A “perfect” example of this happened recently when I was invited to speak at an event. I gladly accepted the opportunity and couldn’t wait to take my inspiration and energy off the page and on the road!  Yes! What could be better?! My excitement quickly soured when I learned that I would be sharing the event with another speaker, a published author. I thought, “damn, I’m not even published yet!” With what will I leave our guests? Honestly, I wrestled with that for a bit, then Spirit interrupted.

“You are not there to discuss your writing”, it said, “or even that you an aspiring author.  You are there to share your own personal journey, your own brand of energy, the convictions of your heart, your Joy, not be compared to someone else.  You were invited and that is enough.”

This response made me consider the many times that I simply refused to act on something because I didn’t have all my ducks lined up in a row, or hesitated to share something laid especially on my heart because it wasn’t completely fleshed out…not perfect…but not as good as I wanted it.  My propensity for perfection and fear of not getting my precise message across caused me to reluctantly withdraw myself from exposure. In a sense, I inoculated myself against what I thought would be rejection or failure.  Some might attribute this to not being courageous enough; they might very well be right.  Others might find themselves fighting with the same instinct to live up to what seems like a self-imposed, arbitrary standard.  Where do you find yourself?

I think that a lack of courage and instinct to live up to our own high standards are inextricably linked.  Not having the courage to do something for fear of failure or rejection gets in our way of what we say we want – to ultimately become better or more accomplished somehow. Though not taking certain risks might seem to insulate us, this tendency keeps us from becoming our most resilient selves. Moreover, it gives others who are also struggling with their own insecurities and fears, the impression that the journey is one of relative ease.

It is important to act, to show up, even when we do not have all the answers.  In the process, we learn what not to do and amass many lessons that we can then share with others. Though we are certain that nothing is ever perfect, and at times perfectly uncertain, we must allow Universe to align with us and usher in the right forces and persons that can help take our less-than-stellar life performances from mediocre to masterful. Certainly there’s merit in good preparation, but perfection? It’s way overrated.

Still learning. What about you?

Musical Inspiration:

“While the cat’s away, the mice will play”. So they say. I’d rather be the cat on some days though; having someone hot on my trail can be oh, so exhausting! On the other hand, if I were the cat, I’d get to pounce on those poor little mice, scare them half to death, bring them just to its brink, and let them off the hook…that is, until I am ready to begin the tryst all over again. Doesn’t that sound like fun?

Mice hardly seem popular among most folk, so my bet is that given a choice, we’d prefer being cats. After all, they seem to call the shots in this whole cat and mouse thing. This is why hubby thinks he’s in charge. I told him that he can make all the big decisions – every last one of them – but after nearly sixteen years, I have yet to tell him when one needs to be made.  So much for being in charge.

Much like a cat though, he gets to pursue me on most days, but while he’s away, I carry on like a mouse with little concern for time or “being caught”, mostly because I don’t have to worry about ever getting trapped, really.  I mean who would want to dispose of me, cute as I am? Me-Ow!

So, while the cat takes some time off, I get “carried away” in the strangest of ways:

• I catch up on Downton Abbey episodes without interruption from some loudmouth sports announcer screaming like he’s talking to a bunch of idiots, and better yet, without hearing some dumb question about “what the heck are you watching”! Shut up Sylvester, this is my show. I’m already three seasons behind. Hello! Any DA fans out there?

• I stay up later than usual, with books and papers strewn all over our bed, trying to get ahead of myself for the next day. Though I don’t have to entertain questions about what time I’m coming to bed, or about throwing some dirt over that bright light once and for all, this really boils down to an exercise in futility anyway.  Instead, I crash…lights, papers, and all!

• I work a heck of a lot harder in the home with no one to tell me “baby, slow down” or “get off your feet for a while”. With no one to empathize, I briskly get through abundant laundry, meals, cleaning and organizing of all varieties.

• I take my time at the local thrift store and buy something at a deep discount, without husband raising an eyebrow about its origin being less than savory. Tsk, tsk! My thriftiness scored me a sweet deal of a pair of damn-near-new designer jeans for $5, and a top for $8. According to my Math, I thought I was in the hole for $13, but when I got to the counter, and the lady said, “that will be $9, Ma’am”, I thought I had hit the jackpot! Who knew it was orange sticker day? Not hubby, that’s for sure.

• I multitask like mad! It makes my husband absolutely bananas to see me managing more than one thing at a time. He declares, “you’re expanding your empire again”. At least he knows who the Queen is!  So, while he’s gone, coffee is a’ brewing while water is a’ boiling while clothes are drying while Thing 1 is a’ showering, all while I’m a’ blogging. Makes me tired now that I put it that way.

