SERENDIPITY

What good fortune I have!! I've been wanting to line the perimeter of my backyard with these for the longest time and stumbled upon them today ... in bright beautiful orange. Three in a pot at Walmart for $4.98. Bought three pots. Will need more but it's a start for now. They spread like wildfire so we'll see. Yesterday at Home Depot they were 7 bucks for one ... much too much. And guess what? Sun today at 2:30 pm after spending six hours in the zoo with 22 first graders. There is a God.

Be well. Be Love(d).
---A.

I need a little help here folks.

I need someone to tell me what the sun looks like. Tell me how it feels against your skin. Remind me how it feels on your eyes as you wake to it breaking through the slats of your blinds, creeping through your curtains, spilling across your floor. Tell me what it feels like to have it betray the dust in the corners of your room; how it feels when it licks your back as you bend planting flowers. Describe for me a sunset and don't just tell me that the sky was orange, give me the exact shade and tell me if there are swirls of purple and blue with a tinge of pink. Tell me the degree to which it warms your heart as you hold hands with your lover, watching it settle just above the trees, as you both stare at it knowing that soon night will come and you will be curled in each others arms.

If you are anywhere else besides the East Coast, allow me to live vicariously through you. Give me my Sun back.

You see, for the past, oh I dunno, three weeks we've had nothing but gray skies here. And rain. And gray clouds. And rain. The forecast for the next seven days is, guess what? Rain. Just for laughs (as if it's even funny) our local meteorologist is tracking our weather side by side with Seattle. And isn't it just hilarious that we've bypassed Seattle rainfall? Oh, gosh it's so funny I can't stop laughing. According to him (the meteorologist) the last time we had a full day of sun (not partially sunny) was April 28th. After this past winter, I'm 'bout ready to pull out my Yellow Pages and find somebody to prescribe me some Wellbutrin. But the flip side of Wellbutrin is decreased libido and you know a sister can't roll like that. So I'm trying to hang. And since I know that complaining is a sure sign of spiritual immaturity, I won't do it.

So let's see. Friday was "getting-ready-for-Kid #1's-fourth-recital." All I kept saying to myself is....And this too shall pass. There's nothing worse than parents who think their kids are performing for the president; who drive their kids crazy and yell at them for not remembering the routine.

C'mon folks, they're only kids!!

Saturday was the performance and it was smashing. Kid 1 was beautiful and though she looked Stage Right one two many times, eyeing her instructor, I was still super proud of her for dancing in front of a sell out crowd in a black-as-night theatre, for enduring the madness that we so-called grown folks put them through, for going to every rehearsal with a smile on her face. Spouse gave her three beautiful pink roses afterward and I gave her a big squeeze, telling her I loved her and was super duper proud of her and she reminded us both that she's an Artist.

Monday, accompanied by our friends the Gray Clouds, Spouse and I took Kid 1 and Kid 2 to the shore to check out some campsites where we plan to camp once the weather breaks. We found a really neat place on the ocean, next to a wildlife preserve where the most beautiful horses and deer roam free. There's two miles of sandy beach, a fishing pier, a bicycle path, canoeing, boating and you know, all that outdoorsy stuff. It's been two years since we've camped and I just can't wait to get back out there. Just to lay outside listening to the night sounds, reading my poetry, sipping some wine................ah me.

So anyway, the ride was great (2 hours each way) and I had a great deal of time to catch up on my magazine reading. You know, the magazines you bought at the airport or snuck home from the doctor's office.....those articles you really wanted to check out but just never could find the time to read. You know what I mean. Senseless, on the road type of reading. So in a magazine I rarely buy but only bought last month because an excerpt of Susan-Lori Parks'debut novel is in it, I read something that really struck me, something I found worthy of ripping out and taping in my journal.

It's an interview of Maya Angelou who talks to veteran journalist Pamela Johnson.

PJ: What advice do you give young people who want to live a fulfilling life?

MA: Give yourself time to just be with yourself. Don't always try to work out problems when you're alone. Relax. Go for walks. Listen to kids laugh. Do tai chi so that you can breathe deeply and think more profoundly, and superficial questions won't plague your life so much.

PJ: Do you ever have "if only's"? Ever think, If only I'd made that left turn....

MA: No, no. I let it be. I very rarely acted intemperately. I could have done wiser things as many times as there are days. But I chose.

PJ: What gives you comfort?

MA: .....This morning, at about six, I was thinking about having been in Tuscany and sitting in the sun 25 years ago. And then I thought of having been in Ghana in a shower that opened out into the courtyard, where, if no one was there, I could just take my clothes off under that wonderful blue sky. I was thinking what delicious times I've had and am having, and hope to continue having as long as I am amused.

Intemperately: n. Lack of temperance
Temperance: n. Moderation and self-restraint

I was driving along thinking about Ms. Maya and the word Temperance and all the Buddhist teachings I've learned thus far. And what stood out in my mind most was the fundamental Buddhist belief in allowing things and thoughts and past actions to just Be. To permit the Self, at times, to just Be. In a meditation class I took a few weeks ago the teacher explained to us that there is no right and wrong way of meditation; the goal is not to control our thoughts, nor to try to direct our minds toward some nirvana-like feeling. We are not trying to feel blissful, dreaming of roses and sunsets, rather, we allow our thoughts to come, Be, and then move away. In doing this we become At One (notice the likeness to the word "atone") with ourselves, our thoughts and our mind. Meditation is not about control, it's about allowing thoughts to come and go.

I thought about all of the years I've beat myself up for not starting this novel when I was younger and without the distractions and responsibilities I have now; the circuitous route I took after graduating a year earlier than my class. I was a bright child who never had to study as much as my peers and when I did study I seemed to have a method that never failed. Whatever I was studying I strived for the ability to recite it and write it from memory. If I could do both, I knew I'd have it down pat come test time. I graduated high school at sixteen but took far too many detours. Though I finished college, I never alloted myself time to just Be. I never pursued the writing career I really wanted, rather, I did what was smart. Safe. Reasonable. I got a real job, making real money. But the heart .... the heart knows nothing about money. The heart only knows what's true. I spent too little time living alone and wanted company far too much.

Anyhow, I could go on for as long as there are days (as Maya says) but reading her statement made me realize that that is precisely what we/I must do. We must learn to allow things/decisions/thoughts to just Be. Looking back, I realize that I made the best decisions I knew how with the only information and the only wisdom I had at the time. At 19, I didn't have the wisdom I have now as a thirtysomething. I did what a 19 year old thought was best to do. I could have made better choices, I suppose, but still I chose. And that is the good thing. That for whatever it means, I chose. Life didn't happen to me. I chose.

Furthermore, every road I've traveled has dipped and curved and bent to lead me to where I am now. A mother of two with a profound awe and respect for the Earth and all living things, a Christian with strong Buddhist beliefs and practices who realizes that everything Christ taught is exactly what the Buddhists teach and strive to be in everyday life, rather than just on Sundays. I am an activist who believes in helping those who can't help themselves, who believes and practices recycling, knowing that the Earth can't possibly survive at the rate we're going. I am a mother, a writer of what I feel is poetry, a fiction writer, an artist. I am a person who will find the most banged up table at the bottom of a trash heap, take it home, paint it, cover it with tile and place it in my garden --- knowing that all things have the potential to be beautiful. I'm a person who never throws away a dying plant, rather, I return it to the Earth, at the far end of my yard where other living things like it are.

Everything I am now is the result of where I've been and the road ahead is bright and beautiful.

So, Ms. Maya, wherever you are, thank you for your ever inspiring words. Thank you for reminding me to just Be.

