**LRIA = Love’s Reparations in Action. **
Why? Because for me, “Love’s Reparations” is bigger than poetry - it’s a movement.

Somebody cue Fabulous & NeYo “I’m a movement by myself…but I’m a force when we’re together. I’m good all by myself but you, you make me better.”

Yes, I did take down the original post for today. Why? Because. Today? It’s hard. To be in THAT place. To be reminded that while you ARE in THAT place, you are there ALONE. A few days ago, I mentioned that there were some things that I wasn’t going to talk about any more. Not that I don’t think my voice is valid, not that I don’t think I’m being heard or helpful but…sometimes, the world needs to just HEAR your silence, to just sit with it so they realize not only the validity of your words/views but of your feelings. And sometimes, silence speaks the loudest.

This morning, I made the mistake of letting myself go somewhere “mentally” that in it’s current state is not good for me emotionally or any other way. I’m irritated with myself right now because I keep turning that stuff over trying to find myself there. It shouldn’t be that hard. It just shouldn’t. So now, I’m nursing that old wound, the one I thought had scabbed over. It’s all good though. Or at least it will be.

Anyway, in lieu of what was originally posted, I’m doing a repost. Enjoy!

STRONG ENOUGH FOR A WOMAN - AS A WOMAN…BUT MADE FOR A MAN

Not feeling overly bloggish these days but…I need to rescue my blog from blog obscurity AND I told one of my girlfriends that I was going to finish at least one post that I’d started over the last couple of weeks & get it out there. Um…ok, so I’m going to do just that but just so you know, this ISN’T the entry I had intended to use. It is however, the one I NEED.

“Strong Enough for a woman, made for a man.” You remember that slogan, right? Secret deodorant?

I’ve been told that I’m a strong woman, a strong person. I don’t disagree with that assessment. Nor do I apologize for the strength. BUT…I’m also a woman who KNOWS she’s a woman, who likes her softer side, who knows when to let herself be vulnerable, when to call her strength into action. Who knows that it isn’t about being right – it’s about being appreciated, needed, respected, wanted…loved. Who knows that she doesn’t have to use her strength as a weapon AND right about now…I’d give anything to not have to be that strong woman – just for a little while.

To have someone hold my hand, tell me to “Shhhh….be still….rest yourself…”

To pick up the phone, hear you say a simple hello as I dissolve into tears while you say, “I’m on my way”.

To be able to just curl up on the sofa in a hug – warm, deep, inviting – a hug that says “You’re safe. I got you.”

To hear someone say, “You can let your guard down. I’ll keep the world at bay.”

To just BE in that space with someone who gets me – really gets me – both in terms of my words…and my silence. To just BE in that space with them. Letting the silence speak to us, for us, through us. Just being comfortable.

To have that one place where no masks are needed, walls are not allowed, fears are faced head on, judgment is tossed out the window, truth flows freely like oxygen, words mean what we say they mean. That place where you know – beyond a shadow of a doubt – that your safety (emotional, physical & otherwise) is first and foremost in that person’s mind. That giving you back your smile is all they want to do in that moment.

Maybe that’s really what I want. Not to forfeit, give up, or trade my strength. But to have a SAFE HAVEN. A place to go to rejuvenate. Rest. Replenish my spirit. Refresh my mind. A place where I can be vulnerable…and still be safe. A place where my worth is recognized – regardless of what I do…or don’t do. A place where I can simply be me – as silly as I want to be, as complicated as I am, kind, funny, tired…whatever combination of me exists at that moment…and it will be all good.

I’m blessed enough to have a few strong ports in the storm. (Pausing to say “Thank You” – you know who you are – it’s all love.) But I’m holding out for that one magical, mystical “Wal-Mart” of safe havens…where I can get everything I need, whenever I need it…24 hours a day, 7 days a week. The cost? The recognition that it’s okay to give into my weakness, my vulnerability some times. That it’s okay to let my guard down. That it’s okay to want or need someone…their strength, their energy, their honesty, their quiet spirit, their laughter, their warmth. To know not only that I want it, that I need it, but also that I truly deserve it, that it’s AUTHENTIC…and freely given.

Knowing that…admitting it…reflects a lot of growth. And it takes a lot of strength….courage…and wisdom. Right now, in THIS moment, I need you. I’m strong enough to admit that….are you strong enough to BE that? Cause right here, right now, in this moment, in this space - I can & do tell you this: I AM strong enough for a woman, strong enough AS a woman…but I’m MADE for a man.

ADDENDUM TO ORIGINAL POST: I don’t want to hear anybody’s statistics. Truth be told, statistics was never my thing…on any level. But what I can tell you & WILL tell you about me and statistics is this:

DEAR “ADAM”,
I AM READY TO HEAR THE RHETORIC & THE STATISTICS & LOVE YOU SO DEEPLY THAT THEY CAN’T EVEN IMAGINE HOW TO MEASURE IT.

