My heart aches about the strife that results when people who share a village won’t find a way to bridge gaps in the community.  I don’t understand why it is so difficult for grown folks to do the necessary work, whatever that entails, to make life better for the young people who call their village home.  My heartache presses me to write more and to speak more about the benefits of overcoming the barriers that divide and impose on us conditions and circumstances that steal the hope, the safety, and the unifying spirit that are essential to a vibrant, protective, hope filled environment.   As communities of people, we seem to be missing the point that we must care about the diversity of voices and the very broad, multifaceted definition that creates healthy, sustainable communities.  There are so many reasons that this sad phenomenon is our reality.

Last week I spent a lot of time with a family member who is fighting a good fight with cancer.  I talked to the doctors to gain a better understanding of the fight ahead of my loved one.  During the conversation, I reflected on my lessons from my genetic counseling sessions.  My simplistic version is that cancers present in our bodies for different reasons, some hereditary and some environmental.  Our bodies are formed with natural defenses to stave off harmful agents that attack us.  However, in order for the body to perform optimally, some input is required from us.  We must contribute to the biological process that maintains the health of our bodies.  Each of us is the keeper of free will and each of us controls the decisions that can impact the ability of our bodies to withstand the attacks of the cancers.  When I decided to do the genetic testing, my goal was to learn if I had any greater risk of having breast cancer than any other similarly situated person. Once I started down the path, I asked the counselor to expand the testing to include other things.  Delving into the possibilities of disease in my life was frightening.  Because of my family history with cancer and other diseases, my doctor thought it would be a good idea for me to engage in the scary work of exploring the science of my body.  Why do that when it’s so much easier to just wait and see?  Why do that when it was so frightening for me to go to those appointments alone?

I did it because I have learned that knowing is better than not knowing.  Knowing earlier is better than learning about it later.  On the other hand, knowing meant accountability to do something.  Knowing meant accountability when I do nothing.  Knowing meant accountability when I decided to just do the same thing I had been doing before I knew.  Knowing meant ownership by me for the residual impact that my decisions could heap upon me, my family, and my kids.  Honestly, the kid part was the part that made me schedule the first appointment with the genetic counselor.  Even if I wouldn’t do the hard work for myself, I sacrificed and did the scary work to give my children the tools to have the best chance at a fruitful, prosperous, healthy life.

During the process of the genetic testing, I learned that my chances of contracting cancer was not any greater than those of the average person.  Unfortunately for me, that meant that many of the cancers we evaluated were caused by environmental agents and not hereditary agents.  “Oh wow,” I said to the counselor as she looked up from her paper with a smile and a nodding head.  Her response signaled that she knew that I got it.  I knew then that many of the decisions ahead of me related to food choices, stress, sleep habits, pollutants, and the trash I feed my brain, my body, and my heart could directly impact my ability to equip my body to wage a successful battle against attacks from harmful agents.  That meant ownership, accountability, and responsibility.

It might have been so much easier to just take that information and start looking for other people and situations to blame.  When people discuss the origins of cancers, there is often talk of  conspiracies theories and I could have joined that dialogue, but that would have dismissed my complicity in engaging in behaviors that promote harm to my body.  I knew that I had to accept that while I didn’t control the onset of all diseases, I was a decision maker and my decisions could contribute to the quality of my health.  As I did the research into my family medical history, per the instruction of the genetic counselor, I had the blessing of talking to elders in the family and spending time with them sharing stories about our family history.  I learned that my great grandmother was a freed slave.  I already knew that my maternal great grandfather was a white man, but I didn’t know that he owned slaves.  The fear of the result of the genetic testing was now compounded by the shock that I might not ever know my full medical history because of visages of slavery.  That man and all four of the children my great grandmother conceived with him were dead.  Except for my mother and one of her brothers, all of the grandchildren of that union were also dead and the family medical history died with them.  His white family did not keep in touch with his other family so after his son lost contact we lost contact with him.  This is simply a summary of my story.  In no way does my version of my truth cover every potential fact scenario for others.  I can only speak to what I have experienced in my life and how I think my experiences are relevant to discussions about bridging gaps in our communities.

I believe that communities possess the foundational tools and strength to build systems that can defend against systemic, lethal attacks.  However, I don’t believe that it is easy to organize partnerships and strategic plans that merge the varied interests of the stakeholders in the community.  While it may be complex and challenging, it is necessary and possible if we are willing to put in the work.  We have to be willing to hear and ask thoughtful questions rooted in a desire to understand even if we find we don’t agree or realize we may never completely understand.  I knew very little about genetics or the science of cancer when the genetic counseling began, but I listened and trusted the counselor because she had more experience than I did in this area.  I listened to her put the issues in simplistic terms that even I could comprehend.  I listened and evaluated her comments recognizing that her goal was to help me and not to make me feel belittled and ignorant.  I listened with intensity because the information could literally mean life or death for me and more importantly significant life challenges for my children. The potential of cancer cells to move undetected through my body and take over reminded me of how some things creep into our communities, seize the communities, and then leave the villagers grumbling and placing blame.

Somehow we have to figure out how to allow differences in opinion or the challenges that divide our communities to become the catalyst that promotes meaningful conversations and accountability for the sicknesses that inhabit our communities.  If I had made the decision to just act like my family history did not include cancers with the potential to overtake my body and wreck havoc on my life, I would never have any idea about how to help my family make lifestyle changes to help us live healthier lives.  I also loved the fact that in doing the hard work I deepened my relationships with some of my family.  Having deeper, more meaningful relationships in our communities may also be a positive result of us doing the tough work of bridging gaps.  I recognized that my work didn’t make the risk dissipate completely, but it did assure that my children and other family members would have a foundation of facts and truths upon which to build.  Similarly, the community laborers can establish a foundation of unity and concern for each other that enhances the relationships and increases the chances of the stakeholders demonstrating that the health of the village is an urgent concern.

Like our bodies, the communities need some distance from the bickering and arrest that tire the people in the villages.  Like our bodies, the communities require peaceful, controlled dialogs that lend themselves to recovery and healing.  Like our bodies, our communities need to be nourished with healthy food in the form of messages driven by hope and promise as opposed to fear.  We have to meet each other at a neutral site and embark on the journey of learning and understanding.  We need to share stories and challenges with each other.  We need to find a way to exercise patience with one another and affirm the feelings of others even if their story is not our story. We need to act with a sense of urgency for the benefit of uplifting our youth.  If we don’t intercede for our children, we leave them vulnerable to a diseased community.

Paulo Coelho, the author of The Alchemist, wrote:

“I have known true alchemists,’ the alchemist continued. ‘They locked themselves in their laboratories, and tried to evolve, as gold had.  And they found the Philosopher’s Stone, because they understood that when something evolves, everything around that thing evolves as well.”