Be well. Be Love(d).
ANGEL

CULTURE

Last night I heard something on NPR that mirrored something else I heard a few weeks ago. An African man (country unspecified) was commenting about a previous segment on NPR in which author and activist, Michael Eric Dyson had said something to the effect of unfair high school testing situations in Florida. Now, since I didn't hear the original show I can't provide a whole lot of information about what district, tests, student body etc were being discussed. But the African man's comment struck me. He said, and I'm paraphrasing here, that the problem with the American education system is that we Americans focus too much on making children happy and comfortable. School is about academia, not about social interaction and wellness. We spend too much time adjusting these exams to fit the needs of the children; adjusting the school curriculum to fit the needs of the children; too much time developing sports and "good feeling" programs instead of focusing on the academics.

A week ago, an old co-worker and I ran into each other and got to talking about our kids. She has 3 children, two girls and a boy. She's Black American and married to an African physician. Her husband studied at an Ivy League school and is, I suppose by their definition, doing well for himself. She just pulled her oldest girl (kindergarten) out of a small Catholic school and enrolled her into, what is considered here, an "Ivy League" private school. It's considered "Ivy" because it costs about $15,000 a year. Mind you, the kid (and her other daughter) are going into first grade and kindergarten, respectively. It's predominately white, save for a few upscale Blacks here who can afford that kind of tuition. Personally, I don't think it takes $15,000 a year to educate a child, but hey that's me and that's a conversation for another day.

So anyway, her husband's take on the matter is: "School is not for socializing. School is where you go for education. Period. That's what's wrong with Americans (especially Black Americans), he says. You all worry about socializing too much when there are people who would give their right arm to have the choices you have here."

Well.

While I'd like to agree with the first comment about the standards being changed every time the wind blows too hard, I have to grossly disagree with the latter. School *IS* about socialization and it's also about education. What's sad about the matter is that this generation of parents today seem to have this whole thing mixed the hell up to the major detriment of the children. This generation is so achievement oriented that we are robbing the children of exactly what they need in order to achieve and be productive citizens in the first place. Parents are shuffling their kids from one activity to the next these days. Children don't play outside anymore, you have to call and make a "play date" or meet up at a "toddler gym." Children don't stay at the same school until they graduate, their parents are always in search of the elusive utopia --- the best school their taxed money can buy. The minute the teachers tell the parents their "walk-on-water" child has a problem, it's off to the races to find a New School. A Better School. Because something has *GOT* to be wrong with the old one.

Knowing how to get along with others, to respect differences, to make friends and be a friend is fundamental to human development. It's fundamental to success. How do you think Oprah became "Oprah?" and "Oxygen" and "O" Magazine? By just studying from sun up to sun down? No. Oprah has mastered the ability to empathize, to listen, to understand the plights of people. Same with Bill Gates. Bill Gates gives more money to the African people than any man on the planet. He is under no obligation whatsoever to give one dime to anyone. He gives more money to African countries than Bob Johnson who owns BET ... now what's up with that?
What I'm saying is, before I digress, is that a child's education and future well being has more to do with socialization than it does academics. Heck, a monkey can memorize times tables but can the same monkey lead a billion dollar enterprise? Can the same monkey sit down with the family of a dying patient and explain what's happening in terms that they can understand and deal with?

It's about striking balance. Each has it's place. Rob a child of the opportunity to socialize with their peers (peers that look like them as well as those who don't) and I swear you've got the next Jeffrey Dahmer, John Malveaux on your hands. I've worked with enough brilliant yet socially retarded physicians to last me a lifetime. Physicians who ought to have their licenses burned and fed to the hogs; whose bedside manners suck. Not to mention managers who couldn't lead a horse to a trough of water. You know what I'm saying.

So once again, on yet another rainy day, my heart grieves for the children.

Be well. Be Love(d).

ANGEL

PROGRESS NOTE

"When I am writing, I am in love, and there is not other place I'd rather be."...... Alex Haley

This is the only way I can describe the feeling of being in my zone. This morning, after bringing home my cup of joe from Dunkin D's, where six old black men sit every single morning talking shit, I set about running the dishwater intent upon washing up these dishes and mopping my floor. The old men were talking about today's music and reminiscing about Billie Holliday and the Temptations. They're the cutest old men (I love old people) and my mind started spinning ..... there's a story in there somewhere.....

Suddenly I was in the Zone.

I turned off the dishwater, opened the window, and opened up my prologue. I think I've got it. I think I've got it. I'm in the zone and right about now I'm feeling like Tim Duncan up in that Spurs camp. When you just know you're in that Zone and it's flowing and it's exactly what you want it to be.

It's funny because the epigraph for this novel says something about risk, that all of life is a risk and that if you choose life you choose risk. Kind of like love. If you chose love you chose pain and there's no getting one without having the other. And I was thinking of this and how it pertains to me, it would be that what I'm doing is surely a risk. Right now I should be working. I've got a contract gig and I know I need to be working but I can't help myself. I honestly can't. Writing is what I have to do. Believe me, if I could stop, I would. It's like a drug. I'm called to it the moment I wake up. I need it and when I don't get it, I'm a grouchy ass. I spend money on it, to perfect it. I yearn for it ... not for fame and certainly not for fortune. Like Michael Jordan once said, if I did this for the money than I'd definately qualify right now as the most underpaid person in the world. I've been writing over fifteen years, some things published, some things still waiting for a home. But that's okay. I do it for the love of the game. I know what I'm doing is a risk. Right now, if I tally up all of the time and the money I've spent over the years, I could have easily had an MD or a PhD and certainly an MBA by now. But I read something in Real Simple last night that really summed it up for me. A woman who lives in Ripton, Vermont and holds three different part time gigs says "My philosphy is to work as little as I have to in order to have the life I want.....the important thing is finding out what it is that makes a good day and figuring out what you need to get that." For her it means spending as much time as possible outdoors: gardening in summer, cross-country skiing in winter, driving her daughter to field trips. (She's a single parent). She says about Ripton: "Up here, people are more interested in their quality of life and what fills up their free time than where they're punching a time card." Makes sense to me. But I guess one could say there's a risk to having an approach like that. What kind of retirement will she have to look forward to many years from now? No 401K or pension when you're part time, I suppose. Risky. But then I think about those poor folks at Enron, that hedged their bets on working full time for the man, schlepping off to work everyday, giving their all and sinking their money into the company stock. What did it get them besides another twenty five years working for another man since there's no chance of retiring now.

I dunno.

All I can say is that for me, I'd rather hedge my bets on doing what I love to do. Falling into the Zone for two hours a day, coming out refreshed and renewed. Who knows where the road will lead any of us. The danger, from where I sit, lies in NOT doing what you love and meeting the end of your life with regrets.

So here I am with what I feel is a real solid prologue that only needs one or two more tweaks which I can work on later tonight. Then it's onto my synopsis so I can get the wrinkles in the plot ironed out which will be a major help with the revisions and cutting of unnecessary chapters.

Life is good.

Be well. Be Love(d).

ANGEL

GRATITUDE

"thankful for relaxation, complication, hibernation, and irrational seclusion, confusion, all my impurity, and insecurity.
cause i know it's God just perfecting me. that's why today i take life as it comes." ..... India.Arie....Voyage to India

Every now and then situations arise that force us to slow down, contemplate, think and find our way back to God.

Today I needed to take the MotherShip to the shop for new tires. It's gotten dangerous ... slipping and sliding every time it rains, which lately seems to be at least three days a week. No traction whatsoever and you know a sister can't roll like that with two little people in the MotherShip. So I took my knitting project with me, my prologue and a book I'm reading about self editing for fiction writers. I packed up my portable CD player (yea, I'm behind the times....no MP3 but that's okay) and a few CDs and planned to go across the street to the IHOP for breakfast. After I handed over the keys I remembered the five CDs recently recovered from my jammed CD player and grabbed them too.


