bloom + flow

Tag: writing

  • everyday miracle: a birthday story

    everyday miracle: a birthday story

    Long before we were ever dating, my husband and I talked about how birth order and spacing impacted our lives. He is almost 7 years older than the sister he grew up with, and they didn’t have much of a relationship until they became adults. I am a little more than 5 years older than my sister I grew up with and, while we had a good relationship, it didn’t feel like reciprocal siblinghood most of our lives.

    From that sprung our thoughts on what an ideal family makeup would be. Two kids, so we’re not outnumbered. One boy and one girl to replace us, statistically, for the good of the world if nothing else. Two and a half years apart so that the first child’s stuff isn’t all outdated for the purposes of hand-me-downs, but as parents, it’s not overwhelming to have both the littles going through similar developmental stages. It was refreshing to find agreement in pragmatism. By the time we were actually married, we were already on the same page. So, when our first child reached the year and a half mark, we checked in with each other about when to try for a second child. Might as well, we agreed.

    Late one crisp, autumn morning, I was in the middle of the floor, screaming in pain, writhing in agony. You have to see a doctor, my husband said. The ER nurse thought my cries of pain were a ploy for pain medicine, so she made me sit there, waiting for me to give it up and go home. I cried til there were no tears left. Until the rest of the patients refused to be seen until I was at least looked at. It took an emergency motion from the hospital’s Board of Directors to get the care I needed. And by the time I got help, morphine wasn’t enough. I felt like I was dying inside. Because I was. Many hours and an emergency surgery later, the dead part was gone. Post-op, a month later, the doctor told us: not sure what your family planning goals were, but don’t expect another little for a couple years, if that…because statistics. Just…don’t get your hopes up. 

    A few weeks later, we popped by our sister-friend’s house to see her mom, who had been battling cancer. She lit up when she saw us. And then, a playful scowl followed.

    “Oooh! Ima beat y’all! He just got good and home and here y’all are, making babies? How far along are you?!”

    We stared at each other in disbelief.

    “Who’s pregnant?”

    “It sho’ ain’t me!” She laughed heartily, far bigger than her frailty suggested was possible. “the one glowing!”

    I giggled. “No ma’am. I’m just feeling good today. The doctor said that I won’t be having any babies the next few years, at least. If at all.”

    “Uh-huh. Them doctors don’t have the final say!” She pointed to the heavens. “He does,” she stated with resolved. “Y’all come on give me a hug. I need some rest. And make sure you bring that cute lil baby by when it’s time.”

    “But—,” my husband attempted to explain.

    “No buts!” she stated perfunctorily.

    “Yes ma’am,” we replied in unison.

    Christmas Eve, my best friend and I were joking around. 

    “I’ll take a test if you take a test,” I said. “Girl, I’m not the one poppin Pepto pills like they’re Tic-Tacs!” We laughed. 

    “You know what the doctor said!”

    “And I know that doctors don’t know it all! What’d they tell you about getting pregnant the first time? And they was dead wrong!” Her query brought to mind the appointments with the fertility specialist during my first marriage. How they told me I wouldn’t be able to get pregnant without medical intervention, and then how I got pregnant without it while waiting for my birth control prescription to be transferred to my doctor after I moved to Japan.

    “Yeen never lied!” More chuckles. “I do have one leftover from when I was pregnant with the boy child…”

    “Girl, that test prolly expired! It’s gon say you having an alien. Don’t you do it!” Laughter erupts and spills over til it hurts.

    We get off the phone. My husband says, with all the gentleness and care he had, “maybe you should. What could it hurt?”

    “Pretty sure I’d know if I was pregnant. Plus…”

    “I know what the doctor said. But just be sure. A lot has been going on. Ya never know.”

    “Fine. I’ll take one just to shut y’all up. Better be glad I have one already and don’t have to spend no money.”

    The pregnant line showed up before the not pregnant one did. I wiped the shock from my face and didn’t say a word. The first time I did this, my husband was deployed and I had to email him a picture of the test. He left a flat-stomached, normal-walking me and returned to a rounder, waddling one.

    “Well?”

    “Didn’t look at it. You know it says you gotta wait like two minutes or something.”

    He goes in the bathroom. “KAMALA.” He comes back, eyes bright and borderline juicy, brimming with joy. “KAMALA!”

    “Yes?”

    “You saw it didn’t you?”

    “Yea.”

    “Why didn’t you say so?”

    “Wanted to see that reaction. Missed it the first go round.”

    “This test not expired?!”

    “No, man!”

    “Hey lil man! You’re going to be a big brother!”

    A jubilant “wooohoooo!” erupted from the currently reigning littlest member of our lil family.

