A Note in Retrouvaille

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The coffee shop had changed so much over the years. Gone was the little electric stove in the corner, flanked by the worn, squeaky armchairs. The place had been repainted, the booths and tables redone. The names of the drinks had changed, the art on the walls ever rotating. Yes, it had changed a great deal.

But as she sat at an empty table near the window, the air around suffused with the scent of coffee and cream and the tap-taps of keyboards, words of thought floating over her head, she smiled, The vanilla chai cradled in her hands, she remembered why she loved this place, even now.

She could feel him in the chair across from her, feel his hand – warmed by his spiced chai – in hers, his thumb running over the backs of her fingers thoughtfully as they talked, sipped, and smiled. They had spent hours here together, learning each others’ worlds, minds, and hearts. She could see him smirk at her, how he loved to tease. She could feel his kiss as he lifted her hand to his lips. These things she would never forget. These things would make this little coffee shop infinitely precious and beautiful a spot, no matter how much it changed.

“I love you,” she whispered into her vanilla chai as she lifted the smooth sweetness to her lips, her words added to those already floating in air spiced with coffee, chocolate, and cream.

The Dreaded Heart Day

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St. Valentine’s Day is this Friday. It is upon us, and the longer I live, the more contempt and disdain do I find in my generation for this holiday. Sure, it’s been commercialized almost as much as Christmas, but I don’t understand the deep dislike. Even when I was single, I didn’t feel badly towards Valentine’s Day. I didn’t despair that I didn’t have someone to buy me flowers or anything, really. So often, the complaints that I hear about Valentine’s stem from anger at the reminder to those who are single that they are indeed that: single, and that there’s such a big expectation (gifts, flowers, dinner, sex), as well as disappointment when things don’t go as imagined, or don’t go at all. What I have noticed about these complaints is the direction in which they point; these complaints point at ourselves, what WE want, what WE expect out of Valentine’s Day. Isn’t the idea of Valentine’s Day pointing in the other direction, outward to others? Isn’t the point for us to show others how much we love them? Not just to sit and wait to be told how much we are loved. So I refused to fall into the trap of becoming bitter and angry about “Singles Awareness Day”.

Instead I turned my focus outward. Valentine’s Day became an excuse for me to especially remind those I loved that I did indeed love and appreciate them. In college, I bought flowers and cards from the sororities that were selling them for the occasion and charity and had them delivered to my best female friends. I bought snacks for my guy friends who had a wonderfully generous “open door” policy to their home. I enjoyed running around with my Valentine’s secrets hidden in my chest and in my smile.

When I began dating my husband, I will admit that Valentine’s became a bigger deal, particular our very first one together. I was desperate to detail out just how much I loved him – “how do I love thee, let me count the ways” and al that. Now, nine years removed from that particular February 14th, I caught myself at Hallmark the other day, about to buy a dozen sappy cards, telling my daughter that we “had lots of Valentines to buy”. The truth is: no, we didn’t. I didn’t. So I put them back and picked up one for my dear husband (which I cannot wait to give to him). I still plan on spending Thursday evening and Friday morning letting the people I love know that I love them and that I am so grateful for their presence in my life.

So, instead of hating on Valentine’s with all the “righteous” indignation and vehemence of our generation, maybe you can turn it outward and focus on telling those you love that you love them in simple, meaningful (and maybe even secret) ways.

Here’s to a restored faith in St. Valentine’s Day!

Failed Matchmaker

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Inspired by White Wolf CCP’s Changeling: The Lost game.

Matchmaker, Matchmaker, make me a match. Find me a find, catch me a catch!

What if you had an exact match? Something – no, someone – who looked just like you, is you in every respect? They aren’t just you; they are the you that you wish you could be. Wouldn’t that be amazing?

~

She had never intended to find it. Hell no! And she didn’t. It found her. Of course, by Arcadia’s curse, one was older, the other still young. They hardly looked alike anymore; rather like mismatched twins from different species.

If you could See, that is.

She seemed perfectly content, working in a chocolate shop on the swanky side of town. She didn’t live there, of course, but it wasn’t a bad job. Everyone needs money these days.

Christmas-time. Busy season as always. Parties to attend; hosts to impress; meaningless presents to be given.

She stood at the end of the counter, wrapping gift boxes. She had a way with paper, ribbon and scissors that was just short of magic, the shop owner liked to say. Her wrapping was the best in town; people came just to watch her make her creations. The shiny paper, the sparkling ribbons, the little decorative touches that she added: a curl here, a twist there, a double bow for flair.