• I indulge in a full-dairy (albeit fat-free) beverage from the local coffee shop. Oh, did I mention that I am lactose intolerant? I suppose it’s just as well that he’s sleeping in a different bed tonight!

I truly do miss my husband when he’s away (okay, maybe after two days or so), but the absence brings us closer each time he returns. We have our unique likes and dislikes, and that’s perfectly fine. Though I get “carried away” in my own quirky ways when he’s away, I appreciate his attentiveness when he is home. His love for me is truly unconditional, and I know that. He guards after my heart and wellbeing as he does only to make sure that I don’t wear myself down in the process of trying to get it all done.

I love that he loves me this way, but in the meantime…

…one fat-free cappuccino coming right up! Take that puddy tat!

I am so pleased to bring you this post! In it, my eldest daughter River, age 7, reviews a beautiful story called “The Girl with the Magic Hands” by Nnedi Okorafor. Nnedi rightfully earned the 2012 Black Excellence Award for Outstanding Achievement in Literature (fiction). Her novels, listed in their order of publication, include: Zahrah the Windseeker (2008 winner of the Wole Soyinka Prize for Literature); The Shadow Speaker (winner of the CBS Parallax award and Essence Magazine Literary Award finalist); Akata Witch (An Amazon.com Best Book of 2011); and, Who Fears Death (2011 World Fantasy Award for Best Fantasy Novel, 2012 Kindred Award).

Nnedi wrote this particular story, “The Girl with the Magic Hands” for Worldreader, an organization whose mission is to “make digital books available to children and their families in the developing world, so millions of people can improve their lives.” As of January 2013, Worldreader has donated almost half a million e-books to over 3,000 children in sub-Saharan Africa. Purchasing your own Kindle copy for just $2.99 at Amazon.com makes an immediate impact by providing access to even greater literacy.

I purchased a copy of this story for my daughter as a way of introducing her to Nnedi, the artist, and to examples of superb creative writing. She was already familiar with Nnedi, “Anya’s mom”, from the gym in our former neighborhood, but not as an author. “The Girl with the Magic Hands” fit the bill for River because it is as equally imaginative and engaging as Nnedi’s books intended for older audiences, but empowering and challenging enough in ways that a younger artist such as herself can understand.

I listened curiously as River read this gem of a story over three or four nights. Sometimes we took turns at reading, but most times, I simply listened. After the first night, I had to put away the Kindle so she wouldn’t sneak off and read ahead without me. (I didn’t want to miss anything!) Not only were we both enjoying a great story, we were also relishing our special time together, alone. She related to Chidera as an artist, and I became endeared to the story as a mother seeking to balance her child’s artistic talents while also giving her the freedom to blossom naturally, in her own time.

Though River has a great awareness of her gifts, she is careful not to display them too openly; however, reading this story kept her eyes wide open, and made her come alive in a new way. Learning that Chidera could create such beauty with her own hands and that, that beauty could create such inspiration to all who saw it, seemed to make her feel a bit less guarded. My heart smiled the entire time. Thank you, Nnedi!

In her own words, here is River’s review of “The Girl with the Magic Hands”:

I’d recommend “The Girl with the Magic Hands” for everybody because it is very interesting and a great book for young readers, especially me.

My favorite part was when Chidera started her own business to paint people’s houses. I’m an artist and this book encouraged me to get up in my own world and be creative and draw. Chidera seems a little shy in the beginning, but towards the middle and the end, she seems to get more renowned and powerful. As she grows she started gaining instincts. Maybe when Chidera is no longer alive, the Igbos will probably make a museum named the Chidera Institute with all her creations or instead, people could just drive by their own houses and say, “Chidera painted that!”

I think this story is interesting because a shy, young girl becomes a famous artist, a mean dad becomes the proudest dad ever, and a quiet and sad mom becomes famous for selling her figurines that Chidera did uli on. I think Mama Ugo would be very proud of Chidera. And that right there, was my review of “The Girl with the Magic Hands”!

Thank you, River. There’s transforming power in your hands, love, just as there is in a story well told. Though it appears magical to some, it is your gift. Use your hands to paint it and your words to tell it. Like Chidera, there’s power in your magic!

tell me that “the person who handles that isn’t here until Tuesday, m’am”. That would not be for another four days. Really? I thought.

Dumbfounded and utterly dismayed by this potential impasse, my mind constructed an image of this woman-girl on the other end of the phone, who offered absolutely no additional insight. I imagined her filing her nails (or twirling one end of her hair as she examined them, if by chance she was wearing a headset), head fully cocked to one side, squeezing the receiver between it and her shoulder, eyes rolling at the top of her head, as she mentally filed me under “Not My Problem” and counted the minutes until she would be rid of me.

