When I think back on all that I did. The ginormous tub of ice water– a mere 3 obstacles in. That thing in itself was enough to send a more sane someone pacing the exact opposite direction. For me, standing up on the landing to the tub was easy. It’s easy enough to stand and look at anything you’re about to do. Even the jumping in was easy for me. I had no idea how cold it actually was. I haaaaayyyyyyte cold. But I was like, whatever. To get to the other side I have to go through this tub. So on the count of three… 1, 2… I decided I would tell myself 3 and go on 2. I remember the crunch of the water as I entered it. Then the darkness underneath. I popped my head up through the thick crust of ice, about to panic from the cold. Yes, I had to submerge my whole self in the icy water again to get under the thick piece of wood keeping me from the rest of the tub AND the exit. It was too cold to think. I remember being under the water and not knowing if I was past the wood part or stuck. I forced my head up through the ice. I saw the ladder. It took every ounce of my will to crunch and wade through all that cold. After I climbed out of the tub, I remember being so cold I couldn’t remember what was supposed to come next. Do I run it off? Not. I couldn’t feel my legs. I walked it off, finding my way back to my bearings.  Let the mind fuck begin.

Mind you, the first two obstacles were a cake walk. Crawling on my stomach through thick, stenchy mud and barbed wire and then climbing over waist high wooden hurdles is nothing compared to running through the mountainous Poconos terrain. I came to understand quickly that my treadmill training was bullshit. THIS. was the real deal. I also came to understand that I wore the exact wrong running shoes. I wore the lightest, most breathable shoes I own– thinking they would at least dry quickly in the wet and mud. They did. They would have been fine in a marathon. But the points and jagged edges of the rocks I strode over, made for an uncomfortable pace from obstacle to obstacle.

What I did get to take in was the beauty of the mountains and GOD’s literal glory everywhere I was. It was such a dream to take in the birds, the beautiful trees and plants, and the gurgling of the many streams. If I weren’t “mudding” it, I certainly would have enjoyed a slow stroll where I was. I had to jolt myself back to task. My shoes wouldn’t be the reason I ended this. I had 11 or so more miles to conquer.

I didn’t mind climbing up and jogging down hill more times than I care to count. I had no issue with snaking through water with electric charged wires hanging over every place I could see. I didn’t mind lugging a 30 pound log on my shoulders for about a half a mile or even the 15 foot drop into a lake of still cold mountain water and then having to try to jog soaking, soaking wet about a mile to the next feat of conquer. My favorite obstacle was running through fire. OMG. It was daunting to come up to. But the fire was what I was there for. My entire purpose for being in the mudder to start was as my own symbolic fire walk. I wanted to have a culmination of my journey thus far. I wanted to say I’ve been through so much already and now I’m ready to test my resolve and endurance. I am ready to let my past be dust and my presence forward to be that of a champion. Running through that fire, I was a champion. Too bad it was only about 5 miles in.

To be honest, the 25-30 obstacles in and of themselves weren’t really that difficult. They were challenging to be sure, but they didn’t really test much for me besides the doing of them. What makes the Tough Mudder actually difficult is being exhausted by about the midway point and finding oneself a bit annoyed that there is still so far to go to be done.

I remember that thrill I felt getting to the 10 mile mark and going “I’m almost done! I’m just about there!” And there, in the last 1-2 miles left were THE MOST obstacles to champion through.  And the hardest ones for me. The monkey bars were daunting because they were over a pit of cold water and they were slippery and I forgot my gloves in my bag. It burns me a bit because I saw myself getting to the other side. I was so gangsta about it, I put my feet up and attempted to monkey climb my way across the bars. No dice. The obstacle Nazi police volunteer shouted, “NO LEGS”. Shit. My arms weren’t strong enough. There were luggish guys who couldn’t stay on those bars. As the slow motion fall into the cold water happened, I remember thinking I’ll do more push-ups and pull ups next year.  The same thing happened at the rings. It was the same set up. Except this tub of water below was this murky green color. I thought I had it. One ring… okay I got two… do I have to swing to catch the third? Swing, squeal, splash! By this time my 2 layers of quick drying “under armor” was just plain ole wet. We trudge on. Pfff.

The obstacle that should have been easiest for me was the balance one. The one where we walk across a thin, water warped plank of wood, also above a tub of chilly, murky water. What do you mean? I do yoga. I have balance for weeks. I got this joint. Almost… splash. I’m pretty sure my annoyance with cold water sank in right there. Then there was the mud tunnel thingy that wreaked, the tube thingy partially submerged in water, a few mystery obstacles and so, so, so many more that are a blur to my psyche right now.

All the stuff that required climbing was a breeze. There were people everywhere to help. I think that’s one of the reasons I absolutely loved doing the Tough Mudder. The camaraderie for everyone to finish was literally everywhere. There was a guy who let me literally step on his back to hoist me up a wall–a group of them actually. Believe it wasn’t because I was pretty with mud coming out of my ears and nose. It was because we were all there for the same thing–to finish. And it’s part of the rules.

What was a wee bit distracting for me was the lack of colored folk in the thing to start. There was a part I filmed before I checked my bag where my actual first out loud reaction was “OMG Black People!!!” It was a group of 3 or 4 Black guys waiting for their start time. Imagine you’re walking through an outdoor event where every single place your eye rests, you see virtually no one who looks like you. I remember thinking at one point that I simply couldn’t be the only one. In my heat, I was the only one. Except for the guy with the mic with his DMX-esque voice, getting us riled and ready to begin. It wasn’t until maybe mile 5 that I saw a few other coloreds of the “Black” variety actually in the thing. There were quite a few Asians, a smattering of Hispanics. With all the mud, it’s hard to decipher folk ethnically, but still. For the entire 5 hour trek up hill and down, in mud and out, through water and falling myself in it, I saw not one sister.

There was this kindof charming white girl I befriended briefly who kept calling me “sistah” as though it were the “down” thing to do. After about a mile or two of hearing “that’s what’s up my sistah” and “I’m with you my sistah“, I’m fairly certain my knee gave out on cue and I let her run up ahead without me. I’m still not sure if that was on purpose.

I think the point I’m making here is that while I’m exceptionally proud of accomplishing my Mother’s Day Mudder, there was a fire lit under me as I was able to make sense out of all I went through and with those I found myself going through it with. I got to see teams of people working together to get through some of their fears, phobias, weaknesses and limitations. I saw a man, clearly 200 pounds overweight, over 40 and walking the course if only because he told himself he would. I saw people helping each other over walls–particularly my army of one self. People were there as I took my running start with their hands out to grab onto mine and pull me over a seemingly impossible skateboard ramp-like obstacle. I saw the true spirit of what Tough Mudder represents–comradeship, team work, tenacity, empowerment, fearlessness, endurance, athleticism and the check-your-whining-at-the-door mental space that is required of ALL champions in life, on the obstacle course OF life.

I didn’t see hardly no Black folk. AND I saw zero black women except for me. Could there have been a few? Sure. But I didn’t see them in the 5 hours I was chugging along and I got to see loads of different people because I was slow as molasses. While I went into the race fully aware I was doing it alone–and even though I wasn’t truly alone– not seeing anyone who looked like me, made me a little ornery for all my “sistahs” I know would be awesome at this. And also for those I know that would benefit in life from the experience the Tough Mudder represents by way of success in ever-y-thing.

For me, navigating my way through the Tough Mudder, slow as I was, as seemingly unprepared as I was, having to rely on perfect strangers to help me places I couldn’t reach, was the exact metaphor for the ingredients of success in my business and in all the ways I plan to succeed in this awesome life I’m crafting. It was hard. It was a complicated mind fuck. It was exhausting. At the point where my legs finally said “whoa nelly!” and I was literally forced to walk the rest because my knee wouldn’t let me run another step, I could have stopped and let one of those go cart thingys pick me up and take me to the finish. But I didn’t. My goal in entering the Tough Mudder was to finish. Even if I had to crawl. I was going to finish. I was an army of one, but I didn’t walk around acting like I was so dope I didn’t need any help. I humbled myself to the course and I humbled myself to my peers. When I needed help, miraculously, help was always there. Most times, I didn’t even have to ask.

Imagine if we “coloreds” were to truly embody in our daily lives what I experienced in that Mudder. Imagine if we let competition fall away and truly saw each other as comrades working toward the same goal–being #Awesome. Imagine if we truly began to see our peers as they are, a divine connection strategically placed in our path so that we all can benefit from each other’s abilities, strengths and even weaknesses. Imagine if we believed in full spiritual glory that we are all designed to finish this race and we’re all put on this planet to make sure every single one of us does.  Imagine a world like that. Sure, there were people who ran past me because they were in pace, BUT, if I had a dime for every time a perfect stranger said to me, “We’re almost there!” “Don’t give up!” or “You okay?” or “You can do it!” as I was limping along in my sloggy pace, I’d be a congillionaire by now.