LOVE ALWAYS,
“EVE”

That my lovelies? REAL TALK. Spoken with love, in love, for the sake of love. Always Love. ALWAYS.

Live DELICIOUSLY!
Love DEEPLY!
~ J~

::: NOTE: LRIA = Love’s Reparations in Action. :::

I’ve been wrestling with this post for almost two weeks, trying to find the words to explain this relationship epiphany I had. Friday, while trying to take my mind off the V.A. T.ech tragedy, I was clearing out emails, printing poetry so I can begin edits for my next collection. Oddly enough, I found this epiphany laced into several pieces.

It’s no secret that I’ve had my heart broken. It’s no secret that I’m a major cheerleader for LOVE, not that fake ‘margarine-type’ love but the real deal. It’s no secret that I don’t bad-mouth anyone that I dated or was interested in – I will tell the story of us (or the story of what I believed to be ‘us’ from my perspective in such a way that nobody is made out to be wrong. (Ain’t that grown? Well hang on cause the “grown-ness” continues.)

Late last year as I was licking my wounds so to speak, a thought came to mind about a “relationship” that I was told I imagined. It was a painful situation for a whole lot of reasons – the primary one being that it didn’t have to be. In the midst of all that pain (and anger – let’s keep it real), my initial thoughts were about how much I’d lost. Several months after that, many poems later, much prayer from self & beloved friends who didn’t know the details & didn’t ask, I realized that what I’d GIVEN to that friendship paled in comparison to what I got out of it.

Relationships are great teachers. I’d even go so far as to say that we learn our best lessons inside relationships (and that’s not confined to love relationships). Sometimes the lessons are easy, pretty, happy. Other times they’re hard, painful, dark. Maybe we learn them in the moment, sometimes we learn them long after the lesson (and the relationship) has ended. What I know and believe with my whole heart is that relationships aren’t about the other person – they are a mirror to show you your own stuff up close and personal and give you space to deal with them.

And so, “that” relationship – the one that had me painfully living out the title of my poetry collection? THAT “relationship” brought me so much more than it cost me. I didn’t realize it, not then but I guess that is the very thing that kept me from cursing his name, from going to that vengeful place, from hiding the beauty of me from the next person to come my way.

It brought me the birth of an epiphany (and yeah, there is a poem by that name). The epiphany? EACH RELATIONSHIP YOU ENGAGE IN SHOULD WALK YOU DEEPER INTO WHO YOU REALLY ARE.

Just typing that makes me smile. Think about it. Isn’t that what you want from your relationships, from your AUTHENTIC interactions with other people? To walk away being richer than when you came into them? Whether they last for a reason, a season or a lifetime. Think of the beauty of that. That is a powerful revelation. When you start interacting with people from that perspective - knowing that whatever the outcome you’ll walk away with a better understanding of yourself - you can and will leave your expectations and irrational fears at the door. You can then enjoy the interaction and embrace the lessons it brings.

Now, I got the nudge about that lesson as I was hobbling along the learning curve but being in pain, I pushed it off to the side. The catalyst for bringing it fully to my conscious was a different interaction. This interaction actually models it for me, makes it real, plain speak. Even in my moments of hesitation, in my being “allowed” to drive (for now ) – I see that I’m deeper inside who I really am, who I’m meant to be. See, even in the midst of all that pain, I saw something beautiful – little did I know that part of that beauty was my own reflection. And so, I want to get closer – to go beyond the surface, dig deeper into myself. What better way to do that than inside a friendship that challenges every comfort zone you have?

I look back and I can almost see in my mind’s eye where the hand-off happened. See that spot where the heartache started? That was the handoff. And you know what? It wasn’t about him walking away, not choosing me, not…whatever. It was about the fact that he was not my destination, he was simply a part of a beautiful journey…and he wasn’t meant to go any further. To have stayed there with him in that moment would have stunted my growth. I see that now. I won’t lie – I’ve had my “what-if” moments but I know now that in that moment, in that time and place, as beautiful as it was (and it was indeed a beautiful thang), it couldn’t be anything more than what it was no matter how much I may have wanted it to be.

Whew! I gotta pause right there and do my victory dance because Baby, whether you know it or not, that’s some emotional shackle-breaking real talk right there. If it don’t fit, don’t force it. And so it is also with matters of the heart. T.D. Jakes says “If people can walk away from you – for whatever reason, let them go – your destiny isn’t tied to the one who walks away.” He’s right – your destiny is tied to the one who stays…in the face of, in spite of, because of…for however long they’re mean to stay…to teach you, to mirror your stuff.

