Journey to Empowerment Page 7

  I have taken the seven minutes beyond the ritual of journal writing. Some days, I spend seven minutes working on a collage for my new journal. On another day, it will be seven minutes spent staring out of my kitchen window across miles of London skyline. Or then again, it may be seven minutes arranging a bunch of f lowers in a vase and soaking in the beauty of Mother Nature. The possibilities are endless, but whatever you do will be a sign for amazing Grace to step right on in.

  So here we are, nearing the end of our journey together. I simply invite you to take seven minutes each day to be with your journal, to be with your spirit and to be with your soul. Sarah Ban Breathnach in her book Something More said of women of power, “Life needs women who will claim their power, and will use it for all of us.” I believe that writing for our lives is a healing tool that will guide each one of us back home to the center of our soul where we can reclaim not only our authentic selves but be fully connected to our soul’s purpose.

  I pray that we as African women around the world will continue to weave together the pieces of our fragmented selves from among the words on the page and piece them back together again like our grandmothers and their mothers before them who made the beautiful quilts often depicting the courageous stories of their lives. In doing so, we nurse ourselves back to strength, to our original glory, celebrating the enormity of who we are. As we welcome both the sun and the rain, the thorns and the f lowers of life, we keep faith and keep on stepping out, holding on to the vision to just be—all that is WOMAN! In the meantime, sisterfriend, don’t forget, you are the best things you’ve got!

  Be blessed.

  * * *

  Take a few moments each day to find your center. Give your mind the opportunity to relax and reflect on your abundance of blessings. When I’m centered I meditate upon…

  * * *

  The Day I Told the Truth

  BY SHELLIE R. WARREN

  I’m a liar…in recovery.

  Ever since I can remember, I’ve lied. Sure, I guess we all have at one time or another. We’ve lied about eating the cookie before dinner, about taking a glance at a fellow classmate’s schoolwork, about being seventeen when a cute twenty-one-year-old approached us for our number. These are called “little white lies”—the ones we say will hurt no one. But these fabrications only set the foundation for bigger ones, the kind I have told and have paid the price for.

  “I don’t need a serious commitment.”

  “I am comfortable with casual sex.”

  “I prefer ‘nonrelationship’ relationships.”

  “I’m too young to know what I want in a relationship.”

  “Sharing my needs is a sign of insecurity.”

  “Putting a man’s needs ahead of mine is all a part of compromise in a successful relationship.”

  “There’s no way I can keep a man without having sex with him.”

  Lies! Lies! Lies!

  And the sad part is…I had come to believe them.

  I’ve been in many destructive relationships with great men. The men in my life were highly intelligent, very humorous and keenly attractive. They were all goal-oriented and ambitious. And many of them were candidates for healthy, productive relationships…that is, until I started lying to them, but never without first lying to myself. You see, I had many friends who sent the men in their lives through unnecessary drama. They were jealous and possessive. Many of my male friends complained about the high level of maintenance that dating young women entailed. Thus, I pledged to be unique. I was determined to mold myself into the ideal woman, the kind of woman men desired.

  I would be attractive and intelligent and funny and would want no more than what a man was able to give. I would not demand a monogamous relationship or have “unreasonable” expectations, for that would surely put unnecessary pressure on them. I would listen to all of their female issues and would provide the solutions. I wasn’t going to be the “typical woman.”

  However, over time, I no longer felt attractive or intelligent and had started to lose my sense of humor. What I discovered, over time, was an intense longing for a monogamous relationship. But, after years of living this way of life, how could I turn back? Or, why should I? At least this way I was not vulnerable to the men I was involved with. How could I be? They were in my life on my terms. I was receiving the benefits of being someone’s girlfriend, but without the responsibilities. I had it made! That is until they started ending their relationships with me to be with the very women who “didn’t understand” them. But I thought that I was the understanding one!

  To the contrary, I’d been lying to myself and they’d been lying to me. My relationships were built upon falsehoods and denials. I was not the cure, but the Band-Aid. Sure, they wanted me in their lives, but as a diversion or vacation. I wasn’t considered the main, the only woman. Then, I began demanding to be. But it came too late. When they ended it, I was hurt and lonely. I felt cheap and used. While sex had distracted me from my pain, it was something I no longer enjoyed. What had the potential of being healthy friendships ended as toxic relationships. I disliked them for not loving me and they did not trust me enough to learn how. I was now addicted to this way of living and it was causing me to die a slow and steady emotional death.

  One day, it dawned on me. My problem was my lying. So, my solution had to be to tell the truth.

  “I am attractive.”

  “I am not a doormat.”

  “When I am not honest with a man about what I want in a relationship, I cannot blame anyone else but myself.”

  And the biggest revelation of all was, “I AM A QUEEN!”

  And, “Queens deserve no less than kings.”