    “All that cheering and he doesn’t know what that means, ” I chuckled while shaking my head.

    “He’s happy because we’re happy,” my husband assured me.

    “Touché.”

    “Merry happy Christmas Eve, mother of my children.”

    “…Merry happy Christmas Eve, father of mine.”

    He pulled me into his arms and kissed my forehead. Then, the boy child rushed us to get his share of the love. I basked in the warmth of the family I had prayed for.

    A couple of weeks later, at my confirmation appointment, the doctor came in with “so ya think you’re pregnant” followed by “I was just in there, no baby then.” 

    “I know.” I wouldn’t have believed it either had I not done extensive research on the statistical likelihood of a false positive.

    She flipped the folder open and shocked filled her face (too). “Congratulations!” She studied my face. “You okay?”

    “Yea. Shock hasn’t worn off. A summer pregnancy is…ew. And this…isn’t what I planned for after…”

    “I know I said two years. But you know, those are statistical likelihoods we go off. We don’t even have the final say.” She lifted her chin, her eyes looked to heaven.

    I offered a dry chuckle in retort. “I’ve heard that before.” 

    What followed were 20 weeks of sickness all times of the day, stretching of surgery scars not yet healed internally, and appointments to specialists because…high risk. On top of mommying a very curious two-year-old and being a military spouse in flux and teaching high school students who hadn’t had a steady teacher the first part of the school year. I was exhausted.

    I knew she was coming before she came. Still, I stalled. I cleaned the house between contractions. Our good friend, who had been staying with us until his apartment was ready, was unnerved.

    “You sure you’re good?!”

    “Don’t ask during a contraction” was my only reply.

    “She will let us know when to go, bruh. Just help her if she asks,” my husband told him with assurance.

    Between contractions, I directed each man a task. My husband was to call the hospital to let them know we were on the way, text our parents and sisters to let them know it was go time, and do final checks before we left the house. The boy child was to clean up his toys and make sure he had his tablet and a book. Our friend was to make sure the boy child stays on task and text the framily (friend-family) that it was go time. I timed my contractions and made sure the kitchen was clean.

    On the way, I directed my husband to stop at Chick-fil-a. Although I couldn’t eat, I also hadn’t cooked, so I wanted to make sure everyone was good before I got to the hospital. I also wanted to give my doctor plenty of time to get to the hospital so there were no issues. Based on how the first labor went, I knew, once my water broke, we’d have less than a hour before baby was here with us.

    We got there an hour after my husband made the call. Despite my preparations, it still became an event because no one but my husband listened when I said the baby was coming. A nurse tried to push her back in because the doctor hadn’t arrived. She said it was to support baby’s head, but this was my second unmedicated labor. I knew what it was supposed to feel like. And that push back was a level of pain I had never before experienced. But his Chunky, my Yaya. She wasn’t having that.

    15 minutes passed from waters breaking to her arrival. A year to the day from when we buried my husband’s brother, joy supplanted his grief anniversary.

    They had originally said my husband and son could stay with baby and I that first night. They sent a Patient Advocate in to ask about my delivery experience. I politely and exhaustedly asked her to leave. I just wanted to be with my family. A nurse was sent in promptly thereafter to say that visiting hours were over and my husband and son needed to leave. I shared that we’d been told the whole family could stay overnight. Said it was against policy. My husband took our son home and we spent that first night separated.

    The next morning, I got a call from my husband. Our friend’s mom, the one who was supposed to be the first to meet New Baby, had passed away. I didn’t have anyone with me in the hospital, so I held our baby girl as gratitude and grief conjoined. I held her until I couldn’t. Until we both found peace in slumber.

    I awoke to someone prying my baby from my arms. They told me they would call Child Protective Services on me because, after I nursed her, she fell asleep on my chest. They said I could have killed her by not putting her in the bassinet. I wanted to fight. I wanted to argue. But I didn’t have the energy. It felt retaliatory, but I didn’t say anything. I did as they told me so I could just get out of the hospital and back home. Back to the comfort of familiarity.

    Then, they said they were discharging me but keeping the baby. For observation. Fortunately, my husband was there. The fight I didn’t have left to give, he did. And then some. He demanded they explain why she needed further observation. He recounted her perfect APGAR scores. He outlined how, despite the fact that we could be suing them for the pushback incident, we’re just glad to have a healthy mom and baby and we just lost a dear friend’s mom and all we want to do is get out of here. Together. As a family. And he cited their Catholic background as he asked, with narrowed eyes, if they actually upheld the family values they purported to. They relented. We were released together. And they wouldn’t call CPS as long as we made sure to get her to a pediatrician within 24 hours. It was a Friday at noon. We had roughly 4 hours to find a pediatrician open on weekends who was accepting new patients, could see us, and took our insurance. The Creator provided. There was exactly one, and they had just had a cancellation literally before we called.

