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Learning to Trust Myself Again

These last several years of my life have been about relearning, revisiting, rewriting and starting over. I spent well over a decade prior to this phase letting go of people, hopes, dreams and ideas. All of life is a process and I’ve generally stopped fighting against my cycles years ago.

The New Gig

The day after Labor Day, I began subbing as a tenth grade English teacher in a working-class suburban neighborhood of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. I shared feedback from that interview in The Best Interview Feedback I’ve Ever Received. The other day, while driving to a job for which my excitement had evaporated by day three, I wondered why I keep getting into situations that sound like they’re a godsend but function as a nightmare.

Note here: My wondering is almost always a conversation with my Creator. Whether thinking or vocalizing, the answers always come.

So, I was driving and asking God how I got roped in with a crock of lies by people who apparently think they have unlimited access to my labor despite not following through on any letter of their word. Assuming the job itself was the blessing, I questioned if I would show a lack of faith by quitting. Is this a trial I’m intended to persevere through? Am I obligated to suffer through incalculable daily indignities to get to the blessing on the other side of yet another toxic environment that is everything I hate and more about capitalist assumptions and indoctrination in the workplace?

Season of “No Struggle Blessings”

Season of “No Struggle Blessings”

What came to me last weekend in a blink of understanding was that nothing God has for me is conditioned on my suffering or my performance. Work always has to be done, of course. However, the work we do to bring our purpose about and the work that moves us forward in life is usually counted as joy and certainly adds up to gratitude for unexpected opportunities. My writing is my work. Everything else is what I do to pay the bills.

I’ve reached a point in life that I seek to impress and satisfy only myself. I am in competition with no one. There is no leverage or power anyone has over me to stop me from existing how I want in this world. Suffering is not the route to blessings for me at this stage of life. The certainty of that knowledge radiated within me when it came to me last weekend. Shared in this clip titled “Season of “No Struggle Blessings“” from Know Your WHY & Be True To It.

Later in the week, while driving to this job, my primary question was, “What lesson am I supposed to take from a series of jobs that could have been catalysts for full-life transitions but became horribly acrimonious instead? In my spirit, I heard this (paraphrased), “It’s not about Me. It’s about you. When are you going to trust yourself again?”

Blocking My Own Progress

I don’t doubt God. There is nothing in me that fears My Creator’s provision for me will ever dry up. I have no concerns about food, shelter, or money. I am sustained in a very healthy way (**pats belly**). Yet in my young adulthood, I put so much of my trust in the connections I thought I had with people that I weighed my worthiness and the understanding of my faith by their response to me. Their lack of response and general absence of reciprocal care made me think I had misunderstood a lot – instructions, guidance, teachings, messages – even up to the foundation of my faith. My recovery from the dreadful lapse of trusting my intuition, my hearing, my heart, my eyes and my hopes was to push it all into the shadows and trust only what I could confirm as God’s guidance. This is what we call an over-correction.

As I write, I can see clearly that the loss of so many imbalanced relationships – with people I held dear as friends and family or would have gladly called lover – paved the way to my withdrawal and isolation. For the last few years, I have actively resisted making new friends and aggressively shooed away men. What I’m understanding now is, I stopped trusting my sight. Not only did I have visions, but I also saw what people could be and accepted their representation of themselves.

I had eyes filled with hope and love. This is the filter that covers a multitude of sins.

Now, all I see is what people are in a world I don’t want to be a part of.

This is what the Spirit called me to remembrance of this week, “When are you going to trust yourself again?”

I questioned back, “Can I trust myself to love again? Do I even want to love again? What good has love in the world done for me? In my mind, love has only made me a sucker, a mark, and a target. Loving others has not brought love into my life.”

But the Spirit hadn’t questioned my ability. The Spirit questioned my will and my timing, “When?”

Old Scars

Two other jobs I had really been excited about since 2020 came to mind. I realized I would have suffered indefinitely had they not forced me out. I would have continued showing up to those places filled with rancor and petty-mindedness because I had committed to the roles. I was determined to transition my career fully and thereby pave a way for a new life outside of New York City. At the time, I was certainly confident in my ability to make whatever I needed work out. My self-confidence may waver in moments, but those moments are barely blips on the arc of time.

At the time, those two former acrimonious jobs were seen as answered prayers and steppingstones to a future I was trying to create for myself. They each lasted about two months and my termination was seen as a frustration and a blessing. “Frustration” because I believed I needed employment to fully transition in life. “A blessing” because I wanted to quit, but I’m not a good quitter. Presently, with the sub role, quitting is not an issue, and I know the job itself is not the blessing.

That was the lesson. That was the realization and the manifestation.

The Cycle and The Lesson

It took three cycles for me to separate the perception of the satisfaction of my needs from anything in this world. Environments are acrimonious to me because I’m not meant to stay in them. They’re test stations. Spaces where my understanding and faith are sifted and refined. It was my life-long practice of holding on to things that aren’t for me that made the lesson necessary.

The Conversation continued (paraphrasing). “You know what’s good for you. You don’t need to ask Me if you can do what you need to do to protect your Peace. You can trust yourself.

Ahhhhh. *Light bulb.*

I can see people and things as they are and not conform to the darkness enshrouding them, even if I’m attempting to counsel them through it. This includes seeing myself as I am, in all my flawed fragile humanity. The filter of love and hope that I had once viewed others with was also how I viewed myself. Perhaps the understanding that’s forming is that in my inability to see myself and others through the filter of love and hope, I should trust that it’s still necessary to practice doing so. I need to trust that my deficiencies are not limitations if I remain open and willing to allow God to work and love through me.

When will I trust myself again? Trust myself to open up, despite the inevitability of disappointment, without sliding further into isolation? Trust myself to see with refreshed eyes of grace instead of through the prism of all the false relationships in my life? Trust myself enough to protect myself in any environment without concern about retaliation?

