that are ever so present in my heart. A bag cannot hold it all, yet this is all you have for me.

Like lifeless forms we stand here facing each other, going through the motions.  I take a look in the bag.  At the bottom, clothing folded neatly. In the middle, my key in a sealed envelope. Good luck written on it. On top of that, my toiletries gently placed in their own separate bag. You were so careful with my things. That's so like you. You were so careful to make sure you cooked enough so I had something to take with me to lunch the next day.  You were careful to make sure I got in the car okay and got home safely.  You were careful to make sure I didn't have to feel alone another day.  I never had to wonder where you were - until now. 

How are you feeling?  Are you hurting as much as I am? Do you want to touch me, hold me, kiss me one last time?  Can I touch you? 

Your manner was quiet as you gave this, my things, back to me. Your manner was so heavy.  You looked so tired. There was no joy in your face.  You didn't come pimping in, like usual, like you owned the place.  Talking junk.  I felt so fidgety as I searched underneath my sink for something to put your things in. Why didn't I already have it prepared? I knew you were coming. Maybe unconsciously I wanted to prolong our final moment.  Much like I did when I had them to open the casket one last time before they lowered my father into the ground, I needed to look at you, be around you just a little while longer. You stood there silently, patiently, barely moving. I thanked you. Without a word, you exited. Without a sigh. Without a look. You left me and the chill of that moment hit my face. I closed the door. Gosh, the sound of the lock turning sounded so loud. So final. I carried my neat bag and sat it on the floor near the kitchen. I fell to the floor. It hurts so bad.  My sobs fill the house and swurl around my head.  I'm heart broken.

It is over.  You are gone.  I am alone.

Attraversiamo

 

I am awake. My laptop monitor is shining in my face, but it seems like it's still night. I close it. I like this time of the morning. That time when day has not fully broken yet you know in a few minutes light is going to glow brighter and brighter outside your window. My body knew. So, rather than roll back over and go to sleep, I laid on my bed starring out into the darkness. "I don't want to do like I usually do," I whispered. "I just want to grieve. Not wondering what or if I could have done anything differently. Not brooding over why this had to end. Rather, I just want to grieve the loss of something that I held dear."

I remember the first day I met him. He was rounding a corner about a block ahead. I was immediately struck by the pep in his step. A black man in jeans is all kinds of sexy. I moved closer thinking to myself that if he wasn't the one I was suppose to meet, would it be absolutely crass if I struck up a conversation and got his number. I started walking a little faster and noticed him slowing his gait and looking back. My heart raced. I so wanted to catch up with this distinguished looking gentleman, who had that Morgan Freeman sexy going for him. It's hard to believe that we've been together for nine months since that day.

Nine months. That's how long it takes to get pregnant, bring the baby to term and give birth. We've given birth to what's been growing underneath our clothes. In our hearts. Did we take care of it? Was its conception just the result of two lustful bodies going through the motions of love or was it conceived out of love? And once it happened, did we take care it? Did we take our prenatal vitamins, get enough sleep, get regular checkups? Did we hear its heart beat for the very first time and smile with excitement of the being we created together? Whether to keep it or not was not even a question or a thought. All the weight gain, morning sickness, fatigue, swollen ankles, back aches and awkwardness was simply what we had to go through to bring to term this being. This extension of you and me.

You think when you embark on a romantic adventure that it's about finding that special someone that your heart has longed for all your life. And truthfully, it is. Is it just me though who has with this encounter discovered that it was more than the happily ever after portrayal that we live for at the end of a good chick flick. Something has brought the couple to a moment of disenchantment. The arms that once held them are now the arms distancing one from the other. Yet some time passes – maybe a week, a month, a year – and fate brings them back together and….and…..the camera moves in for a close up of her eyes as they lock with his. It's obvious from those who have followed their story that there is something magical there but will they see it. Will they get past their differences? Can they get past their differences? Past the I don't like and I can't stand and this isn't working and realize that what they gave birth to is so much bigger than the two of them alone? Or will this be the Casablanca ending where Ingrid Bergman walks away in the fog without Humphrey Bogart? We sit with baited breath, wondering, hoping.