    The trauma of the experience sat with me. How could I take care of this baby girl and advocate for her when I couldn’t even advocate for myself? Then came the depression. But his Chunky, my Yaya. She wasn’t having that either. 

    She spent her earliest existence depending on me for food only. Her dad bathed her, changed her, played with her, watched Narcos with her, and danced to Boyz II Men with her. Every nighttime feeding posed a new daddy-daughter adventure. Everyday presented a new solo parenting experience for him juggling both kids when I couldn’t. They conspired to be OK until I was.

    So, anyway thanks be to the Creator for the daughter I was afraid to have, didn’t know could come, and for the experience I didn’t know I needed: his Chunky, my Yaya, our miracle baby. We celebrate the events that preceded connected to her presence blessing our world. 

  • brown bag folds: reflections on growth and adaptation

    brown bag folds: reflections on growth and adaptation

    Last week, I learned that my entire department will be shuffled. A group of almost 1000 people who have worked together in the same organizational structure for years, will all be re-assigned. The aim is to grow us. The aim is to create better pathways for networking and collaboration to promote greater efficiency. For me, this news was initially met with a mix of skepticism about leadership’s true intentions and amusement that they’d rather focus on team organization than improving resources required to do our jobs and do them well. 

    I sat with the news and lamented its implications with colleagues. I listened as they vacillated between frustration and rage, sorrow and fear, excitement and anxiety. Some likened the impending change to the first day at a new school. I went to five elementary schools and two high schools. I worked in schools for years and still hate the first day of school. I couldn’t relate to anyone else’s feelings. I wasn’t opposed to the change, I just didn’t like it. But, I’ve not liked plenty of things in my life that turned out to be in my best interests, so when the petition to repeal the change began to circulate, I couldn’t support the cause. At the time, I didn’t know why, exactly. I felt for them. I listened as they catastrophized through potential implications and lofted questions that would likely never be answered to their liking. I hated the change for them because they seemed so hurt and confused by the announcement. I couldn’t hate the change for myself, though. 

    I sat on that feeling, trying to tease it out like a jumbled knot of hair. I thought of all the ways it could play out—good, bad, or otherwise. So far, I’d had one team lead who helped me set up systems and routines to do the job well, and I enjoyed working with the team that’d been built. I’d also had a team lead who tap danced on my good nerve at least once a week—intentionally or not, which forced me to reinforce how I do what I do and why it works. More than half of that team was indifferent to my very existence. Both situations presented unique challenges. Even though one was less likable, they both taught me about myself if only I was willing to learn. I valued that despite the discomfort it presented me. 

    In my last meeting about the change, my team lead asked me how I was feeling. By that time, that question had been asked ad nauseum, so I repeated the same answer because it hadn’t changed: I felt like a brown paper bag blowing in the breeze, praying not to become rain-soaked so I don’t get stuck on the bottom of someone’s shoe and tracked into unsavory places. I don’t know if they truly understood my intent. They said they did, but I know sometimes people say they get me because they don’t want me to feel alienated. Or, they don’t want to seem slow on the uptake. 

    They hadn’t asked me to explain, but I will here, for clarity’s sake: I know that I only have the structure I have because of the folds someone or something else made for me. I can only handle certain things, as a result. I can fold or I can stand. If I stand empty, or without carrying too much, I could go anywhere. But I don’t know which way the winds could blow me, if at all. If I fold, I can be taken anywhere, but I couldn’t hold or handle anything at all. It only makes sense to stand ready, packed lightly, and hope rain doesn’t come too fast or too much. Because that’s when I’ll forget the folds—even the ones that help me stand. That’s when it becomes easier to lose pieces of myself. That’s when I could end up stuck somewhere I don’t want or need to be. But, how’s that much different from where I am now? Doing what I’ve always done?

    As I consider it, the systems and routines I have in place, while familiar and efficient, don’t always serve me. Most, I’ve learned, are seasonal, conditional, and circumstantial. But I’ve made them more exhaustible than they ever should have been. They don’t consistently push me toward being my best, most authentic self. They inspire a sense of consistency, which frames authenticity in a way that makes others believe I’m the same in most situations. My habits support my success; I appear good and reliable, which is better than most. While seemingly on brand, those systems and routines have kept me mostly stagnant, if I’m honest. They idle me in this neutral space that allows me to show up in all seasons even when I may not be fully present. They help me to be somewhat prescient. But only because the predictable is predicated upon sameness. And as long as I’m in the same place doing the same things with the same people, I’m checking the blocks. Even while I’m learning new things that may or may not be useful to life as I know it. That doesn’t mean I’m growing, but then I don’t really have to concern myself with growing pains. Consistently checking the blocks inspires comfort. And wins come without whim when comfort conspires with familiarity to mimic stability. And because imitation is the sincerest form of flattery mediocrity can pay to greatness, word to Oscar Wilde, stability aspires to keep me safe by keeping me small. 

