Dear President Obama,

I know you’re busy what with running for re-election and all, not to mention playing catch-up after last night’s debate debacle.

That notwithstanding, I thought you’d get a kick out of hearing what a day in the life of an ordinary citizen in what WILL continue be your hometown for the next four years – the District of Columbia – is like. (Yes, I’ve chipped in my share of $5’s and $10’s thanks to the pressure of your stalking emails. And while I do appreciate the cool car magnet, I’m still waiting to hear when and where you, Michelle, and I are gonna do dinner.)

After attending a funeral on New York Avenue the other day, I returned to find my car wearing a lovely orange hubcap commonly known as the dreaded boot.

To be fair, I did owe for past tickets so I’m willing to own up to my transgressions. As an aside, however, we really do need to talk about those speed cameras – your comrades at the John A. Wilson Building must be making a killing.

Anyway, I sighed, got in the car, and began the process of atoning for my vehicular sins.

I call the first number on the beautiful red and white “Do Not Move This Vehicle” sign affixed to my windshield (look to the right – I’m sure you’ve never gotten one of these) and, after 15 minutes of prompts and press ones, finally reached a Lovely Call Center Agent. She informed me that I had a host of outstanding tickets from years gone by so I really put on my humble pie voice as I had been driving around on borrowed time for years.

Once she told me how to pay up, I called the automated payment system and followed the instructions. I was informed twice, however, that due to technical difficulties, my transaction could not be completed.

Bummer.

So I call a friend who was at work and asked her to try the website route. 

Decline.

Now for once, I actually had the money (there goes my contribution to stimulating the economy) so I didn’t understand what the deal was but my friend suggested I call my bank.

They informed me that the DC Parking Ticket People had put a grip of my money on hold after submitting the transaction three times.

Now this poses a huge problem for me as I don’t have a confirmation number for any said transaction but DC is definitely holding my money!

By this time, about two hours have gone by so I call the Lovely Call Center Agent back who then transfers me to The Manager (now we’re getting somewhere).

The Manager then tells me that DC doesn’t have my money – it’s stuck in limbo in cyber space somewhere and maybe I should consider changing banks.

As you can imagine, Sir, I’m beginning to get a bit upset.

I mean, I knew this process wouldn’t be quick or anything, but I thought I could at least pay my fine and patiently (and humbly) wait for Mr. Boot Man to come and take me out of bondage before rush hour.

After going back and forth between The Manager and my bank at least four more times (we're all on a first-name basis now - Ms. Stringer and Sherri, respectively), Sherri tells me that the only way to get this money released is for DC to write a letter on their letterhead saying they would not pursue this transaction.

To quote Bugs Bunny, “She don’t know DC very well, do she?”

My friend told me I’d better high tail it down to the DMV in person before they closed and I would really be short.

So I get to the DMV Room for Commoners and find a lllooonnnggg line. That's when I call my friend Ms. Stringer The Manager back and say, “Looka here, I’m in the building. Can you please tell me where I can get my letter?”

At this point, I’m really getting on her nerves, but she tells me to go to a Different Room and I begin to keep hope alive (oops, sorry - wrong African American Presidential candidate).

In true DC style, I walk into the Different Room with a big of swag (since I have an in with my friend Ms. Stringer and all) only to find that everybody in that room is there to see The Manager.

By this time, it’s Hour Four and I am trying very hard not to cry, I mean panic.

I’m not only concerned that I may not be able to make the payment and get the boot off of my car by close of business, but am thinking they are bound to tow my car on top of everything else.

Not to mention that I live in Baltimore, have a daughter to get to basketball practice, and haven’t a clue as to how I’m going to get home should that happen.

You don’t know me, but I’m a right-brainer with just enough left-brainage to be dangerous.

So as I wait for the Calm Automated Voice Lady to call Number B192 (so much for my in), I start envisioning Plan B.

Should I go to Amtrak? And how am I going to pay for a ticket since DC has a vice grip on my money? Who’s gonna pick me up? Maybe I could hitchhike my way to B-more by way of New York Avenue (I look really cute in a great dress with new shoes showing just enough leg….OK, I apologize if that’s a bit off color but you and I know that in life, especially in DC, you gotta use what you got.).