Now, let me just digress a minute. I have been without the CD player in my car for almost four months. Shortly after the Voyage to India CD was released, as I was zipping down the highway, the CD player jammed up and all I could hear was metal against plastic. I nearly had a heart attack right there on the road. Honestly. Trapped in that CD player was Jill Scott (1 &2), the new Maxwell, the new India Arie, Remy Shands and .... oh dear Lord .... Sade. I cried and cried. I told Spouse he had to go to Sears and buy every tool he could find to get my CDs out of there. I know I shouldn't have even thought it, but I considered slipping a butter knife through the slot with the hope of at the least, the very least, getting my new Voyage to India CD. No chance. So for four months I've been stuck with nothing but radio.

Until yesterday.

The MotherShip has a brand new CD player, thanks to the good fortune of an Extended Warranty. So you know a sister is thankful to the most High right about now. And get this .... all of my CDs were recovered!

Okay. So today, after handing over the keys to the repairman, I walk over to the IHOP and sit down to breakfast all by my good ol' lonesome. I'm listening to India Arie's 2nd track, The Little Things and then I skip down to Track 15, God is Real.

"the sweetest honey to the brightest flower,
the largest planet to the smallest atom
snowflakes and the bird kingdom
smaller than the eye can see
bigger than the mind can conceive..."


And for some reason, as the mind will often do, I got to thinking about Luther Vandross. Tears filled my eyes as I thought about the very fact that today I am alive. I am well. I am in good health. I have the good fortune of waking up, taking my vehicle in for servicing and eating a decent meal. I have the good fortune that I don't have to run at breakneck speed, risking my life, to get to someone's 9-5. I have the good fortune that I am not trapped behind the walls of a 2x4 cubicle .... not because I am infinitely wealthy but because I live within my means. I thought of Kid 1 and Kid 2 and I thought of Spouse who, despite all his quirks, is really a good man. He worries about me. He is always concerned about me. And though he isn't an artist, he understands that I am. He gives me my space and does everything he can do to support my goals. I thought about the few true friends I have and I saw them as a full glass. Not a glass half empty or even half full....but Full. I thought of my new friend Nakachi and how nice it was to check my email last night and see that she had sent me a note and had been thinking of me ..... I thought of another new person I met recently.... a woman in her sixties named Andrea, who has raised her children and is now at the stage of traveling and doing all the solitary stuff she's wanted to do for years --- pottery, writing, etc. She reminds me that time will pass too quickly; she encourages me to enjoy my children (despite all the busyness) because they are only with me for a season. I thought of the tomatoes that I planted yesterday, in a big old cedar bucket....the green peppers....the oregano and sweet basil....all in pots. I thought of how delightful it will be to watch them all go from seeds to full fledge vegetables and tasty herbs.

As I sat there thinking about all of these things, I thought of Luther. I thought of all the money he has and all of the places he's been and the people he knows. I thought of how exquisite his home must be and all of the snapshots we've seen over the years in Ebony. The personal theater, the kitchen that makes mine look like a matchbox. I thought of the sell out crowds he's sung to, the personal stylists, make up artists, wardrobe people.... and I thought of how none of it, not one bit of it matters now. I thought of him in his hospital room, probably wearing only a standard issue hospital gown, connected to hard plastic wires with intravenous lines tangled like spaghetti, clinging to life by the grace of God and potent drugs to keep him pain free. I thought of all the years he's battled with his weight, struggling up and down and back up again. Struggling to protect his heart and his brain from what inevitably happened....a massive stroke. Struggling to protect his ego and integrity from what people have always speculated upon .... is he or isn't he gay? .... and how none of it, not one bit of it matters now.

I hope that Luther's spirit is somewhere, undergoing transition to rise from here to a better place. I wish him, as Nakachi would say, peace and elevation. I hope that his spirit has had some peace over the years it's been on this planet, in this Universe. Because we know that though we may see a person smiling on the outside, it sho' don't mean they're smiling on the inside.

Today, I am practicing simple gratitude for all that I have and all that I don't. Whatever I don't have is not a sign of lack, but merely a sign that it isn't for me to have right now. It doesn't mean I'll never have whatever it is. It simply means that I don't have it now, for reasons that only the Divine One knows. It means that it's one less thing for me to concern myself about and it means that whatever it is that I want, all I need to do is sprinkle it with a positive affirmation or two, fertilize it with only good thoughts and wait for it to materialize. And if whatever it is never materializes then it just means that it wasn't in the Divine Plan, which in all actuality is the only Plan that really matters.


I'm not letting this rain spoil my mood, rather I'm grateful for it, allowing it to sprinkle down on my spongy twists.....so grateful that it is here and that it will feed all the vegetation around me, which will in turn produce more oxygen for me to breathe. I am thankful for my lungs that are not marred with tar and carcinogens ... but are healthy and able to bring in that oxygen which feeds my brain and enables me to write. I am thankful that I have my two good eyes and my fingers to pluck away at this keyboard ... that I am not waiting on a nurse to come and turn me or feed me or clean the stool from underneath my behind that has soaked my sheets. Today, I'm not focusing on terror alerts that I can't do anything about. I'm not focusing on SARS that I can't do anything about. I'm not focusing on the things I can't afford. I'm not even focusing on the book deal that I want so badly I can taste it in my mouth. I'm focusing on the life I've been given simply through Grace.

Thank you, thank you, thank you God.

Thank you for today.

I encourage you to do the same. To call on the name of God, whatever you perceive him or her to be. Just for today, be thankful that you are alive.

Be well. Be love(d).
ANGEL

HARLEM ON THE BRAIN



If I had my way today would be a federal holiday.
It was the autobiography written about this man that started my wheels turning many many moons ago, that got me to thinking about the nature of things in this country, where we assume there to be a democracy. He was my first history lesson, discovered haphazardly after turning down the wrong aisle in the public library (cause you know a sister has had her own library card since she was old enough to sign her name in cursive, right?) Putting his religious affiliation aside, the man was onto something and as I walked down 125th Street in Harlem this weekend I thought of him. I thought of Langston and Eubie, Zora and Countee, Duke and the band, Cab, W.E.B. Dubois and all of my ancestors who walked those streets before me, who had something to say and said it; who were entertainment for no-one and would have rather died poor in their graves than serve as bafoon-sellout-negroes like these cats today. Alice Walker says she has a sign over her desk that reads "I Work For the Ancestors." It's a simple reminder to never worry about what her critics have to say, never to worry about how/why her work is so often misunderstood, but to always remember that is because of the ancestors that she is here today.

I can't help but wish I'd have been born back then. Times were tough but man, just think what it would have been like to be in Harlem back in those days. Think what it would have been like to sit in the parlor room of one of those big old brownstones, sipping a smooth one and talking shit with Jimmy Baldwin, Lorraine Hansberry, Zora Neale and Langston. Think what it would have been like to walk down Lenox Avenue, heading over to the Cotton Club for some good food and smooth jazz, wearing white gloves and top hats, back in the days when women kept their bodies covered till they got back home to the bedroom and men didn't dream of coming out of the house with clothes that weren't tailored, pressed into creases so sharp you could slice your hand in half and bleed to death. Men that smelled good and women that dripped with sensuality without showing it all off. Genteel brothers and sisters, you know what I'm saying?? Men that didn't ask you to spend your hard earned thirteen dollars and ninety nine cents for eight sorry ass tracks, sampled off of some other guy's record, that tell you all day long you ain't nothing but a bitch / ho / piece of ass. Women who knew how to sing. I'm talking Aretha Franklin type of singing. I'm talking Patti LaBelle, Rachelle Farrell type of singing, where the mouth gets all twisted up and ugly...but the words coming out are as beautiful as doves set free in the blue wash of morning.