Imagine for a second that the only way to learn this exact mind frame is to participate in a Tough Mudder at some point in our lives. Imagine the level of accomplishment we would reach daily. Imagine what that would do–effectively–to that dastardly “crabs in a barrel” mentality some of us can’t seem to shake. Mind blowing right?

When finally I heard the music which gave me the inkling that the finish line was soon to be in my immediate sight line, even though my right knee and foot felt like they were about to fall off my body if I even thought to dare to pick up the pace. Something in my spirit would not let me tramp to the end of this journey like a turtle. From somewhere deep in my soul, I mustered the strength to break into a brisk jog. It hurt. It was a limpy run, but I made it to  that last stretch, finish line clearly within reach.  I raised my head, straightened my back, forgot about whatever was behind me and focused exactly on what I wanted. It didn’t even matter that I was tired, hurt or that I was alone. It didn’t matter that there was no one there to cheer me on or that no one I knew was there to see me do this.  It didn’t matter that the two layers of starch white “under armor” I wore was forever stained Tough Mudder brown, or that my person was covered to the bone in mud, cold, sweat, and wet. It didn’t matter that I was probably an hour or more behind the heat I started with. All that mattered was that I finished what I started in Queen fashion. I ran through the pain. I ran through the tired. I ran through the cold and wet. I ran through what I left 12 miles behind me and everything that has happened in my life before that. None of it mattered in the moment I was in.

I remember looking at all the yellow wires hanging down to the ground in a dense, wide, long patch. Those electrically charged wires were the only things keeping me from my goal. In a video I had seen the toughest, most physically fit men twice my size being dropped on their tukkus by wires just like those. No matter. Drop or not, I was reaching my goal. I picked up my pace and ran through them with my head up and that big, black blow up finish sign in my sights. I ran through the final obstacle, the exact way I started. An army of one. Funny, I didn’t feel a thing running through. The only thing I really remember after that was high-fiving the only “colored” I saw in my heat after I climbed over that first wall at the start of the race.  He was the Emcee.  I’m not sure if he remembered me, but I remember he had this quiet compassion in his eyes as I joined the lot of finishers before me. He said, “Great work sistah.” I nodded, holding back all the tears that wanted to pour out of my face. I looked at the only person in that moment to congratulate me for my accomplishment. I looked him in his eyes, mustered an exhausted smile and said “thank you.”  In my head what I meant was, “Indeed, brothah. This is why I came. To finish.”

I can’t even tell you what it meant for me when they put that orange Tough Mudder headband on my head. It was my gold medal. It was my torch of fire. It was my solid proof that though the life I’ve lived has tested every ounce of my everything– yes, indeed, I am one Tough Mudder.

The moral of this story? This time I actually have one. Extraordinary results, require extraordinary measures. Check out www.toughmudder.com and see if there’s a mudder coming to your area. Go at it alone or put a team together. If you want to remember who you are, the stuff you are truly made of, and what the #Awesome in you actually looks like– go on, get your Mudder on. Plus, it’s for an amazing cause. Tough Mudders benefit the Wounded Warriors Project. At some point in our lives, we can all acknowledge that we too are warriors of life who have been wounded in battle. Thank you for reading this. Peace and abundant “I’m one Tough Mudder” blessings, Love, -e-

All endeavor calls for the ability to tramp the last mile, shape the last plan, endure the last hours toil. The fight to the finish spirit is the one… characteristic we must posses if we are to face the future as finishers.

~Henry David Thoreau

It is done unto you as you believe. Eight completely unassuming words that can easily be ignored if you aren’t paying attention. If you ARE paying attention… JAB! Right to the neck.

A few things happened today. I would start from the beginning, but that almost makes too much sense. I’ve never ever claimed to want to do too much of that in one sitting. So, we start from the seemingly irrelevant part. Make this entire post a bit like a scavenger hunt!

I’m at the gym . I’m preparing (finally) for my Tough Mudder experience on May 13 and I’ve been very good about (at least) the running portion of my training. For ease and grace purposes, I get on a treadmill every day and run. I’m an interval training kind of gal so to break up the torturous monotony of feeling like a hamster in a wheel, I mix 5 minutes of brisk walking with between 5-15 minutes of go hard running–always looking forward to that little 5 minute break when it comes up never soon enough. Some days, I’m on that treadmill for 40 minutes. Some days, like today, when my body is as heavy as 30 trillion boulders sitting snugly on my back, 25 minutes is all I can do. Days like today, I’m just glad to be doing something. I’ve only got 2 weeks before the big show. Anything at all has got to be better than sitting on my tush and praying for the best. Maybe.

So I’m treading. I’m listening to my iPod “Training Camp” mix, but my eyes need some place to rest. The line of TV’s across the cardio section of the gym is tuned to every cringe worthy show known to man. Obviously, I can’t hear what’s being said, but just watching what’s going on and trying to keep up with the closed captioning is… blah, blah and blah. My eyes rest on Charmed.  I used to watch Charmed until I stopped caring, but the good news is that if you’ve seen one show, you’ve seen all of them. I caught the tail end of the one episode where Phoebe was stuck in a nightmare. It turns out the assailants in Phoebe’s dream were a small army of obstinate masked “Jasons” complete with chainsaws. What a nightmare right? Imagine being chased around your house by an army of Jasons. Only thing is, while Phoebe  was tucked away under a blanket snoring uncomfortably,  the Jasons chasing Phoebe in her dream were chasing her family and ransacking her house in real life. The premise of Charmed is that Phoebe is one of three witch sisters. You would probably assume that all that is required to defeat the Jasons is a bit of threesome magic. You would be wrong.

So I’m half watching this while I’m waiting for my 5 minute walk to happen again, only half understanding what’s really going on with the show.  At one point, Phoebe is cornered in her kitchen. The Jasons had chainsawed the door open and were slowly coming for her, like what those zombies in Michael Jackson’s Thriller did to Ola Ray. They get closer and closer. Phoebe’s doom is eminent. Then. In a completely necessary turn of television events, Phoebe says to herself, “I have to unmask him”. A jump kick happens to the Jason on her right and she snatches the mask off of another Jason on her left. Holy Doppelganger Batman! The unmasked Jason is actually… dun dun duuuuuun! Phoebe. The other Jasons’ masks magically disappear and reveal they are all Phoebe as well.

Cut to the living room scene where Phoebe is still sound asleep, the Jasons that have been terrorizing her sisters and brother-in-law are still doing the Michael Jackson Thriller zombie slow approach toward them. They brace for their last ditch magical fight. Then, in another television necessary turn of events, the Jasons disappear. Everybody breathes that unanimous sigh of relief that happens on TV and Phoebe jolts awake, refreshed and dewy as we all do after a life threatening nightmare has just ravaged our sleep for umpteen hours or more. She’s not even the slightest bit frazzled or groggy. Her family asks her how she defeated the Jasons. She says, slightly breathlessly, “all I had to do was unmask him.” They all look at her like, “Is that right?! Well who was it?!”  The tension of the situation escalates as the next three words pour effortlessly from her perfectly pouted lips. “It was  me.” She says. “I have a long history of self-sabotage. I guess this was my way of facing it.” (That part, I’m paraphrasing, I could only read some of what she was saying during my run phase). *sigh*

Fast forward to the stretches phase of my workout. As completely seemingly irrelevant happenstance would have it, one of my favorite talks by Dr. Michael Bernard Beckwith is titled: Your Law, Your Life. It came on my iPod as I took my precious time stretching out my exhausted legs. I’ve listened to this talk at least a hundred times over the last 5 years. I know everything about it. I know when Dr. B says, “Let’s take a breath here”, it means in part, “you think this is just a wee little spiritual talk, but you will not leave this listen the same way you came to it.” Numerous times “the talk” has attempted to integrate my workout and I’ve rebuffed it for more suitable workout tunes. Like “Freakum Dress” or a “I’m Sexy and I Know It”. This time, I yielded.   This sadness that has been lurking consistently just under the surface of my utter joy for the last several days finally reached its peak. Just like the first time I heard “the talk”, I needed to hear every single word today.

The gist of the Your Law, Your Life talk is literally the eight words I mentioned at the beginning of this post. It is done unto you as you believe. Think about that for a second. What does that mean actually? IT is done unto YOU as YOU believe. What you believe about your life will be your exact life experience. Period.  Your law. Your life. He asks at one point, “what is your law?”