It was Christmas Eve when it found her.

Six years old with eyes like shards of blue glass, sunken into a pale face devoid of emotion or expression.

The au pair left her at the wrapping table. “Stay here. I’ll be just a second.”

It was like something had turned her spine to ice inside her body. She saw that girl standing there, and it was then that she felt like her glamour shields were savagely ripped away. She stood there, a Changeling, naked before this child monster.

“I know what you are.” That was all it said, but that was enough.

The store was crowded, full to capacity. Surely it wouldn’t try here. That would give her time to run away. Start again. Somewhere, anywhere.

No. Her shears were gone.

“No second chances,” came the acidic hiss.

The shears sliced into her side, through flesh and blood, with nary a sound at all. She felt a chink inside her and stumbled back, blood pouring from the wound now vacated as it yanked back the scissors. Red streamed through her fingers as she grasped at her side. But resistance is futile.

The monster-child’s hand and dress were covered in her blood, making pink velvet ugly.

Somewhere there was a shriek; it sounded muffled, far away. The first sign that you are dying. Still holding her side, she blinked slowly. Once. Twice. It was still there, over her, ignoring the screams of her au pair. It pushed the woman away fiercely, violently. It only had one goal, after all. It wasn’t going to let her come back; it wasn’t going to let her exist.

“No second chances.”

It was going to watch her die, make sure she was gone. Already the store owner was calling 911, and people were shielding their children from the spilling blood when all the little ones wanted was to watch with rapt attention. The au pair, gutless woman that she was, cowered from the thing with the bloody shears.

She tried to make herself aware, call on her defenses, her abilities, but it just smiled.

“Anything you can do, I can do better…” Wretched song.

She was dying, she knew it. The blood was pooling on the floor now, staining white marble. Ouch! Something behind her pricked her fingers, something sharp.

A chocolate knife? Good enough.

It was less than pleased and screeched with all the rage of a 6-year-old as it pulled the small blade out of its shoulder. Loss of blood makes you dizzy, throws off your aim.

It became even angrier when a child-voice, like its own should have been, cried out. “Leave her alone, freak!”

“Stupid changeling. Stupid humans. Fine. Didn’t like it here anyway.”

The world went blurry along its edges; she was almost gone. It had won, no denying that.

Just as she was fading, it turned to her and grabbed her hair. “Not yet. You need to see this.”

Even amidst her blurred fading, it was like a nightmare. The kind that you see and feel, clearly and crisply. The very seams of the store tore away, the world turedn on its side, and a great horned beast, more terrifying than any horse, dragon, or chimera that can be imagined thundered through the break. The creature that sat atop it was infinitely more beautiful and infinitely more terrifying.

People screamed, children keened, humanity swooned.

It ran to him and he scooped it up with a look one part affection and one part disgust. It threw its arms around his neck and then gestured around.

“Merry Christmas, Daddy!”

Instead, he turned his eyes on her. “Time to go home, my pretty.”

She had been right. It was like someone lowering a curtain. No hope, no peace, no heaven. No second chances.

The Sound of a Pen Flying Over a Page

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I admit it, freely and wholly. I am a defender of the epistolary tradition. I LOVE writing cards and letters. In fact, I think “love” is too gentle a word for it. I cannot find a term for someone obsessed with writing letters. The closest I can come to it is graphomania,  [grapho-] (Greek) meaning ‘to write’. Just early this morning, I had my husband post a packet of close to ten, if not more, cards and letters for me so they would be sure to go out in the mail today. And, now, my fingers itch to write even more. I keep having names pop into my head of people whom I haven’t spoken to or heard from in a while and, with them, the urge to write a note. I try to be mindful of these urgings, because I never know what that person may be going through or if they could just use a smile and a surprise in their mailbox.

A friend of mine commented that she should hired me as her personal correspondent. I should think that I would like to be someone’s personal secretary, though, as I think about it, it would require a great deal of trust on the employer’s part, as your secretary becomes privy to all your personal business. It also requires said secretary to be a veritable strongbox of secrets and confidences. But I should think that I would enjoy it; learning someone’s voice, putting their heart down on paper, even if it is in my own “hand”. I would have made a very good secretary in the old style, though I have no ambition for power. The mere joy and privilege of being able to read and write and interpret would have been adventure enough for me.