    The systems and routines I’ve built to keep me afloat offer nothing more than the illusion of control. They amount to little more than an  allusion to humble obedience despite the call for bold courage. By staying in line, I never learn what soaring to the front feels like—what failing forward looks like. I reduce my resilience by avoiding risk. My faith and work experience disconnect while somehow reflecting different sides of the same dwarf star. How foolish to have missed 100% of the shots I don’t take, and then applaud my low failure rate. How will I know greatness if all I do is settle for mediocrity or the semblance thereof? How do I find the space of celebration if all I seek is toleration? How can I grow without change? Can’t I stand more firm having known the folds all too well? 

  • lessons from the sower: a journey of faith (pt. III)

    lessons from the sower: a journey of faith (pt. III)

    When I turned 18, one of the first things I did was get a tattoo. It was of the biblical definition of love. In red. In the shape of a heart. I felt like I’d carried love on my back for so long it’d started to feel like a burden. I needed any and everyone to know that if I turned my back on them, it was only because I needed to remind them of what love was. What it looked like. What it felt like. 

    The Man with the Glow shared his light and his love without expectation of return. Not even because he knew what I needed, but because he knew what he wanted to give me. When he found out that I had gone to school for Cosmetology, he asked if I could teach him how to cut women’s hair. He was barbering while in college, for extra money, and cutting longer hair would expand his business. I agreed, but only if he’d take it seriously. He agreed. “Great! Then your final exam will be to cut mine.” At the time, I had waist-length hair. He said he was scared to mess it up. “Then don’t,” I shrugged. 

    About six months after having to move out of my house, I found a roommate and got an apartment. I wasn’t a stranger to roommate situations, so we set a few ground rules. No rah-rah after midnight she stated. No problem. Clean up what you or your guests mess up, she suggested. Done. Pay your portion on time. Normal stuff. The only rule I had was that there were certain groceries—my chips and my pizza, that were off limits. Anything else, I am more than willing to share, just let me know it’s been shared. We agreed. 

    After a particularly long day of teaching, then tutoring, then running the after school program, then having a cut lesson with the Man with the Glow, I was spent. And it was cold and rainy out. Plus, I just realized that I didn’t have any money left after bills were paid. But I was grateful bills were paid and I had frozen pizza and chips at home, so I worried not. I just wanted a hot shower, and chips and pizza. That’s it, that’s all. 

    I got back to the apartment, and my roommate’s boyfriend was in the shower. Fine. I can wait. I would just eat first. I went to the kitchen to munch on my chips while the pizza cooked. I climbed on top of the counter to reach the cabinet over the refrigerator, where I’d put them to make sure that they were not easily visible. No chips. I opened the other side. No chips. I climbed down and opened every cabinet door. No chips. Checked the freezer for my pizza. No pizza. I didn’t need to check my purse to know I also didn’t have any money. 

    My roommate walked into the kitchen just as the realization that my hopes for my evening had been crushed. “Hey. C didn’t want my vegetarian food, so he ate your pizza and chips. I will replace them when I get paid,” she said nonchalantly. 

    My head tilted. My eyes blinked. The rage of frustration began to creep up my back, onto my neck, and out of my throat. “What was the one rule I had? Do you remember?” 

    Her head tilted. It was her eyes’ turn to blink. “Excuse me?” 

    “When we moved in, I had one rule to your three. Do you remember what it was?”

    “Yea, you had stuff you didn’t want anyone to eat but if they did, to let you know. I’m letting you know.” Her voice was flippant. Her face was polite. The incongruity was not purposeful. 

    “No, it was that my pizza and my chips were off limits. And anything else could be eaten as long as you let me know.” 

    Her eyes blinked again. “How’s that different?”

    “The difference is that one leaves me with my favorites as the fruit of my labor. I don’t have a credit card to spend at will for someone else to pay. I don’t have a job that will allow me to go in whenever I want to get extra hours just because. And I don’t have a boyfriend funding anything the other two won’t cover. What I have is all I have.”

    “Damn, girl, calm down. Matter of fact, me and C are going out tonight. You should come. Drinks on me because you definitely need it. Get dressed. Bathroom is open now, but fair warning there may not be much hot water left so make it quick.” Her mouth flashed a smile.

    The hot water warning broke the levies, but only a stream trickled out. 

