The Journey

The Journey: for goodness self

This is where the journey begins. This is the public self giving permission for the private self to be exposed. The reconciliation of the duality of self.

Inside words and pictures mesh to illustrate a world of choice and consequences, where scrutiny does not hamper the fluidity or validity of thought. A picture of the self is formed through its own perspective of where it think it stands in the world. Am I conservative? Am I liberal? Am I believer in God? Am I vested in the power of self? No matter how far the thoughts go, the end is reassurance that who I think I am is still intact. Self will find the evidence to prove its worth. But it must confront evidence that is contrary to who it thinks it is in order to be balanced.. in thoughts and deeds.

The private self is free to believe and value ideas that increase its' own sense of worth. It can chase thoughts down rabbit holes leading to new ideas or new perspectives of old ideas. Since beliefs are not always based in facts, but more often formed from social cues picked up in our environments, testing the validity of our beliefs can be a challenge. After all, how can you know when your logic is off? What does it take to remove barriers that prevent the evolution of conscious thought? How do we discover the errors of our ways?

The public self can be a vehicle to test and identify the foundations of our thoughts. Yes, the public self can also be a facade that is completely disconnected from private thoughts; however, it can also serve as a catalyst to reconcile discrepancies between what we think we know about ourselves and world and how we actually interact in the world.

This is where my journey begins. This is the platform in which I am willing to examine myself. The end goal is to authentically live my philosophies that promote human consciousness and eradicate the contradictions that I find within my own dichotomy of self. Rooting out non-beneficial core thoughts will lead to a fuller, more connected life.  Feel free to come along. Just be willing to do your own work.



Featured post

Four sets of Grandparents

My new grandboy has four sets of grandparents. Obviously, this means that his parents have two sets of parents a piece. I wonder how blended our blending will blend.

I am proud to be part of the only set that is not estranged from one or both of the new parents. It makes me joyful that I can love on him with no restrictions or misinterpretation. I can examine his beautiful features with no dismissal or distain. I can just be his Sweet (that’s what my grandbabies call me)!

His four sets of grandparents have given him a modge podge of nationalities, ethnicities, and cultures. What a lucky grandboy I have! To be all of us in his own unique way. How lucky for those of us who will watch him grow and see all of our similarities and differences diffused by the fusion.

I feel sadness and compassion for the grandparents who couldn’t see him born. Some of it was the distance of miles; some the distance of hearts. I would build a thousand bridges to get me over a great divide. My love of new life would motivate me to hold my tongue so that I could open my heart. But I’m not every person or grandparent. I’m just one of the ones that he’ll know loves him freely and his parents unconditionally.

My new grandboy has four sets of grandparents. He is the perfect blend πŸ’™

I’m not 24 anymore

I’m not 24 anymore. I don’t know exactly when I grew old enough to see distance between who I was and who I am, but I know I’m not 24 anymore.

If for some reason I deluded myself to think otherwise, this Zumba class I took tonight was designed to correct the errors of my thoughts. I look like a 24 year old if you blink fast enough to overlook my grays and disregard the dark circles around my eyes. There I was much older than I remembered. When I shook my hook, I realized it had gotten rusty. I can’t sashay like I used to do. I dropped it low and almost couldn’t pull it back up. It made my hip hurt and my booty doesn’t pop.

My little cousin insisted that I go with her to this class (she is 24). My small frame makes me look fit. It’s so deceiving (50% genetics/50% diet/0% exercise). When we got home, my foot was swollen. And my hip still hurt. My sweet loving hubby brought me some BC powder and said, “I knew it would be too much for you. I didn’t want to tell you. I just figured I’d let you find that out on your own.” He’s not fooled by my thin thighs and perky breasts; he knows why I have gray hair and dark circles under my eyes. He’s fully aware that I’m not 24 anymore.

I don’t want to be 24. There wasn’t anything so remarkable about being that green to the things of life. I did have fun though. I always pursued passions, but looking back now I’m critical that my philosophies may have been superficial. (Shut up older me! 🀐 That’s why 24 year olds don’t want to hear middle-aged opinions) 24 is where I really embraced my authentic self. I didn’t understand limitations or barriers; therefore, I had no fear of failure. I was unapologetic for not being stereotypical in my looks, thoughts, or ambitions. Back then I danced all night. My hip never hurt, my feet never swole up, and my hook wasn’t rusty.