I wish personal secretary was still an option for a career in this day and age. *sighs wistfully*

The Most Exquisite Pain

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It is the most gorgeous of oxymorons, the most beautiful of bondages. La Douleur Exquise. To see him makes  your heart race, catch your breath in a net and hold it captive, fluttering. To see her makes your heart ache as so that you wish  to die simply so it will stop. Every word they speak from them drops as a gem from their lips, each and any touch from them to you imprints itself upon your skin, a sensation that will never be forgotten. Glances are hoped for, time spent together analyzed and blushed over, and words just for you are harbored up, memorized, and replayed in the night dark with a thumping heart.

It is a pain that can feel like it lasts forever but can only be a moment in time, that moment when we spy them and, though we do not even know their name, we want them.

It is a pain that can last for years, our hearts suffering in silence, our tears hidden behind doors, that person whom we have known as long as we can remember but who does not see us as we wish to be seen.

It is the stuff of romance novels, the prologues of self-help books, and drippy-sappy fairy tales (the original versions, not the tinker-dust happy endings). And yet we have devised the most beautiful sounding phrase for one of the most painful prisons of the heart. Some people would say “How French!” but I say, “How human!” Our history of languages resounds with the most beautiful phrases for the darkest moments of life. There is a reason, after all, that the phrase “the most exquisite pain” exists.

Yeah. Let’s Talk About That, Shall We?

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I have been debating posting this for a day or two now, finding myself pretty sure that, if I did post it, that there would be backlash from probably more than one corner and I might even ostracize myself. But a friend posted something lit that fire in my gut again and I found my decision had been made. So, here we go.

Warning: this is rant so…yeah. It might contain some stronger language than I usual use and might make you angry. It might embarrass you. You are under no obligation to read it. You’ve been warned.

On Saturday Night Live this past weekend, they put on their “28 Reasons” sketch in honor (and I use that term VERY loosely) of Black History Month. In the sketch, the teacher of a class announces that it is Black History Month and then calls on the only three black students in the entire class to make their presentation. I know it was a joke and meant to be funny, but all it did was make me angry and insulted. I am deeply insulted at the even comedic use of slavery as an excuse for deference, advancement, etc. I do not believe in making people feel guilty for something that their ancestors may have done but has nothing to do with them today in 2014. I am the daughter of two Caribbean parents, so the likelihood of my ancestors being slaves is probably pretty strong. But I refuse to carry the grudge of anger, injustice, and chains that have never been mine, not even jokingly. It’s wrong and just as insensitive and wrong as the jerk over there making jokes about people, ANY people.

Years ago, one of my family members pointed out, while I was in college, that most of my friends were white. My reply to her question of, “Do you see anything wrong with this picture?” as she held up a photo of my friends and I was, “Nope, not a thing.” Let’s be totally honest here! Not a damn thing was wrong with that picture!

You might not hear this very often but it’s the truth: I am a black woman of privilege. I see myself as privileged in that I had my bachelor’s and master’s degrees under my belt by the age of 23, funded by scholarships that I applied for and earned based on my academics, not my skin color. I am privileged in that I had the opportunity to spend 6 wonderful years with my husband, living, working, and loving together as we learned how to be together. I am privileged in that we own our own home and that we are comfortable enough so that I have been able to stay home with my thirteen-month-old daughter since she was born. I am privileged in that I can go to the store and buy what I need when I need it, without worrying how I am going to pay for it. I am privileged in that I have the support of close family and friends. I am privileged in that I get to sit here and blog and share my experiences, heart, and mind, with whatever corners of the world choose to read it.

I hate generalizations. I hate accusations. I hate a sense of entitlement, that you should be treated differently or kowtowed to because “they should be damned sorry for what their family did” or whatever. Call me disloyal, call me an oreo or whatever you want, I don’t care. IT IS NOT RIGHT! I am not going to sit here and say that prejudice and racism do not exist; I would be a foolish, blind woman to believe or say so. Racism/prejudice/injustice exists, sure as the sun rises in the morning and sets in the evening. People earn less in jobs/careers, have lower positions, and are disrespected outright without cause, because of the color of their skin (white people included), but can also be so because of their religions, their sexual orientations, and their educations or lack thereof regardless of their talent or skill. I acknowledge it, I work against it as best I can in my community of life, but I refuse to live my live defined by it. How can I show love if I am always angry? How can I encourage others if I am always screaming? My loved ones are my loved ones, not colors or orientations or religions.  I was raised to be a person, not a color. And I will raise my daughter to be a person, not a color. I will raise her to love her fellow man, regardless of what is on the outside. I want her to be a girl and then a woman who looks at the hearts of those she meets and shows them hers. I want her to be strong in herself and her beliefs, but I do not want to raise her in anger or fear or hate. She was conceived in love, born into love, and I want her to live in love.

