Light as Air

daydreamThe freedom revealed in moments of clarity are fleeting. I know that as soon as I find that moment of peace free of the lists and the responsibilities of my transition, I will begin to worry. Why is it that insecurity stalks our peaceful moments and leaves us breathless in fear? I sometimes imagine that my happy thoughts and daydreams are frostbitten waiting on a change to take me on a vacation. They are packed and ready for the sunny beach bungalows filled with books, friends, wine, and cheese. Every now and then, they send me little snippets of the happy daydreams to keep me feeling light as air. And I embrace them like a deserted soul grasping for mercy. Even the smallest of the memories, and dream, and moments are enough to inspire me to seek clarity’s freedom.
Today, I am as light as air. I know the moments are fleeting, but I don’t mind. What is life if it isn’t living for the next? What is today if we aren’t trying to make tomorrow better? My daydreams and happy moments are motivators. As long as I am light as air, I can stay above the fray that consumes so many of our dreams. What is it that you want more than anything? Does it benefit anyone besides you? Will it hurt anyone for you to have it? Take stock of your purpose, influence, and responsibilities to society. Dream in peace and never stop seeking the clarity that makes you light as air. Freedom is forgiving and fruitful; share it with the world.

Adrift

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The Farce of Contemporary Hip-Hop

Contemporary hip-hop is as fake as a square two-cent penny and everyone is trying to spend that crap on a Furby. I don’t listen to the radio anymore. I hate hearing the lyrics so simple, vulgar, and pointless that either have the words are censored or a two-year old can sing the entire song like repeating a presidential list of Fry words. Don’t get me wrong. I know that music evolves and there are some great artists out there repping the craft; but, what happened to the real backbone of hip-hop? What happened to relevance and feeling?  What happened to relating to life and not expecting drug money glamour and shiny plastic round bottoms?  None of that is for me.  Most of us are everyday people who are cool like that, right? I miss the golden age of hip-hop. I guess that’s why I love the movie, Brown Sugar, so much.  A love letter to hip hop.  Now, it’s more like a Dear John.

I wrote a poem about it on my other blog.  Here’s the link.  And you thought you knew

Farce

Posted in Musings, Post a Day

Collaboration

I like being in charge, but I will gladly relinquish control of a situation to someone capable of making it work. Most importantly, I will relinquish control to a higher power. Lately, I haven’t been as close to God as I want to be. I haven’t relinquished control out of want and desire.  I established a pattern to single-handedly fulfill my own wishes and needs. I prayed for the things that I wanted instead of the things that I needed. In the end, I didn’t get what I wanted.  I got something that was better for me and for those with whom I will be collaborating.
What made me so arrogant in my singularity? Nothing other than lack of consideration or realization that I did not collaborate with God. Foolishly, I considered myself and expert in all things Meka without acknowledging all that He has done for me. You don’t have to be religious to feel as if your destiny isn’t fate. I don’t have a religion; I have a relationship. I forgot about that relationship as I dreamed of happy days and success. Why is it that when the sky is falling and the ground is crumbling, I remember the need for this connection, this heavenly collaboration.
I have been blessed with family and friends with collaborative spirits. We meet and tackle troubles head first. I have no doubt that, at any time of the day or night, someone is willing to help me. I hope and pray that everyone has that same collection of supportive people. One by one, we are singular in our motives and our successes; but, imagine if we collaborated on our dreams and hopes? We could advance our communities with limitless resources. That transcends religion. Regardless of what you worship and in whom you believe, our relationship with a higher calling makes us want to do good and present the best of ourselves to the world. I like to believe that 90 percent of our issues with society can be eradicated with a little spiritual and wholesome collaboration. I want better; you want better. We should collaborate, ya dig?

Collaboration

Posted in Post a Day

Southern Comfort

Unless preoccupied in the thoughts of my dream world, I always greet people with a smile. I was raised that way. Regardless of how society feels about salutations and respect, I say Ma’am and Sir. There is always room in the inn and food in the fridge. I was raised by a very hospitable family. I can remember my mom and dad cooking dinner and feeding anyone in the yard. Once, my dad fed a yard full of hungry kids with one pitcher of Kool-Aid, a bag of chips, and hotdogs. It wasn’t a planned meal. My dad was outside doing yard work. He threw some hotdogs on the grill and that was that. I’ve seen my mother feed ten people with one chicken, and everyone ate until they were full. Growing up, it never occurred to me that this wasn’t normal. I thought every family shared what they had. I can remember sleeping on the floor on pallets because family was visiting from out-of-town. What hotels? We slept on the floor and talked the entire night.
My childhood was an instructional manual in hospitality, Southern Comfort. I never knew my parents not to be willing to help anyone, family or not. They embraced everyone, even long gone exes. That’s another story. The miracle of it? They weren’t rich. Even by middle class standards, they were modest. However, they were abundantly limitless in love.
Forget Emily Post and all those manuals and books, Margaret Barclay is the most hospitable and charming lady. She could (and would) give lessons to you and feed your some of the best fried chicken you’ve ever eaten.
Hospitality

Posted in Musings, Post a Day

Crowing Achievement, I want…

I don’t want this to be the end. I don’t even want this to be the ne plus ultra of my ability. So here I am bearing my deepest want. Here I am paint-stripper scraping the basement of my soul and telling you, the reading world, what I want. I don’t want. I don’t want finality to be mundane. I want you to read my words and feel as if you were breaking your Fitbit goals in my head. Run around in here, have a seat, get comfortable.
But that’s the hard part. Who can ever say that they feel genuinely naked and unafraid with how they are perceived? I don’t. Even when I am exhausted and having that moment of clarity, I hold back from what I really want to say. Not that I fear frightening people, I fear letting you know me. I fear the finality of your lost curiosity and disinterest. If you get to know me, the writer, you will know my soul. And that personal revelation feels final.
Still, I want my finality to be the crowing achievement. I want to leave the words uttered from the depths of my living soul to never die. I crave the immortality that only literature can deliver. In a hundred centuries, I want some one to dust me off, open my cover, and fall in love with the words that desperately escaped me.