I’m not 24 anymore. I’m 47. And I don’t think I like Zumba very much. πŸ€·πŸ½β€β™€οΈ

I Still Feel

Like poison to red lips

Draw out my last breath

But only for this pain

I know I can still feel

Like a penny in my pocket

Discard my earnest efforts

Hope has left me here

Pressed down til I’m alone

Like a pedal from a rose

Crash down on my ambitions

Laughing at my heartache

I know I can still feel

Like the pounding of a stone

Stop my hands from reaching

Further than my destiny

Lack is all I own

Like a pigeon on a ledge

Jump my past behind me

Freedom through my heart

I know I can still feel

Acquaintance Zone

Relationships of all kinds are tricky. Some establish themselves quickly; others take many seasons. There is a subconscious selection process that determines the significance of the connection.

There is a wife of a relative that I recently decided can’t be my friend. There is nothing major wrong with her and she’s a pretty okay lady, but after many years I have not grown in my affection for her. I never think “OMG I need to call so and so!” I never want to do lunch. I don’t not hold her close in my confidences (aka I don’t tell her my personal business). She has been relegated to the perpetual acquaintance zone.

Before you start thinking I’m mean for the sake of meanness, let me try to explain. The connectors are not connecting, because our conversations are quite plain. There were no “aha!” moments. Not once did I walk away feeling refreshed or renewed. I can barely recount what subject matters we skirted around, but I never left feeling good.

We don’t have many similarities other than our birthdays are in July. I think initially we both thought that would be enough to understand each other’s wit or avoid each other’s limits. It just wasn’t so. I didn’t find her very funny; truthfully, I can’t recall a single joke. I don’t like to talk bad about people, yet I participate in gossip and venting to pass the time until our husbands are ready to part ways. When I behave in a manner that I don’t approve of, I get frustrated with myself. I get upset with myself. I get angry with myself. And if my conversations with someone else consistently ends with me not liking that I was a party to it… then it’s better that we don’t conversate at all.

Oh I’ve tried to broach a variety of topics. From politics to parenting to religion and back. But you know how it goes. Patterns. Two or three sentences in, things deteriorate to complaining or indifference. I am not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but my brain enjoys some stimulation. I long for alternate perspectives. Our talks provide me none. And maybe that’s the other part of the problem.

How does she judge how I interact? She may not be overjoyed to be paired up with me either. I may be the boring one. That is completely possible. I may not be as engaging as I think I am. She may have already acquaintance zoned me. And I’m okay with that. Let the relationship die peacefully.

Two things that I am very aware of: I might be the jerk in this equation and I don’t need to express my tolerance limitations to her. You can’t tell people that they’re conversations are basic and dry. How arrogant would that be? And really what would that profit her or me? Nothing, so I’m telling you instead. These are the things I think in my head while I sit there listening to her talk. And that bothers me enough to insert a wedge.

I promise I won’t be rude. I’ll always be cordial, but I give myself permission to excuse myself from such uncomfortable small talk. I don’t have to be friends with everybody. I’m not trying to save face with you or her. I’m being as honest and gracious as I can. I know you may think I’m wrong. I’m actually willing to be wrong, but if I am than my growth will take a dialogue above what my acquaintance has to offer.

My mind is made up. I’ve reconciled it in my heart until God moves me otherwise.

Men All Pause

Heed the warning that’s boldly in the name. No attempt to hide it’s imbalance is made.

Menopause. Men~o~pause. Seriously.. Men.. All pause and let me help you through this. Know that you are not alone sir. And ladies it’s best to work with our victims (husbands, boyfriends, domestic partners, etc) on getting through this.

One minute hormones are screaming “Heyyyy Mister Mister!” And literally the very next second, these moaning hors are rebuking with an “Oh hell no! You betta put all that on pause!” statement. It’s so confusing for us all. But we can overcome the demented twists of our biological fate.

This is not something that can be explained in a way that absent the experience understanding can be found. Logically, yes we know certain things. Menopause marks the transition from the childbearing to non-childbearing years. It is the bridge that liberates ladies from monthly uteral assault, costly provisions, and managing medical care for a “natural” process. It is saying goodbye to a friend that the two of you never really liked anyway. She wasn’t pleasant. She wasn’t considerate. And quite frankly she got in the way and ruined a few vacations (ol’ stanky bitch 😠) So let’s not pretend that we’re not glad if she doesn’t visit for a whole 12 months. Bye Flowlecia!!

Sounds normal. Natural. Reliable. Except for the peri phase before the emancipation. Men don’t always get this disclaimer about peri. She ain’t pretty at all! Peri is not the root of paradise. We, ladies, meet peri when doctor says or the blog reads “But first”… What?!? Well, the answer goes a little something like this.