Walking through Harlem, I couldn't help but feel blessed to be part of a heritage such as my own. But the sad thing about Harlem is the same sad thing about Brooklyn, Baltimore Maryland, Washington DC and parts of Boston, I suppose. The sad truth of gentrification. On Saturday, I parked the MotherShip in front of the most beautiful strip of newly renovated brownstones facing Marcus Garvey Park. For kicks, I wrote down the name and tel number of the developer just to get an idea of the pricing/availability. Right. So I calls them today, right, and the woman tells me the property has been "posted" since 1999, when the renovations first began. Pre-approval applications were submitted way back then. The organization has just about 30 units and over 5,000 applications. These beautiful brownstones have been chopped in half and half again and then in half again -- they aren't brownstones anymore, but condos within brownstone shells. 2-3 bedrooms ranging from $250,000 - the mid $300's. Now that may sound steep but anyone with the money looking to buy a condo on the island of Manhattan knows that that's a straight up steal. Though Harlem is still city, it's not like the congested midtown area nor the Greenwich Village area where the streets are so tight and narrow you better not even think of trying to park anything bigger than a Saturn.
Harlem is making a major comeback but in a majorly different way. Old Navy is up in there now. The Disney Store is up in there and so is Magic Johnson with his theatre.
When big businesses like those move in and price tags like the above go up, you know what's going down. And so what was dificult for me, walking through Harlem is the sad truth that many of the residents don't know the value of property ownership and don't understand that the money they're spending in that Old Navy could be pooled together and used for the betterment of their lives and the preservation of their heritage. But hey, maybe I'm being pessimistic. Maybe I'm the only one who sees something wrong with the removal of the original marquee at the Apollo, replaced by a red digital clock-looking structure. Maybe it just means we're moving on up in the world.
The downtown folks are ready to mingle with us .... on the Upper West Side (cause you know they don't tell folks they live in Harlem, they call it the Upper West Side.
Maybe they're thinking that it's time we just all live together as one .... fulfill Martin's dream....


Yea right.

Oh, and before I forget, we need to keep an eye on this and spread the word. Until all of us are free, none of us are free.

Be Well, Folks. Be Love(d).
A

bye, bye lakers. it's been real.

PLAN B

......contract re-evaluated.....post 9-11.....healthcare costs.....soaring.....budget deficit.....state spending.....not profitable.....got...to...lay...some...people...off.

...do you remember the part in Waiting to Exhale when Angela Bassett and Wesley Snipes were sitting in the bar of a hotel and Angela said to Wesley, something like, "It's not the fact that he left me for a white woman that hurts so bad, it's the fact that I didn't have a Plan B.

I'm curious, how many people these days have a Plan B? I mean a Real Plan B? An out? An around? An "If this happens then this is what I can step over to" type of plan? Well, at the jive ass mandatory meeting the other day, we were very sorrowfully informed that layoffs are imminent and folks can plan to be out of work come June 27th. One week of severance pay for every year you've been employed with the company. Yea. Folks were up in that room looking all shocked and befuddled, asking all kinds of questions that ain't nobody up in corporate able or willing to answer. I wasn't shocked and I wasn't befuddled and I damn sure wasn't asking any questions. You see, I was raised by a SBW (S does double duty as Strong and Single) who taught her 6 kids--especially her four girls, of which I am one--to always, always have a Plan B. That goes for career, relationships....everything. Be willing and able to walk at any given time. Mama said to always let your love for a man outweigh your need .... in other words, make sure you can roll at any given time. Keep an up to date resume, make sure you don't burn bridges cause you never know which one you might have to cross again.
Last November, I knew it was time to make a change. I was full time but working for this company full time was taking too much of my mind energy away and since we know that writing is only second to God and my family, I HAD to make a change. So, January 1st I switched to contract status and decided that I NEED to finish my novel. I'm a writer not a worker. I made up my mind to eliminate my debt .... let's face it, the only reason we work is because we've got bills to pay, right? The fewer bills you have the less you really have to work, right? .... and to devote as much of my time to writing and submitting as I possibly could. But what I also did was called up another company and got a gig doing contract work for them too. So I 've been working the two ends since January. Not having two jobs....just having a Plan B.

So, today, knowing that the jive ass gig is soon to be over, I stepped out with a polished resume, fresh off my printer, and landed another gig....contract mind you....to replace the outgoing gig. Plan B. And so my girlfriend who is full time with the jive ass gig, said the main thing that's bothering her (she's likely to be eliminated since she just came on board) is that she didn't have a Plan B. And though she's marketable, I don't think she's as savvy. Oh well. Hard lesson learned.

Always, always have a Plan B.

On another note: Kudos to Nakachi for putting her Sisterfriend cape on, zipping it up to the neck, and helping StarMama in a major time of need. StarMama didn't just get a car, she got a van....a MotherShip for her and her little man. Go on StarMama, you rock that MotherShip. And Nakachi, you are too damn fly. I can't wait till you get to my side.

Last: So instead of worrying about the future yesterday and getting myself all tied in a knot, I figured it was time to go hit up Circuit City for a little bit of this. It's the best thing I've bought since Jill Scott. I'm definately diggin' it.

....and now, off to the races to pack. I'm going home.


Be well. Be Love(d).
ANGEL

MY ONE GOOD NERVE

......so, okay, i get this email last night at 5:55 pm from my manager informing me and the rest of the staff that there is a mandatory staff meeting on thursday at 10:00 am....."clear your calendars immediately...we will be discussing the new state contract." hmpf! first off, i'm a contract employee, i get paid for the work i do. you give me no 401K, no stock option, no health benefits and you're telling me something is mandatory? excuse me, but the last time i checked my american heritage, MANDATORY meant: "required, obligatory, needed, essential" and there ain't a damn thing essential or obligatory about your meeting or this state contract. i have no interest in talking about something that is not malleable....the state issues the dictum, we do what we're told. what's there to discuss? furthermore, i've got some stencil work to do in my kitchen, some more rows to knit on my scarf that's looking too fly (by the way, Nakachi i found two knitting books. now all i need to do is learn that purl stitch and learn how to read a pattern)....i've got to wash and re-twist my hair cause a sister is rolling up to Harlem USA this weekend and you know the wig has GOT to be looking good....i've got some polishing i need to do to that prologue, poems i need to prune and some i need to print out for this chapbook i'm putting together (cause you know a sister is all about kuchichagulia and ain't waiting around for some white man at some university journal to look at my stuff and say okay, it's good enough now).....no, no, no....a sister has got work to do. do you hear me? WORK! not your paycheck at the end of a long-ass week when i'm too tired to even get to the bank and got more bills than your money is covering anyway. i'm talking about life work. PURPOSE. i'm not talking about you and your jack rabbits sitting around a crowded ass conference table in a too small room staring at each other and listening to you talk too damn long when it's 75 beautiful degrees outside and i'm jonesing for some serious san francisco and some poetry and a vibe meeting with my girl nakachi where we can spin rainbows that swirl up and around and through our nappiness and talk about our plans to make this world a better place by teaching the young folks how to read and write and express themselves and maybe, just maybe we can take our groove to africa and cuba and brazil and places where the indigenous folks are just waiting, waiting, waiting for someone with some real HEART to show up cause po' folks can't just survive offa your rice shipments....i ain't talking about your work. i'm talking 'bout what i got to do before i die. that's what i'm talking about.
so you can take your jive ass mandatory meeting somewhere else cause right about now a sister is totally feeling virginia woolf and that room of one's own and the cash flow to make it so.

be well. be love(d).
angel

MONDAYS

Yeck. Bleck. Phooey. Mondays.

