Me & My Poet

So a little over two years ago some light was shed on my son's interesting personality. My son has Aspergers Syndrome which is on the Autism Spectrum. The eyes through which Devyn sees the world and the unique way that his brain is wired still astounds me. Its a struggle at times for me to grasp the complexities of his divine design nevertheless I am indeed humbled to call myself his mother. Our mother/son story is an unconventional one. He came into my life when I was clueless and naive but so willing to know true love. I found it in his eyes when I was age nineteen, a mere baby myself. I discovered unconditional love staring right back at me in those adorable brown eyes. From the very beginning he was always such an agreeable child. It still amazes me how he entered this world and found his way throughout the years in such a non assuming manner. From day one, Devyn has had a reliable laid back manner. Although his father and I were nowhere prepared to be parents we struggled to figure it out even in the midst of our short lived relationship. We were young and completely mismatched as a couple could be. My son and I grew together. We came into our own together, yet apart. I attempted to raise him with a solid foundation that was relationship based where God was concerned. I raised him in my home church which was a Baptist setting where we attended Sunday services and weekly Bible studies. He was enrolled in a Christian preschool that tenderly catered to him and his pint sized peers. He was a lovable toddler who was surrounded with love and acceptance until things began to change when he placed in public school. My boy seemed to be having what I thought was a bit of culture shock in the first or second grade. For most of Devyn's life he had been in an environment that was accepting and encouraging. Here he was now in public school in a less accepting and loving environment where name calling was the order of the day. I can still recall my very first teacher conference. When I received the call that my son's teacher needed to meet with me my heart sank. I wondered what was wrong and how would I fix it. I came prepared for my meeting with my trusty notebook so that I could jot down her concerns and make personal notes as to what I should do. I was aimed with a plan without even knowing what was wrong. His teacher greets me and thanks me for coming, I sit and brace myself for what's to come but it doesn't. Panic had set in and had become deflated with the words, "Devyn has been hugging the children". What? Hugging the children? This was my son's offense? Hugging? His teacher goes on to explain that Devyn hugs all of the students and it makes them uncomfortable. I sat there dumbfounded that I had taken off from work early for this. The teacher politely shared that she saw nothing wrong with it but many of his classmates did not like to be hugged and had begun to call him names. My heart broke when she shared the name that these young children had called my child. Wow. I explained to her that my child had come from an environment where he and his classmates hugged each other all of the time and usually at the beginning of each school day but that I would ask that Devyn try not to hug the children anymore.

This was the beginning of something that I did not understand at the time. I simply just assumed my son was having a difficult time acclimating to his new school. The truth of the matter as I see it now he was unable to read a social cue. Devyn simply didn't understand that his gesture wasn't being received well and that he shouldn't continue. He didn't read into why. He just did not understand. As my Love continued to progress in elementary school his third grade teacher expressed a concern that he struggled to focus in class and would often stare off at times. She recommended strongly that I have him evaluated for Attention Deficit Disorder. I saw that recommendation as an assault against my parenting abilities but did so anyway because I did not want my son to struggle in school. With his evaluation and prescription for Adderall in hand I observed my child and tried everything that I could to help him. I told him the medicine would help him to focus in class. We prayed and struggled and cried and prayed some more. I changed his diet and read and read and read some more. Things improved and his prescriptions and dosages varied. I refused to give up. I believed that there was nothing wrong with my beautiful, bright son and refused to have dependent upon medication. In fact, the day he came home and announced that he didn't have his pills so how would he be able to do well in school was the day that I decided that he no longer needed them. Call me a bad mother but my fifth grader would not believe in the power of a prescription nor be dependent on it. I became his support and advocate and he excelled as I knew he would.