The children in our communities need us to make them believe that they are valued.  Our children need us to set aside our pride and selfishness.  They need to see us make choices that place us at a lunch table or a coffee date with a combination of community stakeholders.  They must see a show of solidarity for the mission to heal our communities.  Instead of becoming vocal about their failings and all of the ways they make us afraid, they need to hear loving and supportive initiatives that breath hope into their spirits.  Our children need to believe in a hope greater than anything they can see.  We need to become more like the “true alchemists” who understood “that when something evolves, everything around that thing evolves as well.”  We have to do the hard, scary work of helping “everything around” us become better in the spirit of the alchemist.

I began writing this blog post three times or more last week.  I wanted to continue to write about back-to-school preparation and reflections, but my thoughts were just not light-hearted and whimsical last week. I spent most of the week trying to understand people and the confusing messages we send daily.  I want so badly to understand the complexities of people so that I can do my part to enhance the villages I am blessed to serve.

I am confused by the religious faithful who boast about their missionary efforts and accomplishments in other countries yet complain about designing a system that provides the same services in their own country.  It seems a little hypocritical.  The decision not to serve communities closer to home in the same way also gives the appearance that they don’t want to cover local villages with their prayers and the power of the God they say they serve.  In my observations last week, I thought about how anyone concerned about the success of the village can expect greatness and excellence for the entire village absent a sincere concern for the merit, gifts, talents, and potential of each individual they call “family, “brother,” citizen, or human.  Saying “we are only as strong as the weakest link” and not working to develop the perceived weakest link leaves the village weak.  Failure to develop the perceived weakest link by simply ignoring the weak ones also makes the village weak and denies the potential greatness of those we ignore.

Today is Sunday and many church services were held across the country.  Church goers heard messages about a savior who offered himself and his resources to the weakest links in the villages.  They heard how He did so without shaming them or layering on messages of guilt and inadequacy.  He served without using his lineage or privilege in a prideful way.  They heard how he served and delivered those in need repeatedly without regard of their perceived value to the village members or the village leadership.  According to scripture, He too, was born into less than ideal circumstances and He experienced rejection most of his life.  He was falsely accused of crimes he didn’t commit and surprisingly continued to have faith that his sacrifice could give new life to villages of people.

In our modern day story, there are still those who represent the targeted and misunderstood.  There are also those who judge without understanding and use their platforms to heap persecution and damnation upon those who don’t come from their village.  The Sunday morning sermons will charge groups of believers with the responsibility to be like the savior in their own villages and take a message of hope to barren lands.  Church goers will be charged to be “a light on a hill” for many to see in the darkness of their villages.  I pray that we can each expand our view of our village boundaries to enable us to be lights in villages that don’t have lights.  How helpful is it to add your beam to the block already illuminated with street lights, porch lights, landscape lights, and lights with motion sensors? Why be a light in a well-lit place? Why keep your light inside your well-lit village and look from your porch with disgust and frustration at the darkness in the villages nearby.  I pray that the messages of inclusion, hope, tolerance, and forgiveness practiced by the savior in the Sunday sermons will be used to open minds and hearts enabling us to hear the views, the pains, the trials, the struggles, the needs, and the successes of villagers whose environments might make us uncomfortable.  The scripture says that the savior was human so I can’t imagine that He went into those villages to help folks that the community shunned without feeling discomfort or fear.  I am thankful for His example of experiencing fear and/or discomfort and still going anyhow.  I am thankful that the voices of many espousing the negative thoughts about those perceived as the weakest didn’t prevent him from helping the weakest members of the village.

I often hear leaders talk about the importance of the “buy in” from all of the members and how their group is like a family.   I am confused by leaders who believe that having or maintaining the spirit of the “buy in” or the vision of a family atmosphere is possible without having the diversity of voices.  The leader, in the selection of trusted advisors, ought to have sincere consideration of the input of folks with varied perspectives.  The leaders seeking “buy in” from their teams or chasing the vision of a family atmosphere would be wise to consider many ideas before making decisions that will create the policies that will ultimately influence the degree of “buy in” and level of family dysfunction.  Expecting greatness and success for the whole without concern for the station, voice, value, and hope of each member we call “family,” “brother,” citizen, or human will impact the relationships in the village and eventually the operation of the same.  I think we sometimes get so caught up in our own interpretations of the rules and guidelines that we forget or reject the idea that we may not be the only right viewpoint.  Sometimes we get caught up in our wishes to control villages of people without an in-depth understanding of those villages.  We forget that all villages don’t function with the same resources and we deny that outcomes in our villages are often based on the availability of said resources.

This week I was concerned that people might be afraid to let their hearts hear the hearts of others because in those statements there might be some truth or some accountability or some responsibility to change the course and direction of their own normal.  Perhaps hearing someone else’s testimony might have stirred up their own sorted stories.  I don’t know.  I’m just sharing the thoughts that went through my mind last week.

Someone recently called me “a beehive shaker.”  Initially, I was surprised and didn’t know what to think about that description.  I don’t know that I am always consciously deciding to shake the hives, but I do believe that challenging people to hear the hearts of others or to listen to other perspectives in an effort to evaluate the literal impact that their decisions is a good thing.  I don’t mind engaging in conversations that may cause people to feel a bit agitated like the bees in the hive.  Human relationships can mimic a nervous hive and an aggravated hive would be unsettling if I were standing nearby.  This revelation reminded me of the time when I was pulling weeds in my yard and I felt a jolt of piercing pain.  I looked down to find three bees attached to my hand.  At that moment all I could do was swat at them and then apply salve and ice to my hand. Later, I gave thought to how that situation came to be.  As unnerved as it made me to be the target of an angry beehive, I spent time considering that the bees didn’t get upset for no reason.  I learned to take responsibility for the bee stings and for upsetting the normal of the bees.  I struggle with the “beehive shaker” who does not care about their role in upsetting the normal of the bees.   I don’t think they realize that their lack of demonstrated concern makes it appear that they do not care about the circle of life that relies on the contribution of the bees to maintain a productive, sustainable village.  Unfortunately, we often spend too much time and energy evaluating the fault of the other party (the bees) and the trouble they cause (the stings) and we miss opportunities to share in experiences that help us demonstrate that we are able to be about the business of what we say we are about – caring about the life of the hive and the value the village received from a healthy, productive beehive.

When we miss opportunities to live out the precepts, values, and standards we believe will make the village better, we ought not be surprised when people resist or don’t seem to accept our leadership on issues important to the vitality of the village.  Growth in the village can come as a result of changes in perspective and process.  If we believe that God has given each person certain talents and gifts, it follows that God did not create us expecting the same contributions from each villager.  The Sunday sermon suggests, however, that there remains an expectation of victory for the village even with the differences in predestined assignments, gifts, and talents.  I will be super excited when all of the people who have or will call me friend expend their energy becoming champions of positive messaging about the village and those who reside within it.  I dream of a day when our discussions and decisions are guided by compassion for others and a desire to uplift those who may be considered the weakest links in our villages.