I already do. That work has already been done.

The Result

As I continued driving that morning, my response was “Yes and Amen.” I knew within the first week of interactions at the high school that as soon as I got another offer, I was gone. None of the terms agreed to by phone were written into an offer or adhered to. I had dealt with the principal, and we had come to an agreement. In exchange for an emergency license and conversion to full-time teacher with full benefits after three months subbing, I committed to teach for the full school year. When the HR manager finally spoke to me on day three, she said she couldn’t make any guarantees regarding the principal’s verbal offerings. She reduced my day rate to the lowest level and claimed I would have to pay out of pocket, at this reduced pay, for the courses leading to a license. I told her I couldn’t make any guarantees either, and there was no way I was coming out of pocket in order to work for anyone. Not when I have three degrees and thirty years work experience. In that moment, I knew I was done.

In all my working years, no one has ever not honored terms of a verbal job offer. The shadiness of it is not loss on me.

The beauty of being able to see people as they are, is that the little power they have in subterfuge is taken away. I can be as open and honest as I want and be fine with the consequences. When truth is spoken into a deceitful person’s face, they have no idea how to respond. They usually double-down or back down. Either way, they know they are exposed. Truth takes away the go-along-to-get-along cushion where they think they can dangle a carrot to control performance. No. That’s not an option. Not with me.

I’ve come through the testing stations with a layer of grit I never asked for. I wanted to be soft, caring, trusting and full of grace, but the people of the world keep trying to break me down and chew me up. So, My Provider began training me in courses that have incrementally toughened me. [Perhaps, broken teeth will be a symbol of my legacy. 🤔] Knowing I am equipped to stand in victory makes trusting myself much easier.

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My Crown for a Hug

A review of Spare by Prince Harry, Duke of Sussex 

In no way can I claim to be a follower or supporter of the British royal family, yet, after the death of Princess Diana, Prince Harry’s mother, I, like many others around the world touched on media updates to see how her lads were doing. It has done my spirit good to hear Harry share his story.  

My review can be summed up in two words: Absolutely beautiful.  

“Things like chronology and cause and effect are often just fables we tell ourselves about the past. The past is never dead, it’s not even past.” 

Harry quoting William Faulkner 

Harry is a natural storyteller with a good sense of humor. The arch of his life, identity, growth, maturity, awareness, and manhood are clear and earnestly shared. He doesn’t bash anyone or share intimate details about his familial relationships. However, what he does share of familial interactions is very sad and poignant, unintentionally so, I’m sure. His earnestness creates an intimacy with readers/listeners. [Note: I listened on Audible and am extremely glad for the experience of hearing him tell his story in his own words.] 

In retrospect, for those hating on him and saying he shouldn’t talk about his family, his memoir could be described as a rebuttal to media accounts of his life as he appears to stay true to a timeline of headlines covering the twenty-five years leading up to the book. His primary focus is sharing his state of mind, physical location, and emotional environment to provide his perspective and understanding of the stories about him. Unfortunately for the naysayers, these media episodes obviously touch on his family relationships.  

During the initial listen, I cried three times. (1) When Harry and Meghan received unexpected help from a benefactor after begging for help from, and being denied by, his father, brother and queen grandmother. (2) The last time he said, “I’ll keep you safe.” (3) His last line in the book. While re-listening to segments for this review, I’ve cried at almost everything I replayed.  

One very large, very ancient, very dysfunctional family.

Prince Harry

The overall gravity of Harry and Meghan’s situation, the petty selfishness and mean-spirited jealousies in his family, the absolute absurdity of this family ruling most of the world for more than a millennia with its myopic dysfunction and self-hatred is astounding. A line of people who have no respect for themselves, their spouses, children, brothers, sisters, etc. have been conquering and dividing the world into parcels since 1066. They’ve created cultures, laws, societies and hierarchies among peoples around the globe. All while being completely opposed to expressing basic human emotion. A touch or a hug for a grandchild – unthinkable! A father protecting his sons from watching their mother’s death on TV – what could be done? A brother embracing his sister-in-law rather than smearing her and her future children in the media – it’s how it’s always been. The British Royal Family eats its own. How could their 1200 year reign possibly result in a better world? 

Unfortunately, like most of us mortals, Harry’s not so good at deciphering the heart and motives of his loved ones. For most of the book, I talked back in frustration, voicing the treachery he had to be aware of on some level, but didn’t want to call out directly.  

However, when he was forced to the point of understanding, he elucidated how he came to the point of separating from his dysfunctional family in favor of protecting his wife and children. When Harry and Meghan were first ousted from the royal family, I began to pay attention to their story. What struck me was the fact that a Black Woman was so hated and vilified that her husband, a member of the most well-known, powerful and wealthiest families in the history of the world – the second son of a future king – could not keep his wife safe. Not only that, he feared his wife would die as his mother had because of the relentless hounding and vitriol of the paparazzi which went unchecked by his father and brother (both heirs to the throne). He shared his fear openly in real time. Imagine, having the ability to ask for and receive anything your mind could conjure, but security and safety for your wife was prohibited. She was deemed too much of an expense to house, clothe, feed and protect. 

“Pa was cutting me off. I recognize the absurdity, a man in his mid-thirties being financially cut off by his father. But Pa wasn’t merely my father. He was my boss, my banker, my comptroller. Keeper of the purse strings throughout my adult life. Cutting me off, therefore, meant firing me. Without redundancy pay and casting me into the void after a lifetime of service. More, after a lifetime of rendering me otherwise unemployable. […] Sponge, the papers called me. There’s a big difference between being a sponge and being prohibited from learning independence. After decades of being rigorously and systematically infantilized, I was now abruptly abandoned, mocked for being immature, for not standing on my own two feet.”  