But first what?? But first, you will wake up on fire from the inside out for no apparent reason. But first, you’re lady flow will randomly and erratically increase to a volume that will make you question how you’re not dead. Oh yeah but first, you will develop some random trigger switch that causes you to cry from sadness, joy, anger, and sentimentality at times that are beyond your control. Emotional self-control? Gone and you won’t know where you put it. Because first, you will start walking into rooms and just standing there confused about why you went in there to begin with. (Personal note: I do this at least twice a day πŸ€·πŸ½β€β™€οΈ)

The perimenopausal phase is on average 4 years. I know for me it’s been a little over that and my husband is trying to track down who gave us misinformation. This is a joint venture and we are expecting a very specific return on our investment. Free sex!! He’s tired of doing supply runs, getting yelled at and then sympathy hugged. I’m tired of feeling nutty as a fruitcake before we get to the nuts. I usually take two days off a month to lay around and faux-hemmorage in the comfort of my own home. I’m fortunate that we are self-employed (I’m not required to give myself doctors notes and I don’t have to fake I’m sick. I’m not sick. He knows my ass is just sleepy, shit). He books extra jobs so I can be avoided, I mean alone, as much as possible. His personal and work calendars have monthly reoccurring events titled “She’s Crazy” (I’m not even jokingπŸ˜‚). All of this is costing too much energy!!! We are ready to be free.

Why am I telling you all of this? Well, because it is natural and you can survive it. All the older ladies tell me to be ready to hang in there for 10 years, but older men don’t tell my hubby anything. Which is sad, because he suffers with the sufferer. So he told me to tell you: Herbs help. Laughter helps. Avoiding red wines, aged cheeses, and drinking coffee helps me. Smoking cigars, eating cereal before bed, and cool flannel sheets help him.

“It’s like one day we were young, then not so much. But it’s not bad though. I guess I just realized that sagging balls and menopause are just like a landslide and a river bed. Erosion and evaporation may change the landscape but it takes a lot less energy getting the rocks off.” πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚πŸ˜‚~My Hubby

Someone else’s shoes

Here is an ism that I encourage my children to live by:

Just keep walking and you’ll end up in someone else’s shoes.

Reread it… I’ll wait πŸ‘πŸ½

It has been my observation in life that there is nothing new under the sun. All situations have a component that is universal. We may not all have to recover from a foreclosure, but we’ve all at some point had the worry of how to make ends meet. If this doesn’t apply to you.. keep walking. I’ve never had a child in jail, but I have one that is imprisoned inside of a shell of social paralysis. I have walked in the shoes of a parent that frets, because they can’t change their child’s circumstances. I can only imagine and empathize with parents whose children suffer from mental illness, drug addiction, domestic violence and similar issues. Societal ills. It’s a one size fits all shoe; anyone’s foot can fit it.

Every marriage I’ve ever observed has had to deal with three obstacles, even four: money, sex, communication boundaries with the opposite sex, and managing technology. Money is something everybody wants and everybody needs. Even when your take home is enough, you still need it to keep flowing. When you have $17 to your whole name until payday, you sho’ nuff need a positive increase in funds. Age, medicine, and stress screwing up your ability to screw? Dudes sliding in her social media inbox? He’s 2 am texting? But y’all just argue about the bills instead? Oh, wait βœ‹πŸ½ You can’t relate? πŸ€” Well, be sure to invest in an umbrella, because rain falls on everyone and floods are indiscriminate.

Just keep walking and you’ll end up in someone else’s shoes.

This principle applies from the top to the bottom and from the bottom to the top. We all fall and we all get back up! That’s the good newsπŸ‘πŸ½πŸ‘πŸ½ My top may or may not be as a millionaire mogul, but I reach for the top of my own game. My race and reward does not have to match someone else’s. Each one will be raised up according to their own measure of success, but you can’t dismiss the commonness of the struggles that come with life.

The moral of the story is that my personal calamities are not unique. Problems are just like shoes at Payless. The same pairs, in every size, in several colors exists in every store. You bought them in black? Yeah, I’ve had them in brown and blue. And Sally Sue had ’em in red, but guess what? It’s the same damn shoe. πŸ€·πŸ½β€β™€οΈ I’d love to tell you that eventually you will be able to stand in a custom pair of glass slippers. It’s possible. It’s not likely, but possible. Hardest part is that all shoes get outgrown or worn out. How many miles do you think you can walk in a glass slipper?

Advice: Don’t get so comfortable that you can’t handle when your feet slip into a new pair. An unfamiliar pair. The right pair for the terrain ahead.