There’s a part two to my beautiful epiphany: Just as it is with life, LOVE IS A JOURNEY – NOT A DESTINATION – AND EVEN WHEN ‘THE ONE’ SHOWS UP, THE JOURNEY DOESN’T END. At that point, you’re just getting to the good part. Here’s to beautiful journeys.

Travel well my Lovelies, travel well.

Live DELICIOUSLY!
~ J ~

Excerpt: Abraham’s Daughter

Father’s Day memories

June 17, 2006

Rashaan,
I am sure you will find it odd to open your mailbox and see my letter tucked in with overdue bills and miscellaneous junk mail. Ironic, no? For my letter can seem like either an overdue bill itself or…junk mail. It has been an exercise in and of itself to write it and a battle to decide whether to actually mail it or not. Being who I am, (I wonder if you remember me accurately?), writing the letter was not really a choice. I had to. For my own sake. The choosing came in deciding whether to mail it or not. So I wrote it. Twelve pages. Layered with remembrance, stifled emotions, angry cursive letters…pain. I trudged to the post office on this rainy day to mail the letter. I had addressed it to you but chose not to include my return address or name. I feared you would see that as a caution sign and toss the letter to the side. Yet, the crotchety lady at the front window insisted that I include that information. In her nasally, annoying voice complete with neck rolling and gum popping, she postulated the inability to return the letter to me should it not make its way to you. I had not the strength to tell her that I never wanted to see this letter again. And so, I added some silly name and address to the letter which seemed to satisfy her.

I write this letter on the eve of Father’s Day. It is 11:16pm. Nine years to the day. I wonder if you remember. I’d been to a cookout earlier that evening while you hung out with your cousin G. The one you took to task for saying to me that I looked so fine, he could sop me up with a biscuit. As many times as I’ve heard that phrase I’ve never known anyone other than you to believe that it had sexual connotations. I hung out with my girlfriend B and her family but my mind was miles away. I had a bit of a secret and was biding my time before confirming what I already knew to be true. I waited until 10:30pm and made my exit from the cookout. I drove to Walmart in complete silence, praying that I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew. I reasoned that my chances of that happening were slim to none as I’d chosen a Walmart in a distant neighborhood. I shuffled slowly down the appointed aisle, perusing the large number of selections, reading packaging, and finally making my purchase.

I remember trying to hide it among several other miscellaneous purchases - an auto magazine, nasal spray, fuchsia tights, cough syrup. As my purchases were rung up, the young cashier appeared to be very bored, until she came to the kit. Suddenly she became animated and it seemed that her voice could be heard throughout the store. I died of embarrassment multiple times before she finally tossed my purchases in the familiar blue plastic bag and congratulated me. I rushed to the car, tossed my bag haphazardly in the back, and drove home.

At 11:50pm, I walked into the bathroom, opened the pregnancy test and followed the instructions even though I knew. I could’ve sworn that the blue X showed up in the circle before I even unzipped my pants. My suspicions were confirmed. I was pregnant. You were to be a father. At exactly 12:01am, I dialed your number. I could hear the sleep in your voice as I wished you Happy Father’s Day. I felt your smile, heard you say Thank you, tell me how sweet it was that I called you. Your boys weren’t in town yet and you didn’t anticipate speaking to them until later in the day.

You began to lay out your plans for the day, when you’d see them, and I interrupted to tell you again Happy Father’s Day and began to cry softly. I remember you asking, “Baby…are you alright?” I wasn’t. I was pregnant. We were just “friends”. It was Father’s Day. I couldn’t get beyond a tearful series of “Happy Father’s Day” mumblings. It finally dawned on you that this call, these tears were not about you and your boys. It was about us, a mightily fractured us. You would call my name, tell me that it would be okay, try to soothe over the pain and confusion with sugary words. You were ready to dress and drive across town but I did not want that. I needed time to really absorb this news, this change. I assured you that we’d have time to talk later in the day. You were skeptical but gave me that space.

I went to bed with my hand over my stomach, talking to my child, our daughter. Don’t ask me how I knew. I simply did. She told me that her name would be Maya, this child of ours and so, that is how I addressed her from then on.

Morning would find you at my door bearing orange juice, a pregnancy handbook, pickles, and chocolate. I can’t even imagine how strange your purchases must’ve seemed to the cashier. We sat silently, lost in our own respective thoughts. I remember you asking me if I was happy. I said yes. You asked if I was happy that this child was yours. I asked who else’s it could possibly be? I know it wasn’t an answer to your question. But you have to understand that, given you penchant for lacing up your shoes and running away, I was trying to shield myself for what I felt would come eventually even though I carried your legacy in my womb.