    “I’m not going out. I’ll be in my room.” I turned on my heels because I knew hot, frustrated tears would come soon. 

    “Ugh! You are no fun. You’re always sad. Always in your room. Always doing homework. I thought being your roommate would mean we’d be friends. Hang out. Partayyy.” Her smile widened as her shoulders shimmied the last of her statement.

    A heaving sigh released like a balloon deflating. “I wasn’t looking for friends. I was looking for a safe space to stay. I’m working on a Master’s degree and it’s important to me to finish and finish well.” The truth escaped with quiet assurance. 

    Her mouth chuckled as her eyes narrowed into slits. “I see why your man left you.” 

    Sorrow and anger pushed for a greater share of mind space. Neither won. Defeat took lead as I quietly retreated to my room. I flopped onto the edge of my bed and closed the door just as my roommate’s boyfriend walked out of the bathroom with plumes of steam rising off his golden skin. Just as angry tears got caught in my throat, my phone vibrated. I wasn’t going to acknowledge it, but I needed a distraction. It was the Man with the Glow. He was asking me for a favor. Part of me wanted to tell him I was tired of being used for the day and maybe he should try again tomorrow, but I remembered how patient and attentive he’d been during our cut lesson earlier. He didn’t deserve that.

    He wanted to use my address to order pizza. They didn’t deliver to where he was. I didn’t ask where he was or why. I knew the city enough to know that’s not uncommon. I said it was fine and gave him my address, then laid down. “At least someone gets to eat today,” I mumbled to myself. Immediately, I thought about how, if I’d never sowed that seed, I’d still be in my house with my own bathroom. I’d probably have food, too. Even if I was miserable every day there versus just frustrated by people every so often here. 

    Twenty minutes later, I heard my roommate and her boyfriend leave. Thirty minutes later, I heard a knock at the apartment door. I laid still. I wasn’t getting up for my roommate or her boyfriend if she forgot her key. Another knock. I thought it could be the pizza man, but it was more rhythmic than the pizza man had ever offered. Then, it turned into a Clipse lunch table beat. I still didn’t know who it could be, but I was fully prepared to tell someone they’re at the wrong door when I trudged to check the peep hole. It was the Man with the Glow. He had three pizzas in hand. I opened the door with caution. 

    “Here ya go,” he smiled that smile that lit up rooms while handing me a pizza box off the top, “I hope you like pepperoni. I forgot to ask. I met the pizza guy downstairs. You didn’t tell me you live right across the street. You could probably see them making the pizzas.” 

    I stared at him in silence, my hands holding the box up without fully accepting it into my hands. “You didn’t have to get me one.” 

    “I know I didn’t have to, but what kinda person would I be to use your address and you not get something out of it. That’s rude. I’m not rude.”

    My eyes grew juicy. “I appreciate you. Thank you.” 

    “No thanks needed. Enjoy!” And there he went. Smile and glow and all. 

    A root grew that day. 

    For months, about once a week or so, he’d use my address to have pizza delivered and give me a box or two. I never told him that he was the reason I ate most days. I didn’t tell him that the times he left two boxes were the times I didn’t know how I was going to eat between paydays. Every box of pizza became a leaf. 

    One day, he asked if I ate anything other than pizza. He invited me to IHOP’s free pancake day. I didn’t know it at the time, but that was our first date. And the stem grew longer. 

    Then, after a cut lesson, we went to the beach and walked and talked so long that I lost my phone and we ran out of beach to walk and didn’t even know either happened til they did. We lamented the dating scene together. And sometimes, he’d help me grade papers after a cut lesson. Branches stretched up, up, and out. 

    After my divorce was finalized and Master’s degree earned , we sat on my apartment balcony as the rain poured from the nighttime sky. I told him I had to tell something important and he replied the same. I let him go first because I didn’t have the courage to say that I had feelings for him, but I didn’t want to ruin the friendship that was in full bloom. He shared that he was joining the military and would be leaving soon. I told him I was happy for him, which I was. It was for me sorrow loomed. More leaves.

    I had two job offers. One local, one distant. I took the offer to move an hour north to teach once I knew he would be gone. On moving day, he came to help. Despite being sick. Despite my parents and sister pestering him with incessant curiosity. Despite my ex-husband showing up and trying to show him up. Despite my former roommate’s ex-boyfriend being flippant toward him. He showed up. He helped. He deflected when needed and protected when wanted. Buds formed. 

    I started my new job and it was the hardest thing I’d ever done. It was like East Side High from Lean on Me. I was exhausted and frustrated and lonely. My new roommate was better than the last, but she wasn’t my person. She wasn’t him. I didn’t know what to do with that. I would talk to him for hours until I glowed right along with him. And then fear would envelop me and I would avoid him for weeks. Branches stretched just to be pruned. 

