I have a pain that rests so deep inside me that I often wonder where it came from.
When did I wake up in this agony that has been like a dull throb for all these decades?
The events of the past few days have unnerved me in a way that I thought I wouldn't see again after 2014. How naive of me, maybe too wishful of me, too hopeful that being "twice kissed by God's sun" would not be a cause for death.
Last Friday, I spent it on my sofa, prepping for the literary circle I run. It is my Sabbath. I just had coffee and wanted to read. By Monday, I had seen reports of non-melaninated folks crowding beaches in Orange City NJ and the Lake of the Ozarks MO, among other places.
It bothered me, in the midst of a pandemic, that they would be so callous with life. What happened to love thy neighbor as thyself? No mask, no physical distancing, just sweaty bodies in a crowded pool. I just wondered how long this would go on.
The thing that shouldn't have surprised me was that these were the same kind of people who descended on state capitols, held Governor's essentially hostage in their homes by surrounding it, and taking over state houses because they could not handle the discipline to just stay home. What happened to #AloneTogether when everyone was so afraid of this global killer? Perhaps when it was more elderly and melanin-rich folks who succumbed to Covid19. Maybe they think their blood is so superior and supreme that this virus wouldn't take them out, despite the revelation that the early deaths were folks who look like them. Why were they so impatient? Was a beer or brat or barber chair that important?
Memorial Day just had me shaking my head at them so much that I turned the news off.
I missed the brutal lynching in broad daylight in Minneapolis, I found out about that on Tuesday when I tuned into the news.
The Mayor of Minneapolis acted swiftly to call it for what it was, the result of 400 years of systemic oppression.
People came out in peaceful protest.
This was after people in Louisville KY, just a few weeks earlier, had to deal with the trauma of an essential worker, an EMT, literally slaughtered in her sleep through a no-knock raid in the middle-of-the-night at the wrong house for a suspect that was already in custody. It was too much to hold, so I had to finally tune out. It was not that far from this incident that a young man, just a few days shy of his birthday was targeted and lynched while on a jog. He was the same age as my youngest son.
What was I to do with all that pain?
In the middle of birthday celebrations and the week that was supposed to be my son's birthday, my birthday, and my daughter's graduation, news hit about a month's earlier slaughter of this young man.
My soul began to cry out, how long?
Solace seemed so far off.
I turned to the scriptures. I read over and over and over Psalm 37 and held onto the promises of it that evildoers do not have the final say. It comforted me when I could not be calm and felt my heart racing.
Today is Friday, and for the past two days, my news feed has been flooded by the anguish of the unheard, fires, and sheer emotion of a younger generation tired of being oppressed. My own daughters, sixteen and eighteen, respectively, said it was traumatizing, it was too much.
In the wee hours of this morning, I found that the imposter of a president essentially called for the mass shooting of melaninated folks. It was not surprising that he did that, he has been stoking those fires, literally and figuratively, since 2009. But it still seemed more than logic. At least Twitter got on the case, finally, after years of letting falsehoods and slander invade the decency of the office at the ends of tiny fingers on keyboards.
It was indeed too much.
This morning, I made a cake. It was something I could do. Remembering the comfort of comfort. I poured my love for my family into every whip of butter and eggs and flour and vanilla. I want them to know how much I love them.
My soul hurt from all that happened in the two almost three months that we began sheltering in place.
I cried out to the one who holds up the universe, How long?!!!!
In the middle of crying out, I stopped to remember how good God has been to me. Still Good. Still God. Still has the final say. And not that imposter god worshipped by flag waving, gun toting, fear mongering folks, no, my hope is in the God who parted the waters and calmed the seas, who indeed makes a way out-of-no way and gave voice to the oppressed.
This is a time. A time that feels like no other, yet is so familiar.
What I hope is that this will be it. The thing that will cause a change. The pain of so many so real, so tangible, surely there is empathy of fellow human beings who just want to breathe free.
Dare I to have hope?
Friday, May 29, 2020
Monday, May 4, 2020
The Morning Song
Listen.
The day is waking up.
It is the darkness easing out-of-the-way of the day emerging from her slumber.
The birds are chirping their chorus of praise for being alive to greet another day.
This is the time of the writers, the artists, the muse.
I was up and showered by 4:45am. I felt the nudge to get up and greet the day, even if it is another Covid19 Monday in physical distancing. My spirit was compelling me to get up, to be alert, to hear, deeply, the call of hope and wonder.
Today is also my youngest son's birthday and when it is an acceptable hour, I will give him a call at his home on the east coast. I was awake at precisely the time he was born, 3:22am. I listened to the night and then nudged back under the covers.
When all around is still, when nothing is moving, it is exactly the time to be present.
I stepped out into the dawning chill, my balcony held the night dew, and I looked out over the trees that are my daily landscape. I've lived in these highlands for a decade now and every morning, I remain in awe of the beauty that greets me.
