He wanted to just be comfortable. I told him, love is outside of the comfort zone. It was as if he wanted to sketch Sunday sunsets with his fingertips, while rocking back and forth on our porch. Maybe he wanted to drive the minivan to our son's soccer games and go apple picking in the fall. Those things sound comfortable, they even sound beautiful. Maybe one day, I will do them all, maybe I won't do any of them. They sound like comfortable things, like tamed waves and bridled horses. They sound like fair weather and perfect body temperatures - all beautiful and necessary things but it doesn't seem that my love operates that way.
My love is fever. It is a boastful, crashing wave that slams into the shore for more abuse. The salt and the sand mixing into the grainy gray areas called "feelings we just don't know what to do with." My flaws be the jellyfish. Sometimes they sting, but most of the time, you just enjoy seeing them up close.
I am the tug and pull of the ocean, you know, kinda arching my back to the moon, glistening under its light and sh.t. Yes, touch me like that there. Pull my hair like that. Yank my head back to find my mouth on top of yours. Let the horses run full stampede into your chest. That's what your heartbeat sounds like in my head. You take up so much room in soul, I have no appetite for the scrumptious, just the necessary. When I take the time to describe what loving you feels like, none of that sounds comfortable. It doesn't sound easy like Saturday morning pancakes. I want to push you to greatness and I want you to pull me from the depths of myself. I want to fill in the rest of your sleeve because I want to be the only person who remembers what your naked looks like. I want you to peel my tattoos off because you want to see the scars I was hiding under them so bad. I mean, this just doesn't seem comfortable. It doesn't seem easy but for you, I would move out of my comfort zone. Rip the lease up, pay a ridiculous amount of rent just to live on the edge of your love, on the cusp of my own sanity and on the line where Heaven begins to descend onto Earth. I want to live there and love you there for an uncomfortable eternity. But you want to be comfortable and that's the one thing I do not have to offer you.
Monday, June 17, 2013
Saturday, June 1, 2013
Oprah's Commencement Speech to Harvard Graduates
"You will find true success and happiness if you have only one goal there really is only one; to fulfill the highest most truthful expression of yourself as a human you wanna max out your humanity by using your energy to lift yourself up, your family and the people around you."
The Healing
I struggled with how to return to you. I searched for the right way to say "I'm here y'all. I'm back from the dead or so it seems." Nothing seemed appropriate or witty enough so I'll start with "Hello."
My name is Tassika and 2012 was easily the most devastating year of my life. Did I tell you that already? Well, whatever. I'm still not ready to disclose all the reasons why yet but at least I'm one step closer today than I was yesterday. 2012 was the catalyst to writing and completing my first novel. It had been in the works for years to come, I mean this blog is the beginning of it. But last year, God moved himself in my life so viciously that I had to sit still and observe. In my observation, I discovered so many things about others but especially about myself. The more I observed, the more I found a stillness in my own soul, and the more words came rushing out of me. I promise you, there were tidal waves of wisdom coming through my fingertips. What else could I do but write a book? Maybe I could have talked it out but I am much more fluent on paper - that in itself is a gift and a curse.
Anyway, I came back to tell you that the book is complete in the sense that I know how it ends, I know its purpose and I figured out how much of myself and my observations I'm willing to expose. The writing will never end. I'm constantly editing, tweaking, adding commas, pauses and sessions of lovemaking every time I look at it. So, in a sense, it's also not done, but the version I have designated specifically for you? Well, we can say that's done and in its final stages of completion. What took me so long? I had it all figured out until I didn't. Something else happened (like I needed another disappointment) and it convinced me that I must change the ending. I had to tackle the feeling too many of us feel - the feeling of not being good enough, not being chosen. In hindsight, I couldn't believe that I didn't mention that, considering that the feeling of insignificance is sweeping across our population in monstrous proportions killing some of us quickly and others slowly. It is a sad epidemic and I want to say there is a cure but even in my own self awareness, I know that there is none. The feeling of not being good enough is a disease that sits quietly in your veins and flares up at the most inconvenient of times. It is mostly dependent on external factors and even the most confident person will have moments of frustration, defeat, unworthiness and low self esteem. The worst part is being made to feel any of those things because of someone you love. And I am so sorry but there is no cure for the person you love, not loving you back. It is not a wound that time can heal nor is it a wound that is purely superficial. That kind of disappointment can very well be fatal.
