Category Archives: Books & Writing

She Lives Here

Joy lives here even when I suspect it has lost its way, broken the GPS and took a long nap at a rest stop.

Joy lives here even when I am calling repairmen, performing feats of verbal gymnastics trying to fix this house so I can finally say good-bye to it.

Joy lives here even when I am dead tired and on my upteemth week of forgetting to take all of my vitamins.

Joy lives here even when I am terrified my words will never be embraced or I will never be understood.

Joy lives here even when the fullness of my Black womanhood is in question–my competency, the bounds of my love, intellect and the sanctity of my vulnerability.

Joy lives here because I ask it to move in every day. Move into the creases and the folds and the skin and the breath.

Joy, I ask you to stay.

Joy, I ask you to come home.

Make a Plan

I was listening to Pulitzer Prize winning poet Jericho Brown in a podcast interview with Lewis Howes (The School of Greatness). They spoke of many things: letting go of a poem, adopting the identity of Jericho Brown, their shared history of abuse, paying homage to Gwendolyn Brooks, Langston Hughes and Lucille Clifton and his relationship with God.

But here’s what grabbed my attention more than any of the deep penetrating conversation: He says he makes a plan for laughter. He referred to watching an episode of “The Golden Girls” every night. During the Slant Poetry Festival, he mentioned his nightly ritual with Dorothy, Blanche, Rose and Sophia but I didn’t know it was an intentional plan.

I have never heard of anyone making a plan for laughter. Of course, I love to laugh but what would a plan look like? Or is the best part of laughter is when it comes spontaneously?

I will take my spontaneous giggles when they come but I like the idea of making time to laugh. I already enjoy comedic television and podcasts regularly. My husband and I probably goof around with each other more than most. It’s just us so there’s no one around to be “grown-up” for. We are not above dancing for each other, tickling and purposely watching a nighttime soap or two, just to howl with laughter at the over the top antics and tragic acting.

So maybe the plan starts with asking myself each day: Have I laughed today? And if not, what will I do to change it?

After all, what’s so bad about seeking relief from the dreary?

About letting a little laughter in?

Halfway Once More

A few minutes ago, I sent the first rough draft of my chapbook off to my publisher. I also connected with a talented artist friend of mine who will work on the cover. I know there’s plenty of work to do but getting this step done, pressing send at this point lifts a bit of the weight. It is fitting that halfway through bloglikecrazy, this part is finished. I made sure the load I was carrying never felt too heavy. I took advantage of the time I had at Miracle Mornings, weekends and a designated writing session with the See Jane Write Collective to get here.

I also have time to reflect on what many consider a big birthday. Tomorrow, I turn 40. I am currently not allowed to peek at our guest bedroom because there is supposed to be a surprise waiting there for me. I have the day off of work. I get to sleep, snuggle with my husband and be grateful to celebrate, even in a pandemic when I am missing my family.

Compared to most of the internet, my idea of celebrating my birthday is low-key at best. But outside of wishing I had a group of close family and friends to safely gather and watch me struggle to blow out my candles, I am happy. I can wait until next year. Maybe by then, I will be flying away from home, ushering in 41 with a new stamp on my passport.

The Rider

I was drawn to reread Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear by Elizabeth Gilbert recently. I had takeaways when I read it a few years ago but this time I read it for a very different reason. It was for the reminder to give myself grace and surrender to the process. I knew I had a self-care writing session to lead, another writing class in December, a bloglikecrazy challenge coming and pages I needed to edit and submit in November. With all of that on the horizon, it would be natural to think I wouldn’t want to crack open a book, let alone something I’ve read before.

Big Magic serves to remind the reader of the sacred nature of creativity and how you must protect it. Protection looks like not putting too much pressure on it to financially support me, engaging with it and remembering it’s part of my gifting from God. It made me laugh, recognize when I was not honoring my gift and that time spent away to come back to my work with new eyes is essential.

When it came to a close, I knew I wanted to commit deeply. Gilbert describes a ceremony where she took a vow to wed writing when she was young. I may never take such vows but my commitment is riding with me, a silent partner who occasionally reaches over to change the music, hold my hand and take over just when I think there’s no more road left to travel.

My New Normal

5:00am is not an hour I tend to ever see. It has been the hour I need to be up by for a long drive or when I have dragged myself to bed after passing out on the couch downstairs.

I am a night owl. I usually write or get ideas for writing at night. I have been known to pick up a novel at 1am when I can’t sleep or just in the mood to know what happens next. I like to discover new movies, shows or insightful interviews late night, too.

I am trying something new for the month of November. I joined the Miracle Morning challenge created by Amber Aziza. I will be rising right before 5am Monday-Friday to log into a Zoom call for an hour and listen to inspirational speeches, business advice, workout, write, journal or commune with an accountability group. It’s mission is to provide education and support while building a morning routine for women. The group definitely leans toward entrepreneurial women which is not really the category I fit neatly into but I found it doesn’t matter.

I think what matters is if you can answer this question with a resounding Yes: Are you a woman with goals?

I am a woman with goals who would like to see what it’s like (even if only ends up being for a month) to gather with women from across the globe to honor what’s best in ourselves. To put ourselves first–not a spouse, a child or anything else.

Us. First.

Our first call is complete and I already have had the pleasure of meeting my new group and learned 3 ways to think about a journaling practice.

One thing I loved was Amber’s emphasis on giving ourselves grace and space. I know I am not alone when I say I am hard on myself when I don’t show up the way I need to every single time. This morning practice, in addition to building routine, is supposed to be a place where forgiveness lives.