Final

Posted in Musings, Poem

Inside My Head, a Maze

From the moment that I wake to the second that I fall asleep, I have traversed the corners of my mind and lost myself in its maze. Much like my grand and well-planned ideas, I try to begin with some pattern of order.
For example, I had a dream that instantly gave me the idea for a book. I instantly start writing ideas down and doing research only to be distracted by the idea of a poem. The idea of the poem reminds me of something that I read by Langston Hughes. I love Langston. Off I go in search of a book of his poems that I keep in the guest room. I cannot find the book, so I go online and use the remainder of my Amazon gift card to buy another.
10494319.jpgWhile online, I see a link (courtesy of website cookies) to more Happy Planner stickers. Anyone who knows me knows that I love my Happy Planner/adult sticker book/scrapbook/life organizer. One “Oooh! I want that!” second later, I am digging in my work bag for my planner. Darn, I haven’t finished the weeks of May and there are many activities on Post-it notes waiting to adorn my stickered pages. Ten minutes later, I am sitting at the dining room table with my calendar caddy, planner, and laptop. As I mark the dates, my mind wanders to the meal planning and recipe stickers that I found for less than a dollar.
The menu stickers make me think of dinner. What should I cook for dinner? Speaking of dinner, Ayesha Curry sure makes meal prep look easy. I then proceed to research recipes online. But, the kitchens are so pretty and there is a conveniently placed Pinterest pinning button. As I pin the dream kitchen for the dream house that my dream job will purchase, I think of lemons. I like lemons. Do I have any lemons? Nope. I decide to go to the store for some lemons. Lemon, butter, garlic, and chicken.
Mental list made, I take a shower. The shower reminds me of songs that I need to learn for praise team practice. I jump out of the shower, leaving fat wet footprints on the floor as I run to get my phone. With the playlist going, I sing for the rest of the shower. The phone rings. Some poor soul thinks I deserve a free vacation that I must pay for. Sorry, no. A vacation outfit comes to mind. I reach in the closet and grab my sun yellow kimono shawl, a white tank, and some jeans.  Mascara applied, I head to the store thinking of lemons. On the way, I see the new library they are building. I think of the books that I want to read. So, I go to the library. Books make me want to sit and read. Well, sit and read as I drink coffee or tea. So, I head to Starbucks, pre-order my tea, and sit for a spell. The book makes me hungry for tacos. Tacos would be great for dinner. I eat a taco from the place right by Micheal’s.  I wonder if they have more clearance stickers at Michael’s.
Ten minutes and three dollars later, I am in afternoon traffic headed home where the laundry is not done, the dinner will not be, and the beginning of the book never was.
My mind is a maze where I am often distracted and sidetracked. Although I know there is a way to master it, I find that the turns and walls keep me doing exactly everything that I want at that one fleeting moment. Perhaps Daedalus had a point; just like his masterful Labyrinth, my mind changes and grows with my every move. I think I like the happiness of it.
Speaking of happy, my Happy Planner cover reminds me of the lemons that I never bought. Doesn’t lemon herb-butter chicken sound delicious? Does Ayesha have a recipe for that?

Maze

Childhood Memories

pink.pngCotton candy. I can remember going to the carnival and waiting in line. The air was always sweet from the sugar of the cotton candy machine and salty from the popcorn machine. My mouth watering, I was gloriously juxtaposed between the two alluring treats. First, it was always the cotton candy. I loved pinching off little sections of the fluffy mounds and letting them dissolve on my tongue. i habitually licked the sweet off my fingers and then wiped my fingers on my shorts before I pinched another sweet cloud. I was mesmerized by the candy floss artist as he flicked his wrist and twisted the paper cone around machine collecting a perfect pink cloud with every try. I recently tried to master this skill. Needless to say, I ended up with more stuck to my lashes and hoodie than I could attach to the cone.

Bedroom. My bedroom was a Better Homes and Garden photo-op staged by my mother. From the pink ruffled canopied bed to the Laura Ashley floral wallpaper, my room oozed “Darling Little Girl.” At night, the bed and the walls glowed pale in the moonlight. It was so pleasant that nightmares sat for a spell and enjoyed a cup of tea. Speaking of tea, my mother collected miniature tea sets and cleverly duct-taped them to the pink shelf above my headboard. In the daylight, my room became a Spring Sunday afternoon, bright and cheery.  I would often fling myself across the bed only to be told to not get the spread dirty. I have so many wonderful memories of that room.

Medicine. Every child of the 80s remembers that bubble gum pink concoction, Amoxicillin. Why make medicine taste so good? I would look forward to that stuff only to be teased by two spoonfuls. I think those were the only times I ever finished the doses of any antibiotic. On the other hand, I ran from Pepto Bismol with the gusto of a life-sentenced fugitive fleeing the law. I would rather suffer through the episodes of vomiting than take one tongue’s lick of that unearthly muck. I can remember thinking that I was going to die from a stomach ache that I achieved from eating too much junk. My mother had to bribe me to take a dose of the Pepto-Dismal (as I called it). Even then, I convinced myself that my death certificate would read “She took Pepto.”

Pink