Let’s put this another way. I had a bit of a text vent this morning with my dear friend Shelton. I was telling him about this anxiousness I’ve been feeling. It’s an anxiousness I haven’t felt in such a long time, I was almost taken aback that it was there.  It’s that knotty butterfly feeling that happens when subconsciously you know that either something amazingly hugely awesome is about to happen–or something amazingly hugely awful is on route. It’s that feeling of bigness. It’s the feeling that whatever is behind you is about to meet dust and you know in every amount of your guts that going back will no longer be an option. It’s a scary feeling if you’ve never actually acknowledged it before. For me, that feeling has been crowned with awesome accomplishment AND heart shattering failure. I know the feeling well. Sure, a few things have happened recently for this feeling to be attached to an accomplishment(s), but there was a something–a someone rather– who I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop, the sky to fall, AND my entire foreseeable world to end by way of this person for the past several months.

It is done unto you as you believe. May I admit something pretty embarrassing here? You sure? You may think less of me when I admit this. But okay. I, dear ones, suffer from a bit of what has been called a fear of failure. When I was growing up, I felt so strongly that my NOT being perfect had somehow altered the balance of the universe in such catastrophic ways, my imperfect existence could reasonably be blamed for everything from global warming to my neighbor’s hangnail. This weirdly unbalanced assessment of myself made me the kind of weird that weird people scoff at. Every failure was monumentally Earth shattering. Every success was almost surprising– which made me wonder when the failure was coming. My needing to be perfect at everything gave me the work ethic of champions, but it also gave me a very skewed opinion of what success and failure actually is. If you know anything about fear of any sort, it manifests in all sorts of self-sabotaging behaviors. Even creating a crew of Jasons. Or a Troll blocking your bridge.

The title of this post came from that tweet vent I mentioned earlier.  I actually formed the words that my sadness was the fault of that person I was waiting for the bombshell about. Her energy was just sooooo bad. The toxicity to my spirit is heart wrenching. The disrespectful way she talks to me. There were all these perfectly logical reasons and actual facts from actual occurrences that built my argument to a stellar legal reasoning that the bombshell was coming for me and I needed a proactive exit strategy before my life falls apart. Again.

I came to this conclusion because EVERY single time I’ve been close to up-leveling myself to the next phase of my awesome, this person has come up with some traumatic whatever it is to make my life suck horribly at the time. Often times, it would cause such a great shift that I would be kicked back a few paces.  Other times, I found myself having to start over from scratch in a very compromised place. Everything always worked out in the end, but the timing of the bombshell with this person and my pending successes is actually uncanny. Just when I’m just about there… Booyah! Based on my past experiences, I can only assume that I have associated my path to the “next level” with having to fight past the Troll on my bridge. If I had the energy and stamina, I would do it. Success! But if I didn’t… time to start over. Like some flipping video game.

I, being a bit arrogant and defeatist, had decided that the Troll on my bridge was this person. I, having revisited my fear of failure, had seen all the signs of the bombshell and allowed sadness to wash over me in such a way that I was simply waiting for defeat. I said, okay Troll. You got me. I’m too tired to fight you. I’ll just turn back and find something else to do with my life. You win. I can’t fight you Troll. I don’t have the same fight for the sake of fighting I once had. I’m a different person now. I’m a lover now. I can’t beat you now Troll. You win.

Just when I was bracing myself to be chopped to pieces… those words. It is done unto you as you believe. Those words which basically made it plain that whatever I believe, I make true.  The reason why this person finds a way to do the stinky squat on my wings just when I’m about to fly is because I believe consciously and unconsciously that’s her role in my life. I’m afraid, so I give her the perfect script to give me the perfect reason to fight or flight. It never dawned on me that this person actually has ZERO power over my success or failure or that this person wasn’t actually the Troll on my bridge. It never dawned on me until today’s little visit with Charmed, to walk up to the Troll with my mini confidence and unmask her–just to be sure. It never once dawned on me that the Troll on my bridge was me.

The entire ride to my office this morning I was writing this post in my head. Once I got here, I didn’t pass go, I didn’t collect $200. I placed my hind parts firmly on my zafu and zabuton and stayed in prayer and meditation until the sadness that had been lingering found its way out of my face in ease and grace fashion. I prayed for peace of spirit. I prayed for ease and grace on my way. I prayed for the person who I had misjudged as my success blocker and I expressed my gratitude for the seemingly irrelevant experiences that helped me unearth the true nature of MY self-sabotaging behaviors.

Taking 100% ownership of our lives is actually how awesome happens. Powerlessness comes from giving our power away in blame and to fears that can’t actually exist when you walk in love.  The actual bombshell I had been waiting for happened today. Turns out, there is no Troll on my bridge. So, I’ll just go on and walk across to where I’m designed to go with ease, grace, every amount of good imaginable and love lighting my way.

What’s YOUR Troll blocking?

The moral of this story? I can’t call it. Just some food for thought. Thank you for reading this though. Peace and abundant “your law is LOVE” blessings. Love, -e-

I’ve been through this before. I come to this place–it can be called a kind of purgatory–where I can’t move forward. I can’t move side to side.  Certainly–moving backward is not an option. Essentially, I feel stuck. Nothing is “wrong” per say, but nothing is moving really. Progression  seems to be stalling. Stuff happens–big stuff–but nothing seems to come of it. Or no momentum. No matter what I do. Like, come on!  Or I feel like I’m not doing enough so I fill my plate with stuff to do, but I don’t feel satiated. I feel like nothing I’m doing is right. Sometimes I feel like I’m going in the exact wrong direction no matter what level of brilliance I’m up to. Sometimes I try something completely out of character. To get the ball rolling. To feel excited about what I’m up to, but I end up feeling like I’m trying to jump double dutch with two left feet and a limp. The best way to describe this feeling is “in wait”. It’s like I’m biding my time, and I know I am. But what else can I do? Sit on my couch watching stupid shows and my brain turn into a baked potato, whilst eating bon-bons as I wait for my life to make any amount of sense? I think not.

I was told that when this happens–this stalling–it means angels are preparing a way for me. I’m in a holding pattern because what I’m going for isn’t ready for me yet. I’m starting to believe maybe only part of this is true. I’m starting to believe the actuality is, I’M not ready for what I’m going for and until I do some necessary inner work, I’ll stay right here stuck until I do. By force or by foul.

A Course in Miracles. I bought the book maybe 8 years ago. One time I remember opening the book and looking at the Workbook for Students and cringing a little. I hadn’t read the introduction, so I hadn’t the foggiest idea what in the world I was reading. It seemed like a riddle and I don’t claim to be all that generous with my time when riddles cross my path. Plus, the book is huge. It looks like a dictionary or an encyclopedia volume. While I’ve been known to read a Harry Potter 700+ page book in a day, for whatever reason, daunting doesn’t even cover what the A Course in Miracles book feels like in hand. Drudgery? Close. Plus, all the texts combined, to complete the students and the teachers bit takes a year each. Pffff.

Meanwhile, fast forward some to now. Well, last night. I found myself out in front of my house for maybe 2-3 hours reading through the introduction. Mesmerized by the text and beginning to get an understanding of the riddle I wasn’t ready for 8 years ago. Granted, I wasn’t reading the substantial hard cover I bought 8 years back. That book is packed away in a box somewhere in storage. I can only imagine how I looked crouching in the drivers seat of my car reading through the e-book version on my Kindle for iPhone.

I suppose the strangest part of my revisit to A Course in Miracles is how similarly this same scenario has happened with other books that have crossed my path. The Celestine Prophesy. I may have bought the first book maybe three or four times prior to actually reading it and every one of its sequels in a weekend– maybe 4  years ago.  The Four Agreements–although I think I read that one within a reasonable time frame. The Alchemist.  A New Earth. The Power of Now. There are more. Something in me is attracted to these books (or was years ago) but couldn’t get through them. Couldn’t relate. I simply wasn’t ready for the riddle. I bought them, thumbed through them and they ended up in storage out of my immediate reach. Years later, in times like these, feeling stuck in some semblance of purgatory, I yearn for them and suddenly, I’m open, ready and willing  to take that leap into the words that have been calling me for longer than I’m willing to admit sometimes. So I buy them again. But THIS time I read them. Pffff.

What is it about these books that is so attractive to me on the surface, but won’t let me devour them when the urge first hits? What is it about me now that must revisit them, that craves them, that needs the teachings they present?

I don’t know the answer to those questions. I do know that as far as I may want to get away from maintaining a consistent spiritual practice. As much as I may want to believe that I chart my own course and guidance is a state of mind. As much as I may want to believe that I have most of the answers and that there is something outward that will fill in the gaps I feel sporadically…

I have an end game. For as long as I can remember, there has been an underlying mission that is indelibly present in everything I do. I know what it is. I often see it hanging brightly in some far off part of my life sky. Meanwhile, I feel like there’s a sense of urgency that I may not be ready for. I don’t want to be that now.  That’s supposed to be my end game. Or is it?