Just then Calm Automated Voice Lady tells me, Number B192, to go to Window 20.

I explain my plight to Miss Window 20 and, just in the nick of time - I mean 4:59pm - we get the letter faxed to Sherri at my bank, my money is released, and I make the payment.

There’s only one glitch – my car is now at Impound Lot #5 on 15th Street, NE.

Another sigh.

I hail yet another cab (which takes about four tries because the cabbies now don’t know DC – only the hotel / tourist areas) and finally get my car at 5:30pm.

So much for beating rush hour.

I thought I’d share the events of this adventurous day with you in hopes that you would at least get a hearty laugh. I also though you would find it comforting to know that navigating the world inside the Beltway can be dicey for all of us.

Sincerely,

Allison Miller

Registered Democrat, Obama Supporter, and DC DMV Survivor

A Seasoned Mom’s Updated Love Letter to a Teenage Drew

Dear Drew,

When I was pregnant with you, you dropped in the 30^th week and I went into pre-term labor.

The doctor could feel your head during my exams, which signaled to her that if I continued with my normal day-to-day activities, my contractions would continue and you would be on your way even though it was seven to ten weeks too early.

To paraphrase the doctor, you had to bake a little longer as there were vital organs that had not yet fully developed and you needed them.

When I told you this story a few weeks ago, you said, “See?! Y’all were holding me back!”

I replied, “Ah, Grasshopper, it was then that I intuitively embraced the role of protecting you from what you may think is best to ensure your safety and success because you just don’t know everything yet.”

Now as you grow into a young woman and begin preparing for the next phase of your fabulously destined life, we sometimes butt heads because, as your Mom, I know that you still have to bake a little longer.

There are still “vital organs,” facets of your maturing, that are not yet fully developed and you need them.

When you tried to enter this world prematurely almost 16 years ago, I was placed on bed rest for seven weeks to make sure you stayed put.

You see, even though the doctor wanted me to go the full 40 weeks, it was OK if you came in Week 37. So when Day 1 of Week 37 got here, I started doing jumping jacks and somersaults so you would come out!

But, in true Drew fashion, you took your sweet time and did not come until Week 39.

I like to say you’ve been engaging the world on your terms ever since.

So now you’re 15 in the tenth grade, which is kinda like Week 30. We still have a while to go before it’s time for you emerge from the womb of love, safety, security, and guidance, even though it’s an incubator you chafe against at times.

But trust me, when you do go out into the world, I predict you will look at me the same way you did when they first placed your tiny body in my arms.

You gazed at me steadily, appearing to be quite perturbed at the abrupt ejection from your warm and comfy cocoon, and, without blinking, your facial expression seemed to say, “So, this is it?”

But I looked back at you knowingly and smiled through happy tears and simply said, “Hey girl, I’m so glad you’re here.”

Just like carrying you and giving birth, preparing you to leave the nest is labor. It’s a process that seems simultaneously long and short and is often times uncomfortable, inconvenient, messy, bloody, and painful.

But it is also so very worth it.

So as we make our way through these last few years of high school, I’m keeping a watchful, loving yet appropriately distant eye on you.

I’m guiding you and praying.

I’m calling in the Village to encircle us in love and wisdom.

And I’m asking you to place your trust in me.

The life of promise I saw for you when I first laid eyes on you is beginning to come into focus.

And just like during bed rest, instead of rushing the process, I’m listening to the experts and learning, watching, growing, and loving right alongside you.

And I’m still so glad you’re here.

Love, Mom

Falling in Love from West to East

Lately my spiritual practice has gravitated more toward the East as opposed to what I learned growing up here in the West.

It‘s been brewing for a while but has really intensified this year as I’ve sought more to go within to connect with God. This is quite different than the way I was taught to connect with God – primarily from without at church through a pastor.

This, to me, is one of the many fundamental differences between the Eastern and Western approaches to relationship with the Divine.

This interest in Eastern philosophies was piqued even further as I recently finished Super Rich by Russell Simmons. Now I’m sure that for many, “Uncle Rush” is one of the most unlikely Yogis imaginable. But I’m telling you he’s the real deal.

