On Evolution & Deconstruction

Even the idea of deconstruction is seeing faith from a scarcity mindset. The energy it takes to sustained continued resistance feeds that which we wish to avoid. If I dig my feet in the ground and push my hands out to resist, I end up stagnant while life keeps hurling at a constant pace toward me.

When I alter my perspective and begin and end with abundance, I can honor the Divine Image in myself and in others and allow my faith to evolve while admitting I’ve been slimed by gobs of paint ill fitting of a masterpiece (bad theology, wrong interpretations, un-Christlike behavior, crazy worship songs based on ungodly beliefs and painful lived experiences, unloving/unhealthy spiritual practices, church leaders with character defects, etc.).

And with that acknowledgment and open hands, I can surrender to the alchemical process of surrender, which transforms that which is no longer working or necessary allowing me to receive that which is,  the truth of my essence that has always been true.

Underneath the pile of wronged experiences and bad teaching lies a masterpiece worthy of restoration, you. You, created in the Divine Image. You, the essence of Love and Light that has always been the very good of all creation. You, whose being resonates with Truth.

You are a masterpiece. Recognize the ways in which systems, cultural norms, labels, the opinions of others, and the hells of life have heaped gobs of paint on you. You can detach from that which is not healthy or good by simply opening yours hands in surrender, opening your hands to receive. You don’t have to begin transformation from the mindset of scarcity - “I lack something; something was withheld from me; I was lied to,” or any other negative.

Honor the trajectory of your lives experienced. You’re here now. Deep breath, it’s just another opportunity to grow. Be kind and generous to yourself. It’s okay to evolve.

REFLECTIONS: ODE TO MY GRANDMOTHER

A grandchild views their grandmother with starry eyed wonder. She is larger than life; more innocent than Jesus, and pretty much can do no wrong. As I reflect on the life of my grandmother, I admit my bias as a grandchild. She is indeed larger than life, more innocent than Jesus and pretty much could do little to nothing wrong in my eyes. I think I speak for me, John, Marcus and Josh in that regard. We all loved her immensely and we all had the distinct pleasure of being loved by her in our own unique way. She would tell you that she didn’t play favorites, but she absolutely did. When you were with her, you were her favorite. Whether she had all four of us together, or two of us, or was doting on us individually, we each were her favorite.

I have the pleasure of knowing Northern Grandma Bet who migrated up north in the 70s just before I was born and Southern l Bettie Mae who returned home in the 90s to take care of her ailing mother. Grams would say she was the same no matter where she lived or in her words, “I’m just a girl from Johnston County. My momma and daddy raised us to work hard and be honest, and that’s what I’m gonna do.”  And then she’d point that finger and cock her head, drop her voice just a bit and say, “And that’s what I expect you to do too.” But her eyes never left you and her head never moved until somehow you verbalized your agreement. And once you said “Okay, Grandma,” with the slightest imperceptible shift, she’d right her body and say, “Alright now.” And that was that.

From a young age, my brother and I were tasked with shepherding our younger cousins, Marcus and Josh on the Greyhound from Raleigh to Washington, DC, where Grams would meet us. It didn’t matter if we were coming or going, the set up was the same. We had to use the bathroom before we boarded the bus, and then the four of us piled into 1 ½ seats in the front row directly behind the bus driver, so he could watch us from the rear view mirror. Grams would point her finger and say, “when I put you on this bus, you bet not get off, not now time or Ima whoop you good.” Let me just pause and say, I don’t actually ever remember being whooped by my grandmother. My brother and I were bad children so that’s not to say we didn’t deserve our share of whoopings, it’s just that Grams had a look and when her finger got to pointing and her head dipped…it was worse than the sting of any belt. So needless to say, we sat on that Greyhound, me against the window with Josh in my lap, Marc on the seat kind of on mine, kind of on John’s and John closer to Marc than the outside aisle…1 ½ seats, coming and going with our ham sandwiches wrapped in aluminum foil in case we got hungry. I couldn’t even tell you what the Greyhound bus station in Washington, DC looks like. We never saw it. Grams was always waiting right outside the bus to corral us off to her station wagon whenever we arrived.