Callings are complicated.  Just how Buffy the Vampire Slayer had no interest in slaying vampires because she really just wanted to be like everybody else. She wanted to be normal. She would have rather eaten glass than slay a vampire–even though she was the only one called to do it. Meanwhile, she did it anyway. Mostly after she ran from it and a vampire threatened either her person or someone else’s. Did she like to do it? Hell no. Did she have to do it? Always reluctantly. Her want of normalcy was calling. What she wanted didn’t really matter to who she was.

Most of us who are called to do something have a persistent inner battle about what we want and who we are. I feel that way often.  I’m also beginning to believe, it’s not really up to me. I’m starting to get this lingering feeling that the reason I find my way to these purgatory-like gaps in my life is because there is something I’m supposed to do and I do what I want instead. My inner conflict happens between sitting in meditation or studying the information I’m drawn to and taking serious steps toward who I’m designed to be versus doing anything else at the time instead. Normalcy is calling.  Meanwhile, no matter where I run, there’s a vampire to be slain and I would rather eat glass than worry my life about some damned vampire that’s none of my business. The universe has an interesting way of putting stuff I don’t want to do in my face, however.  It comes in a stuck-still-can’t-do-anything-but-what-I’m-supposed-to-do- spiritual-equivalent-of-a-kick-in-the-neck. Pfffffffffffffffffffffff.

While these books keep coming into my life. The direction all of them point is IN. They all are telling me essentially the same things. When I feel this purgatory it’s because I created it. When I feel like a poet without words. When I’m waiting for angels to move out of my way so I can get to where I’m going. When I feel like Buffy the Vampire Slayer running from Vampires I was actually born to slay… The only way out of it is IN. There’s something I’m supposed to know. I can’t learn it in college. Apparently, right now, all the things that I actually want to do are connecting to the things I don’t want to do. Apparently, finding my way to a consistent spiritual practice is a part of that. I don’t know why.  Right now, I’m so tired of feeling stuck, I’m almost desperate. Fine, I say in my head. I’ll sit for 20 minutes twice a day. Fine, I’ll take this course. Fine.

This is a course in miracles. It is a required course. Only the time you take it is voluntary. Free will does not mean that you can establish the curriculum. It means only that you can elect what you want to take at any given time. The course does not aim at teaching the meaning of love, for that is beyond what can be taught. It does aim, however, at removing the blocks to the awareness of love’s presence, which is your natural inheritance. The opposite of love is fear, but what is all-encompassing can have no opposite.

T-in-2. This course can therefore be summed up very simply in this way:

Nothing real can be threatened. Nothing unreal exists.

Herein lies the peace of God.

So here we are. I’m taking the course. I took my sweet ole time getting to it. Wish me luck. I’ll keep you posted. *Ninja Pose*

The moral of this story? Who knows. Just some food for thought. Thank you for reading this though. Peace and abundant “required course” blessings. Love, -e-

First of all. Allow me to say thank you. Thank you for your love and support. AND Thank you for your collective humanity. Some of you anyway. I was going through a rough patch. I was facing the reality of my Uncle Paul’s passing minxed along with the reality that far too many young Black boys won’t make it to that ripe old age of 74 my uncle damn near got to see. I posted a video about my complex mourning scenario. My issue was with how one Black man was called “home” after succeeding a life well lived. Meanwhile, somewhere in Florida, a young Black boy will never have that same opportunity my Uncle Paul had because he was a young Black boy. Living in America. Living around other people who don’t value his life or other lives like his. Living in a society so afraid to be called racist that they allow their prejudice against Brown skin to fester and boil over until they act out who they truly are anyway.  Let that sit there in your mid neck region for sec.

I said out loud in my video as a preface to this discussion that “this isn’t my fight”. Trayvon Martin shouldn’t be my fight. Calling for George Zimmerman to finally find due process of law shouldn’t be my fight. And yet, the humanity in me could not move from my seat and say nothing.

Now what comes with this. What comes with research and reading other people’s takes on what happened to Trayvon, is suffering through gobs and gobs of other people’s hatred and indifference, masked as reason. Of suffering through their unique brands of excuses and justifications of how horrors play out in society. And how THIS tragedy could not have possibly been about race and racism. AND how we Blacks are so quick to pull the race card. And how THEY, believing George Zimmerman was justified in shooting down a Black boy for no reason at all besides his Blackness, somehow makes US ridiculous and incredulous and a whole bunch of other words they wouldn’t know to use in a sentence. Allegedly.

Further, and this is my favorite. There always seem to be a league of supposedly well-wishing “dormants” who preface anything they are about to say with “well what about the… (add your own blah, blah, here)”. The “blah, blah, blah” in question tends most consistently to be “the Black kid who did this to that white guy that time” or “that group of Blacks who did such and such.” As though to tinker around in their brains that whatever we’re talking about is somehow rendered irrelevant because somebody Black did something horrible some other time in history and so now THIS– what we speak of now– is that. THIS Black boy deserved to die because THAT Black boy was bad. THIS white guy is justified in killing him, because another white guy died at the hands of a Black boy at some point in history.

Question: How is it that ALL Black people get to be branded indignantly as bains of society to some whites for isolated incidences, but ALL white people can’t be deemed the same for countless occurrences of treacherous acts that have happened throughout history at the hands of whites, en masse, toward people of color around the world? We could make long lists that would take years and years to sift through. We’re allowed to make logical, justifiable treachery arguments about one race, based on faaaaaar fewer people, but not allowed to do the same for another– even when the facts and sheer numbers alone show a certain notion may actually be TRUE-er?! The insanity of it burns me to my core. That, dear ones, is the epitome of how the minds of racists work. And yet. That’s another post, for another day.

My beef isn’t with history or logistical nuances. My beef is with how human beings can look at loss of life and demonize the victim and justify the behavior of actions they wouldn’t stand for would it happen to them or any of their family. To watch a child’s life snuffed out and somehow say–”Welp, it had to the kid’s fault. Welp, he had to deserve it. Welp, he should have had something else on. Welp, wait for the rest of the “facts” to fall in line. Welp, he was Black, glad Zimmerman didn’t miss. go team!” They say these things with the cool calculation of a serial killer in wait. People so numb to what reality looks and feels like that they, I believe, must align themselves with the bullshit they’ve been hearing in their heads all of their lives.

I liken the process of being a dormant racist living a seemingly normal life as that of a sociopath.  Or more neatly, a paranoid schizophrenic. Stifled stuck to the narrow place in their heads that anything at all makes sense. Where sane people will see bullshit in their path and either pick it up and trash it or walk around it. Dormant racists will walk right in it. No matter if the bullshit reaches their waistcoat. Or up to their ears.  It’s almost as though the bullshit is comforting for them. No matter that the bullshit and the subsequent stench seeps into their clothes and skin. Dormant racists walk around smelling like shit. People will hold their noses as they pass. But polite souls won’t say the words, “You Stink.” or “Dude, catch a bath.” Polite souls will just walk around them or avoid them or pretend sharing a room or an elevator or a simple walk from the store with a can of iced tea and a pack of Skittles isn’t a bit like a death march. Let that one sit there in your neck too.

Dormant racists will pretend to themselves that what they think and believe makes sense. Even when simply listening to facts would shatter their inner testimony into the dust from whence it came. No matter to a dormant racist. They play by their own rules, they simply make something else up. They defend their brain waves at all costs. Make excuses for them. See what’s not actually there.  ”Facts are for cowards and smart people.” They must say to themselves, “The voices in my head are never wrong”. This, I presume, is the bullshit they yet mutter in their sleep. The bullshit that keeps them from ever being able to see what’s lurking in the mirror. Dormant. Passive. Waiting for an opportunity to creep out of that shadowy place it’s hiding and spring forth into the light of the sun or in the comment section of a blog post.

RACIST.

The “R” word is a complex diversion. It’s either used way too much or out of context or not nearly enough. The “R” word has been thrown about and has embroiled many a conversation into so many cockamamie and (dare I say) retarded outcomes of late, I almost hate to even go here. I hate to go here because I’ve discovered that whether it’s true or not. Whether a person can claim their racism in the mirror or not is really a lot like trying to catch a hurricane in a glass bottle. People get very offended, very quickly. And so the conversation we might have on the subject never seems to resolve a damned thing. Racists never actually have to own their rightful mind waves and they can huff off in the silent notion that NO. There’s nothing wrong with THEM. YOU. Are clearly mistaken. And therefore the problem.