I'll bet a dollar to a donut that if someone drew a titre on me I'd have serious proof that I'm allergic to Mondays. Thank God I'm not on anybody's 9-5. I swear I'da been fired today.

Tired since the minute I opened my eyes but worked on my prologue today. I totally dismantled the original prologue as it was written in two parts, the POV of the protagonist and then the POV of his wife. Sort of like a "here's my version of the story," and "here's my version." I decided that 1) that's been done too many times before; 2) it doesn't clearly establish the theme; 3) it doesn't clearly establish the tone of the narrator. Thanks to American cinema, readers today are impatient. They want the skinny as soon as they can get it, myself included. When I'm in a bookstore, skimming, I read the first 2-5 pages. If I'm not hooked by then the book goes back on the shelf. I'm a very discriminating reader; I don't go in for real life stories turned fiction and I can smell a get rich quick writer from a mile away. You know the kind. The ones who take their life and put it on the page and just change the names. I don't go in for baby-mama-drama stories and I definately don't want to read anymore stories about four black women trying to get their groove back. I look (and strive for) good writing, where attention has been paid to craft, where patience has been applied, where good hard editing and revision has been done. So, even though I absolutely loved my original prologue and readers have felt the language was strong, it didn't serve the story.
So I guess you can say that I am indeed growing as a writer. There was a time that if I wrote it, it had to stay there. I'd fight you like Ike Turner if you tried to chip away my work. Now I realize that good writing is good editing, the ability to understand that it ain't personal--it's business. It's the business of delivering a good story. So if it doesn't serve the story in some positive, forward-moving, defining way then it's got to go.

What's this got to do with Mondays? Nothing I guess. Just an acknowledgement that Mondays are as good (or bad) as you make them.

On another note: what do you do when you're firmly planted somewhere but your heart is pulling you somewhere else? I'm jonesing for California. West Coast. Something different. Want to be near some water and above all else want to be someplace less conservative than here. I'm a nappy artist-mother-teacher-liberal ... what in the world am I doing here ??????

Be Well. Be love(d).
ANGEL

SUNSHINE AND RAIN

The other night I dreamed about X, my ex. We were together for a long time. Too long. I dream about him at least once a week, not because I'm wanting him or anything remotely close. It's because, as I chose to believe, all is spiritual and spirits that connect in the fashion ours did never seem to completely disconnect. I will always have memory of him, this I know. And if there is one thing the fairy godmother could grant me, if there is such a thing, is complete absolution of all thought, all memory of this man. It would outweigh any financial gain I could ever wish for.

This man broke my heart. Let me say it again, he broke my heart. He destroyed the very fabric of our relationship, ripped the trust right out of the seat and left my ass flapping in the wind. He didn't leave me; I wish he had. I was the one that did the leaving. But one thing I have to thank him for today is that he made me a woman. He showed me, through his deceit and mishandling of my love, how strong I really am. He showed me that I am a survivor; that I can and will make it through just about anything. He helped me establish the standard for all men who were to follow; through him I learned what I would and would not tolerate, what I did and did not deserve, what I was and was not willing to do for love. He helped me understand that being alone does not mean being lonely and that even if it does feel lonely, it's an emotion that's sure to pass. He returned me to a life of silence; I write today, in large part, because of him. In my silence, I learned to listen to the drumbeat of my own heart instead of focusing on his. He taught me that the only one who can save you is yourself. He taught me that everyday that I have breath in my body is a good day. His deceit returned the sway in my hips, put the curl back in my hair (after chopping most of it off), put a smile back on my face. The old folks always say, If ain't good to you, it ain't good for you. This is true. He helped me recognize Love when it really arrived, knocking ever-so-softly on my door; when it sat on my step, cross-legged, waiting patiently for me to return.

All I can say is this: who's to say that all friends must be safe? Maybe their sole purpose is to teach us and ours is to love and learn. The trouble with relationships is that the pain in love is mixed with joy and good; you take both or you get nothing at all. And so you rest a while, knowing that this too shall pass.

Be well. Be love(d).
ANGEL

Everytime you meet a healthy, happy adult some mother somewhere has done her job.
Happy Mama's Day.

THE WORK

Writing a short story is an overnight camping trip. Writing a novel is a cross-country trek with your family and all your stuff. If you start a novel, you've got to accept the fact that you'll be two or three years older by the time you finish it.

Writing a novel--though there are surprises in it--takes much more planning and commitment. It's like suing somebody. Before you sue somebody you'd better make sure you're going to still be mad at them in five years. When you begin writing a novel, you've got to make sure that what you go in for is still going to be hot for you three or four years down the road.....Ron Carlson

A novel is a work of the imagination, largely, and depends on the daily discovery of things happening. You know pretty much what your route is, but you don't know everything that's lying along that route. And so the element of imagination in a novel is crucial....Paul Theroux

If I don't thank God for anything else, I thank God for my children, my spouse and my closest friends. Most of my closest friends, the ones to whom I turn for sage advice, are all significantly older than I am. I'm talking early fifties. These women teach me how to live with grace; they teach me how to be a better mother, helping me to understand that trouble don't last always, reminding me frequently that no matter what I'm going through, no matter what I'm worrying about this week, THIS TOO SHALL PASS. I can count these friends on one hand, but that doesn't matter to me. I don't need a whole slew of friends. I need the ones I have.

I called my very closest friend, P, author of this on Friday. I needed some affirmations, quick. In an earlier post I know I mentioned that at the tail end of my novel I just couldn't work on the computer anymore. The white screen was putting me to sleep and I had some other stuff causing me to block in a major way. I decided to go back to my tried and true method: writing longhand. Somehow, writing longhand on my notepad took away all the anxiety, all the formality. Curled up on my couch with peppermint tea, I felt like I was just writing a letter or writing in my journal. It didn't feel formal and therefore it carried no emotional weight. I must have written and revised over twenty chapters by hand and needless to say, once I wrote THE END, all of that stuff had to be typed. Well, it's been a haul but Friday afternoon I typed the last bit of it and now, my entire novel is typed and printed and ready for revision. It's ready.

Knowing this sent me into a full blown panic. All of a sudden it came to me that this is it. Now comes the hard work. Can you do it? Can you really pull it off? Will M (the agent) want it? Will he be able to sell it? Oh sweet Jesus .... full blown panic. So I called P on her cell phone cause I knew she'd understand and as usual, she gave me some very sage advice. She reminded me that every writer, every every writer, goes through this. She told me about her friend, a well published fiction writer, who now earns a seven figure advance on every book, who still goes through sheer panic when she submits her manuscripts. She told me about her own panic when her book was finished, wondering if anyone would ever buy it. She reminded me that these are nothing but thoughts and actually, wayward negative spirits looking for a home. She reminded me that I need to acknowledge them and send them on their way. She said, "You've come too far, you've made sacrifices that not many people are willing to make. Dreams are one thing, but action is another. You've put action behind your dreams. It's here. It's your time. Keep going."

I took a deep inhale, then exhale and thanked God for my friend. P is right. I've spent on books, tapes and conferences what some women spend on furs and diamonds. I've quit working full time. I've stared two overdue car payments in the face so I can write full time and work part time. I've left my kids with Spouse to go up to the mountains for weekends in silence to write. I've pinched from here, there and everywhere for a laser printer, paper, books on craft. I didn't come this far to stop. I didn't come this far to be afraid. I didn't come this far to drown in fear.

So yesterday, as I read the Daily Word, I affirmed that I'm focusing on the desired outcome rather than the obstacles and negative thoughts. I'm forging ahead, no matter what. I'm thinking about the product rather than the process, realizing that what another novelist friend said to me many moons ago is still true: Professional presentation of your VERY BEST work will get attention from an intelligent reader every time. Set high standards for yourself and expect it from your reader. There is no magic, no tricks, just the work.