Attraversiamo! This was the word that the main character of the book EAT PRAY LOVE spent her whole journey to claim. At its start, while in Italy learning to rediscover the pleasures of simply eating of life without the usual politically correct restraints, she was asked by her new friends, "what's your word, Liz?" I can't for the life of me remember the context of the question. I've even just thumbed through the book hoping to find that place where in the movie this discussion of words came up in conversation. Nevertheless, at the end of the movie, Liz's bombshell of a lover, Felipe, invites her to attraversiamo with him. This shakes her to her core. For the idea of giving up something she fought so hard to find – her balance, her identity, her lost soul – and to risk it all by taking this man's hand filled her with terror. Like many of us, she ran. Fortunately though, she runs back to Ketut, her Wise Guide I call him. His words penetrated her confusion and got to the heart of the matter. "Losing your balance for love is getting your balance in life" he says. Nonetheless, as she grappled with do I hold on to me or do I hold on to us, Felipe looked her in the eyes and said to her with absolute clarify of heart, soul and spirit, "regardless to whether you come with me or not, I'm getting in this boat." The love they shared helped him to reclaim the part of himself that had been locked away for so long.

So as I lay staring at the ceiling in my bedroom. I know in my heart that life has extended its hand and invited me into its boat with a hearty attraversiamo. Regardless to whether you accept the invitation or not, I'm getting in this boat.

Oh, in case you're wondering what attraversiamo means. It means let's cross over.

At Least Preparation H Helps Undereye Puffiness

Help! Seems like something has taken over my body and wants to take it down! Okay, okay….a little less dramatic. Since turning 50, it seems ails that have been developing over time have crescendoed! I feel like a pure tee hypochondriac. I've gone to the doctor more times this year than EVER! And to think my biggest fear was getting that signature William Randolph under eye bulge. I've had an insidious toothache. My dentist hoped that with a little TLC and drugs, my tooth nerve would settle down. Nothing doing. My tooth has been in a rage ever since my dentist put a temporary crown on it. Since that time, over a week ago, food has not tasted as good. I've felt bad at work. And I've cried almost every night due to fatigue and discomfort.

As if that wasn't enough, I've also had a upsurgence of acid reflux. But get this, it's not the typical GERD. It's raised its game to silent reflux. Yes, silent reflux. I didn't even know that existed. My feelings of a thick throat, coughing, hoarseness and feeling like my esophagus barely had enough room for the pills I continued to swallow prompted me to visit an E-N-T specialist. He sprayed some anesthetic in my nostrils and stuck a long tube down my nose so he could see clear back to my voice box. Unpleasant is an understatement. Silent reflux is what he called my condition. It's when the fluid that refluxes constantly irritates the throat area. It's also called silent because people might not have heartburn with it. It has been absolutely MISERABLE! So, in addition to pain relievers and Amoxicillin, I've been taking Nexium twice a day and intermittently popping Antacids. Seems my silent reflux ain't so silent cause I have had pain in my chest. Now I realize that along with pulled chest muscles, I have heartburn!

Oh, I'm not through. I've also had hand pain. My ulnar nerve is irritated – has shortened, the neurologist said – and as a result my pinky fingers tend to go numb and I have stabbing pain in the middle of my palms. This, they say, happens when you tend to lean your elbows on the table. Since I don't do that, they said that skinny people have this happen more often than others because we don't have enough fat to cushion it. Oh bother!

And the cu-de-gra, at my recent annual physical, I was told I am pre-diabetic! Pre-diabetic? I can't believe it! Me. The person who isn't a health nut, but am a mindful eater. The person who isn't a smoker or a drinker. Me! I am just more than puzzled by this. So, my doctor told me I needed to eat less carbs and up my fruits and veggies. Hopefully, if I raise my game, I can reverse this. So, pray for me y'all. I just didn't expect all this to happen my 50^th year.

I guess there is a bright side. Preparation H does wonders for under eye puffiness.

Change Your Confession

This morning, I awakened with a dream fresh on my mind.  Now, don't laugh.  It involved Lilly Winters from The Young and The Restless.  Somehow, she was always experiencing one trauma after another.  It seemed she couldn't get ahead.  Sounds a lot like her character on the soap opera.  In my dream, nonetheless, her friends and family seemed really puzzled.  It took a while, but I started putting it all together.  I brought to her attention that her condition was linked to what she said.   

I believe that part of being made in the Image of God is having creative potential.  We can take our resources and transform them into something more usable and more powerful.  It is true that as kids, we don't have much say-so over our lives.  However, as adults, if we really look at our lives, I believe we'll see where every consequence was preceded by some action or inaction on our part.  Take money for example.  Many of us are one paycheck from being homeless because of a series of decisions we've made or consented to regarding our finances.  Even those who have chosen to do nothing have still given their consent to their current state.