Grams was a surgical tech in OR at GWU Hospital, but in my eyes, she might as well have been the head nurse. She ran that OR and all the doctors and nurses had no qualms with admitting that. She was at work the day Regan got shot and was brought into GW for his life to be saved. I honestly can’t remember where Grams told us she was at that exact moment, all I know was in the eyes of this grandchild, she practically saved President Regan’s life. Remember, every grandchild sees their grandparents as larger than life and I am certainly no different.  

Grams introduced us to culture – she took us to parks, museums, the zoo, the movies, skating, bowling. My love of of art, ballet, classical musical, and especially water parks all originate from some memory my brother and I share with my Grams. She taught us how to ride the city bus and the subway. Taught me how to hold my purse and be alert in the city. She taught me to keep a little change or dollar bills separate from my real wallet to offer to the homeless or others we might encounter in need on the city streets. We were never without some adventure with Grams. She planned for every moment of our time with her, always looking for something to make it fun and memorable. She’d often say, “I may not have a little money but we …” and we’d do … whatever that was. In my eyes, she might as well owned a bank. 

Northern Grandma Bet was devoted to her church, only her family came before her duties to the church. Northern Grandma Bet had friends and co-workers who laughed as loud and boisterously as she. Northern Grandma Bet threw the best parties, but I’m not supposed to know that. She’d put my brother and I in her back bedroom, look us in the eye and say, “And you’d bet not come out this room.” Only to sneak us a plate of snacks later in the evening when she came to check on us.

Food was a highlight of our life in DC, especially eating crabs. We’d go down to some place in Southeast or off Branch Ave and buy a bushel or two of live crabs. And I know we’re in the house of the Lord, but remember Grams told me to be honest… We’d take those crabs back to Grandma and Granddaddy’s place and she’d pull out this gigantic lobster pot. Granddaddy would pour a six pack of beer in the pot with some old bay seasoning, add some water and set the pot to boil. Then my brother and I would clamor over each other trying to watch the crabs crawl to their death in the pot. And while we were in the kitchen with Granddaddy watching the crabs turn magical in the pot, Grams would be in the dining room, spreading newspaper for our feast. She taught us how to identify the dead man, told us  not to eat the mustard. All while slipping her first dog, Rex pieces of crab meat. 

Grams owned 4 dogs in her lifetime: Rex, Neiko, Roxy and Queenie. And she believed in feeding them what she ate. “They eat what I eat” she would also say. I’m told even during her last days, she sent my aunt to Bojangles for chicken. Not because Grams wanted chicken. Nope, she wanted to feed her dog Queenie chicken. And I’m told that’s exactly what she did, tossing pieces of chicken to Queenie for her to gobble up. 

You have to understand how my Grams humanized her dogs. Queenie drinks cold bottled spring water. Rex was taught to brush his teeth, because my Grams didn’t do odor. She’d put a ribbon of toothpaste on the tub and say, “C’mon, Rex, let’s brush your teeth” and Rex would eat the toothpaste. Then she’d say, “Show Momma, did you brush your teeth?” And he’d open his canine mouth and show off all his scissored teeth.

From a young girl, Grandma had no qualms, grabbing me underneath my arm and “telling me about myself” if she thought I was in her words, “smelling a little too high”. And after too many times of smelling too high, she’d threaten to wash me herself and add some Clorox to my water. To this day, I’m still not sure what the bleach was supposed to do. But I was child of the outdoors, so you can imagine that I heard this threat way more times than I can count. 

My grandmother had a rich, melodious laugh that lingered well after it ended. Somehow it settled underneath your breastbone embedding its invitation of joy deep into your soul. Her smile was like a bright light bulb, lighting up the room, and her eyes twinkled more than Santa Claus. She had a zeal for life and adventure, and she loved to go and explore. 