  The day I came to know these truths was one of the scariest yet most exhilarating moments in my life. I knew that in order for me to live free of self-affliction, I had to give up the drug that once provided so much comfort and relief for me—self-deception and incongruity. No more convincing myself that my heart and body should be taken casually. No more inviting low expectations from men. No more mistaking lust for love. No more camouflaging piercing, ardent pain with temporary, carnal pleasure. I deserved much more. And what I wanted was a monogamous, moral, upstanding, permanent relationship first with myself, then with others.

  I’m freeing myself from the secrets of my past, and I’m excited about my future. I am thankful that God granted me the opportunity to come into this revelation. Relieved that I can do nothing about yesterday, I’m grateful for a chance to change tomorrow. But mostly, I’m appreciative for today…a day that will be filled with no lies.

  Only truth.

  She Sings

  VALERIE AYRES

  She sings off-key. But wears her voice like the beautiful family quilt her grandmother stitched one corner at a time. It was an heirloom pattern; colorful but never out of style…loud but not overbearing. Stitched beside the wood stove that the family used for heat and cooking everyday meals. Her granddaddy named that stove Betsy. It was black, potbellied, short and heavy, but don’t let looks fool you ’cause it could heat up the whole house in a matter of minutes with a little help and simmer up meals that had you licking each finger twice. “Just like Miss Betsy,” the menfolks whispered to each other. Her voice not one to gossip with such foolishness, instead sings chords full of life in radiant spring hues like her family quilt to family, friends and neighbors alike…always in key.

  She sings off-key. But wears a piano like a second skin and plays like she’s been taking lessons since birth; plays by ear with a gift only God could have given her. After hearing the first stanza of a song, she will pick it apart key by key and make it her own. She first will stroke the ivories like brushing a baby’s head and, by midsong, she will bam out the chords as if they are being twirled toward the welcoming sun all the way from her soul. You, the listener, will walk away feeling the heat, shaking your head wondering where she hid the sheet music and how someone with all that class could hit those church keys that hard with so much rh
ythm, find all that soul in such an angelic place and conjure up all that power from such a petite package. You smile as you walk away a little lighter realizing how blessed she just made you feel and how good God is…all the time.

  She sings off-key. But wears the beauty of a note like a lost soul that has just found joy on its way home. A note that you hold for a long time as it relishes on your tongue and after it has left your soul, you try to hit it again…and again…and find pleasure in knowing that once you hit it, it will come back, sometimes more forceful and longer than before. It will bring passion and beauty like a ballad with words written just for you and a melody played so sweetly with so much profoundness it brings satisfaction to your heart and tears to your eyes. She takes that note every first Sunday and sings front and center as a member of the seniors’ choir, soprano section. Even though her voice leans more toward alto or tenor depending on whom you ask and what note she is trying to hit at that given moment…she still sings. With so much wisdom, she goes where the spirit leads her and where she feels her voice is needed the most…amazing grace…. She sings, to us all.

  She openeth her mouth with wisdom; and in her tongue is the law of kindness.

  —Proverbs 31:26

  Mine Own

  GEQUETA VALENTINE

  After twenty-two long hours, she lay stretched out on a bulky metal hospital bed, exhausted and disoriented, her body soaked with the perspiration of hard labor.

  “It’s a girl,” the white nurse said, without enthusiasm, moments after the child, kicking urgently against her loins, emerged from her womb. After checking the baby’s vital signs, the disdainful nurse cleaned and wrapped her tightly in starched white hospital linen and hurriedly handed the bundle to her without speaking another word. Protectively, she held the child in her trembling arms, while the newborn flexed her young vocal chords with a deafening cry, announcing her presence to a world that did not want her.

  She stared at the small, black body, pressed closely against her bosom, silently mourning the inevitable. For all of the joys she would experience through motherhood, she knew that the baby girl would suffer much more sorrow than even she could ever imagine. But the woman could not allow those thoughts to stifle her spirits. What she had done was give life to yet another yearning, black child and for that she was proud, even content, and that was what she needed to remain focused on; not the fact that far too soon she would be forced to reconcile her emotions and confront the reality that this very child would be yanked from her care, just like all of the others, into a world that refused to understand her. She would be thrust into a world already set in motion, entrenched in its own ideologies about who or what she could and could not be.

  Why had the woman been chosen to bear such a burden? Wasn’t it enough that she’d survived the same? To teach another was harder to do. No matter how much she’d prepared them all, it just wasn’t enough to soften the blow to the barrier she’d erected, always broken by a single word or action.

  Her daughters would run to her like their lives depended upon it, shocked and amazed that she already knew and felt their pain, even before they had arrived. She consoled and encouraged, all in the same breath, her smile never wavering, while her insides were ripped to shreds at the rejection her children suffered. Each time, more dreadful than the last, having given each child a portion of her own heart for her healing, to cover the scar that the scorn of others had left. Even now as she gazed into the deep brown eyes of the child she held, she felt as if she had nothing left to give.