You ever read the book Blink, by Malcolm Gladwell? Oh, what a thunderous and mind lifting weave of understanding Gladwell’s book offers. Through science and research, Gladwell shows that most people who participate in this Harvard developed IAT study and show fear or anxiety about a certain race, are really that way not because of a lurking racist streak (maybe). But because of a socialized prejudice. Perpetuated, unfortunately, by media and misinformation and not having proper exposure to enough different kinds of people. Essentially, we’ve established ourselves as homogeneous group thinks who fear change of any sort and then make up shit to support said socialized insanity. And teach our kids that same shit, so they grow up to think that shit and teach their kids that shit. Absolutely! We do not judge people by the contents of their character. We judge ENTIRE races of people by what we’ve last seen one or two of them do on the Real Housewives of Atlanta.

Where the racism comes in is when our prejudice and insecurity fuels a worldview where we broaden our stroke to limit the lives and livelihoods of entire races of people we don’t actually know anything about. When our prejudice becomes the bar for how we live, work, interact, and demonize people, based not on facts. But on red herrings we heard when we grew up and added to over the years. The racism comes in when we don’t challenge our beliefs as irrational–when we would rather face emotional, financial or bodily harm than let someone of a different race save our very lives. Solely because of our prejudice. Racism comes in when you must be right because you’re white and I must be wrong because I’m not. AND all the ways that plays out in society.

There is nothing I can possibly say in this post that will persuade anyone who is defiant about their position that they may or may not be racist. “They” probably won’t even be the type to read my blog to start. No matter.  I’ve read so many awesome articles in the last few days about the subject by people of every complexion you can think of. On the one hand, I am inspired by the outcry for Trayvon Martin and the outpouring of love and support by people of every hue and from around the world. On the other, I am still deeply saddened by the ridiculousness of the discourse I have to read in the comment sections of said blogs and articles and videos. Polite souls just shake their heads and practice blatant avoidance. Meanwhile, not so polite souls like me want to scream out at the top of my lungs–”You *Expletive* *Expletive* *Expletive* Have you no soul? Have you no clue? Who raised you? Satan?” But alas, I don’t. Mostly because I already know the answer to that question. It’s a mixed bag. Yes. AND No.

In my opinion, ignorance is like heart disease. It’s both hereditary and based on dietary factors. If you grew up with people who had some very ignorant and prejudiced views on a subject and you had no reason to dispute such claims for yourself, chances are you’ll grow up to perpetuate some very ignorant and prejudiced views on that same subject.  Chances are, unless you’re checked in a meaningful way, you’ll add to those views and find ways to make your views make sense, particularly when they become more senseless under further review. If everyone around you feels the same as you or gives that impression, you feel justified in your views because you’re not a lone in them. Should someone in your “crew” view things differently, they become a threat to your very being and they must either be removed from your circle or silenced. At stake, of course, is the very foundation of your worldview. Wrong, retarded, and completely ridiculous as it may be, it’s all you’ve got to hold on to in a world that was designed for growth and evolution. Far worse for your mentals should you not believe in evolution to start.

The difference between a full out racist and a prejudiced, dormant racist, in my opinion,  is basically logistics. Prejudice breeds the festering of hate and confusion irregardless of facts. Racists act on their hate and confusion. How they act, varies and plays out in so many unimaginable ways. Alas. They act.  But, should they be able to catch their dormant racism and address it before it becomes an act, lives get saved.  Sounds a lot like we’re speaking of a disease doesn’t it? There’s another one for your mid neck region.

Which leads me to the point of this post. We are not put on this planet to try to tame the savage beast that can be some people’s distorted worldviews. They got that way honestly. They stick because they haven’t been challenged in a meaningful enough way that their worldview must evolve into something more valid to actuality.  We were put on this planet to tame our OWN savage beast mind waves. To rule ourselves. To expose ourselves to different ways of thinking. To learn big lessons about who we truly are– the good, the bad, and the utterly ridiculous. Once we get to the mirror and SEE who we REALLY are, no matter how painful, that’s when we can grow and change and evolve into MORE.

The trick here is that we’ve tried talking about the perpetuating racism in this country and around the world for decades. Every time we do, the racists or dormant racists in question bristle themselves and shut down because they can’t stand the horror of hearing the “R” word and their name in the same sentence. The stigma of such treachery. *aghast face* Meanwhile, if we continue to NOT have the vital conversation, nothing changes. Nothing grows. The evolution of our thinking stays stuck as it has been since the mind wave first made its way into reality. Looooong before I was born.

Maybe it’s time for us to switch the conversation up. Instead of talking about racism as the jump off point, maybe we talk about our prejudices openly and honestly and often to everyone who will listen. Maybe it’s time to force ourselves into the mirror to bare our very souls about our prejudices–which we all have– BEFORE what lies lurking on the inside, plays out tragically in life. Just as it did for Trayvon Martin.  And does for so many other young Black and colored children around the world every single day we yet breathe. How do we do that? I haven’t the foggiest idea.

The moral of this story? Your guess is as good as mine. Thank you for reading this though. Peace and abundant “rule yourself you prejudiced *expletive*” blessings. Love, -e- #HoodiesUP

Some more light reading on the subject…

Black Snob:

No Apologies: On The Killing Of Trayvon Martin And Being ”Good”

Tim Wise:

Trayvon Martin, White Denial and the Unacceptable Burden of Blackness in America

AND a movie…

It’s March. Like, almost the middle of March. I have to admit that much of this post had been written already. I was holding on to it. I suppose, to make sure I still felt the same. I do. We’ll get to that later.

The last few weeks I’ve had so much going on. New opportunities presented themselves (!) I was so excited (!) There I was, finding myself going hard–saying– “Look at God” (!) (circa @im3media) doing everything I always do in new relationships–business or otherwise. I don’t put my big toe in to feel the water. I don’t take the “cat on the roof” cautionary route as Martha Beck suggests. Nope, not me. I jump in, head first and pray the water is deep enough when I get to it. That’s how I do pretty much everything in my life. You get everything or you get nada. Yessir. It’s an intense place to live from. The highs are so mind blowing high and the lows make for a perfect #KYS cocktail. I mean, it’s not exactly that deep. I mean, kindof.

I don’t do anything from an inauthentic place. I don’t fake it. I am it. Unfortunately for how I choose to unfold my existence, it doesn’t mesh with how actual other people actually live. I forget a lot, until faced with it, that other people have a lot of shit with them and it really doesn’t have anything to do with me. AND it really doesn’t gel well with my “vibe”. In some cases I end up the unofficial “spirit-therapist” of the group.  And in others, I end up the over-optimistic shoe gum whose kindness is treated as a plague or a target–whichever is handier at the time. Neither scenario ever works out, but all can be chalked up as lessons learned. My solace comes from this funky notion that people should treat each other the way they want to be treated.  What I view as simple, is actually paramountly hard for other folk. This concept STILL perplexes me after all these few years I’ve graced the crusty parts of this planet. People are messy.

I don’t mean this as a slight to anyone who IS messy and doesn’t care to see themselves this way. It’s simply a fact of life. We’re all messy. No matter how we choose to remix the concept. No matter how many ways we detail to ourselves how awesome we are, the actual truth is, we are all fucked up people. Nobody wants to admit it. Nobody wants to say it out loud. It sounds defeatist and self-deprecating. It’s not though. In order to change, grow and evolve, we’ve got to face facts. In order to become secure, we’ve got to face our insecurity. In order to move past an abusive relationship, we’ve got to see ourselves as an enabler. In order to grow from addictions and remove them, we have to see ourselves as addicts. In order to cure ourselves of the EGO and GREED diseases, we’ve got to see that we are oozing, festering EGO and/or GREED zombies infecting the world with our plague. Too much? Okay. But I hope you get my point. People are messy. We’ve all got something that keeps us from the lives we truly want. We’ve all got an idiosyncratic blah, blah that stifles our truth and makes us hard to connect with. Mine? I run. For the hills. Like, Pewooooooooooon.

I grew up in a household where superficiality was paramount. It didn’t matter how much mess was actually going on in the actual living environment. It didn’t matter how uncomfortable it was to be ourselves around the rest of us. We were socialized that A) family is paramount, even if we didn’t like each other. and B) As long as nobody can see our dysfunction, it wasn’t actually there.

Admittedly, from a person who claims to live as authentically as I claim to, that doesn’t sound like a basis from which to preface any conversation about authenticity.  It turns out, it actually is.  I learned how to survive in the very messy world we all live because I lived in one for most of my life BEFORE I actually got to see how some of the rest of the world lives. Believe. Most of the things that people of all stripes claim as their deterrent from success, I’ve lived through in some form or fashion. The way I was able to get to a place where I can admit that I’m fucked up and consistently growing through it is by being real with myself about it.  It’s not an easy thing to do.

