The Tides of Destruction

I’ve been in a space of deep-seated anger.

Deep-seated anger—you know, the type of anger that makes you feel restless. When you hear something that feels so contrary to your nature, you feel the slightest bit of resistance in your body and suddenly, the need to lash out! To yell, to scream “SEE ME! HEAR ME! Feel me”

Yeah, that type of anger.

I think we each feel it. It’s been such a wild two years hasn’t it? All the hopes and dreams of what we built on the fragility of “security” wasted away as a virus came in and snatch the rug from underneath our feet. Reminding us that safety and security was never quite that safe. Oh but we knew this. We knew it. Don’t lie—haven’t there been a many of times that you walked outside to take a stroll around the block and a young man smiled in your face, his eye lingering a bit longer than you’d like? And you found yourself confused, wondering “do I have something on my face?”

You felt it—in times were you were prompted to speak aloud in front of a group of people and not only to speak aloud but to speak CLEARLY. Efficiently. Effectively. To move people with a deep sense of conviction and admiration. And safety was stripped away just as quickly as you were asked to speak, wondering “what would they think about me?”

Living in the illusion of safety has helped us only in as so far as we are able to see it’s illusion. To understand that safety means to truly feel that you have a right to be here. Deep in your bones, to feel it vibrate in your soul, “I have a right to be here. To exist”. But a good majority of us do not feel this.

How could we? Our history is convoluted with so much pain and suffering, the stripping of our very humanity and oh, the tales and stories of slavery! A sure disease that makes us feel so unworthy.

Yeah, this anger is layered deep.

I’ve been frustrated. How have we sold ourselves a tale of lies? Lies that have made us so unseemingly, we have forgotten that to walk on this earth is not a privilege but a birth right. That to exist is to play out Gods plan perfectly and to create is to truly be free. I’ve been angry.

And so many will say—“a woman?? Angry? A black woman at that, not a foreign sight—it’s to be expected! They walk the earth so bitterly, of course you would find the likes of her angry.”

But you see…my anger is holy. From the same womb that created this existence, I gaze into your face and witness bliss. The sweet symphony of all of humanity, a gift that has been graced to touch the Holy Mother, as feet kiss the ground that created our flesh. As spirit sanctified our breath.

So you see, hell yeah, I’ve been angry. We are so much more that we have become to be if only we would allow ourself to ascend gracefully. To remind each other that money, prestige, the likes of intellect and the mind can hardly superseded the stirrings of the heart and spirit that created all that be.

I hope our anger allows us to wash to the shore of God’s feet and infinite awakening gently.

I pray that our anger allows us all to be free.

Neu Religion

Please, don’t you lay waiting for me.

Please God, don’t you lie waiting for me.

When you first heard words uttered from the deepest place of my being, did you believe “wow, she is so free”? Did you hear eons of pain dripping free of the tightly coiled rope around my wrist and whisper, “God, she is a free as I hope to be”?

Who me? Not this young woman, afraid to walk outside naked—lo and behold my scars and stretch marks for all to see. Not this beautiful lady, peering deeply from the corner or her eyes, hypervigilant to any movement making sure she can count each moment, never to be caught lacking in her “freedom”. Walking the earth with a certain amount of insecurity—who knows what tomorrow will bring her wanton arms? But she waits with a smile on her face hiding the unrelenting anxiety.

And you say this here woman…is free?

No, no, you see, she recalls the pains of her ancestors. One could hardly leave the house without fearing for their safety; turn around the wrong corner and she might hear a shot ricochet between tussling leaves. Leaving her brown bosom wet with regret and solemn defeat, as its remnants trickle down to her knee’s—Lord the times where living meant to be in a constant state of anxiety.

You see, I’ve realized that the world isn’t always safe. I won’t always have the answers to all of the questions, even the things my parents shared with me being questioned under a microscopic lens until it begins to lose its form again. I wonder, how many lies were we sold as truths—as a young girl, believing that my parents had the key to insurmountable wonderful living. Now realizing that they only had one key in a sea of infinity. Whew! And how is one to know which one to choose? We cant say that one is mightier than the other, that one path is more true in might or size, this way makes the most sense, is the most pleasing to a God that is multidimensional. If only existence was that simple. It makes some of us feel insecure.

And why a sense of insecurity—it means that my life completely and totally depends on ME! A new feeling, some may meet with ecstasy – “ah! I get to live completely and totally for me!” But what if the “me” to get along with simply isn’t so easy? What if the “me” is outstandingly beautiful and also stemming with insecurity? What if the “me” writes so poetically but often times loses her will to speak? What if the “me” loved to be a healer, but also feels that “healing” is never-ending, perhaps the reality is that we may not find out way back to eternity. Not as we were but something completely different, something bitten by the sea of suffering unrelenting.

It seems to me, that perfection is an illusion created out of a deep feeling of apathy. Needing something to make sense, we whisper “lets resign to obtain the unattainable”, hoping for destruction or complete mastery. Perfection as an illusion because it prevents us from ever beginning anything; perfection as an insatiable need because it means that nothing is ever quite as worthy; perfection as a deep aching because it means that I don’t even get to see me for me; perfection created for a deep feeling of suffering.

Tension rolling through my fingers until I can write no more, there is tension rolling over the shoulders that one nurtured me, tension rolling through my sore throat as I swallow skin deep, tension as I admit that some days it is hard to be me. Tension as I hold space for these tears to roll down my cheeks. Tension.

So if you look at me and say “God, she is just so deep, so free”, don’t mistake my eloquence for mastery. In a sea of humans who are so beautiful to me, I am just as imperfect and confused and hopeful and needy and wanting as any other person could be.