“You’re on top of the hill.  Enjoy the view,” was the text I received from my brother on my 50^th birthday.  I can’t say that I enjoyed every part of the journey to the top of the hill, but certainly my perspective of my ascension to the top of the hill changed as I got closer to the top.  In the last year, I have spent a great deal of time dissecting my experiences, my passions, my purpose, and the decisions that will influence the direction I chose to take for the rest of the journey.  I stood on the hilltop with a new vantage point.  I stood with an excited energy about the successful rise through and above some adverse and challenging situations while simultaneously, feeling an adrenaline rush when I thought about the possibilities to come.  Some of my reflective thoughts moved me to tears, some to laughter, and others to dream and hope.

I didn’t realize that joining the 50’s club was a milestone that other folks would really care to help me celebrate.  I learned that other folks cared about the fact that for fifty years I consistently lived life and the fact that I did something consistently for fifty years was a milestone was worthy of celebrating.  I was pleasantly surprised about the number of text messages, calls, voicemails, and social media posts from friends and family helping me celebrate this milestone and offering encouragement for the rest of my journey.  Each message brought with it memories of times shared with the messengers.  I was thankful for the outpouring of birthday wishes from family members, childhood friends, neighbors, community partners, coworkers, and others who I may not even have a direct connection.

Reaching the at the top of the hill revealed to me that I am the combination of all of my experiences and all of my memories.

• I remembered when I thought that 50 was old. Now, from this vantage point 50 felt like 30 and 70 another shift of the gears on a scenic road to some place really cool.

• I remembered when I lived in the shadow of some emotionally painful childhood experiences and I couldn’t even dream past the 30’s. On top of the hill, I saw God’s plan for my life extended beyond my challenging and painful circumstances.

• I remembered when I said I wanted to be an interior decorator and my daddy told me “You can’t make no damn money decorating nobody’s house.” On the hilltop, I laughed about marrying a coach whose career moves gave me multiple opportunities to decorate houses.  Daddy was right:  I didn’t “make no money” decorating houses, but I sure as heck saved us some money.

• I remembered when I was a child wishing that my parents could visit me at school like those moms who volunteered for the school PTA and saying to myself that one day I hoped to be able to visit my own kids at school. On the hilltop, I saw that I had better be careful what I wish for because I ended up a stay-at-home mom for many years watching kid t.v. on the regular.  I ended up as a troop mom with a living room full of cookies to sell or deliver while my house was on the market.  Imagine asking potential buyers to pretend they didn’t see a thousand boxes stacked to the ceiling in the living room during their house tour.

• I remembered when I turned 30 being pregnant with my second child in an unfamiliar city and feeling afraid when I learned that the new gig came with no benefits. On the hilltop, I see that challenges like that one teach life lessons in humility and compassion.

• I remembered when I turned 40 just wanting a quiet peaceful weekend that wouldn’t break the bank or require lengthy travel. On the hilltop, I smile when I remember my introduction to Lake Geneva.

• I remembered dreaming of what I wanted my kids to do and be. On the hilltop, I see that their lives turned out a whole lot better when I supported them as they discovered the calling on their lives and made decisions consistent with their passions.

• I remembered over the years while I was a stay-at-home people challenged my decision to stay home to raise my kids. On the hilltop, I see that the investment in my kids paid dividends in my relationships with them and that they were my most excellent work product.

• I remembered being asked when I “was gonna get a job that paid money” because, as she said it “every time I talk to you, you volunteering and doing something for free.” On the hilltop, I saw that the success of every village depended on people who did things “for free.”  There was no way communities could have afforded to pay for the collective needs of the community and for those little things given to it by the volunteers who were always “doing something for free.”

• I remembered the life insurance salesman who told my husband not to worry about insuring my life because as a stay-at-home mom I didn’t have a job or income to contribute to the household. From the hilltop, I saw that some people really don’t get the value of excellent parenting.

• I remembered when my daddy used to say “How ‘bout making me a half a cup of coffee” and my mother would fill their green thermos every morning in preparation for the thirty mile ride to work. On the hilltop, I realized that it is possible to go from a kid who didn’t like coffee to a coffee snob who would have made my parents proud.

• I remembered when I thought grown ups knew something about everything. On the hilltop, I learned that they don’t, but many of them pretended that they knew more than they did or they deflected so kids wouldn’t know they were human.  Some of the best lessons I ever learned as a grown up were taught to me by my kids and the other kids I’ve met along the journey.

• I remembered thinking my mom was weak because she was quiet and soft spoken. On the hilltop, I saw that she was a wise woman who was a good listener and understood that speaking softly made people more attentive if they cared about her voice and the words that might come out of her mouth.

• I remembered Sunday afternoons at Mama Love’s house in the country hanging out with Mama’s siblings and the cousins. On the hilltop, I saw the benefits of fresh country air, playing made up games outside, and having only one room with air conditioning – cleansing breaths, healthy living, and village building.

• I remembered thinking, as a child, that my neighbors were always watching me and telling on me. On the hilltop, I saw that they cared.  My neighbors modeled the practices of an excellent village for me and taught me the value of having a sense of responsibility for the safety and welfare of the children in my community.

As I stand “on top of the hill,” the fact that some people were villagers for me before I knew I needed a village.  I saw that there were people who filled gaps so seamlessly that I didn’t even know what they were doing for me.  I learned that excellent villagers throughout my life cared for me and loved me when I didn’t know love was the cure for many things that ailed or haunted me.  On my 50^th birthday, I remembered some of the relationships that were strained or dissolved with honor and recognition of their role and timing in my journey.  I learned that while there are some who liked me and some who tolerated me there are those who wanted me to know they appreciated me and that they wanted blessings and favor to be upon me.  On my 50^th birthday, I found myself expressing thanksgiving for so many people, experiences, and things.  My family helped me check a few boxes with their well-planned weekend of surprises.  As I stand “on top of the hill,” I am praying for excellent health, the ability to act with wisdom, the ability to continue to use my gifts to live my passion and calling out loud, and work-life balance for me, my family, my friends, and all who use their gifts to be excellent villagers in their communities.

Last Saturday morning, I woke up thinking about the events that had taken place locally and nationally the week prior.  But for Swaggy encouraging me to take him out for fresh air, I might have remained in my thoughts a while longer.  I went reluctantly into the backyard with Swaggy and in my aggravated state looked into the distance and saw a rainbow.  Instantly, my demeanor and outlook became positive.  I am not sure why rainbows speak hope and positivity, but after that week of heart-wrenching, unbelievable and unexplainable losses of life I needed a reminder to “look unto the hills from which cometh my help.”

Life presents moments that can simply take your breath away.  Often people say that something has taken their breath away when the thing or circumstance left them speechless from excitement or overwhelmed by the beauty or amazing qualities of the thing.  In general, the moments capable of taking my breath away were not made by a human.  I have experienced breathless moments after seeing majestic mountain ranges or brilliant sunsets or the clarity and purity of a precious gem or my father’s light brown eyes.  Those kinds of things have stolen my breath away in a good and gratifying way.  That gratifying breathlessness literally stole me away to a quiet, peaceful almost magical boundless space where it seemed that only that awe-inspiring thing existed.  My time communing in such a space has always led me to ponder the why’s that might answer the mother of all questions: How did this breath-taking moment happen?  Then I would ponder the follow up question: How did this breath taking moment happen to me (or someone I care about)?