The trees swayed, gently pulling back leaves from the earliest birds who rested on the branches. Light began to edge up over the mountains and penetrated the clouds with her burst of lavender. The community of the sky is calling to one another, chirps meeting bleeps, patterns in the the sounds, I inclined my ear and each one is very different. Oh the wonder of the One who created all this diversity!
How can I not marvel at what is still yet exquisite?
It is with intention that we must decide that we will see the unique, the mesmerizing, the beautiful in the middle of it all.
Noticing the trees, listening to the birds, feeling the morning breeze, reaching up to touch the untouchable, yet lifting hands in grateful admiration, that is what calls and compels us to know we will emerge again.
We will not always be inside looking out.
One day we will open our doors and when we do, I hope we step out with gratitude and appreciation.
The earth is renewing herself, that is also what I hear in the morning sounds. The birds can hear each other now, without the drones of man crowding out their symphony.
It is a fleeting moment.
And just like that, light ascends, darkness goes into her slumber, and a new opportunity presents itself to those who live in the day. What wonderful thing would be possible if we stopped and listened, noticed and observed?
I have been in my. home pretty much exclusively since March 11th, outside of a few necessary trips, my home has been my be-ing and dwell-ing place.
It is in the glancing around me and looking out at the majestic of a new morning that I am in no hurry to run out to concrete and big boxes. My breathes are deeper and longer. I feel surrounded by peace.
It is a gift.
A gift of just being alive.
Sing, then, birds in the trees outside my balcony. Sing to me, birds as you greet the day. The blue separates from the lavender from the rose hues behind the clouds, the day is calling us to notice her.
And be thankful.
The unwrapping of night into day, the early riser's gift, 5am - 6am, when the world slumbers that last bit before alarms sound and virtual work and virtual school dominates the day, that moment of just joy and appreciation.
That is my morning song.
The day is waking up.
It is the darkness easing out-of-the-way of the day emerging from her slumber.
 |
| When Light Emerges by Tayé Foster Bradshaw. c. 2020. |
The birds are chirping their chorus of praise for being alive to greet another day.
This is the time of the writers, the artists, the muse.
I was up and showered by 4:45am. I felt the nudge to get up and greet the day, even if it is another Covid19 Monday in physical distancing. My spirit was compelling me to get up, to be alert, to hear, deeply, the call of hope and wonder.
Today is also my youngest son's birthday and when it is an acceptable hour, I will give him a call at his home on the east coast. I was awake at precisely the time he was born, 3:22am. I listened to the night and then nudged back under the covers.
When all around is still, when nothing is moving, it is exactly the time to be present.
I stepped out into the dawning chill, my balcony held the night dew, and I looked out over the trees that are my daily landscape. I've lived in these highlands for a decade now and every morning, I remain in awe of the beauty that greets me.
The trees swayed, gently pulling back leaves from the earliest birds who rested on the branches. Light began to edge up over the mountains and penetrated the clouds with her burst of lavender. The community of the sky is calling to one another, chirps meeting bleeps, patterns in the the sounds, I inclined my ear and each one is very different. Oh the wonder of the One who created all this diversity!
How can I not marvel at what is still yet exquisite?
It is with intention that we must decide that we will see the unique, the mesmerizing, the beautiful in the middle of it all.
Noticing the trees, listening to the birds, feeling the morning breeze, reaching up to touch the untouchable, yet lifting hands in grateful admiration, that is what calls and compels us to know we will emerge again.
We will not always be inside looking out.
One day we will open our doors and when we do, I hope we step out with gratitude and appreciation.
The earth is renewing herself, that is also what I hear in the morning sounds. The birds can hear each other now, without the drones of man crowding out their symphony.
It is a fleeting moment.
And just like that, light ascends, darkness goes into her slumber, and a new opportunity presents itself to those who live in the day. What wonderful thing would be possible if we stopped and listened, noticed and observed?
I have been in my. home pretty much exclusively since March 11th, outside of a few necessary trips, my home has been my be-ing and dwell-ing place.
It is in the glancing around me and looking out at the majestic of a new morning that I am in no hurry to run out to concrete and big boxes. My breathes are deeper and longer. I feel surrounded by peace.
It is a gift.
A gift of just being alive.
Sing, then, birds in the trees outside my balcony. Sing to me, birds as you greet the day. The blue separates from the lavender from the rose hues behind the clouds, the day is calling us to notice her.
And be thankful.
The unwrapping of night into day, the early riser's gift, 5am - 6am, when the world slumbers that last bit before alarms sound and virtual work and virtual school dominates the day, that moment of just joy and appreciation.
That is my morning song.
 |
| The Morning Song by Tayé Foster Bradshaw. c. 2020 |
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