Be well. Be Love(d). Kiss a Mother.

ANGEL

HELP ME UNDERSTAND

For the life of me, I can't get my mind around this thing we're calling ADHD. Now, I understand the children (God help them) that have true chemical imbalances but what's up with all the others whose parents take the quick fix -- Ritalin, Adderal, etc -- just to keep their kids in line and "functional" at school.

A work associate quasi-friend asked me the following question today, which still has my head spinning.

She: "Do you think three back-to-back dance classes on Monday evening (1.5 hours), swimming on Tuesday (1 hour), Piano on Wednesday (1 hour) and Gymnastics on Friday is too much for "A" to do next school year."

Fact: "A" is her daughter. "A" is five years old.

Me: "Yes I do."

She: "Why?"

Me: "A" is going into first grade, which is a lot different than kindergarten. A is still a child who needs a good night's rest. A has the rest of her life to learn the plethora of stuff you want her to learn. A needs to master reading, writing and arithmetic if she's to amount to anything in life. A shouldn't be encouraged to be a jack of all trades, master of none. A has already told you she hates piano and really has no interest in dance (other than hip hop, which she's too young for). You, on the other hand, are already complaining about the ripping and running you have to do, the little time you have for yourself. You need to realize that your kids are only with you for a season, afta' while they are going to have a life of their own --- what will you have to show for yours?"

She: "Hhmm..."

I don't understand parents these days. I really don't. They wonder why their kids can't sit still, can't focus, can't complete simple tasks. Kids today have no sense of creativity; they have parent monitored activities day in and day out. Whatever happened to creative play? Coloring with $1.99 Crayola Crayons? Skipping rope in the driveway, blowing bubbles, modeling some Play Doh? Nothing in this society promotes solitude, creativity. Nothing. And what's up with this play group nonsense, with parents sitting on the sidelines telling Johnny to share the ball with Jozie. When I was a kid, which wasn't long ago, we learned how to work our shit out between ourselves. If Gwen wanted to be on my team when we busted out the kickball and Sharon wanted to be on my team too, then we flipped a coin. If Larry wanted the yellow broom for our version of hockey and Gwen grabbed it first, then somebody else ran in the house and got another broom. We didn't need mediation. And if Gwen stopped speaking to Sharon, nobody's mother got on the phone calling the other one's mother up and wanting to know what happened. They just weren't speaking and that's all there was too it. We didn't need knee pads....we scraped our knees, ran in the house and grabbed some Mechurochome, slapped some Vaseline on it and called it a day. Played until we were hot, black and sweaty, praying that street light wouldn't come on so we could keep playing some more. But kids and their parents today? A whole different breed.

Now, I'm all for some extracurricular activity. Kid#1 has been dancing since she was four. Three years now. She has a dancer's body and she's been doing a ballet/jazz combo class this year. She wants to learn how to swim, so we JUST signed her up at the Y on Saturday mornings, 10:45 after the morning Dunkin Donut's coffee. $65 bucks, flat fee. And I did it now since there's only one more month left of school and it won't hurt anything. That's it. Dance is Friday evening and swimming is Saturday morning. That's it. No rippin' and runnin' in the middle of the week, losing sleep and falling flat on the face come school time. Not having it. I explained to Kid#1 that education is first priority. And she understands.

Me personally, I decided to forego any semblance of summer day camp this year. Even the YMCA camp. I need a rest. And Kid#1 needs a break too. She needs to bake in the sun, blow bubbles that will ride up to the clouds, then come in the house and paint a picture of it, like she loves to do. She needs to jump in the YMCA pool without worrying about hair getting wet and needing to be combed for school. She needs to sleep as long as she wants in the morning so her 42 pound body can grow.
Nah' mean? I need to wake up without my heart racing, knowing I've got to get her across town to school. I need a break. And I'm having one.

As for these other parents, hmpf! They can run themselves crazy if they want to. Hmpf! And they wonder why Ritalin and Prozac are jumping off the shelves.

Valentines To Give Your Children

Acceptance. Teach them they are loved for what they are. Give this gift with a kiss.

Self-Confidence. Help them understand that they can trust themselves. Give this gift with a hug.

Life Without Needless Fears. Don't let them see you as a worrier. Give this gift with laughter.

Appreciation. Help them become a person who has a spark and enjoys all of life and everything around them. Give this gift as they go out the door.

Faith. Introduce them to God, the best friend they will ever have. Give this gift by teaching them to pray.

Be well. Be Love(d).
ANGEL

Six Degrees, Six Degrees

I've got Kem on the spinner, Pepsi in the cup and some serious thoughts about the Six Degrees of Separation.
Check this out.

A treasured, treasured friend of mine joined me at Seattle's Best Coffee a few months ago when I was in major funk mode and desperately needing that tall caramel latte and some good convo. You know the convo I'm talking about. Convo about nothing and everything. Anyway, sister girl has been away from her art for a long time for various and asundry reasons. But like all artists, she's making her return. Anyway, she shared with me that she's getting back into knitting, a passion she's had for years. She's so into it again that she now wants to write a book, a history of knitting in the black community.

She:, "Girl, I can't find anything. I went down to the Schomburg and there's a whole slew of stuff on quilting (you know, quilting is the Fab 5 thing right now) but there's nothing out there about black women who knit."

Me: "There's got to be something," sucking in the sweet scent of that caramel, not feeling the least bit of guilt about leaving my kids for a few hours.

She: "I'm telling you. I looked. I searched. I've been online. I walked through Harlem. If there's something, I don't know where it is. Are there any black women knitting out there.

Me: "There are."

And so I proceed to tell her about a Sunday morning show that profiled a young black sister who learned knitting from her granny, went to NYC and studied fashion design at FIT, and has knitted some of the most fierce gowns I've ever seen.

She: "What's her name?"

Me: "Can't remember," knowing not to dare try and pull up that kind of information in my mind at a time like that when the dark winter sky is kicking my ass and I can barely keep myself from calling up a therapist.

So, I told her that if I ever ran across the info, any info again, I'd share it. So she's moving forward with writing her book and wants to get a proposal out to an agent and see what happens. She also plans/wants to do a book about contemporary knitters (read: young, black sisters knitting ... not the grannies). Okay. I told her, as we were leaving that last time, Hmm...maybe I'll try my hand at knitting. You should, she says, it's very relaxing. Okay.

Next time we get together, same place, she brings me two needles and the most beautiful magenta yarn. Give it a try, she says. Okay.

We get together today and whaddya know...I got it! I'm hooked (no pun). I'm knitting at the stoplight on the way home.
But the bigger thing is, which has my mind working, is that it wasn't until I clicked on a few links at Nakachi's site that I saw that yes, there are some fierce, fierce young sister knitters out here. Designing. Knitting. Selling. (Nakachi: do you knit???) And so I call up girlfriend and say Get online girl. I've got some links for you to check out. So I sent here here, here, and here to get started. And nnow girlfriend is bubbling over because here it is, Universe has connected her to the people she's been looking for. These are the sisters she's looking for. This is the stuff she wants in her book. She wants the world to know that it ain't all about those little afghan sweaters that the white women are knitting. The sisters are doing what we've always done as Black people ... taking it to the next level. So she's planning to spend tonight navigating some of the links I sent to her. We'll see what happens.

I believe that we are all connected in some large, magnificent way. God will see you through to where you need to be. And it's just when you think there ain't a damn thing going on in your life and why, oh why does it seem like things just ain't coming together.....that's the time to trust and know that things are unfolding just as they should whether you're aware of it or not. I like to quote the Desiderata:

You are a child of the Universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the Universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore, be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be. And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Be well. Be Love(d).
I've got novel revisions to do and my first scarf to work on.