While the title of his book would lead one to assume that its focus is on gaining material wealth, particularly in light of his own, its emphasis is exactly the opposite. It’s all about cultivating a yoga and meditation practice that challenges us to shore up our inner core in order to manifest the life of our dreams. The catch is giving of yourself – your time, talents, and treasure – in order to receive more than you could ever imagine, both materially and intrinsically.

In its pages, Mr. Simmons often references an Eastern text titled The Bhagavad Gita. I recently "stumbled" across this text on my Eastern migration and, upon reading the first few pages, intuitively knew it was gonna be a GREAT read. [It was the same feeling I got during the opening credits of Mo Betta Blues when I saw Denzel Washington’s character Bleek Gilliam double drag his index and middle fingers across his lips in slow motion. In that moment, that signature gesture told me this was going to be a GREAT movie (I think I even said so out loud in the theater).]

While my discomfort with nontraditional thoughts and religious ideals has lessened over the years, my traditional church roots still run deep. I am able to more easily weed through doctrinal dogma in order to keep the proverbial chicken and toss out the bones but music remains a challenge for me.

As a lifelong musician, I offered the gifts God so graciously entrusted me with to the church as a singer, praise and worship leader, and choir director. And like most Black folk, I find gospel music soul stirring even though I’m often conflicted about some of the ideas perpetuated.

Here in Baltimore, there’s a DJ that sits in for one of my friends from time to time and signs off his daily broadcast with this beautiful song called, Falling in Love with Jesus. Even though I miss my friend when he isn’t on the air, I’ve come to look forward to hearing Jonathan Butler sweetly and sincerely sing,  

Falling in love with Jesus
Falling in love with Jesus
Falling in love with Jesus
Was the best thing I ever, ever done

In His arms I feel protected
In His arms never disconnected

In HIs arms I feel protected
There's no place I'd rather be

In between meetings on a particularly trying day, I decided to take a moment to really sit and listen. As I closed my eyes and let the words and music envelop me, I realized that while some gospel songs stir up all manner of discomfort for me, this one I had re-written in my mind and heart and had taken on a whole new meaning.

For me, beginning a love affair with myself has meant learning to accept, honor, love, and value every facet of who I have been fearfully and wonderfully made to be without judging. And that’s where meditation has really helped. It’s challenged me to be still with myself and just observe – be honest and fearless with what I see and, with a gentle, unconditional love, courageously replace what no longer serves me.

To quote another song, learning to love myself has truly been the greatest love of all.

This journey has been far from easy and is often times uncomfortable. But like most relationships, the rewards far outweigh the difficulties. What’s more, the healing that occurs when we nurse our fractures and endure the valleys makes us much stronger and deepens the love all the more.

I took a lot of long, deep breaths as I sat in front of my computer for just those few minutes, and smiled at the notion that falling in love with Jesus for me now means falling in love with myself. And that indeed has been the best thing I’ve ever, ever done. 

Everybody Wants to BE

Back in the day (my day, anyway), Gladys Knight and the Pips released a song called Bourgeois Bourgeois. It wasn’t their typical fare but it was the 80’s when, musically, many groups were being called upon to reinvent themselves.

I got a kick out of the words that referenced the so-called Nouveau Riche who were from around‑the‑way but were intent on leaving that past behind and doing a bit of reinventing of their own.

While my angst surrounding being betwixt and between this oxymoronic class clash has been well documented (see Middle Passage Part Two: The Talented Tenth vs. Bebe’s Kids, Alli’s Two Cents, April 17, 2011), being perceived as “bourgeois” has once again reared its head.

It’s a label I just can’t seem to shake.

My posture has always been that I pursue or embrace things or places because I enjoy them. Yet in spite of what I have considered relatively benign choices, I’ve had friends and family tease me for my so‑called “high‑end” preferences at the same time they would balk at the notion of me shopping in certain so-called “ghetto malls” or being at ease travelling in certain neighborhoods.

Maybe it’s my age but I’m over chasing this image of what is good and right and proper and acceptable and am focusing on choosing what is genuine and authentic for me.

It’s not about being “bourgeois” or “ghetto.” It’s about being allowed to BE.

As I mulled all of this over, I thought of this real-time life lesson that drove the point home for me:

Last week my daughter and I were on our way to an appointment when we discovered that our normal route was packed with traffic.