I've often heard the scripture, "death and life are in the power of the tongue.  In response, many of us have been told to be careful of what we say.  I see it differently.  We speak mindless words all day.  We are greeted all day long with a "Hi!  How ya doing?"  "Fine," we say.  Yet at the end of the day, we feel no better.  Sometimes, we feel even worse.  Maybe the power isn't so much in the words.  Perhaps, the power is in the tongue - the one who is speaking.  After all, if you keep turning the pages, you'll come upon another scripture, "out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks."  Words are just words.  It's the belief behind those words that holds the power.

What do you believe about yourself?  About your situation? 

Several years ago, I remember complaining to my life coach that I felt alone.  "My friends are too busy for me," I whined.  "They are involved with their own families and lives and I'm tired of having to schedule time just to hang out with them."  To this, she said, "If your friends don't have time for you, then it's because you want it that way.  Your reality is exactly what you've made it."  Whut?  I blinked with disbelief and stared at my cell phone.  I couldn't believe she said that.  As much as I dreamed of having the neighbor, like Rhoda on The Mary Tyler Moore Show, who dropped by just because or the unconditional friendship of Joan Clayton (Tracy Ellis Ross) and her sisterfriends on the sitcom, Girlfriends.  She was sooooo way off base, right?  Wrong!  What I said I wanted and my actions were not the same.  I seldom accepted invitations to events or gatherings.  At the time, my standing excuse was being a single parent, or work, or short notice.  "You are teaching your friends that you don't need them," she said.

"Write down who you are.  Write down what you want."  This, she encouraged me to do and asked me read aloud.  "I am a warm, cozy person."  "Okay," she said.  "I want warm, cozy friends"  She interrupted, "who can't wait to spend time with you."  My eyes filled with tears as the real real became clear.  I didn't truly feel worthy of that.  Even though I hated it and complained about it, deep inside, I didn't feel valuable enough to ask for different. "You are a warm, cozy person that e-e-e-everyone wants to be around."  Hearing her say that to me was transforming.  The strength of those words awakened that knowing in my heart.  I felt the change.

She also challenged me to accept some invitations.   To show an interest in what others were doing and to invite them into what I was doing.  Rather than working and coming home, I began to seek people who had a common interest.  Thank God for meetup.com.  The very first group I joined was the Single Parent Group.  I met some wonderful people who welcomed me into their circle and embraced me.  That single action was the portal to greater esteem.  Now, I have a broad and diverse network of warm and cozy people.
The cosmic waiter, as my coach called him, took my order and brought me what I asked for.  To me, God honored my prayer and gave me over and above what I asked.  For he didn't just give me warm, cozy friends.  He helped me see that I deserved them.

From Going to Being

I just noticed something.  I took a picture with a man on Day 1 and picture with a man on Day 365 (see blog post "My Natural Hair Anniversary: I AM ENOUGH").  It's kinda suggestive:  Go Natural. Find Romance.  Now before you run for the scissors or run with scissors, you gotta know it's not that simple. It does however speak volumes about where I was then and where I am now.

Day 1.  It was Sunday morning.  I had done the Big Chop the night before.  Though my intentions were to walk the beach, take in the ocean and its majesty and breath in this new day in my life, I spent time on the beach with a brutha.  He seemed nice and complimentary.  I ain't gon lie.  I enjoyed the attention.  He told me that he admired my confidence to sport my natural hair.  He marveled at how shiny it was.  But it wasn't long before I felt like I was Garfield and he - Odie - was jumping around me, slobbering and ready to play.  You got it.  He was only interested in the packaging.

Being natural for me was brand spanking new.  I had done a simple act, yes.  Nevertheless, it was a big deal. After all, I was cutting away 30+ years of a mindset that said straighter is better.  TV ads of women of color swinging their hair effortlessly.  My self esteem, my feelings of attractiveness were tied to how thick, how fiercely cut, how stylish my hair was.  All of that was dropping to the floor and being swept away as nothing more than trash.  Instead of a caterpillar becoming a beautiful butterfly, I was re-entering the cocoon called nappy, Buckwheat, beady kitchens, Aunt Jemima, bad hair. 

I remember I took that Monday off.  I was standing in front of my mirror with product all around, determined to figure out a style I could go to work in the next day.  I only had 1/2 inch of hair on my head.  What to do? I attempted to recreate the sleek short fro I saw on a natural hair youtube video.  Gurl, you ain't got no baby hair, I thought.  But I DO have me some gel and Queen Helene shaping paste.  Hello!  Hum, cute but not enough.  Sooo, I went shopping for earrings and accessories that would help me to embrace this new look.  I had to wear makeup.  I needed to feel put together.  I needed to feel confident.  I needed to feel classy yet edgy to pull off this short hair.