He was still somewhat awkward in social settings and in his interactions with others but I always believed it would be something that he would outgrow. Fast forward several years and he never did. His father and I switched primary parenting roles when he was in the eighth grade. A decision that I regret to this day and I have yet to see growth in him socially. My heart ached over what I believed was my fault for not being there to guide him and place him in environments that would foster his interactive development. I couldn't get past the idea that I had dropped the ball, that I had done something wrong, that I had somehow failed my child. My baby was growing up but somehow not blossoming and it was all my fault. After his dad and I finally settled into the concept of what was really going on with Devyn he had just completed high school. I read and read about Aspergers and was flooded with an overwhelming sense of guilt, relief, fear, trepidation and concern for my son. I wondered how would he navigate through this maze of a world? Would he be okay? Will he be happy? Is he lonely? Will he have friends?

After getting past the overwhelm of information and sitting down and speaking with a counselor that I happened upon at a children's event, my heart was comforted to comprehend that everything would be and is perfectly fine. I began to see my son for the very first time through a different set of eyes. Aspergers is not his diagnosis but his divine imprint.  It is the artful way that our Creator chose to wire his brain cells and allow him to view the world. Devyn's name means "poet" and for me remembering that I am so blessed. When I named my son it was never planned. I wanted a daughter and had a name all picked out for her. His dad suggested having an alternate boy name just in case.  This was of course before the era of everyone being informed of their child's gender prior to delivery. I chose Devyn Paul which was close to his father's name. I didn't realize it then but his name was extremely on point for who he was and is as a person. He is in every way to me a "humble poet".  Just as in a poem I have learned such a great deal from him, if and when I look a bit deeper.  When I try not to understand him but to simply experience him I am taught so very much. We are redefining our relationship in his young adulthood. I am humbled step by step in the process. Each moment of frustration brings me closer and closer to releasing all judgment of what and how things should be. When I allow myself to I can learn a great deal from this humble little poet of mine. He has emotions like anyone else but is not ruled by them. How awesome is that?!!! My son's inability to process social cues or be led by them may just have liberated him to heights untold. He won't have the same struggles as I have and for that I am grateful. He will not be enslaved to what he should do or be based upon anyone else's assumptions. He struggles to read those assumptions or cues, so there! He's free! Devyn's wiring keeps me wondering if he's angry or distant with me because he is so very monotone and a bit mechanical in his exchanges. I am learning through my son how not to project what I'm feeling onto someone else. My poet is all reasoning with little rhythm. He tutors me in the art of simply being in the moment for the moment's sake, in engaging in a thing without engaging in every aspect of it, in seeing something without overanalyzing it of which I am great at.  He struggles at connecting the dots of personal interactions but it doesn't define all of who he is. He is content. He is loved. He is loving. He is enough. Gosh, I can learn so very much from the simplistic complexity that is my son. Thank you God.

 

Making Room

Have I mentioned my newfound love for framing? I believe that I have in some form or another. Well I am really, did I say really trying to frame the events in my life in the most divinely inspired way. I've been attempting to make sense of some very hurtful things over the past several months and to current, I've come up with absolutely nothing. A friendship that spanned over a decade has dissolved and I have been in my quiet time on a rollercoaster of emotions. I have been saddened, hurt, disappointed and angered to the utmost by this epic friendship failure. I tell myself that I should simply allow myself to feel what I feel for now. The results of how the friendship ended stares me in the face, a loss of my personal property and that truly angers me to no end. I struggle to be enlightened and spiritual. I struggle to maintain that the divine law of compensation will unfold as it should in this situation. I struggle to know exactly what to do. I want to defend myself, to engage my offender, to give her a piece of my mind but honestly after all I've gone through over these past few years that piece of mind may be all I have left. I am grasping for straws at the most spiritual way to view the situation but I am completely dumbfounded. I am trying to frame this falling out in the most gracious way possible but again I am coming up with absolutely nothing. The person I referred to as a dear friend for years literally keeps my property, my clothing and other belongings in retaliation for something that she believes I've done to her. Thank God I had already secured my shoes Dear God! I am beyond puzzled. Everytime I think of my things that she has either thrown out or simply given away I am livid. What level of crazy would a mature woman, alledgely mature woman of God in the counseling profession of all professions choose to resolve a conflict in such a way? I counsel myself and tell myself that I am perfectly fine with ending the friendship. Parting ways is/was the only way to go forth but I am without my clothes, my clothes! I look to the heavens and I ask and beg for an answer. What have I done or failed to do to deserve this? So, since I have not come up with anything I will work on framing this failure through the eyes of faith. My former friend's behavior is only God's way of making room for more in my life. She has been used as a catalyst to clear out some space for more. Her mentally unstable behavior leaves no room for me to question her removal from my life. She has made room for loving, nonjudgmental, supportive, genuine friends void of an agenda. In fact, her vacancy is making room for me to remember my Friend above all friends and true Confidante. This exit has made room for some much needed alone time and solace. I've gotten more in touch my authentic self and I am trusting my instincts now more than ever. I have always been at peace with the idea of being alone. The range of emotions that I've been experiencing because of the friendship failure has humbled me because I have been forced to look at my judgmental tendencies.  Because this flaw has been brought to the forefront, my spiritual attention to it will definitely make room for more accepting qualities. I anticipate this happening any moment now. I am definitely working on it and expectant. So, I open up my heart and my closet and I position myself to receive all that I've lost in time and pretty little things. Everything is replaceable and every situation is a learning module. The portrait of my life now reframed is looking rather optimistic if I say so myself.