Harry represented himself well. I do hope he sees himself as a human being who has value simply because he exists regardless of his birth into this family and his role in other people’s lives. 

Out of the night that covers me….

Charles: Pa, Boss and Comptroller

Even in his austere aloofness, the former Prince of Wales and current King Charles III comes across as a father who was willing to love and be present if only he could manage it. Unfortunately, for him and his children, his understanding of love and presence is cold and comfortless. Charles is only mentioned as Pa in the Spare. Pa is spoken with reverence, respect, pain and bewildered disillusionment. Pa is often spoken as a plea.

In the garden cemetery at Frogmore, Spare begins with:

“Pa and Willy had their parts to play and they came ready for a fight. ‘Please, boys! Don’t make my final years a misery.’ His voice sounded raspy. Fragile. It sounded, if I’m honest, old.

I looked at Willy. Really looked at him, maybe for the first time since we were boys.[…] In some ways he was my mirror. In some ways he was my opposite. My beloved brother. My arch nemesis. How had that happened? I was massively tired. I wanted to go home and I realized what a complicated concept ‘home’ had become. Or maybe it always was. 

‘If they didn’t know why I had left, maybe they just didn’t know me, at all. Maybe they never really did. And to be fair, maybe I didn’t either. I have to tell them. And so, Pa, Willy, World, here you go.'”

So begins the epic retelling of a life from in front of many lenses.

“Journalists are the scum of the earth, but…,” Charles said to his sons in Frogmore gardens following his father’s funeral.

“There was always a but with Pa when it came to the press. He hated their hate, but oh, how he loved their love. One could make the argument that therein lie the seeds of the problem, indeed all problems going back decades. Deprived of love as a boy, bullied by schoolmates, he was dangerously, compulsively drawn to the elixir they offered him. He cited grandpa as a sterling example of why the press wasn’t anything to get too vexed about. Poor grandpa had been abused by the papers most of his life, but now look, he was a national treasure. The papers couldn’t say enough nice things about the man!

‘So that’s it then? Just wait till we’re dead and all will be sorted?’ 

‘If you could just endure it, Darling Boy, for a little while. In a funny way they’d respect you for it. […] You must understand, Darling Boy, The Institution can’t just tell the media what to do.’ 

I yelped with laughter. It was like Pa saying he couldn’t just tell his valet what to do.” 

Diana: Morning Star 

“Wherever mommy was, I understood she was with her friend.”

Harry doesn’t hold any surface or tactile memories of his mother. The way he speaks of her is as an ethereal being who was known to have existed on earth but is hiding away for safety. Named after a goddess and titled as princess, neither stylings are grand enough for his memory of her personhood. Earendel, an indescribably large star discovered in 2022 by the Hubble Space Telescope, is the oldest known star to have existed close to the moment of creation and is called the Morning Star. “That was my mother,” Harry says quietly.  

In his late twenties, Harry sought proof of Diana’s actual death. Up to that point, he did not consider her dead, only away. He imagined she was hiding from the paparazzi. Believed she would one day return to whisk him and his brother away to be with her in hiding. He asked a member of his security team for the file on his mother’s car crash hoping to clear any questions he had. Harry reports, “The file proved nothing, other than Mummy was in a car crash. After which she looked unharmed. Slumped over in the back of the car. While those who chased her continued to harass her. Rather than proof, I discovered more reason for rage. It wasn’t a mist. It was a torrent.”

Paris  police had seized the cameras of the paparazzi on the scene. The images showed chaos. Onlookers. A deceased Dodi and driver. Hurt bodyguard. Deceased Diana. Flashing lights created auras on the printed images. The file contained police photos of the scene and images from the frenzied photographers who chased Diana to her death. Those men never stopped photographing her even in the aftermath of the crash they caused. She landed between the seats and was clearly unconscious or semi-conscious.

“No one checked on her. Offered her help or comforted her. They were just shooting. Shooting. Shooting. I hadn’t known. I hadn’t dreamed. I’d been told that paps chased Mummy like a pack of wild dogs, but I never dared to imagine that like wild dogs, they also feasted on her defenseless body. I hadn’t been aware before this moment, that the last thing Mummy saw on this earth, was a flash bulb.” 

When he was twenty-three, Harry went to the World Cup in Paris. While there, he asked his assigned driver to drive up and down that same tunnel at 65 miles per hour (the speed Diana supposedly died at) in an attempt to understand how something so routine could be so life-altering. He was not convinced events happened as reported.

Bloody, but unbowed

Identity is problematic  

“Two years older than me, Willy was the heir and I was the spare. This wasn’t merely how the press referred to us, though it was definitely that. This was shorthand often used by Pa, Mummy and Grandpa and even Granny. There was no judgment about it. But also, no ambiguity. 

I was the shadow, the support, the Plan B. I was brought into the world in case something happened to Willy. I was summoned to provide back-up. Distraction and diversion. And if necessary, a spare part. A kidney perhaps, blood transfusion, spec of bone morrow. This was all made explicitly clear to me from the start of life’s journey and regularly reinforced thereafter.  

I took no offense. I felt nothing about it. Any of it. Succession was like the weather. Or the positions of the planets. Or the turn of the seasons. Who had the time to worry about things so unchangeable? Who could bother with being bothered by a fate etched in stone? 

Being a Windsor meant working out which truths were timeless and then banishing them from your mind. It meant absorbing the basic parameters of one’s identity knowing by instinct who you were, which was forever a byproduct of who you weren’t. I wasn’t Granny. I wasn’t Pa. I wasn’t Willy. I was third in line behind them.”

During his gap year, he worked a cattle farm in Australia. He had planned on six months in the outback, but the ranch was infiltrated by paparazzi. He left early. However during his time, he acquired new habits, dressing style and a new nickname, Spike.

