Part I
tell me
should i be ashamed of my needs?
why?
they are sacred
not in the sacrificial sense
but bold and real
tender and intimate and demanding
like god
growing and changing
like me
why do you look at me that way?
as if you are trying to disguise your judgement
as if you could judge me?
i am holy
not necessarily pure
i am no lamb, no virgin, no pristine watery-eyed thing
but i am good
beautiful and real
like life
not all of God's children are called to be martyrs.
Part II
it seems, my love
that you have even fooled yourself.
i will pray your strength, false prophet
for you will carry that cross
alone.
still, remember me...
salvation is not in your hands
you are not my hero
but you will die for this.
and i will pray, for your sake
that you will rise again
and live.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Friday, September 19, 2008
Work. Do. Be?
My mother says I work too hard.
She has felt this way as long as I can remember, but growing up her constant, motherly warnings of "you need to sitch-yo-self down somewhere," "don't take yourself so seriously, Carmen" and "when are you going to rest?" always confused me. I was hardly the biggest overachiever among my peers. The hallways of the schools I attended were filled with hundreds of scrubbed black, brown, yellow and pink faces, all glowing with possibility. Many of them wanted to be doctors, lawyers, veterinarians and marine biologists. (Actually, I think my entire class went through a marine biology phase in the fifth grade or so - some textbook had left us all obsessed with manatees.) I had only wanted to write, novels at first and then articles after my father insisted that journalism was a more stable way for a writer to make a living. Sure, I was involved. But the other kids were student government officers, captains of sports teams, torchbearers for important causes. I was smart, but no genius. Good, but not the best. Busy, but not too busy. At least that's how I felt back then...
I look back at my high school photos now and marvel. How did that girl do it?! My last year in high school I was co-editor of our school newspaper and a senior member of the Dance Company. I also held down a part-time job, completed a Research Practicum for the science and technology program, and managed a full course load including 2 AP classes. I did all of of this in addition to college applications, and had some pretty fruitful relationships.
I look at the pictures in amazement. That only slightly younger me was Superwoman, and I'm afraid I will never live up to her legacy. But then I begin to squint. I let my head lay to one side as the alternating questions of how? and why? begin to run through my head.
My senior year in college I led an on-campus Bible study and was the head choreographer for the associated dance group. I held an executive committee position in the Black Student Movement. I had a job as a Resident Adviser, served on the Union Board of Directors, completed two majors and planned a wedding. I managed it all, perhaps not as well as I did in high school (it helps to have someone who makes sure you get up for class), but well. Still, how? Why?
At any rate it's not there. And to me, I am beginning to look old. Someone told me the other day I could pass for seventeen if I didn't open my mouth. But he doesn't know how bright my eyes used to be. He wasn't close enough to see the burgundy peeking through the skin of my eyelids, or the lines beginning to etch themselves on my forehead. Where did this come from? I'm not old; I'm 24! Young, and profoundly disappointed in myself for misplacing my multitasking skills somewhere between college graduation and here. Praying that I can fake it until retirement.
What is wrong with me? Do I have lupus? Maybe sickle cell? Perhaps it's some lethal, undetectable form of cancer that will make the fact that I only do some things (instead of everything) more acceptable. At my funeral, they will say, "even though she was sick, she still managed to do This." And then This will be enough.
Wishful thinking. Chances are that I don't have cancer, lupus, sickle cell anemia or any other get-out-of-doing-more free ailment. So, the questions return, slightly revised. How did I get so lazy? Why am I so tired?
The thrill is gone, and even though the things I do now hardly match the hustle that some expect of me - that I used to expect of myself - I hardly have the energy to sit up straight. In fact, I'm slouching now, writing this after a Friday night spent planning and working. It's not enough though. I could have done more. Honestly, though, I don't want to. But I will. I must.
Actually, you don't have to do any of this at all.
The thought presents itself, clear but gentle, and remains still for a few seconds. Then it proceeds to clink against the walls of my mind like a pinball, noisy, shiny and busy. However, making no valuable contact with my intellectual senses, it rolls back down and out of my head, settling in my chest.
It's heavy. I slouch a little more.
But if I didn't do this, what would I do? Without doing, who would I be? Why would I be? And how?
The answers that have been swirling around in my gut have recognized their chance. They threaten an uprising, first to overtake my heart, then my mind. But fear, old master, swoops in like a night rider and suppresses their liberation attempts. Good.
Sad, but good.
Truths such as those beg action. I am not ready. I'll choose not to think those thoughts tonight. For now, I'll just sleep. I have to wake up early tomorrow. I have a lot to do.
(P.S. I get it now, Mom.)
She has felt this way as long as I can remember, but growing up her constant, motherly warnings of "you need to sitch-yo-self down somewhere," "don't take yourself so seriously, Carmen" and "when are you going to rest?" always confused me. I was hardly the biggest overachiever among my peers. The hallways of the schools I attended were filled with hundreds of scrubbed black, brown, yellow and pink faces, all glowing with possibility. Many of them wanted to be doctors, lawyers, veterinarians and marine biologists. (Actually, I think my entire class went through a marine biology phase in the fifth grade or so - some textbook had left us all obsessed with manatees.) I had only wanted to write, novels at first and then articles after my father insisted that journalism was a more stable way for a writer to make a living. Sure, I was involved. But the other kids were student government officers, captains of sports teams, torchbearers for important causes. I was smart, but no genius. Good, but not the best. Busy, but not too busy. At least that's how I felt back then...