Mister's One Redeeming Quality

Lately I've been in such a "Color Purple" state of mind. I do not know why. I haven't watched the film recently. Who knows? Well anyhow, I've been truly considering a dear friend's suggestion to try my hand at dating older gentlemen. As I am forty one that idea concerns me because I certainly do not want to wander over into the geriatric ward, but a nice salt and peppered distinguished gentleman may do the trick. It is indeed worth an honest try. Thats where I am at this point in my journey, trying something new. After my last relationship fizzled out I promised myself no relationships for at least six months to a year. Which reminds me also, have I mentioned that I have another nasty habit of moving into a relationship in a full fledged way? Whereas some people move into a new relationship with an overnight bag, a change of clothes, a toothbrush, and an extra cellphone charger, I unpack all of my hopes and dreams and then commence to decorating. So, I'm thinking a definite detox is in order. During such time, it may not be such a bad idea to entertain the thought of spending time with older men. Secretly I have had this strange fantasy to become some older gentleman's "sweet young thang". It would be quite nice to be in the presence of an older, wiser, patient man willing to be leisurely with me. That's what older men do I'm told. They are "leisurely". They no longer sweat the small stuff. They take their time. They stroll through life with earned wisdom. They prepare and plan with purpose for what they set their sights on. I think as I swirled that idea around in my head somewhere that that's where "The Color Purple" came to mind. Not the demeaning, abusive horrific older man who preys on a younger woman using her as prime chattel, but as the "other" older man. The older man that caught a glimpse of a "sweet young thang" and it filled him with that special, unique eagerness. It reduced him to a boyish heap of excitement.

