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Un pensamiento de la manana

Attended a pastoral training workshop last weekend and it was a breath of renewal and a “skip outta my comfort zone”. The workshop was informative and invigorating as was meeting new people and hearing other points of view. I also contributed with my points of view and it was accepted. No criticisms, corrections or judgements. A nice feeling-a nice prompt to continuing “skipping”.

Familiarity is a safety net but it’s not necessarily a healthy one. One might fall through a hole in a neglected net, while a healthy net will cradle and nurture. If one’s environment does not nurture, stimulate or encourage growth then it’s time to search for one that does. This not mean abandon the old environment, rather accept it for what it is and loosen the dependency. Nuff said-babies need to walk.

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Emotional Pain

Pain-not the physical one but the emotional, deep down one that resonates from a memory of a conflict in which the receiver is left with the deposit of a throbbing, scorched, branded entity driven between the layers of the soul. And oh, so difficult to expel once its roots have found anchor.

Physical pain touches the internal or external surfaces of our bodies and produces a reaction.

A face will squeeze into a grimace, unstoppable tears flow, moaning, sighing, rocking back and forth, will dissolve once the pain ceases. Physical pain, on most occasions, leaves a visible mark for the trained and untrained eye to discover. It makes it presence known, outwardly or inwardly and arrogantly. It occurs with warning, sometimes without. It is unpredictable or predictable, quiet or loud. A simple aspirin may reduce its strength; a Vicodin will obliterate it.

Emotional pain.

Set to pounce, by way of a simple trigger, leading the soul into dark caverns without a flashlight, map or a tour guide. The bearer can easily present a smile to the world while the emotional pain carries out its silent torment inside.  It is a coward and adores sucking the fight out its intended victims. It is devious and rots away the foundation of the soul’s vibrancy and pulse. It strangles, suffocates and asphyxiates, leaving the soul disjointed, discombobulated and sucked dry like a prune in a vacuum-packed canister.

If a snap of my finger or the sucking of my lips (Jamaican style) could make the emotional pain disappear, I’d be moving forward right about now, skipping through the Long Meadow at Prospect Park and drinking ONE glass of wine a week, while aging gracefully with my weight in check.

But, no, it’s not that easy.

Analyzing, obsessive rumination, age, endless amounts of wine (preferable white) and most importantly FORGIVENESS helps at times to uproot the emotional pain from its anchor onto a more level field.  On other occasions, analyzing, obsessive rumination, age and endless amounts of wine (usually red) will impale FORGIVENESS and use it as fertilizer for the roots of emotional pain to attach deeper to the soul.

But, with darkness comes light…

With the help of therapy or alone, with a self-help book (New York Times bestseller) or a conversation with a close friend or stranger, healing emotional pain is possible.

Layer by layer or in a huge clump, dissected, torn to shreds or pieces, stomped out, extinguished or left to thaw out-emotional pain is healable.

Bring on the blow-torch and have the fire extinguisher nearby.

Change is a comin’ to my soul.

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My Favourite Quote

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

-Marianne Williamson, A Return To Love: Reflections on the Principles of A Course in Miracles, Harper Collins, 1992. From Chapter 7, Section 3 (Pg. 190-191).

Reading Williamson’s quote, for the first time and realizing how often I had dimmed my own light in order to let another’s shine was difficult to admit and more so difficult (and still is) to stop.

I did not ask myself, who was I to be brilliant gorgeous, talented and fabulous, but rather, I criticized, butchered and self sabotaged any of my attempts to be. Playing small, protected me and kept others from emotionally hurting me at a comfortable distance. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you, protected me, once again, from others who indulged in stripping away my emotional defenses and once raw, delighted in tearing at my emotional skin. We were meant to shine, as children do, I grew up with children should be seen, seldom if possible and never heard.

Then, surprisingly, as the years progressed, I grew up emotionally and continue to do so.

You are a child of God, and yes, truly I am. And I was, born to manifest the glory of God that is within us, for to hinder or ignore HIS glory would be to deprive myself of a wonderful gift that was freely given to me. I will let my own light shine, although there are times when the output may fluctuate between 25-150 watts, but nonetheless, it will shine.  And, as I celebrate my own light so will others around me for joy is infectious, unless one has been inoculated.

I continue to struggle with liberation from my own fears and eventually, I will get there.