I look back at my high school photos now and marvel. How did that girl do it?! My last year in high school I was co-editor of our school newspaper and a senior member of the Dance Company. I also held down a part-time job, completed a Research Practicum for the science and technology program, and managed a full course load including 2 AP classes. I did all of of this in addition to college applications, and had some pretty fruitful relationships.
I look at the pictures in amazement. That only slightly younger me was Superwoman, and I'm afraid I will never live up to her legacy. But then I begin to squint. I let my head lay to one side as the alternating questions of how? and why? begin to run through my head.
My senior year in college I led an on-campus Bible study and was the head choreographer for the associated dance group. I held an executive committee position in the Black Student Movement. I had a job as a Resident Adviser, served on the Union Board of Directors, completed two majors and planned a wedding. I managed it all, perhaps not as well as I did in high school (it helps to have someone who makes sure you get up for class), but well. Still, how? Why?
***
I feel lazy now, when I look at my peers. Like I'm not making good enough use of myself. Something pricks at me when I see them walking by so quickly, accomplishing everything in a day. To think, just seconds earlier I had been enjoying my stroll. How... unproductive.***
I look at myself in the mirror now and resist the urge to hang my head. Instead, I stare. Few traces of the young woman I used to be remain. I have searched for her, tried to reconstruct her from memory. Her energy, her fire, is gone. Or perhaps it is somewhere hidden, buried underneath the layers of uniforms I wear and never take off, like a treasure. I think one day God went and hid it from me, knowing that if it remained at hand I would use up the sacred thing much too early in life, and on the wrong things. Hopefully.At any rate it's not there. And to me, I am beginning to look old. Someone told me the other day I could pass for seventeen if I didn't open my mouth. But he doesn't know how bright my eyes used to be. He wasn't close enough to see the burgundy peeking through the skin of my eyelids, or the lines beginning to etch themselves on my forehead. Where did this come from? I'm not old; I'm 24! Young, and profoundly disappointed in myself for misplacing my multitasking skills somewhere between college graduation and here. Praying that I can fake it until retirement.
What is wrong with me? Do I have lupus? Maybe sickle cell? Perhaps it's some lethal, undetectable form of cancer that will make the fact that I only do some things (instead of everything) more acceptable. At my funeral, they will say, "even though she was sick, she still managed to do This." And then This will be enough.
Wishful thinking. Chances are that I don't have cancer, lupus, sickle cell anemia or any other get-out-of-doing-more free ailment. So, the questions return, slightly revised. How did I get so lazy? Why am I so tired?
The thrill is gone, and even though the things I do now hardly match the hustle that some expect of me - that I used to expect of myself - I hardly have the energy to sit up straight. In fact, I'm slouching now, writing this after a Friday night spent planning and working. It's not enough though. I could have done more. Honestly, though, I don't want to. But I will. I must.
Actually, you don't have to do any of this at all.
The thought presents itself, clear but gentle, and remains still for a few seconds. Then it proceeds to clink against the walls of my mind like a pinball, noisy, shiny and busy. However, making no valuable contact with my intellectual senses, it rolls back down and out of my head, settling in my chest.
It's heavy. I slouch a little more.
But if I didn't do this, what would I do? Without doing, who would I be? Why would I be? And how?
The answers that have been swirling around in my gut have recognized their chance. They threaten an uprising, first to overtake my heart, then my mind. But fear, old master, swoops in like a night rider and suppresses their liberation attempts. Good.
Sad, but good.
Truths such as those beg action. I am not ready. I'll choose not to think those thoughts tonight. For now, I'll just sleep. I have to wake up early tomorrow. I have a lot to do.
(P.S. I get it now, Mom.)
the intellectual
the house is built strong
for safety and
protection
but why, my love
do you sleep
on the porch?
the place for sitting
cooly observing
solving the problems of those
whose business you feel privy to
is no place to find
rest
yes, it is beautiful
you did a fine job building it
but the porch will become faded
and soon begin to sag
under the weight of the elements,
constant activity
and all your heavy thinking
where then
shall you go?
i need you to go in from there
turn off the lights
and awaken the spirit that you only allow to emerge
in the midst of darkness
then,
filled with it's warmth
reach out
and invite me in.
for safety and
protection
but why, my love
do you sleep
on the porch?
the place for sitting
cooly observing
solving the problems of those
whose business you feel privy to
is no place to find
rest
yes, it is beautiful
you did a fine job building it
but the porch will become faded
and soon begin to sag
under the weight of the elements,
constant activity
and all your heavy thinking
where then
shall you go?
i need you to go in from there
turn off the lights
and awaken the spirit that you only allow to emerge
in the midst of darkness
then,
filled with it's warmth
reach out
and invite me in.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
things i'm not supposed to think
1. Some children are demons sent directly from hell to torment their teachers.
2. I wish I had a butt/ breasts/ skin/ legs/ teeth/ etc. like hers.
3. "You made me hit you!"