In moments I have spent basking in marvelous wonder riddled with rhetorical questions, I felt blessed and satisfied.  I was blessed to enjoy a calm, peaceful, amazingly wondrous place.  Like an addict, my satisfaction yearned for more satisfaction, more pleasurable journeys.  As a parent of young children, it warmed my soul to see my kids with bright eyes and mouths agape from the pleasant shock of a natural wonder.  I enjoyed the ooh’s and ah’s like those of an audience fascinated when a magician’s slight of hand tricked the human eye.  As my kids and I reacted in puzzled curiosity, they rarely expected me to be able to explain the why or the how.  However, when the thing or event taking our collective breath away resulted from a tragic, unexplainable and seemingly untimely thing or circumstance their eyes and expressions screamed, “Mama, why?” and “Mama, how did this happen?”

What irony that we found ourselves asking the same questions in our breathless moments after loss that we asked during sheer amazement and wonder?!  I also found it ironic that the same words described both experiences.  While there were similarities in the height and type of emotions, there was no burning desire for me to provide an explanation for the perceived amazing or whimsical things.  However, my heartache in the times of significant loss burned for answers to the why’s and the how’s.  The emotional impact of the loss and tragic events loitered in my spirit and hovered like a mist on a cloudy day.  In those moments, I was disappointed that my parenting vault of remedies failed to cure the pain and sadness.  Somehow the expressions of sympathy and overtures of “adult” sayings about bad things happening to good people and finding good in the bad rang of cliché and rather inadequate mama tools needed to heal the hurts of my babies.

The loss of a family friend last week and the tragic attack on innocent people in a tourist town down south, pierced my heart.  Even though I don’t have young children, I felt the need to offer comfort and explanations to lessen the volume of emotions mounting within many young people around me.  I wanted to say or do something that would speak to those emotions that surface in these types of moments that take your breath away.  I think the moments of breathlessness from pain and loss felt different to me because I knew that the source of the event or loss was beyond my control.

Parents work hard to maintain control of the environments of the ones they care about so moments of tragic loss, especially losses of other young people, compromise the shields of protection built by the grown ups.  Moreover, the encounters with the unexplainable, beautiful things tend not to establish residency in my head for as long as the unexplainable losses or tragic events and I expect that other parents have a similar experience with loss and tragedy.  Last week I found myself using the unexplainable good things like rainbows and breath to cope with the unexpected losses.  I spent some time last week confronting the losses, my pain and my regrets.  I engaged in dialogues and reflective services to honor those lost.  In both instances, pain which was manifested through silence and somberness evolved into celebratory expressive memories that moved the audiences to calls for action.

People vary in their opinions about how to cope with loss and tragedy, but from my parental lens I think movement and action become the only way to secure the armor intended to protect those of us who remain.  As a friend of one lost, I believe the call to action honors the soul of the friend in a way that enables the living to heal and preserve the best qualities and passions of the one we cared for while enabling us to secure their legacy.  Calls to action after a national or global tragedy assure us that humanitarian compassion lives.  I believe that these calls to action give us and therefore our children hope.  We hope that movements of support, encouragement and resources will empower our communities.  The calls to action and the movement of the community is restorative.  The active decisions to honor those lost and support those who live empowers individuals and groups in the communities.  Watching the community during breathless moments respond with positivity renews my faith that the village will embrace the challenge of standing with our children through the moments that steal their breath away.

The really attentive, fun-loving flight crew on my trip from Reno to Atlanta reminded me that life provides opportunities for people to mindfully decide to create a positive, enjoyable environment for themselves and for others. My kids sometimes tease me about my response to their youthful retort, “I didn’t mean to…” My response was always “Well, mean not to…” Clearly, the leader of this flight crew, a vibrant, curvy, Nubian princess with well-placed braids as her crown (who I will call Dee) intended to provide exceptional service when she stepped into the airport yesterday morning. The passengers of Flight 3738 could hear this crew getting hype from the waiting area at the gate before the flight. I couldn’t see them so I could only imagine what they might have been doing. I envisioned the crew in a pre-game huddle like a football team going through a ritualistic call and response. This bright-eyed, enthusiastic flight attendant lead her crew into a zone of hospitality that commanded the presence of every ounce of joy and gracious servitude within them. By the time we boarded the plane, there was no suggestion that either member of the crew had a care in the world other than the mission that was before them – to ensure that each of us had a safe, enjoyable flight.

When I boarded, there she stood greeting me with her bright eyes and her even brighter smile. It was contagious! I found myself smiling back at her and forgetting about the concerns about who might have a summer cold or snore loud enough to make my seat vibrate. Because of her welcoming, positive disposition, everything about her was beautiful and positive – her perfect complexion, her perfectly placed coiled locks and her make up was perfectly on point. This first encounter with the crew goddess reminded me of another lesson I preached to my kids (that I learned from my mother) that “Pretty is as pretty does.” When folks are kind and warm like Dee you see lots of good in them. Seeing goodness can change your perspective and many of the things that might interfere with your peace and focus become less important and therefore less powerful. Yeah, Dee for redirecting me to a place of calm with a smile and laughter. Her ability to get the crew excited about the mission and their willingness to follow her lead into the mindset of excellent customer service was genius. In addition to the crew seeming pleased to be in her presence, they all all appeared to be happy to be in service together. Their model of team members passionate about their work enveloped the cabin. They established a friendly, relaxed environment. It generally doesn’t take much to get me talking, but I noticed that people throughout the cabin who appeared to be strangers were having sidebars about the humor being served and the fact that crew found pleasure serving the love.

I have told my kids for years that you can choose one of three paths in your approach to any task: 1. Just do what you are required to do, 2. Do less than you are required to do or 3. Exceed all expectations by doing more than you are required to do. The folks in the first group get the job done, but spend a heck a lot of time being what my kids and I call “the ketchup packet counters” of life. These are the people content to follow a script or do just what the guidelines say they should do each day, all day, just the way it’s been done for years and only because that’s the way it’s been done for years. There are no risks and probably no amazing rewards or remarkable customer service reports being generated.

Group two represents those who aggravate customers to the ninth degree. These folks range from those who are plain lazy to the ones who vocalize greatness with practiced rhetoric, yet have no production to support their chatter. They generally punt their tasks to someone else and then take ownership of the work product. Additionally, their comments demonstrate that they believe they are more valued by their peers than they really are and their peers are generally frustrated with the loathsome habits of this passionless, entitled, lazy, self-absorbed member of the second group.