And as I aged and moved away from NC, I always enjoyed coming back to visit and hearing of the how well loved and cared for she felt by the seniors ministry here at Springfield Baptist Church and also in DC at Rehoboth. She loved her pastors and her church family. She loved serving as president of the pastor’s aide and helping out where she could. Grams knew what she could do and what she couldn’t do and didn’t mind telling you no, if it was something she couldn’t do … or didn’t want to do.

Grams was a woman of faith. She believed deeply in the power of prayer. She was quick to tell us, “Just pray. Trust that it’s all gonna work out and pray about it.” 

She didn’t offer platitudes – Grams said what she meant and she meant what she said. And she had no problem with telling someone about themselves. “Listen, I’ll tell her about herself too.” And she would. When we were wrong, she told us about ourselves and got us straight. 

This was my grams though – she was the right mix of soft and hard. Grams was solid. It didn’t matter how much chaos swirled around us, or how transitional or volatile life got for us – I can speak for myself, my brother and my cousins Marcus and Joshua and say – she was our anchor, our sure thing. The one we knew we could count on and go to. She was compassionate and kind and listened well, but she was also a straight shooter. There was no in between. You were gonna know exactly where you stood and where she stood, and she could articulate her position well. This drew some people to her, others it sent away. Still, she was not one to sugar coat anything. 

She was determined. She was fierce. When she made her mind up about something, game over. That was it. She did things with excellence and she expected excellence in return. If the Queen of England had a black first cousin, it would be my Grandmother. She was a woman of regal bearing though she consider herself a low and humble country girl. She never thought highly of herself, but she carried herself with the stature of a queen. She loved hard and she loved deep. 

And family was what she lived for. When our great grandmother died, there was no question about who would assume the role of matriarch in our family. Grandma Bet was the gatherer. The place we all came to for meals each holiday or Sunday after church, lingering around her kitchen table. And whether you showed up or not, she’d say, “I’m gon have my food done.” Carrying on the traditions of her own momma, right down to hosting family Pokeno and bingo games at Christmas, family is deeply what she tried to instill in us all and pass down to us. I know without a shadow of a doubt, it is the one thing she would want us to carry forward. And I would be lying to tell you that I’ve done that well so I won’t. But I can offer her words that she often gave to me. She’d shake her head at me and say, “Tavette, family is all you got. When everyone else is gone, your family will always be there. I don’t care what they do to you or don’t do, that’s still your family. You got to love them and pray for them. And just do what you can cause they still your family.” And she meant that, there were no two ways about it when it came to Grandma’s family.

Grams was a good ancestor. And now she takes her rest among our ancestors, leaving us to remember, to reflect, and to respond. How will we live in the days to come? How will we honor the memory of Bettie? How will we continue her legacy? How can we also be good ancestors in the ways of our dear beloved, Bettie Mae. May those of us who loved her bear witness to the best of who she was as we live out our days. 

I found life in my grandmother and now I’m responsible for living out my grandmother’s life within me. I found strength in my grandmother and now I’m responsible for living out my grandmother’s strength within me.I found truth in my grandmother and now I’m responsible for living out my grandmother’s truth within me.I found radiance and a deep sense of peace and confidence in my grandmother and now I’m responsible for living out those values of grandmother’s life within me.

How did the life of Bettie Mae Eason Alford impact you? What did you find in the life of my Grandmother? What of her life can continue on in you? 

Day Eighteen...

All of my healed adult life, I’ve strived to be one thing: a good friend. A friend who listens. A friend who supports. A friend who is there. 

Almost ten years ago, we moved from Virginia to Georgia, and I remember the eerie silence of weekday living. Longing for Sunday when we would gather with others and I could be a friend. 

Eventually, friendship moved beyond the walls of the church and there were coffee dates, walks through the neighborhoods, wine and cookie nights, brunch bunch and eventually girls night out. But it all started from nothing - the pangs of not being known, of no girlfriends to interact with, laugh with.  