In comes Miss “Let Me Handle This” with her brainy iPhone that calculates an alternate route that gets us there in perfect time.

At first I couldn’t wrap my head around this alternate route but after piecing together the roads in my mind, it finally came together for me because I have a very good sense of direction that I inherited from my father.

Now this immediately strikes me as comical because I have a friend who refuses to believe that I can find my way out of a paper bag!

I’ve made the unfortunate mistake of mentioning getting lost or turned around a time or two and he insists that I need GPS. I steadfastly refuse, however, just like I insist on reading paper books instead of getting a Nook or Kindle. (I recognize that these are battles I will ultimately lose but for now, this is my story and I’m sticking to it.)

This friend has enjoyed many a good-natured laugh at my expense and I can’t help but join in because the only place he’s seen me get is lost! What I realized, however, is that his perception doesn’t alter what I know to be true about myself – I do have a good sense of direction, GPS or no.

So the moral of this story is I can’t be worryin’ about what people say or think about me or the labels they apply. Their perceptions ain’t my truth.

How’s that for improper?

And for the record, I maintain that in addition to having a phenomenal sense of direction (ahem), everybody - bourgeois, ghetto, or somewhere in between - just wants to – and should be allowed to -  BE.

Feelin' Groovy

Slow down, you move too fast

You got to make the morning last

Just kickin' down the cobble stones

Lookin’ for fun and feelin’ groovy

The 59^th Street Bridge Song (Feelin’ Groovy) – Simon and Garfunkel

As many of you may or may not know or remember, this time of year is a bit loaded for me.

It’s the time I honor life in all of its splendor - times of birth and transition.

It’s my Born Day (July 26, 19not tellin’); the day my father, Matthew Miller, made his transition while I carried my own baby girl (July 24, 1996); and the transition of my cousin, Renee Williams Carter (July 28, 2011).

I don’t know if it’s just in the atmosphere or something I create or a little of both, but some sort of shifting usually occurs around this time.

So how’s this for starters: a few days I’m sitting in a parking lot for several minutes waiting to pick up one of my daughter’s friends in the pouring rain. Suddenly I hear a loud crash and am baffled as I was not in traffic and was not moving. That’s when I discovered that a parked car started backing out right into me.

I looked at the driver and asked, “Are you kidding me?!”

Who does that?!

Fast forward to yesterday and I find myself rushing down the stairs to my dented car to grab dinner when, after pausing to finish up a text (I know the dangers of walking distracted, thank you) I suddenly lose my footing and fall and break my toe.

I was so mad I told the doctor he was not telling the truth!

I repeat – who does that?!

This year I had planned to celebrate my Born Day by dressing up in a little black dress and heels – one of a girl’s best go-to combos. Didn’t know where I was going or what I was doing but I was gonna look fab!

But alas – I will now be wearing some slacks and an ugly post-op shoe L

One of my dearest friends is so Zen it’s at once soothing and annoying. When I whined into the phone about how disgusted I was that I had been such a klutz, his response was, “Hey, some people fall down the steps and break their neck so you need to be happy and go with the flow.”

Gee, thanks – at first sarcastically and then literally.

He’s so right.

Is that not the ongoing theme for 2012?

Go with the flow!

Every year I remind myself that my birthday is my own personal New Year. I tend to prepare for this semi‑annual milestone using the left-brained approach I wrote about last week – journal, new pens, and books. Time for some serious contemplating, planning, and goal / intention setting.

But this year is different.

My journal and pens are in the Barnes and Noble bag, along with numerous motivational quotes for setting the tone for the coming year. But the words and plan just seem to be more comfortable in the incubator of my mind and heart.

They seem to need a little more time to percolate on the right side of my brain as I meditate and be still for a change.

I think it’s called surrender.

Just last night I sat outside on the deck, foot propped up, and looked into the sky at just the moment my father breathed his last.

As a couple of tears made their way down my cheeks, I talked to God about all of my feelings and even had the journal and pens in hand, just in case.

That’s when I realized (and accepted) that God and I were doing a new thing this year and I was OK with that.