“I became Spike, when I wasn’t Haz, Baz, Prince Jackeroo, Harold, Darling Boy or Scrawny. Identity had always been problematic, but with a half dozen formal names and a full dozen nicknames, it was turning into a hall of mirrors. Most days I didn’t care what people called me. Most days I thought ‘Don’t care who I am so long as it’s someone new. Someone other than Prince Harry.” 

Harry speaks of several women he dated as being guide stones in his evolution. Each one highlighted a part of himself he was unaware of or hadn’t been able to access prior to the relationship. The first girlfriend Harry mentions is Chelsea, whom he was drawn to because she was different from the people in his circle. She was South African and preferred her home to Britain. She was unconcerned with appearances, propriety, and royalty. He was enraptured. During his time with Chelsea, he says:

“I had no talent, so I’ve been told. Again and again. And thus all reactions to me had nothing to do with me. They were down to my family. My title. And consequently, they always embarrassed me because they were so unearned. I’d always wanted to know what it might be like to meet a woman and not have her eyes widen at the mention of my title. But instead widen them myself using my mind, my heart. With Chelsea, that seemed a real possibility.” 

Another girlfriend helped him cry for the first time since his mother’s death. It was then that he began to accept that Mummy was not going to return. He was encouraged to seek counseling. He did so.

One day while scrolling his Instagram feed, Harry came across a filtered video of his friend Violet with a woman he had never seen.

“I’d traveled the world from top to bottom. Literally. I’d hopscotched the continents. I’d met hundreds of thousands of people. […] For thirty-two years, I’d watched a conveyor belt of faces pass by and only a handful ever made me look twice. This woman stopped the conveyor belt. This woman smashed the conveyor belt to bits. I’d never seen anyone so beautiful. Why should beauty feel like a punch in the throat? 

I never had a firm answer to that burning question: Is there just one person on this earth for each of us? But in that moment, I felt there might be only one face for me. This one. I sent Violet a message: WHO. IS. THIS. WOMAN?”

He had an instant response to Meghan’s face. She exuded energy, joy, playfulness, confidence and a sense of freedom.

Come to think of it, didn’t I, myself, once ask to be buried here?

You’re free! Fly away!

Frogmore was special to Harry. It held one of his favorite cemetery’s and was one of the first places he lived with Meghan. he thought it would be their forever home before they had to flee the country. Following his grandfather’s funeral, he still sought Frogmore’s cemetery – for a walk with his father and brother, and for his final resting place – “…because the gardens were lovely and it seemed peaceful.” 

On remembering a happy day with Willy – a transcendent moment that led to the rarest of things: a long tight hug with his brother:

“Now I saw that even our finest moments, my best memories somehow involved death. Our lives were built on death. Our brightest days were shattered by it. Looking back, I didn’t see spots of time, but dances with death. I saw how we steeped ourselves in it. […] Windsor castle itself was a tomb. The walls filled with ancestors. The Tower of London was held together with the blood of animals. […]Outsiders called us a cult. But maybe we were a death cult. Wasn’t that a little more depraved? 

Even after laying Grandpa to rest, had we not had our fill? Why were we here? Lurking on the edge of that undiscovered country from whose born, no traveler returns. 

Eh, maybe that was a more apt description of America. My father and brother were talking over each other. I was no longer listening. I was already gone. Already on my way to California. A voice in my head saying, ‘Enough death! Enough! When is someone in this family going to break free and live?'” 
 

Upon leaving his father and brother in the cemetery, Harry walked to Frogmore Cottage and was greeted at the door with a long hug from his wife, Meghan. Listening, one could tell all was right with his world in that moment.

Seventeen months after his grandfather passed, Harry was notified that his Granny was gone.

“Pa was king.”

Captain of my soul.

Harry: A Man. Not a Spare.

Harry likens California to life. By extension one can also hear that he sees Meghan and America as givers of life also. Speaking of the past, of honoring long-dead ancestors with bows, and salutes while passing monuments in their image, it’s easy to see how generations became mired in death and stuck in the ways of the deceased.

Spare begins with an institutional family meeting where Harry is resented for expecting and seeking his individuality. Where he confronted his punishers for retaliating against him for attempting to live his life on his terms with a partner of his choosing. We can all understand why Charles would be resentful. He was denied his choice for most of his life. The book also highlights why William is resentful – as the heir, he’s held to a stricter rule than Harry. Being his own man was never on the table for William. 

Spare ends with the realization of life being an active choice. By remaining in the traditions he was raised in, death had become part of everything. Ancestors were buried in houses; walls were held together with blood. Images of the dead were on walls and standing in corners. Harry wasn’t aware of an option other than death worship. Tradition had taught him he was only in the world to support the lives of his superiors, not to live his own life. Tradition had taught him to put the crown and institution before self and family. Tradition had taught him that obedience to duty came before everything. There was a pecking order to obedience. His brother was above him. His father was above his brother. His granny was above everyone. If granny said yes, it didn’t matter what the other two said. Yet his brother could still physically assault him and threaten him with no consequences. His father could still remove his protection to bring him into obedience as he saw fit. 

Then Meghan came along. A Black Woman who had made a name and career for herself crossed his line of sight. Someone he connected with whom he had a great deal in common. Someone who exuded life and joy. Someone who demanded to be respected for who they were, not because of their name or position. A humane human with a good heart. Harry became smitten and developed a new life-focused purpose.  

Harry had tested his constraints throughout his life. But he had tested with mischief. He had played at being naughty and shocking. He had explored options within the parameters set for him. Because of the way his family treated Meghan, he had to think in a new way and explore options outside of everything he had ever known. In doing so, he learned more independence than he thought possible. More importantly, he learned, experienced, and embraced love. Love for himself, his wife, their relationship. Love has expanded Harry into a protector, a provider, a man, a husband, and a father.  