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Feeling mattered vs Feeling needed

At one time, I thought feeling mattered and feeling needed were the same, just different wording. Well, along with the wording feeling mattered and feeling needed are different.

Feeling needed is dependency.
My mom depends on me to help with lifting heavy objects, I, in turn feel needed or am needed.    

Feeling needed can be a good thing. 
Who does not want or need to feel special and depended upon?

Feeling needed can be a bad thing.
Who wants to deal with stress and emotional strangulation when you cannot fulfill the needs of another?

Feeling mattered is to contribute.
Without my typing skills, the paper would not be completed. I, alone with my typing contribution made an impact on the publication.

Feeling mattered is a good thing.
Who does not like feeling like the ‘King of the World’ at times?

Feeling mattered can be a bad thing.
What happens when the feeling mattered feelings do not happen as often as we would like?

Feeling needed gives us purpose and allows us to love others, at times, above ourselves. Feeling mattered does an ego good and allows us self worth and pride.

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The Silent One

Our society, in just about every profession or social engagement only hears those who boast the loudest and ignore those who remain silent.  This is especially true when ‘ good deeds done  or charitable works for others are involved.

There are those who grab and hang onto the BULLHORNS (those who brag too loudly) to announce their good deeds to the world.
Yes, I donated $1000 to the such and such fund and plan to donate another grand to that other such and such fund. And, did I mention I also gave such and such fund over $500 dollars last year.

Others boast in a whisper (you know who they are), not to be associated with the ‘BULLHORNS’ but nonetheless making sure their good deeds are known.
Oh, I see my name is in the brochure. How thoughtful of them to recognize my contribution. Oh yes, we give every year and will continue to do so. Well we withheld our contribution two years ago after I noticed we weren’t mentioned in the brochure.

Yet, others diligently and quietly (they have no need to say anything at all), carry out their good deeds.
** silence**

I have the privilege of knowing one who is a ‘BULLHORN’ and another who is ‘silent’.

Which one do you think has my respect and admiration?

Not the ‘BULLHORN’!

The ‘silent’ one does carpentry, plumbing and handy man jobs at our church and he does not charge for his work or hours put in. Yes, his work is free. The ‘silent’ one is a quiet soul who usually thinks well and hard before speaking and views his work as a pledge to the church’s ministry- meaning, he gives of his heart through his hands what he cannot give of his wallet in dollars and cents.

I volunteered to assist the ‘silent’ one for two days on a carpentry project at our church. His serene attitude towards the scope of the work at hand, attention to detail, enthusiasm and getting the job done correctly was infectious. The work was hard, and he took the time to explain the tools of the trade, measurements, and techniques. I was sore, had trouble standing after the first day of work but the feeling of accomplishment and joy within the work environment outweighed the pain. I was satisfied spiritually, intellectually, and felt my contribution had more of an impact than at my so-called paying part-time job.

So I thank the ‘silent’ one for reaffirming in my sometimes doubtful mind that there are good people out there who share my faith but also are role models for giving to others unselfishly without the ‘BULLHORN’.

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Forgiveness

“Phyllis Ferguson, mother of the Chardon High School shooting victim Demetrius Hewlin, told ABC News that if she had the chance to talk to suspected gunman T.J. Lane, “I would tell him I forgive him because, a lot of times, they don’t know what they’re doing. That’s all I’d say.” (ABC news site)

This interview appeared on a TV network news broadcast. Phyllis Ferguson, whose son was murdered, spoke these words calmly and serenely. Her stoic presence along with the impact of her words affected my usual nonchalant reaction to what I deemed as yet another ‘sensationalism take on a news story’. Instead of changing the channel, I sat on my couch, watched the remainder of the interview, and cried.

Ferguson’s son, Demetrius, along with several other students, was shot while socializing amongst friends in their school’s cafeteria. Some of the students survived while Demetrius and two others died in the hospital. The apprehended gunman, a student also at the same school is now awaiting trial.

The crime was horrific, the scars left on the survivors, and those who knew the victims are incomprehensible in my view.  I have not lost someone to a violent crime and pray it will not happen. The teenage gunman, acted alone, heartless and calculatingly cruel in his decision to arrive at school that day with the knowledge he would terminate and cripple lives. Who made him GOD? What right did, He, posses to execute and extinguish lives? The entitlement and judgment were his alone and I feel anger towards him, balancing on hatred, without the knowledge of his background story. I am judging a person I do not know.