Ahhh, that's what I strangely adored about Mister. Yes, there was something endearing about Mister, to me at least. Remember when he first set his eyes on "Nettie"? The infatuation of a beautiful young girl seemed to set the man aflight, but what tickled me the most as a woman was the scenes of Mister before he went to "call for Nettie".  Now I do not believe that a girl that age was actually ready for marriage and especially not to a man as tormented as "Mister" but how sweet was it to see a man actually get excited about a woman? I took joy in watching him get "suited and booted" to go calling for Nettie. He even went so far as to pull out a nice hat and horse and once before her father he made his intentions known, "I come for your Nettie". I know, I know I should be much more progressive but I liked that. We see him yet again become full of enthusiasm at the mere idea of being in the presence of a pretty woman.  "Shug Avery" was not as young as "Nettie" but she was definitely the object of his desire. Just the simple suggestion that Shug was coming to town had Mister on the good foot and pulling out his smell good.  When a man wants something he pulls out all the stops. I suppose thats the difference. He wanted Nettie and Shug yet settled for Celie. To me Mister's one shinining, redeeming quality was his enthusiastic way of pulling himself together when preparing to court a woman. This is what truly made me think more of the older man idea. These distinguished gentleman really know how to pull themselves together. They actually put in effort when preparing to escort a woman for the evening. I have yet to encounter a man my age or younger who has invested the attention to detail that older men seem to towards their appearance. You can plainly see their efforts in all the tiny little things from their shined to perfection shoes to the exceptional timepiece on their wrist. They never ever appear thrown together. The good  Misters of the world display their unashamed enthusiasm for you. To me thats whats missing today, that good old fashioned male enthusiasm and eagerness as expressed in a man's appearance and efforts.  I loved how Mister actually attempted to prepared Shug's breakfast himself. I guess this silliness just warms my heart because for the majority of the film you see the monster in Mister but when faced with the object of his desire the monster is reduced to an awkward, eager school boy.  Older men still seem to retain that. I suppose again its because of their earned wisdom. Can someone please bring back the days where men invested effort into courting a woman? What a delight it would be to experience for a brief in moment time being the pretty protege to a fine gentleman.  I may just run across a good Mister whom I can enjoy for a little while, who knows? I did say that I'm open to trying something new.

Buddy Buddy with My Body Body

You know, the slower pace of my life has allowed me to really get up close and personal with my life, my body and my "self". Its amazing that when you have a bit more time on your hands you can pay attention to things. Just within the past two weeks I've noticed the striking evolution of my body. Being home in my parents' house all of my old childhood pictures sheds quite a light on the passage of time. Body image is so huge among women and the way we see ourselves its often unbelievable. It is so interesting the way that I viewed my body in my teens and my twenties. I was such a teeny, tiny petite little cutie. Gosh I wish I would've known that then. It's not that I was thin that made me cute back then but the niceness, the rightness, the young optimism in me that could be plainly seen in my eyes. I didn't wear that optimism like a badge of honor back then. I was like many women, unsure of myself as I explored and felt my way through the act of becoming. When you throw into the mix motherhood I was just a little ball of confusion. I stood five feet tall with a couple of inches thrown in for good measure, even after giving birth I was back at my pre pregnancy weight of an embarrassing ninety eight pounds. Many women now glorify the anorexic look but as a Black woman, I hated how I looked. My fineness and fly-ness was nonexistent and I totally hated it. Yes, that's it, I'm finally admitting it "aloud". I absolutely hated how I looked in my twenties. Although I was not a straight up and down skinny dwarf, I had subtle hints of boobies and a thorough genetic gifting of hips. Now, although this was the early '90s when the baggy jeans and baggy TLC look was in, Black women still had lots to fill the baggy jeans up with and I did not. Thinking back now to young twenty something year old Terrea, I had this mousy, uncertain gait. I've always appeared younger than my actual age and because of it I longed to be taken seriously but was confused as to how to do it. Anytime I was out in public with my son I felt self concious because I didn't want to look like the average teenage mother. I dressed conservative and never really experimented very much with clothing, colors and styles. So many people automatically assumed my son was my little brother. Maybe I was unknowingly making an effort to look older. Well, it didn't work at all. In high school, I can recall someone sharing with me that the color black makes you look small, so of course I stayed away from black. I did everything that I could to gain weight, but nothing happened. I did not work out at all because I feared that doing so would work against my weight gain goal. Even pregnancy at nineteen didn't help to give me the voluptuousness I so desired. Looking back I don't believe that I was insecure about my appearance but not enjoying my young womanhood totally. I was exactly where I was supposed to be, yet I was unable to be at peace with myself. I was always on a quest to improve. I did not approve of the body that I had. I was so blessed with lovely things that people would often throw my way that they could no longer wear. Of course I'd gladly accept the gorgeous designer pieces, many of them with price tags still intact. I just could not bring myself to wear any of it. I could not see myself in any of the lovely sundresses because I was too skinny. Remember, skinny was not yet in back then.