    Then came the time for him to process into the military. He was 15 minutes away and I wanted to be in his space and have him in mine. We went to dinner. We talked. At the end of the night, we hugged differently. Like we didn’t want to let go. The buds bloomed into a vibrant yellow and would not close. 

    The following weekend, I went to visit him. He asked me what’s taking me so long to be his girlfriend. I stared sheepishly. I said I didn’t know because I didn’t know what else to say. I knew it was because I was scared of forever. I knew it was because I didn’t know if I could trust someone else with my heart again. Not like last time. But that this didn’t feel like last time. His eyes twinkled, he bent toward me just enough that his words had nowhere else to go but in my ear. “Don’t tell me you’ll be my girlfriend unless you’re willing to be my wife.” I blushed. “Fair enough.” 

    I sowed a seed for my husband–a mustard seed of faith wrapped in a crisp $20 bill. Both tears and rainstorms watered it. It found light from the man’s glow, my smile with him, and our energy combined. It found fertilizer in the mess of life and the ones that weren’t worthy. The seed found bloom in love. Biblical love. It took a year or two to fully mature, and once it did, the tattoo faded as if I’d never again need to remind anyone was love was. What it looked like. What it felt like. They could see it in us. 

  • lessons from the sower: a journey of faith (pt. II)

    lessons from the sower: a journey of faith (pt. II)

    His text said he wasn’t sure he wanted to do “this” anymore. His mouth said I nag too much. His body said I wasn’t enough. His mind said I was too much. His soul said he wasn’t my mate.

    My text said I wasn’t sure I understood what he meant. My mouth said he didn’t listen fully. My body said he wasn’t enough. My mind said I was too much. My soul said I wasn’t his mate. And that’s why our marriage failed.

    Shame and hurt be dammed. Impending homelessness beckoned humility in hope. Humanity amid humiliation. I cried so much that I wanted to be upset with God. But, I actually felt released. I felt relieved. I felt like forever could be bearable again. And I promised myself I wouldn’t do love like that again. And marriage was definitely off the table. I was gonna be someone’s girlfriend for as close to forever as possible. I didn’t want to learn birthdays and favorite foods and Social Security numbers. I wanted to know me. Like me. Love me. But I’d planted a seed for my husband. And, when I prayed, I purposely let myself remain open to whatever God thought was best.

    The funny thing about seeds is they can grow in almost any conditions, even when (sometimes especially when) you just let them be. It doesn’t matter how deeply planted in the heart of the soil. Joy amidst chaos provides the light. Tears, the water.

    I was only almost moved out when the seed first germinated. I had a shown up to work and they sent me home with pay. My homework was done and the “with pay” addendum meant I didn’t have to spend the day recalculating my budget, catastrophizing the cost of a day’s pay when I’m about to be homeless and what might happen if I do whatever necessary to prolong things and buy time.

    I had a whole day of sunshine to myself to do whatever I wanted. So, I went apartment hunting. While out, I felt compelled to stop by my old job, especially since an old coworker friend had been on my mind. I just wanted to make sure he and his family were doing well. He had always been kind to me.

    “Yoooo! You been on my mind I was hopin’ you were good!” was my former coworker’s reaction when he saw me step out of my car. My eyes widened. He was the exact person who I had come to see for the very same reason. “That’s wild,” was my response. The other person present, B, looked between us in confusion.

    M’s smile could light up a room. “You good?!” I matched his, but didn’t bother to hide the truth, “I’m good. Life is…a lot, though.”

    “I figured,” he nodded, before diving into the dreams he’d had about me. In one, I was wearing yellow and black. I was standing next to someone taller than me and they were holding my hand as I looked toward the ground. “Someone at the front called you,” he continued, “but you didn’t go. Not at first.” M tells me that something the person at the front said made me lift my head and that’s when he saw that I had been crying. He said I let go of the hand that held mine and walked to the front. He said people gathered around me. Not necessarily around me as a person but just standing in the same general area, he clarified. He told me I cried the whole time I walked toward the front. But that when I got there, the strangest thing happened after I stood still, staring off into the distance for a bit: I lifted my arms, angels surrounded me, their wings spread wide to encircle me, and I stopped crying.

    “And then the other one. I don’t know what to do with that one,” he said with his brow furrowed in confusion. His head shook. His hands rubbed over his hair and down his forehead before stopping at his mouth. It was as if he wanted to force the words to stay where they lived.

    “Go on, now. You already started and I’m invested!” B exclaimed.