A mother lost her son to murder and had justification to hate the shooter and to speak ill of him and his family. Instead of doing so, Phyllis Ferguson chose to not let hate fester within her. She chose to forgive and in doing so allowed the memories of her son to remain pure in her heart not overshadowed by hatred or worse yet, to allow the hatred to fester within the memories of her son. Now when she reflects on her son, she can relate to pure memories instead of memories tainted of her son with the afterthought of the shooter.

I admire Phyllis Ferguson, for her strength, courage and faith. Her actions, in a time of emotional trauma exemplify true Christianity. Thank you Phyllis Ferguson and God Bless.

“I taught Demetrius not to live in the past, to live in today and forgiveness is divine. You have to forgive everything. God’s grace is new each and every day”.-Phyllis Ferguson

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Women on the verge…

For the past eight months, I have been fortunate to work at a part-time job with limited benefits. I say fortunate because of the lack of job availability or options. Thanks to a church member’s recommendation, I was able to secure the job.

Unemployment was an albatross for a long time. My earnings went from a high-five figured salary to zero, to another five-figure salary but this time way down the numeric line. Bookkeeper, Administrator, Special Ed teacher, are titles of the past garnered from a Master’s from a prestigious university and a Master of Science from a not so prestigious college. My current title is, “File Clerk”.

I now work as a file clerk in a homeless women’s’ shelter.

I now work as a file clerk in a mental health homeless women’s’ shelter.

I now work as a file clerk in a mental health homeless women’s’ shelter surrounded by housing projects in a not so desirable part of town.

The search for full-time work with a different title continues, as the part-time work brings in a steady source of income. Some money is definitely better than no money.

The shelter.

The women at the shelter are a mix of ages, races and multitudes of mental health diagnosis-from depression to psychotic. Clients (the women) have endured domestic violence, sexual abuse, incarceration, abandonment, etc., compounded by untreated mental illness. This combination has left many unable to function within society.

The shelter culture, as my director states, is reminiscent of high school cliques. Jocks, nerds, beauty queens, popular, class clowns, stoners are present in the cafeteria only on an adult female level. There are those with seniority (years at the shelter) who are matrons, sought of the welcome committee who console those newly admitted to the shelter.

Yes, a client is admitted, usually from a referring agency, no walk-ins. Once admitted, a bed and room are assigned. The shelter provides three full meals, shower facilities, laundry as well as toiletries. Free medical checkups, psychiatric services and counseling are also provided and a requirement towards securing housing. Check out from the rooms is 10:00am and check in/sign in begins at 5pm. Some clients spend the entire day sitting in the cafeteria, which, also functions as a recreation room. The clients engage in card games, music, conversations, socializing, fights, verbal and some physical, takes place on a daily basis.

The goal of the shelter is to place the clients in permanent shared or single dwelling housing within special housing facilities. The shelter is a stepping-stone for the clients. A place to pause, get back on track, take personal responsibility and gain understanding of their mental illness which leads to self-care.

I spend twenty-one hours a week in this shelter working amongst the clients who visit the clinic for medical, psychiatric and counseling appointments.  I listen to their plights, offer encouragement and direct them through proper channels to obtain services. Remaining distant and aloof is not an option. It is impossible not to care no matter how difficult a client is or can be.

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Foods we once ate…and in some cases continue to do so

Oh, food the family ate, back in the day before the pyramid guide and nutrition hysteria.

Here’s a sample of what was:

Curried Lamb-made with the cheap curry found in A&P

Curried chicken with Perdue Chicken before chickens were put on a so-called healthy grain diet

Curried beef-I guess at this point curry put on just about anything

Carolina white rice smothered in Heinz ketchup or was it Heinz ketchup with a dash of rice?