But because I can talk so candidly about sadness, I have also learned how to be vocal about joy. Joy is easily becoming one of my favorite words by the way. Moving forward, there is joy in each of you. That joy is defined by your purpose and your purpose is defined by you. Defeat is a choice. It's a pitiful one, one that I am far too familiar with but it is still a choice. We choose to die in the arms of people we love. We choose to accept the mediocre men and the whining women. We choose to settle for a job instead of chasing our careers. We choose to torture ourselves with old memories instead of exciting ourselves at the thought of making new ones. I am telling you, from the bottom of my heart, CHOOSE YOURSELF. You are so much powerful than the combination of events that you have gone through. And I will also tell you this - serving brings you more of what you need than what you give. Did you hear me?
SERVING BRINGS YOU MORE OF WHAT YOU NEED THAN WHAT YOU GIVE.
It's up to you to decide who and what you're serving but keep in mind that what you receive from it is a byproduct of that decision. If you serve hate and judgment, you are going to get loneliness and depression in return. If you serve hope and passion, you are going to get favor and opportunities in return. The decision is ultimately yours but remember, within you lies the POWER TO PROCEED.
Personally, these last few months, I have felt so much joy, unspeakable joy, the kind of joy that you hear in Whitney's voice when she's singing gospel. And don't get me wrong, I've felt pain too, the pain of not being good enough and not being chosen. But I chose to multiply the joy. I made the decision to focus on the joy and that joy was the healing. You know how they say, "a watched pot never boils?" The same applies to your own heartbreak. The heart does not heal in front of you, it heals in spite of you. Focus on the joy and the healing. Focus on serving and the blessings will pour themselves into your lap. Focus on your purpose and your passion will give you wings. I know these things to be true, so true that almost 60,000 words of healing poured out of me. Yes I have been hurt but yes, I have also been healed. I love you.
My name is Tassika and 2012 was easily the most devastating year of my life. Did I tell you that already? Well, whatever. I'm still not ready to disclose all the reasons why yet but at least I'm one step closer today than I was yesterday. 2012 was the catalyst to writing and completing my first novel. It had been in the works for years to come, I mean this blog is the beginning of it. But last year, God moved himself in my life so viciously that I had to sit still and observe. In my observation, I discovered so many things about others but especially about myself. The more I observed, the more I found a stillness in my own soul, and the more words came rushing out of me. I promise you, there were tidal waves of wisdom coming through my fingertips. What else could I do but write a book? Maybe I could have talked it out but I am much more fluent on paper - that in itself is a gift and a curse.
Anyway, I came back to tell you that the book is complete in the sense that I know how it ends, I know its purpose and I figured out how much of myself and my observations I'm willing to expose. The writing will never end. I'm constantly editing, tweaking, adding commas, pauses and sessions of lovemaking every time I look at it. So, in a sense, it's also not done, but the version I have designated specifically for you? Well, we can say that's done and in its final stages of completion. What took me so long? I had it all figured out until I didn't. Something else happened (like I needed another disappointment) and it convinced me that I must change the ending. I had to tackle the feeling too many of us feel - the feeling of not being good enough, not being chosen. In hindsight, I couldn't believe that I didn't mention that, considering that the feeling of insignificance is sweeping across our population in monstrous proportions killing some of us quickly and others slowly. It is a sad epidemic and I want to say there is a cure but even in my own self awareness, I know that there is none. The feeling of not being good enough is a disease that sits quietly in your veins and flares up at the most inconvenient of times. It is mostly dependent on external factors and even the most confident person will have moments of frustration, defeat, unworthiness and low self esteem. The worst part is being made to feel any of those things because of someone you love. And I am so sorry but there is no cure for the person you love, not loving you back. It is not a wound that time can heal nor is it a wound that is purely superficial. That kind of disappointment can very well be fatal.
But because I can talk so candidly about sadness, I have also learned how to be vocal about joy. Joy is easily becoming one of my favorite words by the way. Moving forward, there is joy in each of you. That joy is defined by your purpose and your purpose is defined by you. Defeat is a choice. It's a pitiful one, one that I am far too familiar with but it is still a choice. We choose to die in the arms of people we love. We choose to accept the mediocre men and the whining women. We choose to settle for a job instead of chasing our careers. We choose to torture ourselves with old memories instead of exciting ourselves at the thought of making new ones. I am telling you, from the bottom of my heart, CHOOSE YOURSELF. You are so much powerful than the combination of events that you have gone through. And I will also tell you this - serving brings you more of what you need than what you give. Did you hear me?