The third group embodies proud, self-motivated individuals who are blessed to be called to serve. Group three people approach their tasks with intention, passion and consistency. Unfortunately, the folks who live in the world of doing more than required are criticized for “over achieving” or for making other people “look bad.” Instead of being praised for their selflessness, people attack them and make attempts to derail their progress or slow their momentum. Fortunately for the folks in the third group, they can honestly reflect on their efforts and labor and list many moments that make them glad they showed up and put in the work. Equally as cool is the fact that all recipients of their goodness and their beyond average efforts own a memory of a person caring about providing them a moment of satisfaction, solitude, laughter or affirmation.

Traveling by plane provides a wonderful opportunity for writing. Passengers generally don’t expect conversation and they don’t make me feel awkward or rude if I’m not talking to them. I can enter that perfect place with my gospel playlist and put the pen to the paper. When I considered my topic for this flight, it had nothing to do with a flight crew. The fact that I was lead to write about this crew and their spirited, awesome leader speaks volumes about the crew.  Their impact is a statement that our behavior and our conduct matter. Not only did this crew impact my time with them during the flight, but they sent a message down the tunnel that there was an expectation of positivity before we boarded the flight. In addition, their aura of positivity likely spun the attitude or outlook of a passenger facing a challenging situation at the termination of that journey. There are times when I speak without thinking through all of the consequences. There have been times when I was the passionless worker because I simply had no passion about the subject or tasks associated with my really “good job.” My time with this crew inspired me to inspire others with passionate, positive energy every time I move through the tasks associated with my job or any other opportunity for service. The final lesson I learned from this crew was this: the execution of a task with purposeful, intentioned actions cloaked in a pleasant disposition seamlessly permeates the spaces of all of the people near you with the ability to create a collective calm for everyone. The science of leadership has always fascinated me and this exhibition of excellent leadership and team work was seamless and impressive.

My job requires that I spend many hours talking to students, families and other stakeholders on my campus and in the local community about substance use by college students.  My staff and I spend many hours developing and implementing educational programming for college students.  Many of the students who visit my office talk about the pros and cons of consuming alcohol and other drugs.  They often explain, in their own colorful expressions, how much fun it was to make memories having fun drinking and chilling with their friends.  There are also the discussions about the day after when they realize that there are consequences to the behaviors.  Most commonly, the students describe the symptoms most of us associate with a hangover.

I often describe my office as a triage-like environment.  When I say that people laugh or chuckle because they think I am exaggerating.  I’m not.  Although we are not routinely dealing with medical crises, we encounter unexpected fact situations that vary from one moment to the next.  While there are the routine and expected fact scenarios each day, it is the phone call or drop in visitor to the office that shifts the priority list in a moments notice.  I try to get to work at least an hour before anyone else arrives so that I can gather myself for the day and check in with other campus stakeholders who also provide campus wide support for students, faculty and staff.  I want to ensure that my thoughts and plans align with the needs and goals for particular cases we are working on at the time.  In addition, I work to get some administrative tasks completed like responding to emails, drafting letters and making edits to the many categories of important things written in bright colors on the giant whiteboards in my office.  About 7:45, the crescendo of energy begins to rise as I see the lights on the floor being turned on and I hear voices and movement.  Just before the office opens, the phones start ringing and I can see and hear the foot traffic increasing near my building.  By 8:00, most of the staff is present and the heads start popping into my office with student updates and folks checking in on developments I missed the day before or questions that need answers or someone looking for guidance on how to or who should take the task of addressing a strong-willed or very opinionated student or parent.  Those conferences generally belong to me.  The rise from a level one or two on a scale of ten happens quickly.  The office springs to six about 8:30 and remains between six and eight until about 2:30 or 3:00 in the afternoon.  My schedule slows at about 4:00pm at which time I think about the shifts in the priority list that occurred that day, what caused the changes in the priority list and how to establish my to do list for the next day.  This process is pretty much a daily theme in my office.

Commencement was mid May.  When the office opened to quietness the Monday morning after commencement, we sat with feelings of shock, fatigue and in need of sleep.  Sound familiar?  A colleague told me that we had “end of semester hangover.”  I guess she was right.  Like my students, I experience amazing highs when I am in my zone parenting all day and having dialogue with other campus and community stakeholders about all things related to conduct and the relationship of conduct to student success, retention and persistence.  The come down, however, can be brutal and there is no me to direct me into an educational program with a trained educator to guide me through a discussion on how to make more responsible choices as I enjoy my drug of choice – parenting.

When my kids were younger, I remember complaining about being tired all the time.  I have told young mothers over the years that raising kids is hard work so being tired is normal and expected if you are doing it right.  Honestly, after raising mine and helping raise others in my village, I judged and gave side-eyes to parents who were well-rested and had energy to hang out several nights a week.  Often that meant they had sitters or family members to help and I rarely had either.  Maybe I was just plain jealous.  I am not quite sure about that, but I am positive about this:  Doing the things I love and feel passionate about provides euphoric emotional highs and a grand service to my village.  However, as one veteran football coach so aptly stated to me, “the highs are real high and the lows are rock bottom.”  He was speaking of the highs and lows of football, but it applies to the highs and lows of life and those hangovers too.  I am two weeks out from the end of the academic year and I woke up this morning physically worn out.  If not for the canine kid, Swaggy, who doesn’t recognize weekend or holiday mornings as vacations from early risings, I would have stayed way under the covers until noon.  I got out of bed this morning contemplating a nap.  Who does that?

• Somebody who needs to learn pace gets out of bed thinking about when the next opportunity for rest will come.
• Somebody who needs to learn emotional regulation and emotional management.
• Somebody who needs to remember the lessons I gave to an overwhelmed student recently:

1. There are 24 hours in a day.
2.  “No” and “Not at this time” are acceptable responses and should be practiced in some      situations.
3. Schedule some time for yourself.

Well, I have done a better job respecting the 24 hours in a day rule and because I respect that time limitation, I want to spend time with Oprah and Steve Harvey to learn more about how to work smarter and not harder during the time I am gifted.  The nature of my job and the other obligations in my personal life mandate that I practice saying some version of “No,” but the aftermath of the daily life of the student conduct lady results in me feeling hung over.  My symptoms from my work highs sound very similar to those reports from my students when they describe hangovers that come as a consequence of substance use.  They report fatigue, a mental fog, tiredness, and a lack of motivation.  I think I need behavioral modification too.  I think I need a harm reduction model for people who regularly function high on adrenaline.  I must develop a responsible and safe come down that counteracts my high so that I can be healthier and serve the village well for a longer period of time.

This spring was my first experience going through the commencement season on a college campus as an administrative faculty member.  I learned that I had to pace myself from the standpoints of emotional use, time expended, and physical stamina.  Watching students and their families and supporters live out the experiences reminded me of my own family and the educational pursuits that began with my parents and drove my siblings and me to follow my parents to the world of advanced degrees.

I was raised in Montgomery, Alabama by Charles and Lola Cooper.  They were both 1^st generation college students.  They grew up in rural Alabama.  They taught me that the smartest people are generally not those who have the most book sense, but those who act sensibly and act like they got good common sense.  Let the church say Amen.