Devil’s Underwood spread on Wonder bread

Chef Boyardee-spaghetti and meatballs or ravioliEgg salad-saturated in mayo- the Hellman’s kind

Uneeda biscuit crushed and placed in a bowl with milk added

Beer with pep milk and sugar- I found this combination quite strange-maybe it’s a Jamaican thing

Olive loaf and spiced ham on Wonder bread, lathered in mayo-the Hellman’s kind

 

Oxtails in gravy with Lima beans

Pigs feet with white beans in sauce

Scotch bonnet peppers pickled in vinegar

Bread pudding

Fried cakes (Johnny cakes) with ketchup

Whole wheat bread lathered with mayonnaise, American cheese and tomatoes

White bread toasted, buttered and sprinkled with sugar

Raisin bread, lathered with mayo-the Hellman’s kind, American cheese and tomatoes

Canned sardines in tomatoes sauce with a side of Carolina white rice

Canned sardines in oil on top of Saltine crackers

Liver, fried and smothered with onions

Cow foot (YUCK!)

SPAM slices, fried with eggs over easy

What foods did you or your family eat?

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Pot of Fire

At the age of twenty-five, I consumed my first one pound, twenty dollar lobster, steamed, cracked opened by my own hand, succulent pieces dipped in butter at a now defunct restaurant called Broadway Bay.

What’s the big deal and why did it take so long to eat a lobster?

Trauma.

A lobster, a pot of boiling water with a pinch of salt and a child equals trauma.

I was nine years old and lived in my childhood home in Brooklyn, New York. I was also a latch key kid and spent many hours after a tortuous day at catholic school, alone in the house, waiting for mom, my mom or a sibling to come home from work and school.

Being a latch key kid had its advantages.

I was able to:

-play with matches (almost set the house on fire after setting a match to a perfume bottle)

-sneak outside and run amok with my friends (but back in the house for mom’s four o clock check in call)

– eat bags of chips and Kit Kats bought with the school’s weekly two dollar pledge envelope money (which seldom found its way into the teacher’s hand)

-rummage through my siblings private draws and read love letters (I was an imaginary participant in the RIF program sans the use of library books)

The list can go on but it stops here.

As soon as mom, yes, she is my mom, came home, I was velcroed to her side. I heard stories about her workday, some funny and some, well maybe a PG rating should have been implemented. After this, she would start dinner while changing into her house clothes as I did homework on the dining room table. This was our daily routine, until, she returned home one evening, with a large paper bag.

The brown paper bag went immediately into the kitchen as I trailed behind it. Mom withdrew a lobster and placed into the stainless steel sink.  The lobster was about three pounds, multi-coloured with dark hues of specks and its claws where a dark shade of ruddy pine green. As it stood in the sink mom turned on the faucet and ran tepid water on it.

Giddy with excitement over the gift I thought I received, I remained spellbound and did not inquire what I had done to deserve a new pet or where the tank was or the food to feed it. I splashed water around the poor thing while thinking of names to call it as I tried to figure out its sex.

Mom, yes my mom, meanwhile, started dinner. She placed a large pot of water on the stove and I figured, ‘oh spaghetti’. I did not think of what was to come for my young budding mind did not comprehend the scenario in front of me. Mom, who is from the Caribbean, is accustomed to petting the goat in the afternoon that would later become the invited, cooked and well seasoned guest on the dinner plates.  Bon Appétit-no problem!

The pot of water had turned into a rage of boiling bubbles that broke the surface with bursts of hot air.

I continued to play with my pet lobster.

Steam emitted from the surface of the pot.

I continued to play with my pet lobster now named Ricky.

In a gesture that took two seconds to execute, Ricky went from a caressing waterfall in the stainless steel sink to the rage and fury of boiling water gone wild in an aluminum pot. One clawed waved listlessly in the air and then it was over.

Sixteen years later, I sat in Broadway Bay with my bib and butter and eagerly dived in. Of course dating someone who loved lobster was the ultimate incentive and long after our ending, my lobster fetish began and endured. Until…Karma.

At the age of forty-something, I ate a piece of lobster during lunchtime at one of the dogs’ press shows. In less than twenty minutes, my scalp was on fire with the itchies. Thankfully, I had a Zrytec in my purse that was able to quell the allergic reaction. I was confused, ashamed, and stupefied. Twenty -two years of lobster consumption now reduced to avoidance. No more jaunts to the Caribbean with lobster for breakfast, lunch and dinner. No more Red Lobster in fits of desperation or for that matter, no more Fairway $7.99 lobster specials!! It was over, done, did, over.

What goes around comes around. I let Ricky meet his maker without protest or tears that would not have swayed mom, my mom’s , eye on the prize. She devoured him that night as I cried in my bedroom, oblivious to my heartache.