For years, my kids have been the bridge to adult friendships. Almost every significant friendship being forged as a result of our kids hanging out, but what happens when the kids are grown and gone and church is no longer a crutch? How do you make friends in a new town where you know absolutely no one? 

...Or am I being stripped of the one thing I pride myself in? Is this an invitation to apartness? Another wilderness journey? Another journey within? 

Or will I look back years from now and mark Day 18 as the day I sat at the coffee shop and sobbed. Trying desperately to hold on to gratitude for all the good things this season is pregnant with and yet feeling so unknown that it feels like a weight. Hiding my sorrow from a partner who knows me so intimately. His hugs trying to shoulder the pain of my aloneness without stepping into co-dependency. I love him for the way he sees me. Though no one person should ever be responsible for carrying the weight of knowing for another.

I find myself in that place once again as I did a decade ago - acclimating to the unknown so I can get used to new ways of knowing. 

What does fear feel like in me? Am I aware of the shape of my fear? It balloons like a child’s soapy bubble filled with the narrative that I may never find women friends. 

Me - introverted, hearing impaired, socially awkward. How and where do I put myself out there? How and where can I show myself a friend in this new place to find friends?

I wake up each day and sit on my mat, committed to loving the moment in front of me. To love this day, this place before I fully know it. I’m here to heal. I’m here to embody. I’m here to transform. I know it, but I don’t yet know the shape of it. And in the unknown, fear plays its fiddle. 

As harrowing as the thought of never making friends is, I just keep holding the yes of this new beginning in my heart with gratitude. This is how love will be formed within me. 

Airing Out

Do you ever allow your big questions to hit the air? Give them space to breathe and be? 

Have you ever deconstructed where people got the information they regurgitate from the pulpit? Lately I’ve realized that I didn’t choose Christianity, it was chosen for me. A tool of control and submission given to my ancestors to colonize and subordinate them. 

Even after the yoke of oppression was removed, many of my ancestors remained steeped in Christianity. One of my parrot phrases from a past life is that love requires a choice. And I believe that. But if that is true, then I must also have the freedom to choose Christianity. And I can honestly admit that I didn’t come into Christianity by choice. I came into it through fear of divine punishment and stayed with it because of the bait of divine reward. 

With ideas of divine retribution or heavenly inheritance laid to the side, it brings me back to that choice. How do I choose to relate to Love apart from reward or punishment? Does it require a label? An allegiance? I don’t know. I’m still unearthing what I was handed, musing on what is Truth and what has been acceptable interpretations of someone else’s interactions with Spirit or Sacred Texts.

But what  if Jesus was more a model for living in relationship with Divine Love than a mediator to right a wronged beginning? And what if God is more submissive participant than sovereign orchestrator?  

I’m musing, I admit. But I love how Jesus asked more questions than he answered. I love how he invited us in to mystery. I love how he didn’t feel compelled to name a thing. He just lived in Love, in union with His Abba.

I may not be sure about what I’ve been given, but I am certain about the love of Abba and Jesus, the one He sent. That love sustains me, keeps me from fleeing to agnosticism or atheism. Abba’s love anchors me to faith, to trust Him even as I pursue an artistic restoration of my religious artscape. I’m certain that underneath the palette of thousands of sermons and dabs of books there is a masterpiece waiting to breathe again.

 I’m also pretty sure that between the Alpha and Omega is a whole bunch of liminal space. And how we show up and live with ourselves, with creation and in concert with the Divine and one another is the dance of life within that sacred space. 

What big questions are stirring in your soul? Where is the breath of God inviting restoration and renewal?

Yin & Yang

Growing up, mad love was all I knew. Physical abuse. Verbal abuse. Manipulation. Domination. Control. I learned that love was heavy handed, not something to be enjoyed. There was no room for soft love, touchy feely love, smiles or kisses. And sex... Sex was something you endured to acquire love - even if that love hurt, caused pain, betrayed or turned into an elusive illusion. 