This is the reality of the deepest layer of me.

The Breakdown Before the Breakthrough

Have you ever experienced a moment where you are feeling overworked, exhausted or a lack of motivation?

We live in a society that tells us that we must find a way to sustain ourselves, build an accumulation of power, turn our creativity in to profit and be of some help to others. In this same society, there is an overemphasis of intellectualism, “following the herd” mentality and overworking. In this paradigm, there is this created image of success that glamorizes monetary wealth but sacrifices inner spiritual relationship to God and Self. This overexertion can cause one to feel undervalued, overworked and still yet, under-appreciated which of course makes way for one to experience something that many of us abhor – burn-out.

Burn-out literally feels the way it sounds, as previous innocent intention give away to others expectations or requirements of your behavior, work ethic or social responses. We begin to move in ways that we do not quite understand—like saying “yes” just to say “yes” and fearing the repurocutions (sp?) if we were dare utter our “no”. We begin to take jobs that we do not truly enjoy, simply so that we can “pay the mortgage”. We stay in relationships that no longer feed us for fear of being alone and/or undesirable. We pay attention to what others are doing because we don’t trust that we know what’s good for us and we hate ourselves for it. We begin to lie to ourselves about our innermost feelings because if we truly faced our sufferings we feel that we would crumble. Until one day—we do.

This is burn out. It’s the moment where you realize that you have walked way too far along the wrong path and still have not found a way back home. Feet burning, legs aching, you frantically run amuck in circles, searching for a kind place to lie your head, some semblance of peace but find only suffering. And that’s when you realize your suffering comes from a place where you can no longer hide—within yourself.

If you read any of this and began to cringe as if bugs crawled beneath your skin, I want you to know that you are not alone. Many people around the globe feel like this every single day. Many people have felt this way for years and still dragged their feet along a stubborn path to a home they knew was never meant for them. And they pay in their suffering, in their lack of self-worth or self-respect, in their meekness and frailness in spirit. They pay in their lack of and resentment of living.

This is a story we hear all too often. But aren’t you tired of hearing this story? Aren’t you tired of living it? I know I was. Burn out should not be shunned or quietly placed in the back of our pockets or the corners of our mind when we hear its shadows heavy foot steps, but invited in so that it can burn through foundations of a home that was never built on truth. Its fire rekindles a sense of surrender as it strips us away from false illusions and places us into our hearts. And through withstanding the pain of loss; of shame; of guilt; the freedom of truth—we are left to look at the pieces of material left in its dust and make the conscious decision to begin this process of starting anew. Of creating a home built from the vibrations of a child’s innocent laughter; walls painted in the love of our ancestors; brick by brick built from the strength of resilience; protected from prayers in tongue from holy mystics; dripping in the creative and loving spirit of The One.

And I…. well I am your neighbor helping you to put layers of brick upon brick, while sharing beautiful stories of women and men who made it their life’s mission to live well. To live honorably. To be authentic. Listening to your story, I am the one who reminds you that we are beyond our past, actively stitching together old wounds and forgiving ourselves for past ignorance. I am your neighbor sharing from the fruits of my garden, teaching you to plow, tend the soil, plant the seed and water natural life. In the hopes that my fruits and your growing fruits become our fruits sharing with one another recipes of old, basking in the wonderous blessings of living.

Welcome to the catalyst for your home-coming.

Welcome to the community healer.

Find me on Instagram @thecommunityhealer_

Screams from the Silent

office

At times I feel meekly paralyzed
Covering my face at the shame of gruesome deeds
If one could perhaps rip the blindfold from their heart
Lay each story onto a scale and measure them
They’d be horrified at the punchlines we’ve been sold;
One man with limbs marred by pavements heat in the scorching summer
Somewhere near 96th Street
Onlookers watch gazes filled of disgust
And I, I disappear into the crowd
Stomach full of lead
Or perhaps the woman with two children
One upright, one decrepit
As she stumbles up and down flights with purse, babe and stroller in hand
Mere seconds from plunging to her demise
But her worry is with is the place she needs to go,
the mouths she need to feed,
the work she must return to
Never mind patrons passing idly along stairs until she trips on the first child,
Another rushing to grasp the falling carriage from her hands
As she tumbles down 8 flights, child firmly clasped to her chest
Woe to these current times—
Profit at the demise of our brothers
Without the means to purchase tombstones for graveyards
While others are sipping from gold plated cups
Until one sees the face of God within themselves
It is hard to see God in the needy man with burnt limbs;
The wailing child dangling from the mother’s arms;
The man on Wall Street stuffing his mouth with gold
I am horrifically guilty—
Wishing for the return of my innocence

Tales of Remembrance

action adventure aerial aerial shot — Photo by Sebastian Voortman on Pexels.com

Some days I’m torn

Struggling to keep myself above high tides

Pulling and tugging me deep into the depths

And though I never learned how to swim

The One has taught me how to move my arms,

To paddle and kick my legs

To come up for air

To cry for help

To call out to Him

Until a wave bigger than I can save myself from

Plunges me into the depths I’ve been fighting

Forcing me underneath the rush of water

Filling my lungs with salty liquid

Until I can hardly breathe

And darkness is all that I know

But… miraculously I grow fins

Scales on my arms, gills around my throat

I open my eyes and take in a fresh breath

Transformation embedded, Newness engulfing me

And The One laughs at my ignorance;

Why struggle to fight the tides that inevitably nurture you?

Bringing us back to wholeness

We have forgotten our core, our essence, our home

But luckily the waves are quick to remind us

No matter how much we struggle, how much we try to control

Letting go has the scary feeling of chaos;

Fear.

Death.

Surrender.

And then finally, bliss.