I was the keynote speaker at the Black Graduate Celebration on commencement eve and I didn’t talk about the grandness of the students checking the boxes necessary to earn their degrees from an excellent Tier I research institution.  I didn’t talk about this being the beginning of a new chapter in their lives.  I addressed them with a message that represented the excellent parent that I am.  I needed each of them to move forward with their dreams and passions like a person with good sense.

My selfish goal was that they leave the celebration and never forget the message I delivered Thursday evening.  In my role as the assistant dean of student conduct on our campus, I tell students daily that their conduct matters.  Conduct matters in every phase and aspect of life.  So, my message to the students came rooted in the lessons related to acting like you got good sense.  I shared with them lessons given to me by the good southern folks who raised me.

My mother was 1 of 10 children raised on a farm by Jodie and Mary (who we called Mama Love).  My dad’s father, who he never met until he was a teenager, was a blue collar laborer and my dad’s mother, Big Mama, was a Pentecostal evangelist.  Oh glory!  She believed that any game played with dice or cards was a sin.  That short, plentiful woman taught me to say Yes Ma’am, No Ma’am, Yes um and No um to ALL adults.  This west coast mess of calling grown people by their first names without titles is taking some getting used to.  Every time I hear it, my insides tremor and I clinch my teeth; it’s like nails on a chalkboard to my countrified ears.  I smile and bear it because I’m not down south anymore, but it is shocking every time it happens in my presence.

My parents taught me the value of community and being an excellent villager for everyone in my space.  The basic lessons taught by my parents will enable a person to have much success in life (or at least be able to sleep at night and make peace with yourself).  My parents left me with a lot more than seven rules, but in the interest of time I limited my message to seven.  I also knew that I needed to limit my time so as not to cause the young women with hairdos that costs them in time or money or both to sweat out their dos.

• Rule #1

My daddy said “your rights end where the next person’s rights begin.” And that is some profound ish right there.  He always said things to make me think.  This made me think about his statement when my mother asked him to set my curfew when I was in high school.  He said, “Kim is a lady and she knows when a lady should be home.” What?! Was he kidding me? Nope.  He wasn’t. My father often gave me reasons to ponder over his wise sayings and well-timed questions to weigh the my choices and the consequences of my actions.

Rule #2

Treat everyone like you wish to be treated, especially the folks who cook and clean for you.  My daddy said take good care of them because they know EVERYTHING.  Believe me they do and they will help you and save your butt or give you extra helpings of your favorite foods if they know you value them.  Just saying.

• Rule #3

Don’t become the people you don’t like.  He gave me that bit of advice when I met with racism as an undergraduate student and I tried to blame all white people for some mean-spirited comments of a few.  My father taught me not to behave with the limited mindset of others or to allow their ignorance and limited thoughts to limit my thinking and my ability to achieve at a high level.  Nobody has time to be weighted down by ignorance, limited thinking, or hatred.  Thank goodness for that lesson!

• Rule #4

My mama said “Don’t be jealous of other people and what they have because you don’t know what they had to do to get it.”  Her caveat was “If you put your problems on a clothesline with everybody else’s problem, you will go back and get your own.”  She was so right.  There are many times when I start the pity party or the discussion about how the heck some people have what they have and I remember her comment.  Generally, I realize that I would never want all that was associated with attaining the thing or that which must be done to maintain possession of the thing.

• Rule #5

Leave every situation better than how you found it.  Mama used to remind me of this rule whenever we spent time at someone else’s house whether we were there for dinner or spending the night.  She would say clean up behind yourself and offer to help the host/hostess.  Although she generally said this with regard to taking good care of other people’s things, the rule applies to every situation in your life whether personal or professional.

• Rule #6

When I made a decision to change my major from engineering to English and apply to law school, I told my dad I was doing so because I wanted to change the world.  He said, “Baby, you might not change the world, but you can change the place in which you find yourself.”  It is my goal and should be your goal daily to change someone’s world every day.

• Rule #7

Be yourself because you won’t be that good at being anyone else.  Own your history and trust your story and experiences to guide you to a place that welcomes the unique you.  I have felt like a square being forced into a round hole for most of my personal and professional life.  As a result, I did not make good government worker and I struggled in other environments with feeling welcomed by others with whom I was forced to spend my time.  I have learned that every experience since college made me uniquely prepared for the experiences that followed and that all of my sacrifices have been rewarded with a realization of an environment where I am perfectly suited to exist.  My work with young people every day is a perfect marriage of the two elements of my passion wheel: parenting and the law.

I challenged the students and their supporters to fill in the blanks for their “I am…” statements.  I asked them to figure out who they are so that they can find work that encourages and supports a person with their unique design.

Additionally, I challenged the students and supporters to fill in the blanks for their “I love…” statements.  I asked them to figure what they love so that their endeavors and choices about their career fields lead them to fulfilling experiences. I want them to get up every day excited about their work even if they aren’t so excited about the amount of money they make.

Each of us was “fearfully and wonderfully made” by the Creator.  Each person was uniquely gifted to bless the world.  We were each gifted so that we could bless others with passionate expressions using the resources we possess.

Define who you are.  Define what you love and have a passion for doing.  Then, be that and do that like you have good sense!

The most memorable conversations I ever had with Mama happened in the kitchen.  There are many Saturday mornings in my own kitchen that conjure up thoughts of Mama and her morning rituals.  It’s funny that things that seemed so routine and trivial became the highlights of my reflective moments about her.  Every morning she made a pot of coffee.  Before the coffee was done brewing, she boiled water for her grits or oatmeal (In her later years, it was usually oatmeal.)  She cooked two slices of bacon and put a slice of bread in the toaster.  She would generally eat half of an apple and chop the other half to cook in her oatmeal.  This behavior became her normal and my expectation.  What I see now is that her daily practices in the kitchen were symbolic of her life.  Simple. Consistent. Truthful.

Mama was raised on a farm in rural Alabama.  She was a country girl at heart.  The beauty of most folks I knew from the country was their ability to achieve successful ends with reasonable expenditures of resources.  The good country people I knew recognized the need to be good stewards over the resources they were blessed to possess. And those who lived through the great depression seemed more capable than others.  Good stewardship meant careful measurement of resources, meaningful use of the resources, deliberate decision making in order to remain consistent in the day-to-day operations and owning the truths of related rationales and the outcomes.

Although Mama like fancy things, she lived by the Ecclesiastes time and place guidelines.  Lola did not spend a lot of time cooking omelets or baking casseroles.  Those dishes were reserved for special occasions.  She kept her routine menu items tasteful and well-seasoned.  Mama acknowledged the need to balance meals based on the prescribed food groups and color coding.  In addition to watching her mother create a colorful spread at the family dinners using the fresh vegetables from the field, she had been a home economics teacher at one point in her teaching career.  It was in her role as a teacher that she met Emily Post whose teachings were consistent with Mama’s philosophies on presentation of self and everything you touched.  Emily Post also affirmed Mama’s belief that everything had an appropriate time and place.  Meeting Emily Post, via her etiquette book, affirmed Mama which gave more power to her teachings and practices about the beauty and essence of simplicity and consistency.  After meeting Emily Post, Mama relied on her lessons from the country folks “out home,” the Bible and Emily Post.