Sitting here all comfy in my mother's home among her beloved pictures of Terrea way back when it is now crystal clear to me that I was perfectly fine back then. There was a rightness about who I was that I could not see nor approve of at that time. Wow, I was such a babe, a mousy, little divine babe! I had no idea!! I was clueless to my cuteness. Geesh!! So here I am at forty one with my full grown lady parts and I find myself back in my twenty two year old state of mind. I still have this hilarious way of disapproving of myself, my body, my state of being. Years ago I recall when my aunt came to visit from Atlanta and the observation that she made. After seeing my home for the first time, she commented that based upon my library it looks like I was in a constant state of improvement. I didn't get it at the time because I assumed that she did not get me. It is funny though, every book I owned was about becoming better at something, improving some area of my life. Sitting here today, I finally get it. That was so young woman Terrea. Through my eyes at that time there was always something deficient about me, nothing good enough as is, to simply enjoy. Oh with the passage of time, I still point out all that I perceive as flaws with my body but today after dealing with some "transformative challenges" I think I'd like to make friends with my body first. Yes, before I undertake an adventure to eat better and coax my tummy into submission I'd like to embrace every aspect of myself first. Of course, I should be more active. Of course, I should most certainly alter my eating habits. I am so all aboard with the idea to eliminate some unhealthy eating habits. But before I wage war against my thighs I wanna love 'em!! Twenty years ago I failed to accept and appreciate my form as it was blossoming and today I must take the time to love this body. Its taken me quite a long way.  As I've aged my body has begun to tell me some things and I must listen. She wants to simply be loved, cherished and accepted as is for once and right now I am willing to do just that. Certain things do not agree with her, like dairy products but I will not think that she is bad and unloveable because of it. Stress slaps her in the face but I should not scold my beautiful body because she's not friendly with stress. I am willing to listen to her and love her. She responds well to long walks. She whispers her wants to me and then there are times that she screams for what she wants. Lately she's been quite pouty and agitated. Before, she throws an all out hissy fit, I plan to cater to all of her needs, to do more of certain things and less of others. It's high time I become buddy buddy with my body body.

Oh my, I'm a Bouncer!!

My Daddy is such a Louisiana man. He doesn't cook because he wants to or has to. He absolutely loves to. Many men from my neck of the woods actually have an absurd love for cooking. This love for cooking and my father's dominate, overbearing personality has been the bain of my existence for as long as I can remember. My mother cooks because its necessary. She would much rather shop or decorate. My Daddy is a whole other story in and of itself. Being back in my parents' home is a constant reminder of the more things have changed the more they have remained horribly the same. Recently I was cornered in the kitchen by my Daddy with one of his cooking rants, or so thats my description of it. He believes whenever we cross paths in the kitchen he must "teach me" some culinary technique. This truly drives me crazy. The truth about it I believe is his way of doing it. My father still retains an uncanny knack for speaking to me most of the time as if I am fourteen and not forty one. So in our most recent kitchen encounter covering the proper way of making chicken salad I found myself wanting to yell "I know how to make chicken salad! Please leave me alone!!", but of course I did not. I reverted to what I did best as a child, I fumed and pouted and in my mind plotted about breaking camp right then and there. I found every cell in my very being enflamed. I was angry, livid, and infuriated that I was being talked to so disrespectfully and being controlled. I did not ask to make the chicken salad. I did not want chicken salad. I resented being forced to take part in a cooking demo period. I wanted out in that instant. Because I was brought up to be respectful I did not engage in an argument with my father at that moment instead I simply got mad and as soon as this mandatory cooking lesson/demonstration was over I fled. I couldn't get out of there fast enough. Later that night it hit me that it was not about the silly chicken salad. It was about how I felt and more profoundly about how I responded. I slowed down that evening and actually gave it some thought. I do not like to be controlled, constricted or made to do anything or endure anything. I detest not having some form of control. If I feel that I am being talked to in some disrespectful manner not only do I not like it, I do not allow it. I leave. I have a propensity to exit situations that bring about discomfort to me. When stressed I walk. As an adult I feel empowered that I can leave. As a child I did not have this luxury. When I was younger I became very talented in the art of suppressing how I felt and simply doing as I was told. I had no wants, no voice. I did not have the liberty of leaving. Our home was not as progressive to allow for a tearful teenager's dramatic storming out of a room. As an adult I brought my masterful ability to endure and put on a happy face to both my place of employment and worship.