To circle this around to my original rant. Even when issues of hatred, resentment, and, yes, racism are played out as jokes, the idea that they are giving levity to the situation, it’s not funny. At least it’s not to me. I cannot tell you how often I have had to correct 8th grade students because they said things that they heard on shows like SNL and Tosh 2.0, thinking that they were funny but just came off as offensive and insulting. It’s a bad message to send, in my opinion. 

*sighs and climbs down from my soapbox* I think I was all over the place, but I think I am done.

Giving of Your Grace

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Everyone has a grace. Everyone has a talent, a means of making an impact. Everyone is blessed with a grace.

I sat for almost a full minute, looking at my hand as it land upon the clean lined pages of my notebook, grasping a pen. I sort of marveled at the sight. here is my grace, my talent. I have a few, yes, but this is what I have considered and cultivated specifically as a talent: my writing. (I really should have someone sketch my hand holding a pen someday.)

Everyone has a grace. A grace that allows us to fill a specific place in our community of life. Whether that grace is teaching, cooking, speaking the truth, listening, organizing, or driving others around, it is something that helps others, something that someone may need. You don’t know who or where or when but your grace is important. It is needed; it is vital. Some may not see your grace, or they may not understand it even if they do see it, but that will only affect your grace if you allow it to, if you let it. I’m not saying that it will be easy all the time, that it won’t be frustrating or saddening. But it will only stifle your grace if you allow it to stifle your heart.

Grace is not only a fluidity of motion, it is not only composure and aplomb under pressure. Grace is the giving of love and kindness and honesty and help to others no matter how they may react, how they may treat you or others.  Grace is how you react and respond to others, not how they react or respond to you. I’m not writing this to preach at anyone. It’s on my mind and spilling out my fingers. Writing is my grace. I am endeavoring to write honestly and lovingly and, moreover, boldly about my life. Not everyone will agree or be happy with what I write but, at the same time, I may be fortunate enough to encourage someone else or give their soul some refreshing. I don’t flatter myself in that I might change lives, but I hope that I can be at least the smallest bit of help to someone somewhere.

Your grace can be the simplest of things, such as offering an upset friend a hot beverage to calm them. It may not mean much to you, but it could just mean everything to them. Your grace is important to life; it is vital.

The Quiet Christian

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I am a Christian. I believe that Jesus is the Son of God. I believe that he came to earth, lived a life as a human being, spoke unapologetically of God, loved others, gave strength and help and forgiveness where it was most needed, and then gave his life, submitting to a gruesome death as a man whose innocence even the highest authority of the day did not and could not dispute.  I also believe that Jesus did not stay dead but rose up three days after his burial. I believe that it is my responsibility as a Christian to love others, to do good to them, and be as much of a help and a blessing as I can. I do not believe that it is my job to judge others, to tear them down, or destroy their hearts. That flies in the face everything that Christ stands for, in my mind and my heart.

What I realized this weekend is that I am a quiet Christian. As I was in worship service with others, I found myself focusing on the woman who was playing the piano and leading the singing. She was amazingly talented – beautiful voice, wonderful playing, and a passionate love for what she was doing. There was something in her personality that shone through that made me shrink back. In that instant, coupled with other thoughts I have had this weekend, I realized that I am a “quiet” Christian. I do not mean that I am embarrassed by or ashamed of my beliefs. What I mean is that I will rarely be found up front. When I was younger, in college, I sang on the worship team at church, as well as led the drama team. But that is not my forte anymore, at least I do not feel so. The older I get, the less I like to be in the “spotlight” of ministry. I like the behind-the-scenes, the quiet aspects and form of ministry. I’d rather be tidying the nursery, writing the script for the Christmas pageant, or sending cards and notes than being up front leading the congregation. That is where my grace lies

I am an introvert. I am a quiet person. I thrive in the things I can do that no one else but maybe one other person sees. In college, my favorite ministry was Secret Encouragers. We would encourage our student leaders in Student Christian Fellowship – our Servant Family – in secret – with cards, notes, email, and gifts. And we would help each other do so. I loved sneaking around leaving gifts and sending notes that no one would ever know were from me. I ran around campus in the early hours of the morning – fog still rolling off the flagstones – leaving cookies that I had just baked at the doors of professors, ministers, and counselors who deserved my thanks and some encouragement as finals week was about to commence. And I carried a warm heart with me all the day long afterward.