SERVING BRINGS YOU MORE OF WHAT YOU NEED THAN WHAT YOU GIVE.
It's up to you to decide who and what you're serving but keep in mind that what you receive from it is a byproduct of that decision. If you serve hate and judgment, you are going to get loneliness and depression in return. If you serve hope and passion, you are going to get favor and opportunities in return. The decision is ultimately yours but remember, within you lies the POWER TO PROCEED.
Personally, these last few months, I have felt so much joy, unspeakable joy, the kind of joy that you hear in Whitney's voice when she's singing gospel. And don't get me wrong, I've felt pain too, the pain of not being good enough and not being chosen. But I chose to multiply the joy. I made the decision to focus on the joy and that joy was the healing. You know how they say, "a watched pot never boils?" The same applies to your own heartbreak. The heart does not heal in front of you, it heals in spite of you. Focus on the joy and the healing. Focus on serving and the blessings will pour themselves into your lap. Focus on your purpose and your passion will give you wings. I know these things to be true, so true that almost 60,000 words of healing poured out of me. Yes I have been hurt but yes, I have also been healed. I love you.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Ownership of the Writing Women
It's as if people think having a voice shares the likeness of riding in on a chariot ready to save a neighboring village from some impending doom. I wish it were, this voice, that is. I wish it were intended for saving small children, young women and their absent minded husbands. But this voice is nothing like that. It does not bear intention or hope to breed a mass following. It is just a voice, a tiny voice that was designated to free the soul within me. A voice trying to rid me of any shame I felt or any excruciating curse I felt trapped under. It wasn't built for you. I built it ... well I didn't build it. It came rushing out of me like tidal waves, a vomit of emotion, I was nearly bulimic with my own thoughts. Either way, it wasn't for you although it makes me no less happy that you found something for yourself in it; that you found something to relate to, that you found a place to rest your aching limbs. I am glad that this voice can be comfortable for you.
But it is not always comfortable for me. These thoughts conflict, these emotions clash at one another like titans trying to find love. These thoughts that manifest themselves into this voice fight through hell to sound like a slice of heaven. And I know that may be hard to grasp because by the time you're reading, it's like "YES, SHE'S SPEAKING MY LIFE" and you never stop to think for a moment, that I live that same life over and over every time I speak it into a place in which you exist, into a place where you are comforted. And how lucky you are that you get to relive it in the privacy of your own home, probably in the nook and crannies of your bed with the lights out, long after every one else has fallen asleep. Beside you, the condensation builds on your cool wine glass as you sip through the painful memories, anguished questions and characters who were once lovers. You can cry in the dark, recall his smile in the moonlight, laugh at yourself or hide your shame in the glimmering light of your screen.
How I envy your privacy. How I envy that your voice has no desire to press itself into words for others to manipulate, enjoy, grieve over, analyze and appreciate. I wish I was as quiet as you. But I'm usually not and in the haste of my voice to purge itself, there will be things you do not understand, things you will not agree with, lands you will never feel under your feet and men you will love never knowing that they died in my arms once upon a time.
I think I'm getting used to the fact that no man loves me anymore. Not in the romantic sense, not in the count my eyelashes as I sleep sense, not in the 'as long as she's happy, I'm happy' sense. In those intimate senses, no man loves me anymore. They are the dust of my memories, too dull or too much of a liar to grasp how good I would potentially turn out to be. They, unlike you, were afraid of this voice. They were afraid of being a character. They were afraid of being a story. Too bad they weren't afraid of being sweaty nightmares or haunting images in my mirror late at night. You're probably wondering how we got here or if that was a random tangent. It wasn't. It was proof that just like those men aren't mine, I am not yours. They do not belong to me, I do not belong to you. I am a spirit, a winding breeze that can brush against your cheek or lift your hair. One day you may love that about me and the next you may hate it. But we, you and I do not belong to each other. We share a space that we hope will be enjoyable and everlasting but there will be times that it is neither. In those times, there will be a creeping desire to disrespect and lash out. I urge you to dim your humanness when it gets to that point and return only when you are driving with grace on your dashboard.
I love you but I do not belong to you but maybe, one day, if I was owned by you, I would behave better.