I must always recognize the ebb and flow of my own life, so that I can have genuine empathy for the highs and lows of others. I’ve never been homeless on the street, but I know what it is to live under someone else’s roof. I equally know what it is to open my doors to others. I had a co-worker back in the day that bought me lunch every day until I got my first paycheck. I received a practical hand up that I never would have asked for. I’m the martyr typeπŸ™‹πŸ½. Decades later, I still buy lunch for my new employees until they get their first check. My old friend taught me the importance of helping without making the person ask for what is blatantly obvious that they need. Dignity is an unfair price for a meal. Y’all know that first two weeks can feel like the brokest weeks of your life!

I’m just saying… keep walking…

Water your own grass

There’s a logical reason behind my repulsion to romance novels and love drunk movies. It’s not that I don’t like a few sweet nothings, but love edited for entertainment creates disillusionments about the wonderful world of love and marriage.

Roses are red. Violets are blue. Blooming flowers get old and die too.

I don’t mind getting flowers on Valentine’s Day. I can’t say that I think they are the perfect token of love; nevertheless, they are easy for my husband to buy and giving them makes him happy. He personally delivers them to my office. When the other ladies see him walk in with bouquets as broad as his shoulders, they just gush (some figuratively; some literally). I squeal, “Oh Honeybun!! You’re so sweet!” He gushes. We give each other a quick kiss, he gets a little blood flow, and his Valentine mission is accomplished. He’s happy. I’m amused.

I know flowers are a one size fits all gift, which is why I don’t mind getting them. I love my Honeybun. I’m not here to make his love life super complicated. He picks what looks pretty to him, just like when he chose his wife πŸ™‹πŸ½. I keep them alive as long as I can so he gets his monies worth. That makes him happy too. When they get to where I have to throw them out, I tell him, “Oh Hun, I gotta let my flowers go.” πŸ˜” “Well they did good Bae. They lasted [insert number of days].” The longevity of his gesture becomes our aphrodisiac.

“Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you’re going to get.” ~Forrest Gump’s Momma

I am partial to candy. I don’t like the big boxes though. I want the little $1 boxes. He knows this. We’ve discussed it. He can do flowers his way, but I run the candy game. Anyway, he brings me little boxes every few days during the 14 day romance window. I probably end up with about 20 boxes πŸ’πŸ½ And I love it!! I lay across our bed, watch TV, and devour a box. I sit in my chair and read while scarfing down another box. I take a few to work, so I can dreamily chew on chocolate surprises throughout the day. I am happy. He’s amused.

It’s not about the candy. It’s about the “no judgement”. He is willing to fuel my fantasy of living the life of leisure that my little candy boxes represent. He see the delight on my face, so he doesn’t comment about how many empty boxes are on my nightstand. I get to not be giving, because I don’t share my sweet treats. Not even with my pretty little grandgirl. Nope and grandad can’t buy her any either. Oh, she’ll rat me out for sure, “But Granddad. Sweet’s not sharing.” He explains, “Those sweets are just for Sweet.” Chocolates from him belong to me. They’re my sweet nothings.

Character is what you display in front of people. Integrity is who you are when you think no one is looking.

He gases me up! Every Sunday! Without fail! πŸš—πŸ’¨ I get in my car on Monday morning feeling prepared for the week. Tank is full. Air pressure and fluids checked. βœ”οΈ Dashboard Armouraled down. Any trash (water bottles, fast food bags) from the weekend has already been disposed of. Now that is enough to make me wanna roll over on him❀️ I’m happy. He’s happy.

I will admit I gassed him up on the idea. We going for a ride one day and I suggested that he should gas up my car every Sunday. I told him other husbands may do it and I want it too. He looked at me and loving said, “Who the fuck we know that does that? Where did you get this idea from??” 🀣 then he laughed hysterically. I pouted and then cried (I’m menopausal; crying happens often). He stopped laughing. I admitted that no other wives I know get that. Maybe my granddaddy use to do it. I don’t know πŸ€·πŸ½β€β™€οΈ but I want it. “Honey…You’re better than all the husbands we know. They know it. Even their wives think so. You can show other men the way. It might not be for everybody, but you can let it be for me.” He smiled. He’s done it for me ever since.

The grass is always greener on the other side, but if you take care of it, you can have green grass too!

These aren’t the things I read about or see in movies. They are not rose petals in the bath or riding butt naked on a filly. They are not grand. They are not expensive. They’re basic. That’s what makes them better than anything caught on film. They are the real wonderful world of love and marriage. ❀️❀️

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