What a difference a year has made! I am amazed at the transformation. I went from going natural to being natural. I am natural!  It's deeper than I could have imagined.  I have become more comfortable in my own skin.  There's something about being natural that feels more honest.  Sure, I still wear makeup when I get the notion.  It's a girl thang.  Yet, I can rock my Bantu knots or my fat two-strand twists with nothing more than a happy glow that comes from within not from a Mac counter.  Like the God who created me in His Image, I can honestly look at his handiwork and say with heartfelt exuberance, "It IS good."

Day 365.  It is a Sunday morning.  I had hosted my first Supper Club the night before.  I had gone to Ulta, a cosmetics store, to return some product and decided to stop by a brutha's residence nearby.  He answered the door.  "What you doin here, woman?," he asked with a playful smile. I grabbed him and said, "Kiss me, with your ole smart behind!" He wasn't spouting off flattering words or marveling at the packaging - at least not out loud..ha ha ha. He resumed watching the football game from his recliner: talking to me one minute and yelling at the players the next.   I assumed my favorite position on his comfy sofa and breathed in the moment.  I am home.

My Natural Hair Anniversary: I AM ENOUGH

It was September 19, 2009 when I did it.  I did the Big Chop.  Little did I know how something so simple as cutting my hair would be the pathway to freedom. 

I never intended to have a TWA (teenie weenie afro).  Quite the contrary.  My reasons for going natural was pure vanity.  My sister had been getting her hair silkened and I wanted mine to have the thickness and movement she was enjoying.  Moreover, my hair had been over processed and my healthy relaxed hair was becoming nothing more than lifeless strings.  Because I spoke with my sister's hairdresser, I thought transitioning would be simple.  It wasn't.

In the weeks leading up to my decision, I had been getting up every morning and rod-setting my hair.  A curly fro seemed to be the only style that I felt comfortable with.  I was the only person of color at my company and feared that if I did anything dramatic, everyone would be stunned and uncomfortable.  Perhaps that is why I kept hearing Don Imus' voice saying "nappy-headed hoe."  It taunted me throughout, rendering me fearful of doing the big chop.

It wasn't until I went on youtube.com and found some short natural hair styles, that I found peace about cutting off my hair.  I searched website after website.  Watched video after video.  Finally, I saw this cute short do with a nicely shaped hairline.  I knew that my hair texture would not be as curly, so, with the aid of gel and shaping cream, I achieved a look I could be proud of with my 4b spongy, kinky coily texture.

It was a quite a bold move.  I was daring to transform in front of my own eyes.  I cut away the hair color.  I cut away the signature relaxed look I had grown accustomed to.  As a child, I hated my hair.  I wanted the long, silky hair of my Crissy doll.  I even put old T-shirts and stocking caps on my head, tied to swing like ponytails, to have the movement and length that I envied.  I was bare.  I had nothing to hide behind.  I looked in the mirror and it was me.  Nothing but me.  I see me. 

Day 1

The day after, I decided to take my new look for a spin.  I had prepared myself for the stares and even for men not even looking my way.  After all, brothers preferred the long, straight hair, right?  Rather than carry an aura of discomfort or lack of confidence though, I squared my shoulders and sported my new look.  I even decided to wear no large earrings and no makeup.  I was going to be bare.  Just me.  To my surprise, a man - a brother, even - motioned for me to roll my car window down.  After I parked my car, I noticed the gentleman had pulled up right beside me and still motioned for me to roll down my window.  I did.  He said, "I just had to tell you that I LOVE your hair."   I grinned from ear-to-ear. Yes!  As he and I walked and talked, I became aware of a surge of confidence.  I felt powerful.  I felt more in touch with myself and the world around me.  I took of my shoes and felt the sand between my toes as we walked up and down the beach.  I felt more alive.  I felt more girly.  But most of all, I felt such joy. 


  

Day 365

As the months have passed, that joy has grown.  I feel more in touch with my heritage amongst the kinkyfied.  I feel more soulful.  I feel more loving.  I feel a profound connection with everyone but even more with my natural sisters.  It's not clique-ish or condescending.  It's a shared freedom.  Instead of my world getting smaller, it is growing.  I find myself more welcoming of different cultures.  Welcoming of committed love.   But more than anything, I feel an abiding truthfulness about me.  I am who I am.  No bells.  No whistles.  Just me.  Resounding in the depths of my soul is this one thing:  I...AM...ENOUGH!