    M looked at me with hesitation and discomfort; I looked at him with expectation. “You were sitting on a bed. Nothin’ crazy. You were fully dressed, I mean…There was a window beside you and an open door in front of you. The light was on. Your man was standing next to the door and y’all were arguing. He said something to you that made you cry, and then he walked out of the room. You sat there on the bed with your head in your hands. And then an angel sat beside you. You looked up, toward the angel like you saw them, but didn’t see them, and again, you stopped crying.”

    I stood in front of them both, silently mulling over what M shared. Part of me wanted to be surprised or creeped out, but a larger part felt affirmed. I hadn’t told anyone what happened. I hadn’t talked to M in at least six months. For whatever reason, God must’ve shared what I wouldn’t. What I couldn’t.

    My words came in measured doses. “The first dream, I was at church. It was my sister who had been standing next to me. She had offered to go to church with me because I was having a hard time. I wore a yellow cardigan over a black dress that day because I was sad, but I didn’t want to be.” The real events from the first dream came after the night of the door removal. I told them what happened. I told them how, the very next Sunday, I was at church when the pastor shared that God placed on his heart to pray for marriages. He started describing my situation to a T. He called all young, married women to the altar. My sister told me to go up there and offered to go with me if I didn’t want to go alone. But, I felt compelled to go alone. I cried as I walked toward the altar, each step steeped in guilt, shame, hurt, and frustration. When I got up there, the pastor asked older, happily married women to fill the space and bridge the gap. “Lay hands on the young wives,” he asked of the older wives. And he prayed for us all. Suddenly, peace came over me. I just knew that I didn’t need to cry anymore. It would be ok. I just had to trust that my seed would take root.

    The real events from the second dream came after the first. I had just finished doing my hair in the bathroom when my (then) husband came into the main bedroom—the one I slept in, the one that no longer had a working door. He asked why I was doing my hair, who I was trying to impress. He surveyed the room and bathroom for hiding places–again–while explaining that he wanted to talk about whose responsibility it was to repair the door ahead of the renter moving in. He felt I was responsible for it because I made him unwelcome. I thought he was responsible for paying for the repair because he was the one who broke it. And who put the house up for rent. It turned into an argument. In my frustration, I began to cry. “Here you go with that again,” he retorted, and he walked out.

    I told them about the seed I’d sown and the anointing event. How I’d sat on the edge of the bed lamenting how my seed and the anointing were supposed to have made things better, not worse. Then, the same kind of peace from before washed over me. I knew I didn’t need to cry anymore and that it would be OK.

    “Somebody lying! Y’all pulling my leg? This isn’t crazy to y’all?” B shouted.

    “I ain’t know you were going through all that. I’m sorry to hear that. For real.” M commented sorrowfully.

    “I know you didn’t. No one did. I mean, God knew. But you get what I mean…” I trailed off.

    “I’ll be praying for you.” M said.

    B was still in disbelief. “Yea. Yea, me too. I ain’t know all this either. You sure y’all ain’t talked. Nothing on Facebook? Nobody said anything?!”

    With stunned silence, M and I both shook our heads, our mouths mumbling the same “nope” our brains struggled to understand.

    When Sunday came, I thanked God for the signs that I was on the right track, even if I didn’t understand. I affirmed my trust in the Creator’s plan and my gratitude for the moments when there were just one set of footprints.

    When service let out, I crossed paths with a woman whose daughter was one of my weekend hair clients. “You changed your hair,” she chirped, “I like it.” She went on to explain that she wanted me to meet her son. “Finally! You both are here at the same time.”

    “I don’t think I need to meet your son. Does he need his hair done, too?”

    “No,” she giggled, “I just want you to meet him in case there’s a strange man at my house, you know if it’s him.”

    “If there’s a strange man at your house, that’s a you problem, not a me problem.” I responded pointedly.

    “Y’all are going to be good friends,” she chuckled.

    Then, a light —a glow, rather—averted my attention from her and our conversation. A man, just beyond her, was looking at me. Something in me leapt. There was a familiarity like I knew him, but I thought I’d have remembered him—either by face or by feeling—if I actually knew him. I couldn’t place him and I am good with faces. The throng of people seemed to make way. With a clear path between us, I took in the soft golden glow, wondering what light source could be creating that. Where we were standing, sunlight couldn’t pour in enough to do that.

    Then, the woman’s voice interrupted my thoughts: “Stop it! She’s married.”

    The man’s voice was closer to me now, and his eyes never left mine. “She don’t love him,” he stated firmly, with conviction.

    I dropped my eyes to the floor as quickly as I could. He had somehow climbed into my mind just by looking into my eyes. Alarms blared in my mind. I stared at my ring while they continued to talk. She told him my name, that I did his sister’s hair, that I was working on earning my Master’s degree, and that she wanted us to meet so that we know who the other one is if we cross paths at the house. She said I just changed my hair by adding that red ribbon of color in the front. “Ain’t it cute?!”