In the last minutes of his story, Harry describes his daughter’s birth. He shares his verbal greeting and his desire to welcome Lilibet skin to skin. He shares that later, as he and Meghan laid skin to skin, she spoke his testimony to him, words he now hold sacred. “That was everything. That is a man. My love, that is not a spare.”  

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Poem: Have I ever loved?

Who am I if not
A creature created in the
Image of love?
But what is an image
If not a facsimile?
Non-original
Incapable of being
Authentic
If love is a reaction to receiving
For we love because
We have first been loved
Then what of the love
That was supposed to pour into me?
What am I pouring out
If I haven’t first received?
In this dimension there has been no
Sheltering arms
Encouraging embrace
No partner or mate
With whom to lay down
Or to build up
What would I know
Of a gentle touch
A tender kiss
A thrusting merge
An expectant birthing
A purposed feeding?
How am I to learn
The deep nature of
Sharing in true
Relationship?
When my existence
At every level
Has been solitary
Relating to myself
Even in
Disagreement
I am right
Though my conclusions
May be wrong
If I don’t even know
What love
Looks like
Feels like
Sounds like
Smells like
Tastes like
How could I possibly
Recognize love
Identify myself
As love
Give what I haven’t
Received?
All these years
I thought I was offering
Though I knew I was begging
Trying to avoid my emptiness
Attempting to camouflage
My brokenness
Seeking to heal to
Wholeness
While offering my image
Of wholeness to the broken
But if love is
Absent from my being
How was I ever whole?
How was I ever able
To offer myself?

7/15/19

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Complete in Christ (ACAD: Colossians 2)

For I want you to know how much I am struggling for you, and for those in Laodicea, and for all who have not seen me face to face. I want their hearts to be encouraged and united in love, so that they may have all the riches of assured understanding and have the knowledge of God’s mystery, that is, Christ himself, in whom are hidden all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge. I am saying this so that no one may deceive you with plausible arguments. For though I am absent in body, yet I am with you in spirit, and I rejoice to see your morale and the firmness of your faith in Christ.

Fullness of Life in Christ

As you therefore have received Christ Jesus the Lord, continue to live your lives in him, rooted and built up in him and established in the faith, just as you were taught, abounding in thanksgiving.

See to it that no one takes you captive through philosophy and empty deceit, according to human tradition, according to the elemental spirits of the universe, and not according to Christ.

For in him the whole fullness of deity dwells bodily, and you have come to fullness in him, who is the head of every ruler and authority. In him also you were circumcised with a spiritual circumcision, by putting off the body of the flesh in the circumcision of Christ; when you were buried with him in baptism, you were also raised with him through faith in the power of God, who raised him from the dead.

And when you were dead in trespasses and the uncircumcision of your flesh, God made you alive together with him, when he forgave us all our trespasses, erasing the record that stood against us with its legal demands. He set this aside, nailing it to the cross. He disarmed the rulers and authorities and made a public example of them, triumphing over them in it.

Warnings Against False Teachers

Therefore do not let anyone condemn you in matters of food and drink or of observing festivals, new moons, or sabbaths. These are only a shadow of what is to come, but the substance belongs to Christ. Do not let anyone disqualify you, insisting on self-abasement and worship of angels, dwelling on visions, puffed up without cause by a human way of thinking, and not holding fast to the head, from whom the whole body, nourished and held together by its ligaments and sinews, grows with a growth that is from God.

If with Christ you died to the elemental spirits of the universe, why do you live as if you still belonged to the world? Why do you submit to regulations, “Do not handle, Do not taste, Do not touch”? All these regulations refer to things that perish with use; they are simply human commands and teachings. These have indeed an appearance of wisdom in promoting self-imposed piety, humility, and severe treatment of the body, but they are of no value in checking self-indulgence.

Colossians 2:1-23 – https://www.biblegateway.com/passage?search=Colossians%202:1-23&version=NRSV

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Video MR 3.1: Prelude: Womanhood Juxtaposed with The Crown on Netflix

“Who do you think you are? The Queen of England?”

Have you ever wondered who Elizabeth II, the Queen of England thinks she is? This first part of our third Marriage & Relationship study discussion explores the roles of women within a discussion of The Crown on Netflix.

The last two #Zoom discussions were recorded and I’m working to get them posted to this blog. As I review them for editing, I’m convinced this series should have been titled “Bible Conversations with Friends” or something similar. The faceless voice you hear in this video is my long-time friend, Dorina. When Dorina and I met over thirteen years ago in a corporate office in New York City, she didn’t identify herself as a believer and I had just begun my intentional faith walk and Bible learning.

Over the years, I’ve ascended and descended on the waves of life. There were some points when Dorina considered herself an ashiest or agnostic but would still engage in conversations about my faith journey. Four years ago, she began her own intentional faith walk and has been most interested in discussing marriage and divorce, ergo the title of this series. I’m truly glad to be able to share some of our great conversations with you all! Even better, you’re welcome to join us! Email for up-to-date details.

You can watch Part 3.1 of the discussion on Adam & Eve here:

Marriage & Relationship: Modern Concepts vs. Biblical Principles
Part 3: Adam/Adamah + Chavah/Eve | Man + Woman | Human + Spirit
Text: Genesis 1-5, Revelation 22

Video Part 3.1: Prelude: Womanhood Juxtaposed to The Crown on Netflix

  • Intro: Culture of Womanhood
  • Navigating roles of woman, daughter, sister, wife, mother, grandmother | Queen, Princess, Prime Minister
  • Which role(s) do you abdicate in your life?
  • Which role(s) do you focus on daily or regularly?
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Terry Ann: Woman. Seed. Fertile Ground. Inspiration.

In the summer of 2018, I began working on a portrait and prose book project about womanhood. That summer I returned to my hometowns Gary and Milwaukee and asked friends, family and old connections to pose and share some words about their womanhood experiences.