Mama’s simplistic living extended beyond the kitchen in our early morning conversations.  Some mornings she would talk about her childhood and the boxes of fruit and nuts she and her siblings were so excited to receive Christmas morning.  Other mornings I learned about how my mother and her siblings used their imaginations to make dolls from the remnants of shucked ears of corn.  Maybe it was this ability to envision clothing and hair from the parts of the corn most often discarded as trash that enabled Mama to see potential and hope in other challenged areas of her life and mine.  I think the lessons from the country taught her not to focus on the things she did not have, but to engage herself in a process of surveying her resources and then developing a plan to achieve the desired goals.  Hence, her family couldn’t afford dolls so they used the corn husks to make dolls.  We talked through many life challenges with this type of processing.

Mama was a master at helping me see the resources and opportunities that made the glass half full.  Mama could calm my uncertainty and clouded vision with a believable promise in an unforeseeable future because she had the ability to see traits and resources I was too immature or afraid to see and own.  I needed that kind of faith talk and faith walk in my life.  Heck, I still do.  I miss my mother and her wise perspectives on life.

My mother was a quiet, pensive spirit.  She chose her words carefully and always delivered herself and her voice with grace and poise.  She gave me balance and direction.  There was security for me in her consistency.  I trusted her voice because I knew that her practiced simplicity would not permit a masking of the clear and poignant messages I needed to hear like a person adorned in layers of foundation and powder in a color not suited for their complexion.  When it came to baring real and simple facts, opinions and insights, Mama was flawless.  There have been many days since her illness that I have labored to channel my inner Lola in order to bring calm and clarity to situations.  Flavoring my realistic views on life with Lola’s optimism, independent of her, became my new process.  Quite frankly, I have had many days that it just sucked to go at the new process without her.  It is in those days and moments that the challenge of living out her lessons from her kitchen frustrate me and cause me to miss her more.  In my deepest most pitiful moments of sadness related to her physical absence, I transport myself to her kitchen and inhale the calmness of her humming “Amazing Grace” or singing “How Great Thou Art.”  I recreate the aura of her warm, welcoming “Good morning. How did you sleep?”  As only a good southern girl could do, I receive comfort from the salted bubbling water awaiting the shower of grits soon to come and the smell of bacon frying in the cast iron skillet on her stove.

Mama was a lefty and I always watched her turn and readjust the bacon to ensure it cooked evenly and completely.  For some reason, her left-handed trait was more prominent to me those mornings in the kitchen than at any other time.  I never really considered why I enjoyed time in the kitchen with Mama until I had no more opportunities spend time in her kitchen with her.  Separation from Mama and valued experiences produced a harvest of simple truths:

• Mama created a safe place for herself and me in her kitchen.
• Mama’s mother, Mama Love, used her kitchen to feed the souls of her family.
• Mama saw the value in spending time in a space rich in resources to teach.  There were spices, produce, poultry, dry goods and anecdotal life stories.
• Mama lived out a cooking show before we knew people would have television shows dedicated to the idea.
• Mama taught me to busy myself making delicacies out of the ingredients available to me.
• Mama taught me to apply the lessons from her kitchen to my life outside my home.
• Mama taught me that the time spent with her in the kitchen gave us a commonality of interests that overcame deficits due to age and customs.
• Mama provided me a feeling memory like the muscle memory of a one who works out.
• Mama’s gift of a feeling memory repeatedly provides the safety of her kitchen where I can sort out and sort through life.
• Mama’s kitchen established a standard and practice in my life of determination to prepare and present an amazingly nutritious and flavorful feast from whatever ingredients exist in my space.

I am forever thankful to her and for her.  I love the memories of her gentle, yet commanding presence.  I am thankful for her legacy of compassion and excellent stewardship over the people who entered her literal and figurative kitchens.  I hope that I can create such a place for my biological children and others to enter where the norm is relaxing into their truths and clearly viewing their assets, liabilities, and opportunities such that they enhance their lives in ways not even I can imagine.

Well, today I have decided to explore my comfort zone and saying it out loud makes me really uncomfortable, if I am completely honest.  I started writing this last night and got as far as the words “comfort zone” before I stopped.  I came home to a warm house, free of humans, with my mind set on decompressing from the twelve-hour work day.  The sky was gray and low hanging clouds blanketed the mountains ordinarily visible to me at this time of day from my kitchen table.  The rain played a rhythmic cadence on the roof as I watched raindrops hit the pavers out back.  What a perfect evening to feed Swaggy, eat a quick breakfast for dinner, get out the journal and write.  And it was perfect until the pen guided me into my comfort zone.  Suddenly, I felt an urge to check those emails and surf the social media sites like the millennial generation I love so dearly.  Now, I am asking myself why we call the place a “comfort zone” at all.

In general, I think we (and that includes me) use this phrase interchangeably with phrases like “safe space” or “safe place” because we need to believe that such a place exists.  I believe that each of us has a need for an inviting, soothing environment to release negativity, pain, confusion, chaos, busyness and the noise.  My objective in my comfort zone is to quiet the external sounds and oil the cranking internal mechanisms in the process.  The goal when I enter my comfort zone is to embrace a mindful decision to permit myself to escape the realities of my external world and the conditions I have owned internally as a consequence of those external realities.  I aim to inhale a continuous dose of selfish, self-absorbed moments until I experience a pleasurable exhaustion.

When I use my outside voice to talk about my comfort zone, I envision my protective, safe place as a clear, pliable, transparent bubble that surrounds my physical self.  I am challenged in this moment to evaluate why I have difficulty achieving my complete escape from the noise and busyness even when I enter my comfort zone.  I think the seal that holds my bubble securely is often compromised by stuff or maybe the parasitic stuff latches onto my thoughts and rides into my comfortable space.  Whatever the method of entry, the comfort zone is not the ideal, euphoric space I envisioned when the randomness surfaces:  the appointment I forgot to schedule, the memory of the one thing I forgot to buy at the grocery store, or the thought about the unresolved thing that drove me into the zone in the first place.

In addition to the parasites riding into the comfort zone with me, I knowingly bring some crap along for the ride too like caffeine, food, and the remote control.  Don’t judge.  I’m keeping it 100. (That means real and truthful for those who need a little clarity on that phrasing.) Apparently, distractions and complexities control my life outside of the bubble to the extent that I often use them like security blankets; I pack them in my comfort zone tote and excitedly usher them into my escape.