Oh, and thanks Nakachi. Once again.
---ANGEL

THE NECESSARY


Sometime this winter a very strange feeling began to set in. Shortly after my 34th birthday, I started feeling this intense desire to be alone. I’m always reflective around that time; I like to think of it as my personal New Year. For me, it’s a time of looking back and forward; a time of evaluating where I am, where I want to be, and what I need to do to get there. It’s a time of planning: setting goals and timeframes, writing out my affirmations. But last year, there was something more than reflection going on. It was deeper. I was winding down to the last few chapters of my novel and for the life of me I just couldn’t get it down. I couldn’t figure out what was going on. It seemed my mind was so full, overrun with thoughts, lists of things to do, people to call, places to go, things to drop off and pick up. Even at rest, my mind was still going. When I tried to sit down at the computer to work on my novel, nothing would come. I’d stare at the blank white screen, typing for the sake of typing, only to wind up the next morning reading stuff that had nothing to do with my story. It was like taking a left turn instead of a right and instead of pausing to look at a map, reason things out, you keep going only to wind up a hundred miles out of the way. During that time I was also part of an online writer’s group. There were no critiques going on but lots of emails and opinions and ideas. To sum it up, there was just a lot of chi (energy, activity) and what I now realize was just noise going on in my space. A melancholy feeling set in; I wasn’t making near the progress I’d wanted to. I began attributing it to the weather—the older I get, the more profound my aversion is to Northeast winters. I attributed it to the lack of light, even ran over to Home Depot and bought some forced hyacinths. Now, that did wonders for my mood and the scent in my house was heavenly for two good weeks but after that it was just the same old melancholy. No progress on the novel, nor my essays. No poems. Nothing. I began to think (quite ridiculously) that I should stop writing altogether. Maybe, like Alice Walker has recently said, I have said all I have to say. Maybe there isn’t anything left to write about. After all, I have been writing for over a decade. Maybe this is it. Maybe I need to consider other avenues of expression. Maybe, I just need to put this novel aside and begin the next. Maybe. So I thought on this for a while and then, as the Universe does, the name of a book came to me; a book that a work friend had recommended to me a few years back when Kid#1 was just a toddler and Kid #2 was on the way and I was lamenting about balancing motherhood/career/writing/marriage. It wasn’t until I jumped over to Amazon, ordered the book and read the following that it all made sense:


“For a long time now, every meeting with another human being has been a collision. I feel too much, sense too much, am exhausted by the reverberations after even the simplest conversation …. I often feel exhausted, but it is not my work that tires (work is a rest); it is the effort of pushing away the lives and needs of others before I can come to my work with any freshness and zest.”

“The things I cannot stand, that make me flare up like a cat making a fat tail, are pretensiousness, smugness, the coarse grain that often shows itself in a turn of phrase. I hate vulgarity, coarseness of soul. I hate small talk with a passionate hatred. Why? I suppose because any meeting with another human being is collision for me now. It is always expensive, and I will not waste my time. It is never a waste of time to be outdoors, and never a waste of time to lie down and rest for even a couple of hours. It is then that images float up and then that I plan my work. But it is a waste of time to see people who have only a social surface to show. I will make every effort to find out the real person, but if I can’t, then I am upset and cross. Time wasted is poison.”
---May Sarton, Journal of a Solitude, The Intimate Diary of a Year in the Life of a Creative Woman.


And then I jumped over to a very familiar place, and re-read something I’d read a while ago:


“Every person, especially every woman, should be alone sometime during the year, some part of each week, and each day. How revolutionary that sounds and how impossible of an attainment. To many women such a program seems quite out of reach.They have no extra income to spend on a vacation for themselves; no time left over from the weekly drudgery of housework for a day off; no energy after the daily cooking, cleaning and washing for even an hour of creative solitude. Is then an economic problem? I do not think so….If women were convinced that a day off or an hour of solitude was a reasonable ambition, they would find a way of attaining it.

…It is more a question of inner convictions than of outer pressures, though, of course, the outer pressures are there and make it more difficult. As far as the search for solitude is concerned, we live in a negative atmosphere as invisible, as all pervasive, and as enervating as an August afternoon. The world today does not understand, in either man or woman, the need to be alone.

…If one sets aside time for a business appointment, a trip to the hairdresser, a social engagement, or a shopping expedition, that time is accepted as inviolable. But if one says: I cannot come because that is my hour to be alone, one is considered rude, egotistical or strange. What a commentary on our civilization, when being alone is considered suspect; when one has to apologize for it, make excuses, hide the fact that one practices it—like a secret vice!

…Actually, these are amongst the most important times in one’s life—when one is alone. Certain springs are tapped only when we are alone. The artist knows he must be alone to create; the writer to work out his thoughts; the musician to compose; the saint to pray. But women need solitude in order to find again the true essence of themselves; that firm strand which will be the indispensable center of a whole web of human relationships.”
---Ann Morrow Lindbergh, Gifts From the Sea.


And so, after I meditated on the above, I knew what I needed to do. I needed to go inside myself and I knew I needed more than just a day off or some time alone. I needed to cultivate a life of solitude. And so this is why I can completely understand what girlfriend Nakachi means when she writes:

"i live a solitary life, never spending more than a few hours a week in the company of others. i find people exhausting and intensely troubling. the more time i spend with them the more i invest emotionally and there is frighteningly little return. if i could sell a fraction of the stock i've acquired in dead love and aggravation on the real market, i could make you rich. so i keep my distance from the herd in an effort to ration my emotions."


I am alone these days. I send less email so there’s less to answer. I steer clear of the Funk Masters: you know, the people who are never happy unless mess is stirred up, who always need to call you and let you know what’s going down. People who see the glass half empty, ALL the time. People who have all the questions and don’t want to take the time to find their own answers. People who use up a whole hour of your time telling you about the man/woman that’s doing them wrong and what should they do and once you tell them what they should do, give you a thousand reasons why they can’t do it. People are exhausting. And it’s only after I started cultivating my life of solitude have I seen the wellspring of creativity that lies within. It was only after being alone, settling into my aloneness, getting comfy and pouring a glass of tea with it, that I’ve seen how absolutely necessary it is for my vocation as a writer, as an artist.

Be well. Be Love(d).
Angel

SOMETIMES, SOMETIMES ...

Found this over at Stacey Ann Chin's site. There's nothing like a sister that just know's how to just "Be."

An entry from her blog ...
I have ten minutes the record the blur of voices chorus blending in my head. Today I am certain of who I am. More certain of the woman I wish to be. I am so happy it is warming up. My spirit has carried winter for far too long.

Sometimes you don't be knowing the reason the universe is pushing at you. It is good when you finally decide to stop pushing back. Sometimes you have to move an inch downstream, to push a yard up.

It is warm. I am drinking peach iced tea. The world is not perfect, but I belong to the group trying to make it better. Some days that has to be enough. Somedays you cannot dance with the dark flick of insanity. Sometimes the view is good without the rose tinted glasses.

I hear you, Ms. Stacey.

Yesterday, I needed to touch the Mother. I needed her to tell me that it's gon' be aiight even though all outward measures appear that I should not have left my full time gig. You know how it is when you take a leap of faith. Those bills that you thought just "disappeared" somehow make a miraculous recovery. So needless to say I'm checking the caller i.d. before i answer the phone. The other thing is, people just seem to come out of the woodwork when they know you're *only* working fpart time. Excuse me, but who said I'm only working part time? I have two kids under the age of seven. Therefore, regardless of my employment status, I am still working full time. My sister wants to know if I can keep her two kids while she goes off to Puerto Rico for a week. Right. I have a 750 page novel that I need to revise and cut in less than half, two kids who are constantly following me around the house, major yard work to do, lavendar and tomatoes to plant, Kid #1's ballet recital is the 24th, my good friend S is getting married in June, my poems and short stories need to be edited so I can get it all over to Kinko's to be put in book form (remember the chapbook??) .... need I go on? So I'm exercising my right to say, No I can't help you. Too many things to do. And then there's the nagging thought that comes and goes "Do you really know where you're going with this novel?" "When are you EVER going to be done?" "Don't you know that So-And-So just got a book deal for her third book and you're STILL working on this same one that you've been on for the past two years." "Give it up. You've got two kids to raise." I don't know where the thoughts come from but they come. They came yesterday. And that's why I knew it was time to talk to Mother.