We made the peace (had just finished watching a Godfather documentary where Michael Corleone had just told the families to make the peace so it seemed apropos).

So I’m just gonna slow down and go with the flow.

Apparently these things can’t be rushed and I am moving way too fast.

When my foot gets better, I’ll kick a few cobble stones and in the meantime will always look for fun.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve decided is a non-negotiable in life, it’s feelin’ groovy.

I'm Going In

These past few weeks of moving, transition, and change have been extraordinary.

I did expect some shifting. After all, it’s been well documented that moving is one of the most stressful life changes, right up there with death and divorce, all of which I’ve experienced more than once.

Some of this here shifting, however, I could not anticipate.

It’s brought challenges that have required a going within that’s like a crafty confluence of all the lessons I’ve been pursuing – gratitude, faith, positive expectation.

As Marianne Williamson so eloquently puts it, “Every situation we're in is the perfect lesson for perfecting the art of living. It's ours to decide the level of elegance, excellence and compassion we choose to bring forward each day. And every moment is a chance to choose again.”

So, once again, I’m choosing to go even deeper within; ask different questions; embrace a different approach; learn and grow more.

Like a soldier facing the unknown, these situations have required me to face myself squarely, look at my comrades within and without, and say, “I’m going in.”

Many times over the past few weeks I’ve set out to share my musings with you via Alli’s Two Cents and drew a blank.

I mean I would feverishly work with what I thought were divine ideas the Creator had mercifully sent and breathe a sigh of relief that the Muse hadn’t left me.

But, in all honesty, my alleged masterpieces went nowhere.

They felt forced and, most of all, inauthentic.

Unacceptable to someone (me) whose name (Allison) literally means truth.

So I donned a sari, sat cross-legged in peaceful meditation, and calmly asked the Universe what I was to learn.

Well, not exactly.

What I did was double down and have a little chat with myself that went something like this:

“Look, Allison (like when your mother calls you by your full name), if your dream is to be a writer, this is what it's like. Sometimes you just have to discipline yourself and see it through. Suppose O Magazine was waitin' on this blog? Or Random House was waitin' on your next chapter? You can’t go around saying, ‘Sorry, guys, I’m just not inspired.' ”

Radio silence.

So then I got out the big guns.

I prayed.

“Dude (God), we’re building a brand here! A following! What in the world?! Let's get the lead out!”

I guess you can tell how that went over.

Cosmic chuckles. Or perhaps guffaws.

So often I’ve been unmercifully hard on myself for not being enough or doing enough or trying / working hard enough. But thankfully I am learning to recognize this brute as ridiculing external voices from past tapes and move on.

They no longer serve me and therefore must go. 

As Facebook author Chandresh Bhardwaj writes, “If a snake does not shed its skin it must die. This is the law of nature. It works on human beings, too. When we don't shed our past conditioning, we just live a dead life based on dead systems.”

I confess that while my right brain rules my nature and temperament, my left brain has been in charge of a good part of my spiritual practice.

For me that means that when I ask, seek, and knock, I grab a handful of pens (or buy some more); a notebook (or buy another); a bunch of spiritual books (or buy some more); and go in.

I read, write, study, and analyze.

This, I have learned, however, is no substitute for developing the ability to tap into my core at a moment’s notice with absolute assurance that me and the Man / Woman within (not upstairs) has the answers and the guidance required to address all that concerns me.

While I feel like much of what I’m saying here is repetitive, I hope you can feel the magnitude of the many layers and facets I am experiencing.

So, family, I’m going in.

My left brain wants to churn out prolific writing on demand; leap tall buildings in a single bound; write my book and declare that it will be published November 12, 2012 at 3:19p EST.

But I know better.

I have to honor the time I need to discover this process and this path.

I still plan to write Alli’s Two Cents and grow into the big plans I believe God has for me. I just don’t know when and how.

What I do know is that I can set the intention to share the best of my heart in a way that honors what God has given me to say and that best serves my purpose and those God chooses for me to impact.

From there, all I can do is follow directions and trust that that’s enough.

Here I Am

On a sunny Sunday afternoon this past December, I had the distinct honor and pleasure of attending worship service with some of my oldest and dearest friends.