“What did you say your name was?” I asked.

“Um…Toi”, she replied.

“Oh, I see. Is there any one else in the office that might be able to help me…Toi?”

“Um…just hold on.”

“Sure”, I replied, prepping myself for what might be a while. Meanwhile, I seethed on the inside. Toi’s indifference made me skeptical about whether she was being truthful. Nonetheless, I was prepared to wait.

Admittedly, I am rather intolerant of the glowing lack of critical thinking or problem solving that seems to characterize “customer service” today, but I have become more patient as I’ve grown older. Not long before now, I would go off when the likes of Miss Toi missed what I thought was the mark. I felt that many like her not only lacked the professionalism and courtesy that I came to expect from a front-line person or gatekeeper, but that they seemed bothered by any requests that required thinking or doing more than just entering my name into an appointment calendar.

Today however, I became remarkably aware of the silence – the hold to which Toi subjected me; it was as if Spirit was giving me an opportunity to recalibrate my response, to be more empathetic even. Rather than warm up for the moment when she’d return to the phone and give her a piece of my mind, this eternal hold allowed me to step back and figure out how I could reframe my attitude to not only get what I wanted, but communicate to Toi that it wasn’t about me, per se, or even her, but that it was important that everyone who called the doctor’s office be treated with a certain level of professionalism and courtesy.

“Acknowledge her”, said the Universe.

“Call her by name, then acknowledge her”, Universe repeated.

Still on hold. This recalibration exercise was taking longer than I thought.

What else could I do as I remained on hold? Surely, I could have tidied my surroundings a bit. Better yet, I could just be still while letting that patience thing take hold so I could more diplomatically manage the dialogue between Toi and me when and if she returned.

After about three minutes and no hold music, a woman returned to the phone. She didn’t sound like Toi. What happened to Toi, I wondered; I’m ready to practice this patience thing.

“This is Pam, the office manager, how can I help you?”

Great! That is who I needed to talk to in the first place, although…”the person who handles that isn’t here until…Tuesday”. Had the weekend come and gone while I was on hold? There was no upside in throwing Toi under the bus at this point.

The lesson was for me, and not Toi…but what was it?

—-

The biggest challenge of NaNoWriMo was the obvious time commitment.   I had to eliminate habits, disconnect Facebook and remove other activities that could absorb  “downtime” used for writing.  I had to slow my cheering for my President and unglue myself from the pre-election and post-mortem analyses of Mitt Romney’s ascension and fall from the national spotlight.  My focus needed to be writing, and I needed the part of my brain responsible for literary abandon and creative thinking.

I wanted to keep myself honest, and hold myself accountable. You may not know that I failed before at this NaNoWriMo challenge, but this time I had a renewed sense of urgency and purpose to write in earnest every day.  I had a story to tell and so I began.  Nothing would keep me from it this time.

Writing every day was a trying, electrifying, harrowing, sleep-deprived, crazy time.  Surprisingly, working this intently toward my novel gave me a personal sense of validation that I didn’t know I needed.  Participating made me feel that my story was not only important, but also worth telling.  In solidarity with other writers, I felt incredibly empowered to take liberties in crafting the story and gave myself permission to misbehave a bit.

Focusing on my novel in this 30-day window required discipline and a removal of filters.   I could not divorce myself from the travails of my characters. As I wrote, I found my characters dealing with deep-seated emotions. Repeatedly, I questioned how their raw emotions engulfed their personas.  They didn’t gloss over how they felt, who they betrayed, or even who they did or did not love. At first, I needed to cleanse them for presentation by glossing over their flaws with masks to hide their deeper, darker dimensions.  This was necessary for me to present them in a way that made them digestible, but it was unclear for whom. Stripping their ghosts from their hideous pasts only made them palpable for me to digest but created a conundrum that could not be reconciled.

For example, what do you do when the wolf who violently attacks Little Red Riding Hood is your brother or father?  Do you make excuses for him, love him anyhow, or blame Little Red, the victim for her shortened skirt, hijab, or flirting smile?  Do you confront the wolf with disgust or continue to romanticize his lies?  I found myself eager to find a redeeming quality in an otherwise dark character who I didn’t even like very much.

It became difficult to disconnect from the novel after addressing the layers, plots, and complexities of the characters.  This was painful at times, convicting at others, and almost always consuming.  I was physically present, but the story kept me up at night, sabotaged my sleep, and waywardly inserted itself into my daily life with a nagging unwelcomeness.