I discovered and unwrapped the wonderful gift of goodbye in my early thirties and I haven't looked back since. I felt free for the very first time in my life and with each relationship or scenario that brought me some form of displeasure I happily wielded my ability to bounce. After I put in what I believed was sufficent energy into anything, whatever that was, if results weren't visible in the allotted time I bounced. I've gone through some insurmountable challenges and difficulties in relationships. I have grown accustomed to dramatically ending and fleeing dead end relationships. If anyone can exit stage left with flair and verve, its me.  Oh how I know how to part ways with panache! I do believe that I am a very patient woman but again once results aren't seen or experienced in a timely fashion, I bounce. The average shelf life of any of my relationships have been 2.5 years never evolving into a committed marriage. Upon reflection, I've fled my relationships if not physically always mentally once I knew within that I simply wasn't happy. In fact, I was always the one who walked and usually to the tune of some great women's empowerment anthem. The more that I evaluate my bouncing behavior I question if I have within me what it takes to engineer or welcome stability. Years ago when disillusioned by the mundane routine of what was my then long term position at a hospital, I allowed my discontent mixed with my obvious immaturity to set me aflight yet once again. When my spiritual walk was not aided to my satisfaction by my then church home I bounced. I see now a nasty habit of running has taken root and I do not like it one bit. I've grown tired of running and I question what could I have done differently to make my relationships work. What could I have done differently years ago at a job I had been on for several years?  I now understand the importance of feeling what I feel and not allowing that experience to define me or direct me. I am not a ball bouncing from one place to another. I can have roots and wings. I can stand and still feel free. I can deal with what is before me. I can have a voice without running. It may be possible that I can illicit change by simply being myself right in the middle of what I detest. Bouncing may not always be beneficial afterall. Maybe the gift of goodbye when enjoyed routinely isn't all its cracked up to be. It seems I've grown far too accustomed to the high of packing up and leaving simply because I can. Wow, I've grown up! So, when the urge to flee comes upon me and I know it will, I must stay put and work through it. Maybe the answer will be to remove myself but not before facing what infuriates me.