It was yet another installment in the yearlong centennial celebration of the Omega Psi Phi Fraternity in general and Alpha Chapter in particular.

During my undergraduate days at Howard University, I became an Omega Sweetheart at Alpha Chapter as a very green freshman. I was a Que Girl through and through and - trust me on this one - going to church with the Bros was a far cry from weekend parties at the Frat House or Fridays at high noon on the Yard at the infamous Sundial.

Some 20 years later, in 2011, we were just happy to see one another and celebrate the seasons of life that had brought us to this place at this time. We got to brag on our kids, empathize with the bumps and bruises we had all encountered, and rejoice in all the goodness we knew by faith was our birthright.

And get this – the pastor was a Que, too!

What a difference a few decades makes, yes?

This particular Sunday just happened to be Youth Sunday and during one portion of service, three young adults took the floor and began a praise dance to a song by Marvin Sapp that I had never heard before but immediately got my attention.

Here I Am

I’m still standing

Here I Am

After all I’ve been through

I survived

Every toil, every snare

I’m alive, I’m alive

Here I Am

For those of you familiar with this song, I would assume you find it as moving as I did / do. Since that day, it does me in every time.

And let me tell you something – the way those young people danced, they meant that thing.

And then all of the years just came upon me.

At one point, Marvin Sapp sings that all of the pain he had to go through have him power and a testimony and that by God’s grace and mercy, he was still standing.

All of a sudden so was I – I just couldn’t keep my seat or the tears from rolling down my cheeks.

And I’ll let you in on a little secret – neither could some of “da bruhs”, as many fondly refer to the men of Omega.

That day truly stands out as one of my favorite days on the journey so far. I remember it often and fondly and have thought about it a lot over the past few weeks as I have moved and am preparing for this new season in life.

You see, the lyrics in Here I Am imply going through a valley, a dark night of the soul, and emerging victoriously.

I used to think our lives consisted of one or two of these and then all green lights – we get all rosy days as a reward for lessons learned and live happily every after.

Ha!

I have asked myself – and God – exactly how many rock bottoms am I gonna hit before I get to ride off into the sunset.

(I think God let out a hearty, “Ha!” too!)

Anyway, this week’s musings reminded me of the words of a wonderful pastor I met only virtually but who was very significant in my spiritual growth.

As I asked some very troubling, poignant questions about life and faith during our email correspondence many years ago, my friend Pastor Kent wrote, “…[life] seems to be a continual cycle of death and resurrection for each person, as we find ourselves having to die to things that have seemed dear to us, and then wander around for a while in the wilderness of doubt before another round of new life. And then the process continues to repeat. Wilderness to faith…wilderness to faith…wilderness to faith…a continual cyclical process…for a lifetime!”

Pastor Kent, some 10 years ago, told me to hang in there and that’s what I’ve done and will continue to do.

Get comfortable with the ambiguity of the wilderness when it shows up and keep practicing going with the flow.

So Here I Am –

Just like Marvin Sapp, I am standing here today, with one thing to say –

Lord, I thank you...

Three Cheers for Darkness – Lessons in the Light

This week I’ve become one of the Seven Dwarfs – Sneezy.

Maybe it’s the mild winter that has morphed into an early summer, but Mr. Pollen and Ms. Ragweed, coupled with their offspring Dust Mites and Mold, are having a field day with my nose.

So for the past few nights, I have been awake at all hours of the night, sitting in the darkness feeling like two bricks are sitting on my cheeks shooting pain through my teeth while my mouth hangs open gasping for air like a fish out of water.

Not a pretty sight.

Instead of bemoaning my plight, however, I’ve learned to go with the proverbial flow.

Can’t sleep? That’s what cable TV is for.

Nose clogged up? A pot of piping hot water laced with eucalyptus does wonders for the nasal passages and the skin.

It’s looking for the blessings and the lessons in whatever comes my way.

And here’s a news flash: the lessons and metaphors are there if we look hard enough.

As Oprah and many spiritual masters admonish us, the power lies not in asking, "What did I do to deserve this?” or “Why is this happening to me?” but in asking, “What is this here to teach me?”

You see, my nickname used to be Chicken Little.

At the sight of trouble, I’d break out in a cold sweat and swear that the end was near.

