Release

My last day with the academy was June 30th. Momma finally retired from the social security administration (yes, she was one of the rude ones) on June 30th. Us both leaving a thing on the same day; there's no real significance here. At least, I  don't think there is. We got to celebrate her and love on each other as a family over the 4th of July weekend. Gathering together in love always pushes life back into this skin and these bones.

Called Ma as we inched closer to the house after the drive back down South. Day 1 of retirement: she's bored.

Relationships grow you. They show you where you thought you were, what you thought you worked on and out. They encourage you to deal with you so you can appropriately deal with others. They show you the real you.

Whenever we all get together some kind of blowup is inevitable: the personalities are strong, strong. And black people be arguing. We managed to get through the weekend with just a few murmurings, a few irritations, only two almost-blowups, and lots of apologies. Maybe that's growth. Or existential fatigue.

The Evangelist Missionary mother wanted a toast on the 4th. Her Highland Park crew sent her home with a personalized bottle of white wine (allegedly). As always, the day was filled with the kind of love you can't really describe. Love that evades how shallow your mouth might make it. Thankful for her and dad (pops, we had a ball) and all these divine beings taking up pre-destined space in my little universe. Thankful for all the love that comes around to help us become, the love that reminds us to breathe.

I owe love so much more love.

I'll never grow tired of talking about Mornings. They've done too much for and to me. Another opportunity to witness your breath, to witness yourself. To observe. I'm noticing how and why I've been bad to others. I see how and why I've been bad to me. I've been worried about repetition. Saying the same thing/s over and over and over again. In different ways. Some days, in the exact same way. I just heard something by Yrsa Daley-Ward on this, something along the lines of forgetting and remembering and repeat, and that repetition is an integral part of our everyday living. Which helps. So, here I am with the repetition. Again. Me, in my own hands, turning myself over and over and over. Again. While opening myself to the instructions buried beneath the stillness that is so much more accessible (and tangible) in this place I never grow tired of talking about.

Names ought to be whispered with delicious urgency in the shadows of a day ready to begin again. This is a kind of rebirth.

What are you hearing these days?

Roe v. Wade: 2022 Edition

Guns, fear, mayhem. A not-so-quiet stream of blood on their hands. Mine, too.

You won't break my soul?

Those who sow with tears will reap with songs of joy.

Those who go out weeping, carrying seed to sow, will return with songs of joy, carrying sheaves (fruits of the labor/the harvest) with them. (Psalm 126:5-6)

On the other side of a job. Facing down whatever is next. Coming to an understanding about the things that came undone. Still. And tuning into a frequency where the vibrations are suggesting it's time for that something. All things are made new.

My last with the academy was really June 30th.

Release the love, forget the rest.