The very first thing that happens is we want to play the victim. We want to say out loud, “ooooooh woe is me. Look at the cards I’ve been dealt. (!) Look at how fucked up I am (!!) I can never be awesome, not with how I grew up or what I suffered through or with these shoes on (!!!)”  The truth of the universe, that I’m learning STILL is that once we come to grips that we’ve got some fucked up qualities, it’s not supposed to be a red carpet entrance into CLUB VICTIM. Complete with paparazzi camera bulb flashes and celebvictim sightings in People Magazine. It’s supposed to be a train ticket inward to visit our bullshit and figure out which things need some elbow grease toward evolution.  We’re all imperfect as a jumping point toward growth. That’s how I see it anyway.  Playing victim for the cameras doesn’t do a damned thing but keep us in situations that help us stay there. I’m not a fan. I’d rather run.

BUT running isn’t actually how you fix things with other messy people. It’s not how you forge meaningful, growth oriented relationships with people, who despite their messiness, you may want to connect with. My challenge has always been figuring out which messy people or situations are keepers and which ones to Pewooooooooooooooon.

The way I’ve worked through this is to take inventory of how I feel. Do my insides clench when I think of being in the situation? Do I clam up when I feel challenged? Do I feel battered simply because I’m in the room? Do I feel too much like I’m about to engage in an unwinnable altercation with my mother about something that has absolutely nothing to do with me? In order to “survive” this situation, am I going to have to make myself smaller so that everyone else involved can be okay with me? Granted, sometimes feeling these things are the growing pains of any relationship. We all want to be liked. And sure, we’ll fit ourselves into painful shapes to fit in with a group we want to be a part of. The question I’ve always had to ask myself is, at what point is it worth it? Are a few person’s insecurities worth my own self worth AND where is the line drawn in the sand?

On this three year self-awareness journey I’ve been on, I can honestly say, I don’t know. It’s different for every situation. I guess the empowering part of this post is that at least now, I have the choice to run for the hills. When, growing up feeling this way, I didn’t. When I was younger, I was literally at the mercy of someone else’s emotional diarrhea and all the ways that played out.  To survive, my choices were to take it or rebel against it. Rebellion caused great pain and taking it caused the same. While that doesn’t sound like much of a choice, I believe my experience was part of the foundation for who I am now.

I can look back and see that as much as I wanted to, I never used my circumstances as an excuse to be a victim. I just did what I had to do. My version of running for the hills at the time was writing in my many, many, many, many, many journals and finding a way to my voice. Sometimes I would find myself in complicated working and “loving” relationships and stay, far longer than I should have or leave far sooner than I could have endured. I would be thrown all kinds of other people messiness and find myself in this inner battle of– Taking “the bullshit” and not knowing exactly why I didn’t rebel. Or if I did rebel–why didn’t I just take it?

People are messy. I suppose the trick is finding our way to the kind of mess that gels best with our own.  Preferably with people who are on our unique level of self-awareness.  And not insisting on fitting ourselves into messes that simply add to the mess we’re currently in. The ideal would be finding our way to another being who owns a self-awareness equivalent of a mop, broom or Swiffer.

It’s funny because, looking at it now, it seems,  my being fucked up, led me to what some might see as another way to be fucked up. I don’t fight, I flight. And yet, I’m still aware and thus, still able to grow. The lesson here is that authentic human experience is a constant evolutionary process. We go through this maze looking for this ticker tape parade when we get to the end, only to discover it doesn’t quite work like that.

I started writing this post figuring that I was going to write it about my desire to be in a loving, romantic relationship. How, I want more kids and buy a great home and be able to show Aubrei what life and love can really be. It was also supposed to be a bit about how to tell which relationships are healthy and which aren’t and when to peace yourselves out of them–love, business or otherwise. That was my original intention.  It ended up being a discourse about why I am exactly where I’m supposed to be. It’s also an unintentional testimony of how life actually works. We wake up every day and live the lives we have for the reasons we have, but it’s really, utterly about something else entirely.

The moral of this story? I dunno. You? Just some food for thought. Thank you for reading this though. Peace and abundant evolve or bust blessings. Love, -e-

Hi there!!! Hellooooooo! *Ninja Pose*

I’m grumpy. Today. Plus some of yesterday. Since Saturday, actually. I’ve just been funky. No rightly idea why. I mean, I have some idea why. But nothing specific, specific. It could be any damned thing.

Maybe it’s because I know my cleanse is just about over and I’m wondering what in the world I will do when I no longer HAVE to keep promises to myself that involves NOT flooding my system with stone dead food, crap and preservatives. Maybe it’s because mother nature is about to have her monthly way with me. AND in lieu of cramps– because of my trumped up gladiator workout– I’m getting instead– fuller boobs, a plumper, squat induced gluteus, way too much energy for anyone 20 years my junior AND a funky, fucked up attitude.  I know. Boo-ffffin-hoo.

Maybe the attitude is temporary. Maybe, because I’ve been cleaning out all the layers of ground in gunk that has been accumulating since my childhood…maybe because I’ve finally actually gotten past the superficial gunk and I’ve gotten to the layer of gunk that’s ground in… I dunno. Maybe the systematic release of all this gunk en masse and having to face it, accept it, deal with whatever I feel, forgive it, and let it go is making me cranky.

Mind you, it’s a pleasant-esque cranky. I’m still capable of being seen in public without being sent home for poor behavior. It’s just this lingering, that no matter how much work I’ve already done, I still have so much more work to do. It’s exhausting to recognize just that fact some days. Especially when mother nature is about to make her monthly rounds. The body sheds everything it no longer needs. Unnecessary emotional baggage is no different. If you heard that sigh that just happened, I wouldn’t be surprised.

The beautiful thing about the version of CLEAN that I put myself through is that I allow it to be a mind-body-spirit purging. The foundation of it is purging toxins through food. I am consciously evolving the process every year to not only be about purging. But also adding. I use the food regimen as the blueprint for my life regimen. That’s the theory behind what I’m doing anyway. One thing I have come to understand for sure. It’s all connected. Whether we admit it to ourselves or not. It’s been interesting watching the things that make themselves known during this month long clean. It happened similarly last year as well.

A few days ago, I had the opportunity to watch Oprah Winfrey experience one day of Tony Robbin’s Unleash the Power Within seminar in Los Angeles. The show she filmed was for Oprah’s Next Chapter on OWN. I watched Oprah walk across fire dude. I was just as excited as she was. I wanted that moment. I think I’m having that moment. Except, I feel like I’m walking across hot coals so ffffing slow and I have no ffffffing way to make my legs go any faster. And it’s annoying. And it hurts. And I’m still walking. And there doesn’t seem to be the end part where I can stamp off my feet and scream and cheer with my friends on the other side. But whatever. ***sidebar***

In the accompanying interview Oprah had with Tony Robbins, something magnificent made its way to the surface. It was said so nonchalantly, it was actually a little like a quick jab to the neck. Tony Robbins said, “You aren’t here to get what you want. You’re here to become more.”  I choked a little.

I thought instantly of the many people who spend their lives in pursuit of all the little pointless crap they tell themselves they want. Only to get whatever it is  and have to find another desire because the one they sought sucked. Or those people who spend their lives in varying states of disarray or bitterness because so many of the little things they claim to want, they don’t get. They neglected to see the deeper meaning of their seeming lack. Both scenarios, I assume, are supposed to show us this great universal truth. That getting or not getting is kindof irrelevant. That life is about becoming more. Of being what we are designed to be.  Of living our fullest, truest potential. Getting what you want, in the scheme of the bigger picture–no offense Diddy–is bullshit. I can say that with some amount of emphasis because I’ve been both people. Maybe not to a ridiculous degree, but to enough of a degree that I was able to be conscious of and learn that lesson. So here we are.

I watched Oprah experience “The Power Within”. I watched her fire walk. I watched her billionaire self interview Tony Robbin’s billionaire self and compare notes about how billionaires “help” launch the living potential of we “the regular ole everybody” who look to these billionaire folk who seem to know the way to get everything one could possibly want.

A Snippet from my vantage point:

O: “I’ve been journaling since I was 15.

T: Oh, I’ve been journaling since I was 17. You win!”

T: “My mother being a mess and kicking me out at 17 caused me to give in such a way that I am utterly awesome (matter-of-fact).  I give over 100 trillion tons of food to people all over the world!”

O: “Yes! My mother was a mess too and I remember wanting to be awesome because of it so I’ve given over a contrillion trillion people places to live AND opened a school! In Africa!”

T: “Oh, You win!”