At 15, I fell into bad love and stayed entangled in his web, on and off, until freshman year in college. Bad love punched me, beat me, pushed me to the ground and cheated on me, boldly all while laughing in my face. But I resolved that bad love, mad love, a love that hurts was better than know love at all. This happens when you don’t know you’re worth. You’ll give away for free what you deem cheap. And so I stayed, worthless me, worth a booty call with no self-worth at all. 

When things got really bad, I’d hop in my Plymouth Horizon and drive almost 50 miles to RDU and stare at the airport lights. Grounding myself - dreaming, wishing, longing for the day when I could leave my life behind and reinvent another one. The lights seemed to promise a do over, a fresh start. 

But at the time, I had no idea darkness and light are one. That wherever I ran to, no matter how light the light, I’d take my darkness with me. All that negative energy. All those false beliefs. All of my doubts and fears. And when the Light sent Doug with his kind love, fun love, safe love, I didn’t know what to do with his goodness. So I tried to introduce him to my mad love, bad love. To reorient him to my normal. And, it almost worked a couple of times. But pure love is nothing if not persistent. 

It will anchor itself to Truth and burrow into the depths of you, purifying and cleansing like a rinsing agent. Pure love cannot be tainted. It is a force. It has a power all of its own. As bright white as pure light, translucent and sure, pure love just is.  

I didn’t know that by running to the light, I would be invited to face my darkness. I was told the two could not co-exist. That light casts out darkness. I was made to believe my darkness was bad, something I needed to cut off, purge, do away with. I thought if I ran to the light, every bad thing about my life, my history would disappear. But this is impossible because all natural light casts shadows. And there the light shines for us to see. To acknowledge. To sit with. To lament. To heal. To reconcile. 

Light and darkness is every human being’s yin and yang.

One Defining Moment

While Clayton isn’t the land of my birth, it is the town in which I came of age. The town of my firsts

.

First friend.

First shared secret.

First drink.

First enemy.

First frenemy.

First experience with racism.

First kiss.

First sexual encounter.

First rejection.

First betrayal.

First loss.

Clayton defined me, oriented my life’s existence. It taught me “othering” – classism, division and boundaries. Clayton had two faces. We were two worlds separated by train tracks. On our side I learned, we only have each other. Clayton taught me to fear the Confederate flag, that “friends” in class by day could very well be the children of men in white hoods who threatened to terrorize our side of town by night. Clayton taught me to know my place and to always be invisible. In Clayton, I learned the art of code switching. Clayton taught me that every black person is your cousin and to be careful doing it with your cousin ‘cause your baby could be retarded or deformed.

Clayton handed me everything bad that I wanted to escape. Heart ache. Heart break. Family drama. Abuse. In Clayton, I saw the best and the worst of people. Too young to know how to hold the tension, I didn’t understand how family members could talk about each other like a dog the minute a person walked out their grandmother’s door and hug each other and laugh and joke the next time they were together. This happened too amongst peers, and my black and white makeup didn’t know how to hold the gray. Too often I tipped the cup— spilling the secrets, exposing the whispered gossip—because I didn’t realize there was some code of behavior that we were to actualize. I am no saint. I made tons of messes, tons.

It wasn’t until I was grown that I realized I too was not safe. If they were talking about other folk to you, you can best believe they were talking about you to others. No one was exempt – not your momma, your auntie, or the person you call sister or best friend. Clayton is a town where everyone talked about everyone. You too were free game.

There is no love loss in my heart for Clayton. It symbolizes every bad thing about my life that I want to forget. And yet, until my momma joins my dad, I will keep coming back. But that’s actually NOT a bad thing.