This was the Big One.

Just like Fred Sanford, I would look above and announce, “God (Elizabeth), I’m comin’ to join ya, honey.”

But years of declaring that the sky was falling taught me that not only is this level of anxiety no fun for me and a drag for those around me, it really doesn’t help.

Duh.

I am so grateful and proud of myself for how far I’ve come.

I’ve learned to congratulate myself for the steps I’m taking, especially for the increasingly innate ability to find the good in every situation (major paradigm shift here).

So here’s the metaphoric lesson my sinusitis taught me as I panted in the dark:

Darkness does not come to do us in but to remind us of just how powerful the light is.

And that light is in us so we must be mega powerful.

So let’s hear it for darkness – it offers powerful lessons in the light.

God In Me, Is Me, As Me

Yesterday I had the honor and privilege of attending the Women of Prince George’s County Second Annual Women’s Conference themed, “Connecting the Dots Around the Beltway”.

I intentionally approached this event with no expectations so that I could allow God to enrich me in the best, most purposeful way.

And enriched I was indeed.

You see, I have stubbornly clung to this erroneous belief that I am in no way an entrepreneur because I am such a softy. I had a tough time imagining myself as a cold, hard business woman, especially when I would survey the accomplishments of so many women-owned businesses that are thriving in what can be a rough-and-tumble, male-dominated world.

But yesterday confirmed that there isn’t a vast difference between me and these women and what we do every day.

I learned that these ladies simply took a dream, passion or opportunity and made their way by putting one bold foot in front of the other. Every day they are confronted with the same challenges and obstacles I face; wrestle with making the same choices that I make; and move forward one bold step at a time, just like I do.

They are me and I am them and God is in us all as who we gloriously are.

I think we as women are learning to embrace our natural inclination to come together and nurture and uplift one another in the spirit of collaboration, a vastly different concept than networking.

We seem less inclined to fear one another and have, instead, realized that keeping it real by candidly sharing our triumphs and our failures empowers us to learn and to grow.

I like that.

Interestingly enough, as I was writing this week’s post, the idea that stood out the most was how much is really in me – in all of us – and how God gently yet persistently coaxes it out of us through our life experiences.

Like how in The Wiz, Glenda the Good Witch pointed out to Dorothy that she had the power to go home (bring herself back to herself) right under her nose all along.

Sometimes we have to take the scenic route in order to realize that what we want we already have within. And sometimes all we need is a good coach to nudge us out of our shell.

It brought to mind my current job, where I was hired by the best manager I have ever had – a woman who was an expert at mentoring as well as collaboration. She would ask for my input, actually listen to it, and incorporate it into our processes, all while sharing the load. This, of course, is a very different approach from the traditional top-down management model that is slowly (thankfully) becoming a thing of the past.

With her headquartered 3,000 miles away in our home office, I didn’t want to imagine navigating this distant, rocky terrain without her expert guidance. However, I would be forced to do just that soon enough

She moved on to bigger and better things just six months after hiring me but I soon realized that this was God’s way of saying, “You’ve had a great start – now it’s time for you to do you.”

God has always been like that with me: I only get to have my hand held for so long when, just like a baby bird, I get booted out of the nest so I can fly in my own glorious way.

I used to panic when these natural progressions would occur. But now I no longer view them as pass-fail tests of my mettle but a revealing of a self I may be tempted to hide if I was always standing in someone else’s shadow.

I learned that like a watchful loving parent, God is me, in me, as me and that He / She delights in watching me come into my own.

He / She also refuses to let me play small.

I have come to see that a big part of this life journey involves God reminding me Who I Am and honoring my true identity, much in the same way I insist on knowing the real name of all of the wonderful Asian brothers and sisters who take such good care of my hands, feet, and eyebrows. It may seem like a small thing but I always say to them, “I know your name is not Tracy/Mike/Tina – tell me who you really are.”

So yesterday’s event gave me the opportunity to enjoy the company of like-minded sisters who honor their voice as well as their gifts and talents by refusing to play small and encouraging us all to do the same. I learned that, at one time or another, we all have the same questions, doubts, and palpitating heart but we feel the proverbial fear and do it anyway.