I mean, my paraphrasing makes it sound rainbow as hell and that’s probably because the entire exchange was rainbow as hell. Watching two people throw around some of their greatest life accomplishments–LITERALLY– like they were comparing lip gloss. Was surreal. AND it was a bit silly sounding from any vantage point. BUT, it’s also a testament about Tony’s point. Life is about becoming more. Imagine being sooooooooooooooo awesome that your current greatest accomplishment is literally like a jellybean in a full jellybean jar. The whole concept of greatness changes. Doesn’t it?

WE put what we perceive as greatness up on a pedestal. Meanwhile, those who are truly great, find ways to trump their own limitless greatness. A mindset way too many of WE, “the regular ole everybody” haven’t been able to successfully add to our arsenal of life skills just yet. That’s why the Tony Robbins and Oprah Winfreys are where they are and “have” what they have. We’ve asked them to bottle up what they got so they can sell it to us. AND we’re buying it. In turn, it seems, becoming more of who you are designed to be–because it seems to be so rare–brings with it everything you think you want. Too. By default in some cases.

This is where this post gets tricky for me. I have roughly one week left in my clean and I’ve been trying to make peace with my life choices and the lingering emotions I’ve been hoarding, admittedly. I’ve been searching for my truth. My authentic motivation for wanting to do anything at all. What is it that drives me? What is my passion? I have an idea of what I’m here to do. But what is the oxygen that’s keeping my fire lit? Money has never been a motivator for me. Never. Even when I’m dead ass lint pocket filled. Money is a necessity to survive in this world, but it doesn’t motivate me to do a damned thing. I don’t care about crap. I want to buy a home. I want to own my own little piece of certainty and stability. An awesome place Aubrei can grow up. A place she can keep coming back to as she gets older and grows into her own awesomeness. I want a relevant voice in the continuing life discussion. I want to help people improve the quality of their own lives– to show people how to fall their bullshit away, expand their consciousness and rule themselves.

Those are the general things I want to accomplish. But they aren’t motivators. It’s not really a passion, passion, passion. I mean, I’m passionate about it. All of it is a part of my greater purpose. But, admittedly, something is missing. Thinking back on all the times I’ve busted my ass to be about anything growing up, it was always about “a boy”. It was always about the one thing that alludes me now. LOVE. Or, my perception of love at that time.

Now that I’m older and hopefully wiser, and clearer. I don’t have the option of relinquishing my power to a mere passing of a mere fancy of a beautiful looking man who lacks any amount of substance. I’ve done that already and it sucks so badly. Still. I can’t even bribe myself to do it again.

So what then? What?! Do I simply stay on path with a half lit fire, feeling somewhat lopsided, looking for every bungee jumping, roller coasting, paintballing, sky diving, tough mudder adventure to simulate the extra pump of heart beats that happen for me in love–when love alludes? I dunno. Maybe. But that’s another post for another day. Thus, this being part un (1). Presumably of at least deux (2). We’ll see how goes. A least I know that life isn’t about what I want. It’s about becoming more.  Honestly, right now, with all this grumpiness lingering, that understanding isn’t comforting in the slightest. #Clean schmean. Pfffff.

The moral of this story? I have no rightly idea. Just some food for thought. Thank you for reading this though. Peace and abundant “Look what the #clean dragged in” blessings. Love, -e-

Etta James, Steve Jobs, Joe Frazier, Andy Whitfield, were kindof understandable. They were ill. Amy Winehouse, Heavy D., DJ Mehdi , Gil Scott- Heron and Don Cornelius were all surprises. To me anyway. Weird. Philly’s own renowned journalist Fatimah Ali’s passing was incomprehensible.  There are many more who are worthy of mention. Yes… many, many more…

So to be in the movie theatre with my mom, watching my colleague Q Deezy’s indie feature film Exit Strategy and hear that whilst we were sitting, giggling aloud and I was gushing over my friend’s accomplishment–one of the greatest greats who ever opened her mouth to sing a note was rushed off this life plane. I didn’t know how to feel.   Houston… we have a problem. WE lost Whitney.

I remember being a little girl and wanting to be Whitney Houston. Sing like her. Look like her. I also remember being an adult and having somebody say I looked a bit like Whitney Houston and wanting to smack the shit out of them. Like my face went immediately to *aghast*. Like I already knew the connotation. I was like, “Are you saying I’m so skinny, I look like a crack head?”  Clearly embarrassed that a compliment could be so complicated the scramble happened. “Nooooooo. I meant, Pre-crack Whitney.”, They said. Really. ”pre-crack Whitney”.

I promised myself I wouldn’t write a post about Whitney Houston’s passing. I made this promise because I was sooooooooo disappointed in her. People always say that when people die, you’re supposed to forgive them their transgressions and such. It’s not that easy for me. The truth lingers for me. How I feel doesn’t just go away because they go.

I was such a fan growing up. Just like the rest of us, I watched in awe as Whitney Houston made any choice that made sense for her and made absolutely “none sense” to us and… maybe I took it all as hard as I thought she should have. I watched her fawning over the clown she called her husband and felt a little sick to my stomach. Particularly because I had a crush on Bobby Brown when he was in New Edition. Maybe I was jealous. But then, I suppose after I discovered Al B. Sure, I realized Bobby Brown wasn’t actually attractive or really that talented and kindof an asshole. I dunno.  Maybe I instinctively knew what she found out years later. She was waaaaaaaay too beautiful and amazingly talented for him. But whatever.

Then the drug thing. I could just gag. There were so many things that happened. So many reasons to want to gag. So many ways Whitney Houston proved exactly how human she was. So many ways I found myself angry at her by way of my own humanness. I didn’t think I would even cry for her passing. I was so nonchalant when I heard the news…   Tears well. They’re still here. Waiting in the wings.

Watching the rise and downward spiral of Whitney Houston felt exactly like that moment I discovered my parents were human–and were not, in fact, the perfect beings they told me they were. Consequently, it was similarly as devastating.  To the point where I found my *aghast face* just about any time Whitney Houston’s name was mentioned in conversation. And yet, Whitney Houston’s life and death isn’t even about me.  Were her choices any of my business? No. Was her business any of my concern? Nope. Was her downward spiral any reflection on me AT ALL? Um…

I suppose it took me all these many years as a grown up, going through my own personal set of life explorations, rises, downward spirals and rises again to find that seed of compassion for a person who couldn’t make peace with her own life. Who coupled with a soul way far beneath her and attempted to shrink herself to fit into his world. I know exactly what that looks like because I’ve done it.

Maybe, I’ve been so angry at Whitney Houston for all of these years because I see my own life reflected in hers in a tiny way. Truly, I looked up to her. But maybe I saw her as the embodiment of everything I wanted to have and be and to little humanoid me–she fucked it up by actually being a humanoid too. Maybe I watched the train wreck that became her life and saw way too much of my own life in it–minus the glamour and accolades. The no frills version. But a version, none the less.

Granted, I’ve never done drugs, but I can say with some amount of emphasis that I’ve both realized and wasted my potential. I’ve shat upon, ignored, mishandled a God-given gift. I’ve mingled with the wrong crowd. I’ve wanted to just have a regular life with no one looking up to me. I’ve made a baby with a selfish asshole. I’ve tried to fit myself into painful shapes to stay with said selfish asshole because it made sense to do at the time.  I’ve tap danced with my dignity. I’ve felt lost. I’ve danced with the devil. I’ve made a mockery of opportunities given me. I’ve made absolutely zero sense to everybody else. I’ve loved hard. I’ve given my all. I’ve shared every ounce of my soul on a stage in front of relative strangers. I’ve found my voice and lost it and maybe, found it again. Even though I’ve never met Whitney Houston, I can say with some amount of emphasis that I am Whitney Houston. Her struggle was my struggle. Her triumphs were mine. Her failings were mine. Her story is a page in the book I’m writing. Her passing is personal. Besides the fact that we were literal strangers. Why? Because part of this lesson we’re being kept here to learn is that WE are all connected.

Houston… we have a problem. WE lost Whitney… and Don and Etta and Fatimah and Michael, and Heavy and Amy and so, so, so many more.  Houston,  it appears our greats are jumping ship.  Why? Maybe that’s what we’re all still here to figure out.

The moral of this story? No clue. Just some food for thought. Thank you for reading this though. Peace and abundant “we’re all connected” blessings. Love, -e-.

I had a dream. I would like to say MY dream was even a smidgen as compelling as MLK’s blockbuster. And yet, I won’t know until I share it. Shall I?

My dream was actually a movie. Serious. I couldn’t tell if I was watching the movie or in it. But I’ll assume I was watching it because I had no speaking parts. The dream felt a lot like I imagine how Scrooge felt being dragged about time at the hand of those awful spirits to witness his treachery as it played out in other people’s lives. Boooo.