When I began sketching out the project my mom was not top of mind. As the project morphed into various incarnations, the hope was to pull others in along the way. But the more women I talked to and the closer I got to women who had been close to her, the more Mom began to dominate my thoughts.

I can’t ask my mother what her womanhood meant to her. She died just as I was coming of age. Oddly enough, I hadn’t considered my own womanhood in the context of the project until I visited my mom’s gravesite in Milwaukee. It was there that I realized I hadn’t really known her as a multi-dimensional person. My perspective was only as a daughter looking up. As a result I began questioning and exploring the layers of my own personhood. Perhaps my Mom became my proxy. I chose to focus my questions on how she was before becoming a mother.

During the visit, I asked relatives: What do you remember about my mom?

I wasn’t prepared for the responses. Such a simple question seeking to learn about personality and character, unleashed stories of actual and imagined trauma and violation. Things she would have shared with me during her lifetime if they were true. It’s interesting how I was able to reject the lies for what they were after holding their words up to the relationship I had with my mom. She was an honest and straight-forward woman. She didn’t wallow in past trauma, hide from it or keep it from me. Her story was her story and she told me what she wanted me know. More importantly, she answered my questions truthfully.

The more I analyzed my urge to ask others about who Terry Ann was before she became my mother, the more I realized I have only to look within. Everything I thought I didn’t know about my mother is actually in me because she remains a part of me. She’s the seed and fertile ground I sprung from and her life is forever my inspiration.

My sister had the only words worth sharing. She said, “I remember everything, but I can’t put words to my memories.”

Truly profound.

Perhaps that was my true dilemma as well. I know what I know, but somehow I can’t speak it all.

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Test Shoot: Friend R, “Delete the rest.”

I may go to friend jail for this, but I think it’s worth it. An old friend, R, visited me in New York City to celebrate her 50th birthday. I told her to bring something she wanted to be photographed in and to think of her Woman Word for my I AM WOMAN photo essay project. When she got here she gleefully said she was happy to take pictures for the project because when I was in Milwaukee (where she lives) in July she hadn’t been in a good place to participate.

No worries. No offense or judgment. Keep it moving.

I told her I had a new lens – it’s a Zeiss Batis 85mm portrait lens – I wanted to practice on her during her visit. Being a woman of my word, I did exactly that. She was in NYC for three full days. Her entire trip was essentially chronicled through my lens. Though that wasn’t my intention, I got some amazing shots.

On the second night, during our visit to the Brooklyn Bridge, I knew instantly the close-up images of her with Freedom Tower as her backdrop, where the images to use for I AM WOMAN. I told her right there, in the moment, “These are your money shots!” I also told her she was a natural in front of the camera. The images I was getting were simply amazing. To me, anyway. And perhaps I’m biased on three levels: as friend, photographer and project curator.

My goal was to avoid turning her visit into a counseling session and simply do things she had expressed an interest in. I stayed silent and performed as her personal photojournalist – with a good deal of excitement initially.

While on the Brooklyn Bridge, I asked her what her word was. She said a couple of words that didn’t represent her at all. I then framed the question for her, “I’m not asking for an aspirational word, a word you hope to become. I’m asking for a word that represents how you see yourself. Or what your womanhood means to you.” She said she would think about it and get back to me. I explained that I use the word as a guide for the shoot. A reminder that the shoot was in progress…. She never consciously gave me her word.

I thought about posting her I AM WOMAN image as “I Am [unknown].” However the core of this project is about how Women SEE and IDENTIFY themselves. So I took a step back. I sent her image gallery to her as something of a memory book. Images I knew she liked and wanted as well as images I like (some of which were images she insisted she looked “ugly” in and immediately insisted I delete. I refused on the spot. The images she defamed as ugly were taken at the 9/11 Memorial Fountain at Freedom Tower and across the road in front of the Oculus. The images are somber, unmasked, and intriguing. Frankly, I think they’re beautiful.

But again, this isn’t supposed to be about me!

I AM WOMAN is a project about womanhood. All of it. Everything it means to be a woman. The first phase of this project is focusing on the experiences of Black Women in America. By and large, we embody pain, disappointment, rage, resentment, bitterness and frustration. Yet in the same body and space we are joy, love, loyalty, commitment, faith, grace, forgiveness and eternal hope. For most of her adult life, Friend R has only focused on the dark emotions. The residue of her constant focus is visible. It’s audible. It’s painfully disturbing to witness.

The short of her response to her image gallery was, “Thanks for all your hard work! I see sickness in most of my photos…. I choose the ones I like…. I ask that you delete the rest.”

I was stunned, angry and very much offended. Not only did I see the images as work product, they also represented a great time in the City with an old friend. Over the last few days, I released my frustration over her request and comments. I literally have much bigger issues to deal with. However, at the same time I don’t want to dismiss this episode as inconsequential, because it is not. It actually speaks to the heart of my project. The juxtaposition of one’s womanhood not being anything to celebrate against fully embracing one’s womanhood with all its pain and glory.

Basically, I think her images and her comments add a great deal to the larger conversation of Black Womanhood in America. How we internalize our grief and disappointment. How they solidify and weigh us down in a deep abyss of cyclical suffering. How we can become incapable of seeing pass that one thing (situation, heartbreak, betrayal) that first knocked us down. I do believe she can’t see pass the sickness within her. I also believe that sickness is the result of years of anger, resentment and bitterness that she has consistently refused to let go of. We become what we harbor and feed.

I would love to hear your thoughts, not just on the images but on the story as well.

Equipment: #SonyAlpha7iii, #ZeissBatis85mm

Related posts:

She liked less than 20 images. Some are below.

These are some of the ones she wants deleted.

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Test Shoot: Rhonda, “Delete the rest.”