Writing and crafting the story was one of undeniable paradoxes.  Could I be liberated from the bullshit and guilt of unfulfilled expectations nestled deep inside or did I need to be positively neutral in all things?  Could I call a spade a spade or would I need to sterilize the characters of flaws, perceived or real? Could I be unapologetically raw and truthful in presenting my characters despite flaws and keep them whole? Could I, as a writer, not offend anyone who might identify with the characters, and why should I care?

Writing this story during NaNoWriMo forced me to ascribe a fuller humanity to characters and to delve into the dark without censor.   It was in unleashing their fullness that the true story would develop.  Inherently, I knew that cleansed and contrived characters could not sustain a novel.  I also knew that not all stories end with “happily ever after”.  Can anyone say “broken marriage after the ‘storybook’ wedding”?  Not all stories fit into neatly packaged presentations.

So what’s the lesson in all of this?  Writing is full of epiphanies and surprises. You feel liberated when you get the story right – when you feel that you have done justice to the characters, but it is downright daunting when you have nothing to write at all.  So what do you do then?  You write anyway! You may stop, but start again until you reach The End…wherever that may be.

 My Musical Inspiration - Feel free to rock out at any time.  

It seemed surreal as I stood there zipping my baby girl’s jacket, adjusting her barrette which I apparently clipped too tight this morning.  I could hear the chilling words from the chief reporting parent, as well as the words of the other mothers chiming in to confirm what they had also heard, but I was hearing all of this for the first time.  None of it made sense.

I am sure that finding meaning in all of this was on the minds of all the parents and grandparents gathered to retrieve their children, but it was too early to contemplate.   What will parents tell their children about their murdered friends, classmates, neighbors, or even siblings?

I stand away from Connecticut, but still know that tragedies like these seem to be hitting closer to “home”. Violence is quickly becoming a growing trend, and our most vulnerable are often the victims. In this case, it was children and courageous teachers who seem to be working in hostile times instead of developmental classrooms.  Please someone, tell me I am hearing wrong.

I loaded my girl into her safety seat and then my heart sank. I looked back at her more often than usual, to make sure that she was still there, safely buckled and intact where I left her. I needed her fully awake and present. I needed to see her eyes. I looked for comfort and assurance beyond their glimmer. I needed to hear some more incessant pleading, and annoying requests. I don’t mind them, nor do I complain today.  I needed to hear her.

My heart grows heavy with the knowledge that there are parents, not too far from here, who will not have the same privilege this evening. Instead, grief and an overwhelming sense of incomprehensibility await them.  Though we who stand outside of their community empathize, we’ll mostly go on about our business, while their realities will be forever altered. I pray that one day these families will find the strength that they need to carry on, but in the meantime, as they search to find meaning, I hope that a comforting touch, a deeply pressed hug, and the openness and sincerity of community will tend to their hearts and homes during a very difficult time.  This is my hope.

We may never find the words to describe this condition which seems to plague folk determined to carry out violence for whatever selfish, angry reasons they have, but I pray that our response will be one that will help these families find meaning in this.  But I am not sure anyone can.  I trust that in time we learn to trust, hope, and just breathe again.

“You know something?

I’m thankful to be in this country. There are many freedoms and opportunities here that can’t be enjoyed in many places around the world. I’m especially thankful for the principles of democracy and freedom of speech. Most of all, I am profoundly thankful for friends who challenge me in love, spirit, and truth. Whether we share the same party or political ideas, religious/ faith beliefs, ethnicity, class, or sexuality, they know that our common interests are greater than our ideological differences.

We fundamentally want the same things, but may have a different vision for getting there. Ultimately, my true friends know that my heart is good. They hold me to a higher standard, yet still respect my freedom of thought as an important tenet of being an individual, and being an American.”

***************

I shared the above post with “friends” on my personal Facebook account today, and upon receiving initial feedback, I felt led to share it here. I am cautious about my use of the word “friends” because I know that this descriptor doesn’t always capture the magnitude of my relationships on Facebook; nonetheless, many of us connect in this way as a result of several, separate connections and networks that ultimately bring us together. This fact alone should present an opportunity to further open up and get to know each other better.

Without a doubt, there is incredible energy, both positive and negative, about Barack Obama’s reelection to office. I will be the first to admit that in all of my excitement and running comments during the debates and then again while the results trickled in, I never once thought that any of what I said could be interpreted as anything other than excitement for my candidate of choice. I would be naïve, however, to ignore the fact that this nation is divided, though by all accounts, Obama’s win was a decisive one.  Still, I am hopeful about our country’s ability to galvanize behind our common experiences and heart convictions.