Today, while riding through the town of Clayton, I noticed some brilliant city manager had launched a pride campaign. Banners in vibrant, primary colors hang on street poles that say: Think Clayton. Think Living; Think Clayton. Think Dining; Think Clayton. Think Night Life. My initial gut response to those banners was to snicker. Why would anyone want to move to Clayton? I thought. And what, besides fast food or BBQ could one possibly find to eat in Clayton? I derided. Night life? Don’t even get me started. This little po’ dunk town closes up like Fort Knox at 10pm. That quick. Within the span of two seconds, my entire being had seized and closed up, all while driving through the town. And there…there in the pit of cynicism, my pain that is my Clayton(noticed I said my because perception does not equal truth), I had an epiphany.

For decades now, I have been holding Clayton hostage to my pain and my judgment. Even though Clayton has undergone its own reformation without my permission, in my mind, Clayton would always be some small, rural po’ dunk town. My past experience clouded my perception and prevented me from accepting Clayton’s evolution. And today, in that moment of derision, I saw so clearly the brokenhearted, betrayed, rejected little girl and her Clayton chained together and stuck in a time warp from the 70s and the 80s. Clayton is my America that I do not want to make great again. At least the Clayton as I knew and experienced it. But today, I realized my lens was so cloudy with the past that I could not see the truth of today. And there, stuck in time, cemented in my pain and hellish memories, how I chose to interpret what I was seeing led to me not honoring or celebrating Clayton’s progress. And in the pause I had to wonder, if I can admit that the town has grown and changed and developed, how much more have the people in it evolved as well?

How often do we chain people to the perception of our last encounter with them? How often do we wrongly perceive others based on how they showed up when they were at their worst? How often do we not celebrate and honor change in people? What is it about a person’s evolution that frightens us? Or are we afraid of letting go of what we once believed to be true?  How challenging is it to let go of the past and allow something or someone to move on? Sit in that for a moment.

I will forever be a truth teller. I refuse to hide the ugly, messy places of my past. They are as much a part of me as the good. And I want to own them all. But I don’t want to be trapped there nor do I want to define anyone or anything by where they were in life when our past intersected.

Think about that town or that person. Hold them in your heart and offer a blessing to the Universe on their behalf. You go, ____, may you grow beyond my worst perception of you. ___, may you shatter every fallacy I’ve contrived in my mind about you. ___, may you glow as you grow.

You go, Clayton. You grow beyond my worst perception of you. I bless you to shatter every fallacy I’ve contrived in my mind about you. Here’s to letting go of my negative image and embracing you where you are today. Namaste.

Redefining Normal

If I've lived my life drinking coke and kool aid, eating fatback, neckbones, bologna and pig feet, I don't know that my diet is nutritionally hazardous. To me, it's normal. It's just what I eat.

It isn't until someone introduces me to better nutritional options and begins to teach me about the effects of inflammation has the root of all disease and healthy, living foods that I know differently. 

With this information in hand, I now have a choice. I can continue to consistently eat the things that endanger me and could possibly kill me. I can choose to solely eat things that bring me life. I can even mix the two "in moderation", if I so desire. 

Dysfunction is much like this. I didn't know my normal wasn't normal until I saw a healthier model for doing life and relationships. I didn’t realize the people and situations I was constantly exposing myself to was directly affecting the amount of inflammation around my heart. In a constant state of turmoil and emotional upheaval. So much unnecessary pain.

A friend suggested I follow a GAP diet for 30 days. Essentially, it’s an elimination diet that removes potential sources of pain, inflammation and allergic reactions to allow your body to get clean enough to notice and be aware of how it responds to certain foods. Sometimes we have to do this with toxic people and toxic situations, eliminate from our diet for a period of time before slowly reintroducing them to see how our heart responds to their presence.

After being introduced to and taught a healthier way of connecting, I now get to decide if I remain in dysfunction; if I choose solely to live in and cultivate healthy relationships; or if I live moderately, mixing the two. I’ve also noticed that after a period of extended elimination, while I can’t overindulge, I can tolerate some things that I once couldn’t stomach. 

The truth, whether food or relationships, remains the same. Only you get to decide how much dysfunction and unhealthiness you're going to participate in. Be kind to you and choose well.