  Her eyes trailed the room to the open window, for a glimpse of the great big world outside, a world that had changed, but not enough that she could allow her children to play in it without questioning the age-old adage that “every man is created equal.”

  “Run faster.”

  “Try harder.”

  “You have to be better,” she would exhort them while they stared at her, eyes filled with naiveté, never understanding why they were held to a higher standard in the first place. But they were and would continue to be, by no fault of their own. It was just their plight, as it was hers to nurture and strengthen them for endurance. Without it, there would be no way they could survive.

  For that reason alone, she knew there was no point in continuing to tussle with her thoughts. No sense in debating what was already determined. She had been chosen, appointed to bear such a burden, and she could not shirk the responsibility, no matter how daunting. Heartache and agony, never far away, peeked at her from every corner, always prepared to stop and pay a visit. But if she dwelt on what was always a possibility, she would never remember the rewards garnered by her dutiful service.

  The familiar sounds of hunger erupting from her child’s mouth brought her back to her surroundings. Looking down, she smiled, gently nudging the squirming infant, guiding its mouth to her darkened nipple. As it nestled and suckled her, she was happy for the job that she’d been given, of being her mother, and the mother to the entire nation of children she’d borne before her. It was her job and hers alone. To ask someone else to do it would have been unfair. The task rested upon her shoulders. And yes, the weight of it bent her frame every now and then, but who was better suited to raise her daughters to be proud, black women—to love and believe in themselves in the midst of a world that whispers their inferiority, but her…

  A black woman.

  Heavenly Body

  BY LYNDON HARRISON

  I look upon thee as a flower looks upon the sun, You…are my heavenly body.

  I rise to meet you at the dawn of each new day, Looking forward into the light that your vision brings.

  I see all of creation in a single of your gestures. No greater honor can I hold than the touch of your divinity.

  Angelic being, as your heavenly essence descends deep into my soul, I am blessed.

  Our energy motions attract like the elements of an atom.

  Deep in our emotions…we feel our way home. We are on a crystal-clear path…traveling through the darkness and the light.

  But no diamond could lure me from the perfect gems hidden in just one of your tears. For only we, the stars and our Creator can know the truth about our homeland.

  A place of profound beauty…where we were once one.

  Separated by an age to test our love.

  Unified in this way to complete the ultimate love story.

  Light of the world…our union is indeed.

  Your repose makes me sigh the secret breath of bliss. The most essential acknowledgement of love and respect.

  As I open and close the lens of my central eye your image is captured forever.

  On full display in my private gallery—the holy of holies.

  Only you may enter this highest height altar.

  Now your view of my entire being is unrestricted—I am yours.

  Signs of the times…we are icons of fertility and stability.

  Heavenly bodies decorated with the blueprints of raw life,

  Our orbits are free in form.

  The first binary star of a new universe of galaxies…of worlds to be born.

  Through the twilight eye light of our beloved ancient guardians

  Our creator honors our ascension.

  They prepare the way as the debris of universal construction implodes.

  Our explosive union is visible to the naked eye.

  Blessed is the place where we live.

  Constantly moving in prayer, I give thanks…constantly.

  Angelic woman…my heavenly body.

  Only the most divine word can truly express our love.

  A sacred word hidden in the spirit of our bodacious dancing and stillness.

  Born wild and free…we have…returned.

  My sweetest, mother of the purest creation, I love you.

  Menopause/Womenopause

  BY PATRICIA WILSON-CONE

  The dictionary tells us that menopause is the cessation of menstruation. My first concern is, why do we call this phase of women’s
lives menopause? Since we are talking about a pause—stop—a halt in the lives of women, it would seem to me we would change the name to “Womenopause.”

  We, women of color, have learned since slavery the importance of pausing and stopping during the various stages of our lives in order to survive. We had to pause and stop when we saw our black men being castrated; we paused and stopped when we gave birth to the master’s child; we paused and stopped when our husbands left us in order for him to survive in a land of freedom. And now we journey into this biological phase of our lives and realize that a change is coming over us. Once again, we find ourselves pausing and stopping to embrace menopause, or what I have termed “Womenopause.”

  I want to define menopause—“Womenopause”—from a spiritual perspective. This is the time in women’s lives when we should pause to reflect, revisit and reshape our thinking; refine what we are feeling; remember where we have come from and where we are going as strong women of color, womanist creatures of God. This is a time when we want to be sensitive to the change that is occurring in our lives, and to realize and affirm that God is right there. It is the essence of Psalm 139:7–10. “Womenopause” might cause you to feel that God is not there with you. However, God is right there in the midst of our change.

  This is the time to reflect on some of the outstanding African-American women of our lives and what they have offered us to enhance our spirituality. For example, what is Renita Weems saying to us at this time in our lives as we read her book For Such a Time as This? What does it mean to pause and reflect on Susan Taylor’s book, Living in the Spirit? When we feel melancholic during this “Womenopause” experience, dare we spend time revisiting Maya Angelou’s poem “And Still I Rise.”