I may go to friend jail for this, but I think it’s worth it. An old friend, Rhonda, visited last week to celebrate her 50th birthday. I told her to bring something she wants to be photographed in and to think of her Woman word for my I AM WOMAN Project. When she got here she gleefully said she was happy to take pictures for the project, because when I was in Milwaukee (where she lives) in July she wasn’t in a good place to participate.

No worries. No offense or judgment. Keep it moving.

I told her I had a new lens – it’s a Zeiss Batis 85mm portrait lens – I wanted to practice on her during her visit. Being a woman of my word, I did exactly that. She was in NYC for three full days. Her entire trip was essentially chronicled through my lens. Though that wasn’t my intention, I got some amazing shots.

On the second night, during our visit to the Brooklyn Bridge, I knew instantly the close-up images of her with Freedom Tower as her backdrop, where the images to use for I AM WOMAN. I told her right there, in the moment, “These are your money shots!” I also told her she was a natural in front of the camera. The images I was getting were simply amazing. To me, anyway. And perhaps I’m biased on three levels: as friend, photographer and project curator.

My goal was to avoid turning her visit into a counseling session and simply do things she had expressed an interest in. I stayed silent and performed as her personal photojournalist – with a good deal of excitement initially.

While on the Brooklyn Bridge, I asked her what her word was. She said a couple of words that didn’t represent her at all. I then framed the question for her, “I’m not asking for an aspirational word, a word you hope to become. I’m asking for a word that represents how you see yourself. Or what your womanhood means to you.” She said she would think about it and get back to me. I explained that I use the word as a guide for the shoot. A reminder that the shoot was in progress…. She never consciously gave me her word.

I thought about posting her I AM WOMAN image as “I Am [unknown].” However the core of this project is about how Women SEE and IDENTIFY themselves. So I took a step back. I sent her image gallery to her as something of a memory book. Images I knew she liked and wanted as well images I like (some of which were images she insisted she looked “ugly” in and immediately insisted I delete. I refused on the spot. The images she defamed as ugly were taken at the 9/11 Memorial Fountain at Freedom Tower and across the road in front of the Oculus. The images are somber, unmasked, and intriguing. Frankly, I think they’re beautiful.

But again, this isn’t supposed to be about me!

I AM WOMAN is a project about womanhood. All of it. Everything it means to be a woman. The first phase of this project is focusing on the experiences of Black Women in America. By and large, we embody pain, disappointment, rage, resentment, bitterness and frustration. Yet in the same body and space we are joy, love, loyalty, commitment, faith, grace, forgiveness and eternal hope. For most of her adult life, Friend Rhonda has only focused on the dark emotions. The residue of her constant focus is visible. It’s audible. It’s painfully disturbing to witness.

The short of her response to her image gallery was, “Thanks for all your hard work! I see sickness in most of my photos…. I choose the ones I like…. I ask that you delete the rest.”

I was stunned, angry and very much offended. Not only did I see the images as work product, they also represented a great time in the City with an old friend. Over the last few days, I released my frustration over her request and comments. I literally have much bigger issues to deal with. However, at the same time I don’t want to dismiss this episode as inconsequential, because it is not. It actually speaks to heart of my project. The juxtaposition of ones womanhood not being anything to celebrate against fully embracing ones womanhood with all its pain and glory.

Basically, I think her images and her comments add a great deal to the larger conversation of Black Womanhood in America. How we internalize our grief and disappointment. How they solidify and weigh us down in a deep abyss of cyclical suffering. How we can become incapable of seeing pass that one thing (situation, heartbreak, betrayal) that first knocked us down. I do believe she can’t see pass the sickness within her. I also believe that sickness is the result of years of anger, resentment and bitterness that she has consistently refused to let go of. We become what we harbor and feed.

I would love to hear your thoughts, not just on the images but on story as well.

Equipment: #SonyAlpha7iii, #ZeissBatis85mm

She liked less than 20 images. Some are below.

These are some of the ones she wants deleted.

Posted on Leave a comment

Update: I AM WOMAN Essay & Portrait Project

I spent the summer photographing women.

In February, I quit my corporate job with a determination to pursue my creative interests. Specifically, writing and photography. In the late spring I decided I wanted to chronicle this moment we’re living in by putting a camera and a mic in front of everyday women and asking them what their womanhood means to them.

I AM WOMAN is an essay and portrait book project that was born from a desire to give Women a platform to describe themselves. The catalyst for the idea was the state-sanctioned assault by police officers on Chikesia Clemons at a restaurant in Alabama. In the video (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a3eI5F-AUVw) you can see two male officers yank on her arms, pull her out of her seat, throw her to the ground, sit on her, threaten to break her arm, choke her, expose her breasts, then flip her around by her neck and belt to put her face down on the restaurant floor. A third officer stands over her the whole time. Unfortunately, these videos are not uncommon. However, what stung was seeing male patrons in the background continue eating as if a dehumanizing physical, racial and sexual assault was not taking place in their presence. The only person trying to help Chikesia was her female friend who also filmed the assault. I am hard-pressed to imagine men sitting by so calmly had a white woman been so brutalized in their presence.

The foundation of the project is the desire to combat the idea of women as sexual objects. There has long been an extremely visceral hyper-sexualization of womanhood, girlhood, and the feminine form. For Black Women and Girls, we are sexualized, used, abused and discarded without even the defense of our humanity. We are inundated with images and words that render women as no more than shallow, one-dimensional receptacles for men/boys to deposit their disdainful waste into or to fixate on as a waste depository goal.

The title of the project derives from a combination of Sojourner Truth’s 1851 speech, “Ain’t I A Woman?” and the “I AM A MAN” signs used during the Civil Rights Movement in 1968. It’s unsettling that anyone still needs to declare their personhood in 2018, but here we are.

As a Black Woman, I want to explore and present the experiences of Black Women in America as the first stage of the project. I want to share the every day woman’s perspective of herself in an environment, culture and country that is intent on not acknowledging her except as a dehumanizing stereotype. Basically, I am tired of hearing and seeing what the world thinks of Black Women. I want to know what Black Women think of themselves.