    He started speaking and I lifted my head thinking I could steal a glance at him while they talked. I was wrong. I looked up to find his gentle gaze resting on me. Again.

    “It is. She is. But, wouldn’t I know that she’s the one doing hair if, when I see her, she’s the one doing hair?”

    I felt myself start to blush.

    Another giggle. “That’s the same thing she said! Sunshine, are you blushing? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you blush.”

    “How about you let her tell me what she wants me to know,” he said. His tone was thick with compassion.

    “I’m sorry, Sunshine. I just got excited.”

    “It’s OK. I get it. That pretty much summed it up.” I thanked them for the compliment and politely excused myself, using homework as my reason of choice.

    “I thought you said you finished your homework early this weekend so you could have more free time.”

    My face feigned confusion. His fashioned amusement. “Uh…yea, I’ve got some reading to do and lesson plans to fine-tune.”

    I made a beeline for the first visible exit and rushed to my car. I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until I’d plopped into the driver’s seat and exhaled. “Music. I need music. I need a distraction,” I mumbled aloud.

    I started the car and put my entire music library on random shuffle, hoping that would increase the odds that I’d hear what I needed to hear.

    “Does he do it…like I do it…I bet he don’t do it the way I do…”

    Skip.

    “Not again. Oh, this ain’t supposed to happen to me.”

    Skip.

    “I’m waiting…for someone who could turn my life ar—”

    Off.

    I drove toward home in silence instead, trying not to think about the glow I saw or the familiarity I felt or the danger alarms that sounded off, all while wishing I hadn’t lied about having homework to do.

  • the power of storytelling: from pain into purpose

    the power of storytelling: from pain into purpose

    For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to have a story to tell. I’m not the most outgoing person, so I’m not sure who I wanted to tell, exactly, but I wanted to have a story worth sharing. I didn’t want to be like the characters in the books I escaped into—I didn’t want a life that inspired escape for someone else. I wanted a life that showed someone else what was possible. What hope could do. What love could do. What struggle could birth. I wanted to tell a story that would inspire someone to keep going, to keep pushing.

    I started this blog as a scab collection, of sorts. The plan was to impart reflections and lessons from yesterday’s scars. That’s where the inspiration sourced its power. The power of yet. Wounds still open and gaping and raw weren’t to go here. They were to be felt, not seen. Quiet stillness pooling the saltwater of tears in peace. They were supposed to fester until sutured. It was supposed to be my way of having a means for catharsis without the show of pain. But that’s never been how I write. It’s never been why I write. I’m not sure why I thought the tide would turn this time around.

    I used to write to capture moments. Feelings. It was how I processed the world around me. It was how I dealt with the multitude of feelings coursing through me. It helped me stay leveled and sane with all that my mind and life had going on. It helped me stayed connected to the Spirit too. 

    When I hurt, I wrote. When frustration threatened to overwhelm me, I wrote. When others hurt, I wrote for them for me. When life happened, I wrote. I wrote for the good and I wrote for the bad. I wrote in the good and I wrote in the bad. And throughout it all, I prayed for change. I prayed for hope and peace and resilience. I was my whole self when I wrote. I was a reflection of hope and love and peace, and I loved that. But what about now? 

    If I’m honest, I’ve been too scared or nervous or insecure to publish my work. Sometimes more ‘and’ than ‘or.’ It’s mostly tucked away in notes and files that get buried in yesterday’s pockets of truth. Today’s truths must fend for themselves. If I’m honest, there are few lessons to easily pull out and share. The reflections in mirror pools of old tears are plentiful, though. Introspections that lead to holes from rabbits delayed from going on their way are innumerable, too. I am capable. I think. I am able. I know. I am better than I give myself credit for. And but so why don’t I give myself credit?

    I have to release this idea that I’m so far from perfect that my voice and my view don’t matter no matter how beautifully written. Even if it’s not my definition of perfection, it’s beautiful because I’m beautiful because The Creator said so. Even if it’s not a Nikki or a Zora or a Toni or an Alice original, it’s a Kamala Starr original. That’s enough. That’s more than enough. It’s got to be. 

    This isn’t about me. It’s about my gift. It’s about my ability to impact people with words. Just words. My words. The Creator’s grace. My harmony. The Creator’s amp. My heart. The Creator’s love. My war. The Creator’s peace. Beyond understanding. It is beyond understanding. It is incomprehensible that I’d wake up in the peak of morning with nothing on my mind but The Creator’s light and these words floating, phrases and participles like anti-gravity particles, waiting to spark connection. Consciousness. Compassion. Community. Comprehension. This, too, is love. Overdue.