I have found that zumba and Bikram Yoga are probably the only activities that have afforded me the ability to disconnect from my thoughts about things other than the music or breathing during the intended healthy escape.  Some people find their comfort zones while jogging for exercise.  When I did jog, my goal was to burn calories that I could replace with food which might explain my daughter’s observation that prompted her to ask, “Mama, why is it some people run and get a good workout and you come home with everybody’s life planned out?”  She was right.  Running never relaxed my mind or cleared my head.  When I ran, I just had time away from other people and things so that I could plan.  Even when I make self-care the primary goal, I find that I struggle with detaching from the things and the stuff.  Maybe I will need to take myself through a mental exercise of going off the grid for any amount of time that I want to be in my comfort zone.  Just turning off the cell phone does not separate me from the last call or text I received or that notification I didn’t check.  There are days that my thoughts flow continuously and wake me from my sleep.  I have even noticed that my sleep patterns have changed.  I wonder if the early rising is due to my creative energy and passion to be a fixer for the young people in my world or if I’m just living that pre-menopausal life.  Ha!  At any rate, I know that I have to learn to stop at the threshold of my comfort zone and lighten the tote.  Out with the phone and the virtual attachments it harbors.  Out with the people problems “left” at my office that I need to fix.  Out with the snacks that will surely give me the aftermath of pleasure and regret.  Out with the shallow breathing reserved for moments of panic and shock.  Out with fear.  Out with pain.  Out with disappointment.  Out with insecurities and doubt.  Somewhere beneath the virtual noise and the unhealthy diet of regret, pain, disappointment, insecurity and doubt there lies positivity, promise and purpose.

I have decided to enhance my vision board to include these words: positivity, promise and purpose.  I need to see them regularly, or at least as often as I see those other words that clutter the space in my tote.  If you know me, you know how much I love totes.  I refer to my totes as “mama bags” because I have solved some world crises with the contents of my totes.  LOL!  This narrative makes me wonder if the practice of loading and redesigning the organization of my totes to make room for more things I need to carry for myself and the potential needs of others trained me to do the same internally.  On some profound, artistic, analytical level, that makes good sense to me.  Maybe it’s time to pare down and carry a much smaller bag.

The week began with hopeful thoughts and plans about my journey as a writer and my career. What I learned midweek stopped me in my tracks and hurt me to my core.  Things that “rattle your cage” to the extent that your insides quiver don’t generally give a jolt of energy to move a person forward or spark a wondrous thought that inspires innovation and creativity.  Those kinds of things pierce my soul and puncture a lung on the way to the destination, leaving me breathless visualizing the slideshow of every related behavior or event involving the person(s) exacting the injury upon me.  Reflective writing has allowed me to recognize that only the people or groups I care deeply about have the ability to hurt me and inflict soul-puncturing wounds.  Additionally, I have learned that injuries, physical or emotional, inflicted upon my kids can survey my being and find that weak spot in my armor.  I am not quite sure though if it’s the object that penetrates the armor that delivers the debilitating action or the shock that I really didn’t have my guard up and I left myself vulnerable – again.

After surviving turning the BIG 3-0 and the syndrome of freedom at 40, at almost 50, I am proud that I was able to take the not-so-entertaining movie playing in my head this week and pause it long enough to enjoy time with my family, laughs with a few friends, and make some life changing decisions at work.  I was able to control the speed of the movie reel and therefore control my inner conflict.  I managed to build a dam-like barrier to stave off the inner conflict that welled up inside of me.  I consciously separated my inner conflict from life at work and life with my family.

At almost 50, I have the freedom of choice.  I get to decide that types of behaviors that are welcomed in my space.  Moreover, I determine with whom I share my space and what quality of air I allow to inhabit my lungs and my brain.

At almost 50, I have the freedom to choose when I want to manage life and when to manage the challenge(s).

At almost 50, I can choose to let real transparent people live in my space and to decrease the time spent with the fake and the phony.

Thankfully, I have learned that even the tiniest soul-piercing wounds open up a space that unleashes a roaring wave of emotion if you don’t use the dam to gauge the emotions you allow to flow into your head and heart at any given moment.  I am reminded of the ability of God to open up “a window” of Heaven and pour out many blessings.  Whether I am being flooded with blessings or being rushed by a flood of information that challenges my spirit, at almost 50, I recognize that I control the operation of the levy.

At almost 50, there is a contagious encouragement that feeds each moment of the rest of my life when I begin the practice of deciding who and what types of energies deserve to live in the spaces where I live and breathe.

At almost 50, there is some empowerment that comes with the decision to own my right and responsibility to be the primary regulator of the control panel of the levy that holds back the eager waters while and until I make time or feel like allowing the chaos into my space.

At almost 50, there is enlightenment for others when they learn that I have stepped outside the shadows to use my voice to speak about my passion, to speak in a way that protects the people and things I hold dear, to speak about my strengths unapologetically and to speak up for myself and others similarly situated in a way that commands respect and change.

At almost 50, I have learned that life in the shadows did produce a belief by some that I found comfort in the shade of any tree or shadow.

At almost 50, I have learned that in my childhood I didn’t always choose which shadows shaded my life.

At almost 50, I see that, in my adult life, the choices I made to be a shadow dweller were my own.  I also realize that there are some circumstances and situations that breed people who satisfy their souls by shading the lives of others.

At almost 50, I see that the decision to confront shade throwers and systemic practices in any setting causes discomfort much like the discomfort I felt when I decided to live in the shadows of others.  Both decisions promoted ideas about my level of intelligence, compassion, and permanence in the role as well as perceptions that my decision made me figuratively blind, deaf, and mute about the boldness of the shade throwers who decided I enjoyed the “benefit” of their “protection.”

At almost 50, it is time to say that the shade throwers have aways been mistaken if they believed they were protecting me.  As a shadow dweller, I protected others and quietly went about the business of service for the cause(s) of the person(s) in whose shadow I lived.  Now, I shake my head that people have gotten it twisted and actually believe that my existence did not serve an invaluable role in their ability to flourish and grow.  It seems that everyone in life will not recognize or appreciate my service in the shadows or how that service grounded their roots and stabilized them making their environment more comfortable and consistent.

At almost 50, I am nervously excited about telling shade throwers (past, present, and future) that I am a “fearfully and wonderfully made” woman with creative and intelligent thoughts and abilities capable of expansion and development outside of any limited, dark space.  I am a genetic sampling of the genius of a woman not built by a person and not designed to verbalize a scripted monotonous dialogue filled with cliches and passionless banter.

At almost 50, I am more willing to risk standing outside the shade of a box built by others who have demonstrated they are not capable of hearing my heart because they don’t care to hear my voice.

At almost 50, I am content that I can define my likes and dislikes.

At almost 50, I must courageously own my passion and my voice and present them in a way that honors the gift given me as a shadow dweller.

At almost 50, I am forced to spend the rest of my life vocalizing the visions, the growth, and the maturity birthed in me as a sister in the shadow of dreams, hopes, haters, family, expectations, movements, and missions.

At almost 50, it’s hard to be anything other than real or for me to share my space with those who thrive in controlling my voice and shading me to hide the truth of my message and passion to encourage, empower, and enlighten my audiences.