Overall, in the larger Sisterhood of Womanhood, I know the struggle is universal. Across the United States, no matter what demographic groups we fall into, Women are essentially telling the same story. We aren’t seen. We aren’t valued. We are not respected. We have to fight for any measure approaching equality to a standard set by men. We may have different starting points, but for the most part we are all chasing the same goals: love, acceptance, appreciation and respect for our contributions.

I didn’t have any defined expectations for the contributors when I began, but I am surprised and humbled by the messages (read: heart) shared by the Women and Girls who have participated in the portrait sessions and submitted poems and essays so far.

Though the written submissions for Phase 1 is focused on Black Women, the initial portrait sessions were open to all women. From June to September, I offered free portrait sessions open to anyone interested in participating in the I AM WOMAN project. During this time, I photographed fifty-five Women and Girls across the country, including New York City, Chicago, Milwaukee, and Phoenix. The goal of the photo-shoots was for the Women to represent the word they used to describe themselves. “I AM WOMAN. I am _________________.” Quite a few used more than one word. Of the sixty-three words collectively used to describe the participants of the portrait sessions, I’m glad to report “sexy” was not one. The most common words used for self-description were: Strong, Powerful/Power, and Love.

img_1969-e1538082503936.jpg
Word cloud of words used by portrait participants to describe themselves.

Happily, I have more than enough photos for the portrait portion of the I AM WOMAN book project. However, I am still seeking written contributions for Phase 1: Experiences of Black Womanhood in America. If you would like to contribute, please email Shawnda@Spirit-Harvest.com.

img_2001
Gallery of I AM WOMAN images.

img_1391
Gallery of I AM WOMAN images.

img_1390
Gallery of I AM WOMAN images.

img_1389
Gallery of I AM WOMAN images.

Posted on Leave a comment

Update: I AM WOMAN Essay & Portrait Project

I spent the summer photographing women.

In February, I quit my corporate job with a determination to pursue my creative interests. Specifically, writing and photography. In the late spring I decided I wanted to chronicle this moment we’re living in by putting a camera and a mic in front of everyday women and asking them what their womanhood means to them.

I AM WOMAN is an essay and portrait book project that was born from a desire to give Women a platform to describe themselves. The catalyst for the idea was the state-sanctioned assault by police officers on Chikesia Clemons at a restaurant in Alabama. In the video (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a3eI5F-AUVw) you can see two male officers yank on her arms, pull her out of her seat, throw her to the ground, sit on her, threaten to break her arm, choke her, expose her breasts, then flip her around by her neck and belt to put her face down on the restaurant floor. A third officer stands over her the whole time. Unfortunately, these videos are not uncommon. However, what stung was seeing male patrons in the background continue eating as if a dehumanizing physical, racial and sexual assault was not taking place in their presence. The only person trying to help Chikesia was her female friend who also filmed the assault. I am hard-pressed to imagine men sitting by so calmly had a white woman been so brutalized in their presence.

The foundation of the project is the desire to combat the idea of women as sexual objects. There has long been an extremely visceral hyper-sexualization of womanhood, girlhood, and the feminine form. For Black Women and Girls, we are sexualized, used, abused and discarded without even the defense of our humanity. We are inundated with images and words that render women as no more than shallow, one-dimensional receptacles for men/boys to deposit their disdainful waste into or to fixate on as a waste depository goal.

The title of the project derives from a combination of Sojourner Truth’s 1851 speech, “Ain’t I A Woman?” and the “I AM A MAN” signs used during the Civil Rights Movement in 1968. It’s unsettling that anyone still needs to declare their personhood in 2018, but here we are.

As a Black Woman, I want to explore and present the experiences of Black Women in America as the first stage of the project. I want to share the every day woman’s perspective of herself in an environment, culture and country that is intent on not acknowledging her except as a dehumanizing stereotype. Basically, I am tired of hearing and seeing what the world thinks of Black Women. I want to know what Black Women think of themselves.

Overall, in the larger Sisterhood of Womanhood, I know the struggle is universal. Across the United States, no matter what demographic groups we fall into, Women are essentially telling the same story. We aren’t seen. We aren’t valued. We are not respected. We have to fight for any measure approaching equality to a standard set by men. We may have different starting points, but for the most part we are all chasing the same goals: love, acceptance, appreciation and respect for our contributions.

I didn’t have any defined expectations for the contributors when I began, but I am surprised and humbled by the messages (read: heart) shared by the Women and Girls who have participated in the portrait sessions and submitted poems and essays so far.

Though the written submissions for Phase 1 is focused on Black Women, the initial portrait sessions were open to all women. From June to September, I offered free portrait sessions open to anyone interested in participating in the I AM WOMAN project. During this time, I photographed fifty-five Women and Girls across the country, including New York City, Chicago, Milwaukee, and Phoenix. The goal of the photo-shoots was for the Women to represent the word they used to describe themselves. “I AM WOMAN. I am _________________.” Quite a few used more than one word. Of the sixty-three words collectively used to describe the participants of the portrait sessions, I’m glad to report “sexy” was not one. The most common words used for self-description were: Strong, Powerful/Power, and Love.

img_1969-e1538082503936.jpg
Word cloud of words used by portrait participants to describe themselves.

Happily, I have more than enough photos for the portrait portion of the I AM WOMAN book project. However, I am still seeking written contributions for Phase 1: Experiences of Black Womanhood in America. If you would like to contribute, please email Shawnda@Spirit-Harvest.com.

img_2001
Gallery of I AM WOMAN images.

img_1391
Gallery of I AM WOMAN images.

img_1390
Gallery of I AM WOMAN images.

img_1389
Gallery of I AM WOMAN images.