The next week brought a trip to an OB/GYN for confirmation. I didn’t want to tell people just yet – everyone says you should wait until you make it through the first trimester. Did you know that I told two of my best friends? I’m sure you suspected it though they would never have let on. I remember Corrine was also pregnant and the thought of our kids growing up together tickled us immensely. We settled into a routine, you and I – somehow trying to piece our relationship together without really calling it that. We began a series of discussions about names, cribs, and whatnot. Day to day, we told ourselves that we were building a family, that WE were truly and finally WE. I remember talking to our baby, Miss Maya Jerre, every day. First thing I did in the morning, last thing I did at night. The doctor said we were two and a half months along. He gave me all kinds of material to read, told me to relax, eat well, exercise…the same things he’d told me before the pregnancy. And so began our trip into parenthood.

It is strange that we somehow thought this child might save us, might bring us together. We thought it, maybe it hoped for it but we never spoke it aloud. I suppose that was too much pressure, even for an angel. The night before I was to cross from first trimester to second, I had a strange dream. I’ve never shared this with you before. Of this I’m sure. I merely tucked it away in my journal. In my dream, I saw our daughter, Miss Maya Jerre, walking along a path full of colorful wildflowers. I called out to her multiple times but she kept walking. She finally turned around, smiled at me and giggled before continuing her journey towards sunshine. I awoke to find tiny drops of blood on my favorite yellow sheets. I showered, dressed, and drove to the doctor’s office though I knew the outcome. Our daughter had decided that she could not stay here. I drove myself home in a stupor.

You called after work and I gave you the news. I couldn’t gauge your response but it didn’t matter. She was gone. You wanted to come over. I said no. You came anyway. I shared the appointment time with you. What I remember most about this is, feeling like I had to convince you to accompany me to the hospital. For me, that spelled the beginning of the end…again. I remember you called your job and gave them some lame excuse, and I wondered why you didn’t simply say that you needed to accompany me to the hospital for outpatient surgery. I remember sitting with my hands over my empty womb as if I could still feel our daughter there.

There weren’t a lot of emotions that morning as we entered the hospital. We were led to a small dressing room where I was asked to disrobe. I remember breaking down in tears at the moment, crumbling to the floor in pain. Wailing. You were so unsure of what to do, what to say. I know my pain was naked, raw, bubbling up and over the surface until I found myself curled up on the floor. You slid off the bench, pulling me into your arms which made me cry even harder. I suppose this wasn’t an uncommon scene for the hospital staff as no one came to check on us or remind us that we had X number of minutes until I needed to be taken into surgery.

Maybe I overdid it with my exposed pain because I remember you bringing me home, trudging to the store to get juice, broth, crackers, and then going home to your own place. I hated you in that moment. I really did. We just lost a child and you were rushing away from me. It never dawned on me until years later that you needed to grieve in your own way. I lay curled deep into my sofa, staring into space, hands once again across my stomach. This is where my memory gets foggy. For years, I told myself that we didn’t have any conversations after that, that we never discussed “trying” again. Maybe it was my way of protecting myself. We were heading nowhere fast, as usual and I didn’t have the strength to fight this downward spiral. I was hurting in new and different ways.

My friend Corinne went on to deliver a healthy son, her second. I remember getting an invite to a baby shower for your cousins Matthew and Jen who had finally adopted a child. Corinne’s son would be more than two years old before I could bear to see him, or to hold him. Corinne understood and never pushed or questioned. I avoided the baby shower for Matt and Jenn. I couldn’t take the pain of watching someone else welcome a baby home coupled with seeing you there. It was too much.

And so, here we are – years away from that loss. Two marriages later, both of them yours. Neither of them involving me. I am astounded by the fact that, as much as you relished fatherhood then, your relationship with your sons has deteriorated to the point that you didn’t even know you were a grandfather until the child was four. And I know you wonder what brought THIS letter on.

I happened to be in the park, just relaxing and unwinding from a long day at work. I saw a father pushing his daughter on the swings. She giggled carefree, begged to go higher which he obliged. Finally climbing down from the swings, she ran crookedly into his open arms, tossed her arms around his neck, and pressed messy kisses all over his face. He scooped her up, twirling her around as she laughed. Finally, she laid her head on his shoulder and said, “Daddy I had fun. I’m ready to go home now.” He kissed her forehead, smiled at me watching them, and said, “OK baby. Let’s go home. I love you Maya.”

I find myself sitting on another bench, wailing. Holding onto my empty stomach. No one’s here to hold me this time.

Always,
~ Tess

¸.•´ .•´¨¨)) Jackie Young -:¦:-
((¸¸.•´ ..•´ the original WRITE-OR-DIE chick… -:¦:-
-:¦:- ((¸¸.•´* Love’s Reparations…www.jackieyoungwrite.com