I also hope that, if nothing more, this opener sparks a conversation that gets us to a more communal space where diversity of thought and experience is encouraged, valued, and respected.

Welcome to the table!

**Also, you can still check out PBS’ “Race 2012: A Conversation of Race & Politics in America” online.**

Official Race 2012 Blogger

There’s no easy way for me to speak of race. Let’s just say, my world wasn’t always black and white.

When I migrated to Brooklyn, New York from Dominica at the age of ten, I never anticipated that America would be so fragmented along the lines of race and class. Unlike America, my Dominica was a small island that Jamaicans referred to as that “iddy biddy island pon de map”.  It was not the Dominican Republic.  It was a proud homeland with little talk about race in terms of black versus white. You were Dominican. Of course, there was some talk of “oppression” in the context of colonization and imperialism, but our living there was not racialized, per se.  My initial introduction to race came primarily from the Bob Marley songs that my uncle would blare about “Africa Unite!“, Paul Bogle, revolution, colonization, and liberation. From these songs, I quickly gathered that colonized people all over the African Diaspora were marginalized at the hands of a larger oppressor and made to believe themselves as inferior based on their skin color alone.

Moving to New York, I was catapulted into a racially charged environment.  Some of the fiercest criticism came from people who looked like me in skin tone, but took every opportunity to remind me of my difference. At school, my accent sounded “funny”, my clothes were not in season, and getting free lunch was laughed at. I felt like I had been thrown to the wolves and had to fend for myself. Though I was clearly part of this race by all appearances, I did not feel the “Black Power”.  For whatever reason, it seemed that my black American community looked down on my immigrant experience and cared little about my American dream. I also had to deal with a complex set of new problems including white on black race relations, black on black relations, and the “immigrant versus American” debate.

Clearly, being a black immigrant from the Caribbean in a predominantly black American community coupled with a backdrop of an already painful race relations in America did not seem to give me an advantage.  I also gained new labels and none of them reflected Ralph Lauren or Tommy Hilfiger. Instead, they bore names like “Inner City”, “Minority”, “At Risk”, “Other”, “Disadvantaged”, and even “Haitian”, though I wasn’t.  Nonetheless, to black Americans, skin color and common class experiences were not enough to establish new bonds.

Beyond my social context, there also seemed to be a much more concerted effort to institutionalize Caribbean blacks as African-Americans.  Although we did not consider ourselves African-Americans, the powers that be conveniently grouped us as just Black. Although I did not feel a sense of belonging among blacks, I also knew that I did not wish to belong to any of the other available groups. Hence began my relationship with race.  Welcome to America!

*****

If you missed the PBS documentary Race 2012: A Conversation About Race & Politics this week, you are in luck. You can now watch it online by clicking here. You will be glad you did. This documentary was break-through, well-informed, and unlike anything else in the current media on race.  In the meantime,  meet the bloggers and check out some great content on RACE 2012 at Monica’s Tangled Web.

*****

Official RACE 2012 Blogger! Yay Me!

Well…
I’m listening

Attentively
Passionately
Ardently
Authentically

Wanting to know what
Drives us to walk about
Dance around
Skip along
Pretending…that all is well

When in fact the writing is on the wall
Worlds crumbling like
Silence is golden
Succumbing to a political correctness
That holds us all hostage

Every subject taboo
Every emotion offended
Though it is only through this dialogue
This reaching, this breaking…bread…barriers…ground
That real healing is effected.

We avoid being affected
Though awareness abounds
In turn
We become
Desensitized
Distanced
Deep into dispositions of melancholia
Some call it depression
Indifference…even

Debates make mockery
Of our meaningful pleas and demands
Our cries become vanquished beneath mere chicanery
The dialogue becomes the ineffectual, dissonant, din

Breakthrough becomes
Shattered by soundbites
Devalued by media spinsters
Rescued instead only posthumously
In obituaries and iconic reflection

******

I’d love to know your thoughts and expectations about presidential debates.  If you are reading this after viewing the first presidential debate between President Barack Obama and Mitt Romney, I definitely want to hear your reaction.

This special blogging project, for which I am an official blogger, coincides with the thought-provoking documentary, “Race 2012: A Conversation About Race & Politics in America” airing on PBS on October 16, as well as promote conversations across the country on the subject. (Please check local listings for exact times.)  As a part, I hope to spark some civil and candid conversation here as well. Are you ready?

In the meantime, please do catch up with fellow bloggers on this project and read their unique perspectives. Click here for a complete listing of contributions thus far.

Let’s get it started, y’all!

Love manifesting.

“Did you know that true love asks for nothing?” (Stevie Wonder, “As”)