I may not be in love with a 4:45am wake up time but I can get with any program that allows for that kind of grace.

Blog Like Crazy: Year 4

Against the advice of a few, I am back for year 4 of #Bloglikecrazy! What is it? And why was the advice so negative you may ask?

Bloglikecrazy is a challenge created by Javacia Harris Bowser of See Jane Write to publish one blog post everyday in the month of November. I have completed the challenge every year for the past three years. I have posted through sleeping on a cot beside my husband in the hospital, travel, during a strenuous 75hard challenge where I exercised twice a day while working my 9-5 and while I felt ill.

So why have I received advice against doing it this year if others have been so successful? Because this year my writing goals and dreams are starting to become more realized and the fear of the few who advised against it (and love me) are that I will drown in a sea of time management chaos.

The truth is their fear is not unfounded. In the next 30 days or so, I will be preparing for and facilitating two writing workshops, working on pages due for a big project in Spring of 2021, present at a virtual Writer’s Conference and Monday-Friday this month, I will be up at 5am for morning routine challenge led by the fabulous powerhouse entrepreneur Amber Aziza. There’s also this little thing called being a wife, taking care of home and working my regular job (remotely).

I will be the first one to admit it’s alot and in the past “alot” meant anxiety and panic.

But I also am going to make myself some promises:

  1. If I miss a day, I will not treat it as a big deal. The earth will continue to revolve around the sun. I will still be a writer committed to her craft.
  2. If I start to feel overwhelmed, I will stop. I am already working on writing I love. There’s no need to apply pressure.

I almost didn’t write today but the truth is as soon as concern was expressed, I wanted to write about it. I missed writing here and when I look back at previous years, I have no regrets.

An Offering

I don’t want to talk about me.

I want to talk about her.

She is mother’s mother

Matriarch and Patriarch

She is ancestor.

She is mortar and pestle on the kitchen counter.

Mayi moulen simmering on the stove

Floral and paisley painted on her skirts

Chanel lingering on her skin

Morning stretches in a pink mumu

Gazing at the miracle of Mother Mary on the wall, clutching her rosary.

She is a survivor who crossed oceans so the world could see

Her.

Throwing her head back while laughter and music floated from her throat

Joy unearthly

And we are tiny hands massaging her feet during Dallas and Falcon Crest on Friday nights

And sitting between her legs as she greased, parted and braided many a crown.

She is slicing with deft hands, avocado as an offering to us. 

the shape of her mouth as she said Ah-vo-ca-do

Haiti never left her.

Her presence made brothers and sisters out of cousins.

Her essence made brothers and sisters out of cousins.

She rests.

And I offer

These words to her.

Almost

I almost didn’t write this week but then I thought of Toni Morrison, scribbling away on her yellow legal paper all those early mornings.

I almost didn’t write this week but then I thought about how the sun burned my right breast through my T-shirt while I sunbathed on the balcony reading “Assata” on her birthday.

I almost didn’t write this week but then I saw a towering tree in the distance that persistently leans left, bucking tradition of all the others that surround it.

I almost didn’t write this week but then I saw my sister swing her twists while she gracefully spun and inverted on her pole, beckoning and inviting others to love themselves and her art.

I almost didn’t write this week but then I thought of my husband’s black and silver curls falling to the floor after holding it between my fingers, cutting new growth away.

I almost didn’t write this week but then I remembered how I sobbed in the shower when I heard a stranger talk about her miscarriages and her infertility.

I almost didn’t write this week but then I remembered how I deeply miss the hugs, kisses, the eye contact of people I love.

I almost didn’t write this week but then I opened a lipstick that made me smile wide when I painted my full lips the color of deep red wine.

I need to capture it because one day, hopefully many many years from now, I won’t be here to “almost” at all.

Diving

“We never forgot about you.”

“We came looking for you.”

“And we found you.”

I heard those words in a video around 1:30am. I had one blank page left in a brown leather bound journal on my side table. I wrote those words down because I never want to forget them.

They had meaning. It was life-giving.

It was spoken by a diver. She is a member of a group: Diving with a Purpose. Their mission is to deep dive into oceans on the hunt for shipwrecked vessels that once held captive Africans. They teach people how to measure the ship, collect vital information and preserve history. These men and women, many of whom are Black, feel compelled to learn to dive, become guardians of history to find us.

Those who never made it.

Those who chose the sea.

I wept a little as I watched. Their resolve was clear. Their bravery and curiosity stoked flames in me.

What will I deep dive for?

What will I fight to preserve?

What will I not let slide anymore, desperate to believe he or she or they “didn’t really mean it?”

What is my battle cry?

What will I live for?

What am I willing to die for?

I may never bear children.

But that does not mean I will not have legacy.

It does not mean

I will never give birth

These words

I believe in their power.

And they come from

Me.

 

 

 

We do this.

One time

We made love

To classical music

And we laughed

After we caught

Our breath

We asked

Who does this?

We do.

We do this.

We found a scene

From a movie

I was the coy but sexy temptress waiting at the bar.

He was a local boy looking for local trouble.

And we clumsily became actors.

We laughed.

Who does this?

We do.

We do this.

When my skin fell apart and I often left traces  of my pretty brown on the bathroom floor, in the sheets and on the furniture, he undressed me, applied salve all over my body–back, arms, neck, breasts, legs, ears and told me he wished he could take it all away from me.

And I asked

Who does this?

He does.

He does this.

He does Love.