4. My cousin is really, really attractive...
5. And the BIG one: Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever find anyone better than my soon-to-be ex-husband. My brain screams "YES! He was a total bastard!!! You can do so much better!" But honestly, something in my heart doesn't know. Is this because I secretly think that deep down he's a great guy and/or vastly improving, and I should have given it another shot? Maybe. But it's more likely that I just think all men are bastards, on some level, and the bastard you know is better than the bastard you don't know, right?
Plus, I get lonely. That probably qualifies as another thought that a strong black woman of the new millenium shouldn't think. However, it's my truth, and I would venture to say that most of the folks this side of 55 claiming to be a part of the "alone but never lonely" crowd are delusional. Never? Come on...
Still, would I sacrifice my dreams and hopes to return to a comfortable but overwhelmingly mediocre marriage? No.
I don't think...
Anyway, enough rambling. Here's an interesting article I read recently, somewhat related to this post: http://www.cnn.com/2008/LIVING/personal/08/26/o.divorce.dreams/ Very thought provoking for me, but a good read regardless.
Take care people!
2. I wish I had a butt/ breasts/ skin/ legs/ teeth/ etc. like hers.
3. "You made me hit you!"
4. My cousin is really, really attractive...
5. And the BIG one: Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever find anyone better than my soon-to-be ex-husband. My brain screams "YES! He was a total bastard!!! You can do so much better!" But honestly, something in my heart doesn't know. Is this because I secretly think that deep down he's a great guy and/or vastly improving, and I should have given it another shot? Maybe. But it's more likely that I just think all men are bastards, on some level, and the bastard you know is better than the bastard you don't know, right?
Plus, I get lonely. That probably qualifies as another thought that a strong black woman of the new millenium shouldn't think. However, it's my truth, and I would venture to say that most of the folks this side of 55 claiming to be a part of the "alone but never lonely" crowd are delusional. Never? Come on...
Still, would I sacrifice my dreams and hopes to return to a comfortable but overwhelmingly mediocre marriage? No.
I don't think...
Anyway, enough rambling. Here's an interesting article I read recently, somewhat related to this post: http://www.cnn.com/2008/LIVING/personal/08/26/o.divorce.dreams/ Very thought provoking for me, but a good read regardless.
Take care people!
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
comfort
in a moment of confusion, i asked
"where am i?"
spiritually speaking
i was told, "somewhere between here and there"
god is funny
it answered a questioned unasked
"stop seeking and find"
so here i am.
"where am i?"
spiritually speaking
i was told, "somewhere between here and there"
god is funny
it answered a questioned unasked
"stop seeking and find"
so here i am.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
thank you
in response to blu moon's "the answer...": http://blumoon85.blogspot.com/2008/09/answer.html
my dear sister~
thank you so much. that was the answer i needed.
it's funny that in the midst of a divorce i think i value love more than ever before. i want love. i need love. i love love. i AM love. i think...
i dream of it constantly and without effort. but then i open my eyes and i just see all the obstacles, again without effort. and i realize that i'm a bit jaded; i haven't come through this thing without scars. which is natural, i guess, but still kind of depressing. is it possible to not be wounded? but who will want the wounded me?
...life is full of conflict for a cynical romantic. but i will remain open to miracles.
my dear sister~
thank you so much. that was the answer i needed.
it's funny that in the midst of a divorce i think i value love more than ever before. i want love. i need love. i love love. i AM love. i think...
i dream of it constantly and without effort. but then i open my eyes and i just see all the obstacles, again without effort. and i realize that i'm a bit jaded; i haven't come through this thing without scars. which is natural, i guess, but still kind of depressing. is it possible to not be wounded? but who will want the wounded me?
...life is full of conflict for a cynical romantic. but i will remain open to miracles.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Monday, September 1, 2008
poem for the river II
i am an earth sign.
stable,
more practical than i like to admit.
you cut through me like water.
persistent, gentle, powerful
natural.
fully unaware that you
are changing me.
smoothing my rough places
soothing
and moistening
where i was parched.
carrying pieces of me away
and changing my shape.
making me softer
so that you are harder
to resist.
and i allow it
because i have no choice.
and it feels so good.
the ease,
the helplessness of it all.
a force of nature that overtakes my own.
i want to be carried away on your current
because it feels like living.
even though i know the truth.
that one day
you will deposit me on a strange bank
and keep flowing.
fully unaware
that you have moved me.
stable,
more practical than i like to admit.
you cut through me like water.
persistent, gentle, powerful
natural.
fully unaware that you
are changing me.
smoothing my rough places
soothing
and moistening
where i was parched.
carrying pieces of me away
and changing my shape.
making me softer
so that you are harder
to resist.
and i allow it
because i have no choice.
and it feels so good.
the ease,
the helplessness of it all.
a force of nature that overtakes my own.
i want to be carried away on your current
because it feels like living.
even though i know the truth.
that one day
you will deposit me on a strange bank
and keep flowing.
fully unaware
that you have moved me.
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