Maybe telling you this is counter-intuitive for a “quiet” person, but this blog is about honestly telling about my life. I enjoy the quiet things of ministry, which, sometimes, can take as much courage and vulnerability as getting up front and leading publicly. And I remember that my faith is one based on love and that any time I do one of these “little” things, even if God is never mentioned, it is a ministry of love. I am here to do good to and for others, to give hearts a boost, and souls some encouragement and soothing if I can. I never know if or when something I may write or text or say may connect with someone and grasp them out of a downward spiral. I cannot tell you how many times a note or card out of the blue has lifted my heart and stopped a downward path cold, nor can I ever say thank you enough for that little bit of love that was sent my way.

So while I may step out into the light every now and again, I know where my work of faith, my grace, my gift lies. It’s in the little things, the quiet things, the things that I may never know just how much they mean but that I want to do anyway just because I believe in it.

Superpowered Theory

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Here was the question posed to me: If you woke up in the morning and had superpowers, let’s say super strength and a healing factor, what would you do?

Honestly, I am not sure but I shall do my best to speculate. If I woke up in the morning with super strength, I would probably first figure it out by destroying a few things, namely my phone, which I grab on my way out of bed every morning as I stumble out to get the living room ready to take my daughter out of her crib for the morning. The thing would be smithereens in my hand, which would stun my still sleep-addled mind. I would crush the door frame that I grab hold of to gain my bearings in trying to understand what was going on. Then I’d try to lift our dresser, which took two grown and strong men to lift while it was EMPTY and WITHOUT the granite top and mirror attached. It would be like lifting Elizabeth.

Elizabeth. Oh, God.

Then I would start to freak out. I couldn’t touch Elizabeth. I couldn’t touch Ben. Not until I got this under control. I couldn’t take that risk. I could not hurt them. And I would burst into tears, inevitably waking Ben and blubbering to try to explain what cannot be explained in words alone.

The healing factor I would probably notice by the absence of my c-section scar, whose presence I haven’t been unaware of since the day it happened, naturally.

 

I know, not really your fun, oh-hey-I-have-superpowers moment. But realistic for me, I think.

The Ache of Being Wanted

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Vulnerability alert!

I got dolled up yesterday for Pretty Lipstick Day (random self-esteem booster days established by one of my best friends) and took my picture. Admittedly, it was rather good. I looked rather good. I was very surprised and even more so at the number of likes and comments that it got after I posted it. For the rest of the day, I felt an ache in my gut. And, if I am completely honest with myself, then I know what it is. It’s the ache for being admired, being wanted.

Oh, yes, I’m admired. I’m wanted. My husband adores me and I him. He shows me how much all the time. But, in the interest of honesty, I have to admit that it’s pretty awesome to be admired by others. My self-esteems was never really the best growing up, as you probably know, though it got a bit better in college as I became more comfortable with myself. However, it has never stopped my amazement and giddiness at being admired by others, both known and strangers. When I am told that I am beautiful, or mesmerizing (that was a bellydance goal for me), smiled at, flirted with, or lingered on, I admit that it feels good. Extremely good. It’s great when I am dressed up and trying to look really nice, and even more so when I’m just…well, me. And it makes me hungry for more.

We all have that ache for approval, that hunger to know that we are deemed “good enough” in the eyes of others. It’s not easy to admit because we are afraid that it might reveal us to be self-serving, arrogant, or even narcissistic. But that is not necessarily the case. It’s a very human ache to be wanted, to know that there is something about us that others find attractive, desirable, and good, and, moreover, to be told so, shown so. It’s the craving for the blush, for the warmth, the swell in our chest that come from being being admired. It makes us feel pretty or handsome, it makes us stand up straighter and walk a little taller, maybe even strut a little. And there is nothing wrong with that. No, we should not place our self-worth solely in the compliments of others; that would be unhealthy. But to deny that we, as interdependent creatures in a highly social environment (introvert or extrovert aside), do not desire admiration, to be wanted and desired, would be a lie.

Yes, I’ve been feeling that ache lately and also working to convince myself, not just you, that it is indeed OK. My self-esteem wars with my reason very often – forcing me to weigh out whether or not I have a right to the emotions that I feel – and, therefore, I do not feel like it is OK a lot of the time. So everything that I’ve just told you goes double for myself.

So, if you feel the ache, do not despair. It’s OK. I do, too. It’s not necessarily fun to feel that way but we can own it, admit it to ourselves, and realize that it is human and it is all right. We all feel that way and we can help each other out, make the ache a little less. Tell a friend, or someone that you just think it of, that they look nice today or that you miss them or enjoy being around them.