Me & My Ole Ladies...It's Complicated

Every now and again I am quite nostalgic. I reminisce and long for a time when things were slower, simpler and some semblance of sanity wasn't such an elusive concept.  When things got crazy there was always a nice, uncut, authentic voice of reason whose words of wisdom were like a drink of ice cold water on a scorching summer day.  Here in the Deep South most men have a term that for years never really sat well with me that they tend to use to describe the significant woman in their life. This term for as long as I remember was used in an affectionate manner and it usually identifies a guy's wife or long time girlfriend, his "ole lady". Well these days when I hear the term I smile and try with great difficulty to consider it a compliment or an accolade when the "ole lady" being spoken of is held in high regard.  A man's ole lady typically has strong qualities such as ingenuity, a fierce and unwavering loyalty and a genuine and gritty demeanor. Some may call it simply being down to earth and relatable. Quite possibly the ole lady flexed these shining qualities because she held no real title in the eyes of the church and the law. Being a longstanding girlfriend beyond the age of thirty-five tends to make one want to remove the rose colored glasses. So anyway I'm rambling again. Basically, the ole ladies were an interesting concept to me. I've known women who've even regarded the men in their lives as their ole man. I guess the usage of the term and the affection it originates from isn't gender specific. Well, when I think about the sage wisdom often gleaned from older women and the true treasures they were to the women of my generation I am saddened because it appears they are all but gone. The older women that I speak of aren't the mothers, grandmothers, or aunts. I am speaking of those "ole ladies" that taught school, did hair, dated my uncles or worked at the local market. The women whom I would see on a regular basis who had it in their heart to drop a word of encouragement to me as often as possible.  What I so enjoyed about my ole ladies is the fact that some of them refuse to season their speech. They tend to give it to you straight, no chaser. Many of my ole ladies have conseled me without ever uttering one word. Their raw way of conducting their business affairs say it all. I think every woman should have an ole lady. A mother sometimes can't be your ole lady because well, she is afterall your mother. There are things that only an ole lady can share with you thats completely undiluted, unfiltered and crystal clear. You see your mother will always see the daughter in you, her little girl. Your ole lady will see the woman in you, the faulty, flawed, error prone problematic places in you. Where your aunt can't see why in the world you're still with that man, your ole lady can.  Your ole lady is that older co worker who has taken a liking to you and chats with you at work. She sees herself in you when she was younger. She gravitates to you. She allows you for so long to keep up the niceties and keep calling her "Miss Betty", etc until one day she seizes the moment and goes in on you. She's the one who asks "what the hell are you doing with your life? When are you going to quit this job and go for what you really deserve?" Remember your ole lady is fiercely loyal and refuses to sugarcoat things.  She's greatness in you with objectivity because she is not your mother. She sees and understands your hangups because you both share them. Oh how I miss the ole ladies. Some invite you to church some do not. Some merely preach the gospel of "look at my life and do the complete opposite baby". Every woman needs one and every woman should be one.

Yes every woman needs an ole lady and every woman should be an ole lady. I think I'm coming into my era now. I am accepting that my youth and I are growing further and further apart. Its difficult for me to wrap my mind around but I am so not that young, optimistic, twenty something year old anymore. As optimistic as I may always remain I am no longer that young anymore. I am now and have been the ole lady in the lives of several young ladies. I so hope that I've played my role well. I hope that I've offered wisdom both spoken and unspoken. I hope that I have set my ladylike tendencies to the side and given it to them straight. Giving it straight means that you care less about how something may look as long as the message comes across. As articulate as I strive to convey my thoughts there are times when you simply need to say what needs to be said in the most rawest way possible. Being someone else's ole lady means you also have to teach some unique survival skills that you never thought you would.  Several years ago I dated a man prone to violence. As was typical of myself at that time, I held loyalty to others above loyalty to myself. Thank God for growth. Well, he had his two teenage daughters with us on one particular trip. These two beautiful young ladies, Amber and Emerald had very different personalities but were both young and impressionable. During the trip their dad and I had a disagreement of some sort something that I cannot recall at the moment but it was obviously always something very miniscule. He had a habit of speaking to me with brutal disrespect. I had not left him at that point because foolishly I believed I needed to be there for his daughter who had moved from out of state to live with her dad. The girls were in the backseat and I knew that diffusing the situation would be wisest thing to do. So what appeared to be a weakness before these two girls was actually wisdom. I sat there and I took it, the cursing, the yelling at me, the threats to "bash my head into the window". Once home, I did what any ole lady would do, I poured myself a drink and called the girls into my room while their father was out and taught school. Amber, the more rambunctious one when asked what she thought about the scene said she wouldn't take that and how she would've responded blow for blow. Emerald the more meek daughter kept quiet and she shared how it made her nervous. I could plainly see the effects of their father's anger management issues in both of his daughters: one was hostile and 'bout it just like her dad and the other had witnessed her dad's violent behavior towards her mother so she was evasive and withdrawn. Here was the perfect teaching opportunity for an ole lady. How do you share with two young teenage girls how to handle a potentially violent situation? Straight, with absolutely no chaser. You teach them survival tactics that only an ole lady can. The only way to diffuse a situation such as that one is to shut up. You explain as only an ole lady can that as a woman, especially a 5'2 inch woman you cannot fight a 6'4, 280 pound man, so if it appears you're playing stupid you don't care, you shut up and live to pack your bags another day. Only an ole lady can say that and advise them to try to never get in such a situation but if you do, that's how you make it out alive.