And should we stumble and fall along the way, we have God in us and others around us to remind us to just do what the old song says:

Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again J

Here's A Story...

Once upon a time there was a girl who came from a slightly provincial family with a lot of secrets.

Not like “your father’s really your brother” secrets but secrets all the same.

So she learned to hide them

And in turn she learned to hide.

And thus began her journey to cover up imaginary inadequacies unknowingly inherited but unconsciously passed down from generation to generation in perpetuity.

Then along came church. Real church.

Not like the go-through-the-motions church she grew up in but a soul-stirring, dig-deeper, I’m‑sure‑we’ve-got-the-answer-you’ve-been-looking-for church.

Since you’re all inadequate and all.

This is the kind of church that I think subconsciously seeks out hurting, weak people the way dogs and bees smell fear.

They will never admit it but they do for a host of reasons.

[At least my current level of spiritual evolution has brought me to a place where I can say I genuinely believe it is not consciously intentional (but is nevertheless strategic).]

In case you haven’t noticed, this story is about me.

See, I bought the church deal based on my own flawed grid and unmet needs.

Sure, churches should be held accountable for the doctrine they purvey if we as the congregation are going to consume.

But I alone am responsible for my own life and well being.

I gave away my power and wasted a lot of time punishing those who willingly took control of my life because I was too afraid to.

The only problem is they didn’t know they were being punished – it was all in my head.

And holding my mind, heart, and spirit hostage.

It’s like the proverbial adages about harboring unforgiveness: you know, holding the hot coal expecting someone else to get burned. Or drinking poison expecting someone else to die.

But this isn’t all about me.

It’s about a burning quest to heal myself first and foremost and a persistent passion to share what I hope will ultimately be a story of victory that empowers and inspires.

You see, it occurred to me (quite startlingly, actually) that shifting around the characters in this life drama (new job, new city, new gadgets, new clothes, new career, new love) yields the same results.

It’s window dressing.

Like what one of my aunts calls a whore’s bath: spraying perfume over a funk that, try as you might, just can’t be covered up.

I can’t end this story with a tidy solution packaged with a big red bow because it’s a work in progress.

But I am increasingly becoming OK with that.

As author Zora Neale Hurston puts it, “There are years that ask questions and years that answer.”

I am grateful for the nuggets of discovery God reveals with each layer uncovered because with each level of personal truth I embrace, I feel more authentic and closer to following my bliss.

So I thank you for sharing this journey with me – I don’t mind sharing if you don’t mind coming along.

And I do hope you feel empowered, inspired, and indeed victorious.

Can You Hear Me Now?

For a while now, I’ve been on roller skates between events for myself (still buzzing after last week’s HBCU Experience reading and Mr. SOUL! screening J) and rippin’ and runnin’ with activities for my daughter, Drew.

I think it finally caught up with me and I’ve been having a low-grade temper tantrum.

You know, like a low-grade fever.

Or at least I’m kind of on strike.

Many nights I’ve been in the bed snoring by 9p.

And you can forget full-fledged grocery shopping or cooking a decent meal.

That’s SO not me!

I think it’s more than needing a time out.

I think it’s perfecting my ability to listen to that Still Small Voice and do what It says!

So I decided it’s OK to say no and slow down.

I dug out some old CDs that sound new to me and I am enjoying the simple pleasure of good music.

I’ve turned off the TV and am reading all those books I’ve been meaning to get to but keep pushing to the side.

Maybe it’s God’s way of checking my receptivity, making sure I’m in a place where I can get a good signal, and asking, “Can you hear Me now?”

Like finding a place of inner respite. Or reconnecting with an old friend.

Once again I am reminded that I cannot give from an empty well.

Incidentally, I noticed my daughter didn’t starve, the house didn’t burn down, and the world didn’t stop spinning.

So this week, I’m taking the advice of my Sister Friend Homegirl Dr. Argie Allen who always encourages us all to be thankful (smile) and let us all know that today, she is wisely taking a day to exhale. She notes, “Living in this very busy world where every day is so fast paced, we all need to just get away to relax, reflect, restore, and revive ourselves!”

While I can’t take a no-holds-barred Mental Health Day today, I will, as Dr. Argie also notes, at least find time to exhale on purpose J