I am talking about Gaia, Mother Earth. I needed to touch her, feel her in my palms. I needed her to remind me that the novel is already done, it just needs a little tweaking. I needed her to tell remind me that all is well and that you don't get the life you want, you get the life you need. I needed her to remind me that all things come in right time, due time and though it may feel like progress is slow, it is happening according to the Master Plan. So I went and got my hoe and my trowel and my wheelbarrow and headed off to the side of my house, where some serious de-weeding was in order. I raised the hoe high above my head, brought it down with force right into the center of a thick patch of overgrown grass and wild weeds. I raised it again and CHOP! again...CHOP!...again CHOP! The breaths came quick, a thin film of sweat collected above my brows. I raised it again....CHOP! The feeling was addictive. I reached down, picked up what had been chopped and hurled it over my shoulder into my wheelbarrow. CHOP! And then I discovered some leaves, curled and brown, nestled in betwen the branches of my azaleas (which I don't particularly care for but the previous owner planted them and I don't yet have the strength to pull them up). I crouched low and pulled loose the leaves and threw them too into the wheelbarrow. And then I saw some dandelions (my least favorite of all weeds...they are so ugly). I positioned my trowel and dug them up with every bit of force I could muster. After about an hour I had a nice long, clear patch of space in which I can now plant some bulbs, some impatiens....whatever I want. The space is clear. I thanked Mother for letting me experience this land, the beautiful row of trees that line my backyard, that give me privacy, so much so that I could walk on my patio naked and not a soul would know. I thanked Mother for these trees that give me and my little ones oxygen. And I thanked Father, who gives me work so that I can afford this space.

And then, before I knew it, Mother started whispering something to me as I stood back admiring all this empty available space, ready for me to fill with colorful plants. She said, You see, this is much like your novel. There are weeds, dandelions, leaves, rocks and some hard, hard dirt that seriously needs to be turned. There is work to do .... much, much work. You have to pull them, dig them .... you have to lift and haul and turn. But underneath there is still a story. The story I gave you in your heart. It is there. It is valid. It is good. Work it. Go back to it and do the work you need to do. The story is there. It just needs a little de-weeding. So roll up your sleeves and get back to work. Nothing worth having comes easy. I didn't create you to be satisfied with little. I created you better than that. You will know when it's done. Just as you know your work here, today, is done. Trust me. Just trust. Don't worry about the How. Your job is just to Do. And to Trust. And to raise those kids the best you can. You're not Superwoman. You can't do everything for everybody. Father and I don't expect you to. Only you expect that. Raise those kids and keep at the work I gave you to do. Don't exchange one for the other or you'll go insane. Just keep going. I'll protect you. I'll sustain you.

So, I've worked this weekend ... both for money and for pleasure. It's back to the novel tomorrow.

Be well. Be Love(d).

ANGEL

WHERE ART COMES FROM

Very interesting perspective in the latest issue of Writer's Ask, offered up by writer, Robert Olen Butler:

Question:

Have you ever contemplated what your writing would have been like if you had not gone to Vietnam?

Answer:

If I had been given the power when I was younger to look ahead in my life and have a list of the major events—three broken marriages and being sent off to war in Southeast Asia and several other things—and had been given the power to scratch three things off that list, in an inevitable, human, self-protective way, I certainly would have chosen to take off Vietnam. There’s no question in my mind that if I had, I would not be an artist today…There needs to be a seeking out of life experience. Art comes from life and the intense, ravenous experience of life. It used to be that when you read the miniature biographies in anthologies of famous and highly regarded literary artists, no matter how short the biography was, there would always be a sentence in there saying that he drove an ambulance in Italy and was a newspaper reporter in Toronto or that he picked grapes in California, or that he worked in a powerhouse in Mississippi and painted houses. The assumption was that those real-world, close-to-where life-is-lived experiences were a necessary part of the education of a writer. I think that’s absolutely true and will always remain true. Sometimes, as a kind of final assignment, I ask my students who leave McNeese to go wait on tables in some hole-in-the-wall diner on the Mexican border, or tramp around Europe, or something, In fact, I tend to seek students who have a fair amount of real-life experience before they come in to get serious about being an artist.

“….One of the fundamental things I inevitably find I need to teach my students is that works of art do not come from ideas. They do not come from the rational, analytical, philosophical self. Art does not come from the mind; it comes from that place where you dream.”


“…..The artist cannot find her art in her mind. She must go to her unconscious, and that’s a difficult thing. Most aspiring artists are also generally more intelligent than most other people, and they’ve probably felt like social misfits in some way—certainly felt apart from or detached from the life around them. The way they sought identity and sought safety all their life was by retreating into that sense of one’s self as a thinking person. But all those rational faculties only do harm to the creation of a work of art.”


“…. The early film director D.W. Griffith, who was credited with inventing modern film techniques, credited Charles Dickens with teaching him everything he knew about film. It’s because Dickens understood that the reading of literature is rooted in the reader’s experience of a continuous flow of sensual experience.”


“…Once you understand the writer’s role as an inner filmmaker, you can clearly see how destructive abstract language and ides, analysis, and rational thought can be. For example, if we were watching Jack Nicholson in Chinatown and he’s told a lie about the case he’s investigating, and instead of him arching that marvelous left brow of his, the screen goes blank except for the word “skepticism” and then goes on to the next shot. You know what your response would be. Exactly the same thing happens over and over in so much of the writing I see. Literature, like all the arts, must be a direct sensual experience.”

My thoughts on this in a little while.

On a slightly different note, I have to say that meeting another true artist is like a lottery win to me. We artists truly go through some stuff that I don't think the average person goes through. I would argue, without any scientific data to back it up, but still a valid argument I believe--that artists truly feel things, see things, hear things more intensely. For instance, I'll never forget this past winter here in the Northeast. If Spring didn't come when it did, I truly think I would have been on Prozac. The lack of light, color; the cold weather bothered me something fierce and whenever I described my mental state to others, the response was like...Get over it, it's winter. Easier said than done. We artists are not only observers, we are intense feelers. We feel things in our bones that barely scratches the surface with others. We process, discuss, debate, consider, re-consider, talk some more, look, dissect, peel apart .... we FEEL. On that note, I have to say that if you want to read some truly beautiful prose; prose that is poetic, beautiful and painful at the same time ..... if you want to see compassion at work (which I believe is at the core of every true artist's soul) then you need to check out this sister's page. This sister is making a call for paypal donations for another sister who is in major need of transportation. Period. I'm not sure if she knows the woman or not. Doesn't matter. This is what the Buddhists mean when they speak of Compassion. Helping another person because it's the RIGHT THING TO DO. Helping when you know that the ONLY reward for you is karmic return. Not because you want to be on Oprah or sit face to face with Katie Couric. Just because you know that there truly are six degrees of separation and, as the Buddhists teach, all that you give to others, you give to yourself. What Nakachi is doing, in this one very simple act, is painting her most beautiful portrait, in big, broad, large strokes. Strokes that are bright orange and fuschia and azure .... she is touching the human spirit. And that's what it's all about.

Be well. Be love(d).
ANGEL