So in my dre-ovie er…mream…er…involuntary picture show with dialogue by people I do not know– the whole deal played out like this:

The lead character was a brown haired woman who apparently wanted to play baseball. She and this blonde haired lady traveled around the country in hopes of meeting this baseball player (that the brown haired woman didn’t recognize once she finally met him *shrug*). He was gorgeous, dark haired and played for the “LA Angels”. <It’s a dream movie–go with it.> He was also profound, apparently. When she finally caught up with him at a diner, she was trying to reason with him that she was awesome. So she showed him her baseball sizzle reel so he could see how good she was. But he rebuffed her, saying something to the affect of “So what. Do you know how many people can do that too? You have to broaden your perspective.” He said these words rather curtly and then got up and left the two women sitting at the table looking rather foolish. But the brown haired lady wasn’t finished. She took that foolish feeling and did something rather fly with it. Apparently, whilst she was traveling the country looking for this guy (who turned out to be like every other asshole  in baseball who was impossible to recognize up close). During her journey, she had interviewed a whole bunch of amazing baseball players who were women.  And they were fly. Most of these women were of color and play baseball with a unique perspective on how the game is played and won. AND they all had unique baseball hats which was uber cool. They all had uniforms, but were functionally unique. It was baseball in a woman’s world. Fully. It was baseball for women, by women. It wasn’t some hunkered down version the game the guys play. It was truly a unique, compelling version of the same game. Down to the uniforms.

This is one of those times I wish I could take pictures of what’s happening in my brain, particularly my dreams. They are quite vivid. Plus, it would be easier to write the movie later. Anyway.

I woke up shortly after the one black lady with a really cool baseball hat finished sharing her perspective. I can’t remember what she said, but I imagine her perspective went something like this.

Protester:  It’s always been done the way it is now.

Baseball Player:   So what.

Protester: But you’ll ruin it. Don’t you worry that people will think you’re ruining it?

Baseball Player: Ruining it for who, you? So what.

Protester: Nobody wants to watch this.

Baseball Player: How do you know? Are you everybody or nobody?

Protester: I’m protesting.

Baseball Player: Okay AND So what.

You can almost see the Black lady with her dry indifference sending a chill through the bones of the person challenging her. But in my dream it was nothing like that. This woman I was watching in the movie in my head was warm, vibrant and passionate. And a woman of few words. She was a woman of action. She loved baseball. But coming up in her small town she wasn’t allowed to play with the boys. And she didn’t like the uniforms much anyway. In time she met other girls like her who wanted to play baseball in their own way. So they created their own league and along with it, designed their own uniforms, including their own baseball hats. I have to admit, the whole ensemble was fly. Functional. And nothing like anything you would probably create in your own head.

I think the key to what was going on in my dream was that these women–who turned out to have a WORLD LEAGUE– didn’t do that separate but equal thing that  we Americans seem to think is so noble and just. They created a whole new league that only they would fit in. So rather than protest admission into the bullshit that didn’t want them in their club, they started their own and it thrived. They started their own and made it their own.  I never understood why people protest that stuff. But they do. It’s like they don’t want you to have theirs and they don’t want you to have yours either. And to that, the baseball player said simply, “so what”.

This dream was significant for me in part because it was highlighting a lesson through a sport that I don’t normally follow. It was showing me something in my own life that I have been unwilling to see.  That we as a collective have yet to take full ownership of. We are innovators. If “they” don’t want us in their club. If “they” don’t want to produce our movies. If “they” don’t want to create our WORTHY television programming. If “they” don’t want us to be a part of anything they claim to be theirs…  all we gotta do is get a few “girls” together and create own… WORLD LEAGUE.

If “they” tell us we can’t, we’ll tell them: “First of all, So What. And secondly, we’re taking the advice of some asshole baseball player from one of Envy’s head dreams and broadening our perspective.” That’ll get em.  Interestingly enough, with all of that said, I had zero idea I was even looking for baseball (that whole watching paint dry thing was a clue). Apparently, though, I found it. Hear that Matt Kemp?

The moral of this story? Ummmmmm…. nope. No idea. Just some food for thought. Thank you for reading this though. Peace and Abundant “pick your team” blessings. Love, -e-

Particularly young girls. If you don’t yet know. If no one told you today. I am here to tell you. Emphatically!!! You are beautiful. True beauty, however, stems from and grows from within. True beauty is knowing you are a divine reflection of the highest source: Love. Truest beauty needs no “embellishment”, it already is. IT is so. So BE it. And all that now means for you….

I am beautiful.

Yes, I am full of myself.

I should be. I’m beautiful.

No one on Earth looks like me.

Sure, there’s beauty in the world.

But none, 

comparable to mine.

I am beautiful.

My hair may not be straight

Like greasy hay sticks.

My hair curls when my fingers pull through it.

My hair is called kinks or pugs or gnarls or snags.

The many colors of my hair are more beautiful than any rainbow.

 and I need no leprechaun to tell me so.

My hair has character. My hair is beautiful.

My nose may not be pointy like the tip of a witches broom stick.

My nose bends and is flat.

My nose flares to smell the night air

And turns up to show disagreement.

My nose has charisma,

My nose is beautiful.

My skin is what folks envy most.

It’s  creamy and brazen, burnt  and bronze.

My skin is tan or needs tanning

It’s natural like fine wood and doesn’t repel the sun.

My skin takes on every hue of this great Earth.

My skin is natural, my skin is beautiful.

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord. 

Yes, my eyes may not be blue.

But my eyes I share with my God, cause his eyes are brown too.

My eyes have seen torture and torment.

My eyes have seen pain.

 My eyes have seen this world begin and end. 

And My eyes will witness our people become great once again.

My eyes have seen and made history.

 My eyes are beautiful.

My language is real.

It reflects who I am and where I’ve been.

It’s the language of kings and queens cause that’s what we are.

It’s the language of survivors and the language of stars.

The way I speak, much like the way I look is beautiful.

It’s me, and I am beautiful.

So you can call me names and feed me lines.

Say I’m wrong and ugly. 

Say I’m a savage or a killer.

But you see, I was told long ago, when I was yo master…

That I am beautiful.

The most beautiful being on Earth.

No one on Earth looks like me.

Sure, there’s beauty in the world.

But none, comparable to mine.

I am beautiful.

My hair, my nose, my skin, my eyes, and my dialect.

I am… beautiful.

-e-

©1995

February, dear ones, is “National CLEAN the Gunk Out of My Insides” month! I mean, it’s actually African-American History Month. Same thing though. Sort of. Okay, one has little to do with the other. Except the fact that it should. But it doesn’t. But it should.

It is unfortunate that people of color have the worst statistics following them around. There are tons of them floating about– most of them we know by heart. The one’s about our general poor health, lagging education, incarceration, unemployment, morbidity, crime rates per capita, etc. and what have you. The most important statistic, however is this one:

• Percent of men 20 years and over who are obese: 37%
• Percent of women 20 years and over who are obese: 51%           Source: Health, United States, 2010, table 71

That’s a lot of obesity. Plus, should you have no idea what that obesity actually looks like– check any twitter picture timeline throughout the day. There are plenty to be seen and made fun of… … … but that’s another post, for another day.

Last year around this time, I began a food journey that was one part social experiment and one part valiant excuse to buy a juicer. The whole thing began because I felt *uck* and I read a book by Dr. Alejandro Junger called CLEAN that told me how to get un-*uck*.  I chronicled my 3 week un-*uck*ing experience so that exactly one year later, I could look back upon my journey via my blog and be able to say: Why The Ffffff Did I Do That For?!

Anyway. I begin my 3 week CLEAN again on February 1, 2012. Feel free to join me as I un- *uck* … considering you probably missed the whole thing last year. No worries. I’ve attached every sordid episode of last year’s food journey to this post. *sticks tongue out*.

I Just Ate Shit and Now I Feel Like Shit to Prove a Point.

Planning to CLEAN

Preparing to CLEAN

Week 1: In the Beginning, There was *Cough*

Week 1: The Most Beautiful Thing Happened Today

Week 2: Becoming One of the Weirds

Ending Week 2: The Week of Reckoning 

Week 3: Reaching Goals (…the Wall)

Week 3: Finis…

There. They’re all in one place. Go on, read through the series. Decide for yourself to CLEAN. Get Dr. Alejandro Junger’s book. Hit me up on my twitter @QueenEnvy and let’s get this thing poppin, Feb 1. K? #Awesome!

The moral of this story? Ummmmmm. Can’t think of anything. Just some food for thought. Thank you for reading this though. Peace and abundant, *uck* free blessings! Love, -e-