I miss the ole ladies who spoke with gritty truths as they knocked the ashes from their cigarettes and schooled you in survival techniques. I miss the way they shared their regrets as well as their triumphs, their heartbreaks and their happiest moments. When I long for their earthiness I go to my dearest ole ladies Sarah Vaughn, Betty Wright, and oh yes Roberta Flack. I listen to my ole ladies and let their stories settle upon me, strengthen me and propel me to survive love, life and myself.

Control Where Art Thou?

Upon waking this morning I stretched in bed, opened my eyes and willed myself to be thankful. Yes, willed myself towards gratitude. Its another Monday morning and I have not yet secured employment. I am tired and wondering how is it even possible to awake tired? Lately my mental faculties have been on overload. I have been trying to make peace with a few things and forge a new life and its just not happening in the timing that I feel necessary. Who am I anyway? Its not like I am God, Supreme Creator and Sustainer of the Universe. I calm my breathing and continue to simply tell God thank you, thank you, thank you. My agenda for the day of course in addition to locating a brand new gig with benefits was to visit one of my best friend's classroom. Rebecca is a preschool teacher and when I have a chance I try to spend time in room 14. Today I believe I desperately need the distraction of a group of little people. Again I must will myself out of the door to that adventure. The feeling of mental overwhelm that has settled over me is a bit much. I think of all that I've lost, all that I need to accomplish and who I want to be as I struggle to get from one point to another. The truth of the matter is that I really don't want to struggle. Yes I said it. I don't want to "struggle to get from one point to another". My heart's desire is to simply move calmly and serenely from one phase to another. like a devoutly enlightened person would. I want things to just flow. The problem here is that they are not. I am back home in my Mayberry where I know everyone and everyone knows me. This whole getting back on my feet thing should be relatively simple shouldn't it God? I am down to nothing so the cool cliches all say that "God must be up to something". Right?  I am full of tears that won't fall. I am clinging to little and hoping for much. I am telling myself that complaining won't make things better. I am telling myself that I cannot look backwards, that I must forge ahead. I've discarded my pride quite some time ago, but honestly I still long for some control. Yes, control just like Janet proclaimed all those years agao, "control". The control as Janet puts it "to get what I want". Yes, can't I just have one of those nifty headset mics and cue the music in my life and a suitable background? How lovely would that be? Control, where art thou, you elusive trickster? Even when I was quilting together the proceeds from all three of my field trips I retained a sense of control.  In one day with the loss of all three and the vehicle I lost all control. I have no control, at least it feels like it. In my mind I slam my fist down on the table and demand control! I want to make something happen for me. I want to fast forward through this ickiness of transition quickly. Is there not a button that I can press to get me there Jesus? I am asking all of the right questions. I am completing all of the online applications. All I want is control, nothing more, nothing less, well maybe. I want to control some aspect of this process. Do you hear me God? Taps, the mic. Hellooooo. Nothing happens. I hear crickets.  I look to the heavens and I ask now what?  The funny thing is that a great part of my overwhelm comes as an inability to process much of the pain, hurt and stress that I've burdened myself with over the past several years. I know that my brain and heart is on overload and I do not know how to completely rid myself of the residue of all that's happened and so I do as I've always done. I move forward. I keep going. I apply for more jobs. I attempt to be as positive as possible while I search for the Son in all of this. I cling to my last forty dollars as if my life depends on it. I get angry for having placed myself in such a predicament. I prepare for the silence that will come. I grudgingly make a truce with the lack of control over my circumstances and embrace that I can at least control how I feel about everything. I can control my attitude right? My phone will be off soon. Being unable to eat should be the trick to losing those unwanted pounds I've been trying to get rid of . I smile to myself and think hey, this catastrophic cloud that is my life just may have a silver lining afterall.