But it is not always comfortable for me. These thoughts conflict, these emotions clash at one another like titans trying to find love. These thoughts that manifest themselves into this voice fight through hell to sound like a slice of heaven. And I know that may be hard to grasp because by the time you're reading, it's like "YES, SHE'S SPEAKING MY LIFE" and you never stop to think for a moment, that I live that same life over and over every time I speak it into a place in which you exist, into a place where you are comforted. And how lucky you are that you get to relive it in the privacy of your own home, probably in the nook and crannies of your bed with the lights out, long after every one else has fallen asleep. Beside you, the condensation builds on your cool wine glass as you sip through the painful memories, anguished questions and characters who were once lovers. You can cry in the dark, recall his smile in the moonlight, laugh at yourself or hide your shame in the glimmering light of your screen.
How I envy your privacy. How I envy that your voice has no desire to press itself into words for others to manipulate, enjoy, grieve over, analyze and appreciate. I wish I was as quiet as you. But I'm usually not and in the haste of my voice to purge itself, there will be things you do not understand, things you will not agree with, lands you will never feel under your feet and men you will love never knowing that they died in my arms once upon a time.
I think I'm getting used to the fact that no man loves me anymore. Not in the romantic sense, not in the count my eyelashes as I sleep sense, not in the 'as long as she's happy, I'm happy' sense. In those intimate senses, no man loves me anymore. They are the dust of my memories, too dull or too much of a liar to grasp how good I would potentially turn out to be. They, unlike you, were afraid of this voice. They were afraid of being a character. They were afraid of being a story. Too bad they weren't afraid of being sweaty nightmares or haunting images in my mirror late at night. You're probably wondering how we got here or if that was a random tangent. It wasn't. It was proof that just like those men aren't mine, I am not yours. They do not belong to me, I do not belong to you. I am a spirit, a winding breeze that can brush against your cheek or lift your hair. One day you may love that about me and the next you may hate it. But we, you and I do not belong to each other. We share a space that we hope will be enjoyable and everlasting but there will be times that it is neither. In those times, there will be a creeping desire to disrespect and lash out. I urge you to dim your humanness when it gets to that point and return only when you are driving with grace on your dashboard.
I love you but I do not belong to you but maybe, one day, if I was owned by you, I would behave better.
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
Mommy
Dear woman,
Your are built for this.
The tiny body within you curves itself to fit comfortably against your spine.
It waits for nourishment to fall from your lips to get a little plump beneath you.
You worry mommy. You worry that you're not strong enough.
But don't look away. Don't howl at the moon. Don't tear the walls down.
Focus.
Concentrate. Bring forth joy.
Your body was made for this.
The tingling, the nausea, the weakness, the cold, the warmth.
The labor is the earthquake.
You are opening up at your creases to bring heat to the surface.
Breathe.
Pray.
Focus.
God is on your side.
This is not punishment, this is paradise.
Sunshine is pouring itself through your legs.
Breathe mama.
Your soul is working overtime tonight.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Cells collided enough to give you a miracle now bring it forth.
You cannot fail.
You will not.
I promise you, your body is built for this.
You are the mother of the world, one child is simply one day's work.
Breath.
Acquaint yourself with the truth that you are.
Delve into your own greatness.
Throw your hands down to the opening of your hips and grab hold of your earth.
Your bursting sunrise.
Your package.
Your home cooked meal.
Seize your work.
The pain will cease.
It will be just a memory, just another day's work.
Mommy, fear nothing.
Fear no one.
Giving birth belongs to you as much as your name does.
Mommy.
Your are built for this.
The tiny body within you curves itself to fit comfortably against your spine.
It waits for nourishment to fall from your lips to get a little plump beneath you.
You worry mommy. You worry that you're not strong enough.
But don't look away. Don't howl at the moon. Don't tear the walls down.
Focus.
Concentrate. Bring forth joy.
Your body was made for this.
The tingling, the nausea, the weakness, the cold, the warmth.
The labor is the earthquake.
You are opening up at your creases to bring heat to the surface.
Breathe.
Pray.
Focus.
God is on your side.
This is not punishment, this is paradise.
Sunshine is pouring itself through your legs.
Breathe mama.
Your soul is working overtime tonight.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Cells collided enough to give you a miracle now bring it forth.
You cannot fail.
You will not.
I promise you, your body is built for this.
You are the mother of the world, one child is simply one day's work.
Breath.
Acquaint yourself with the truth that you are.
Delve into your own greatness.
Throw your hands down to the opening of your hips and grab hold of your earth.
Your bursting sunrise.
Your package.
Your home cooked meal.
Seize your work.
The pain will cease.
It will be just a memory, just another day's work.
Mommy, fear nothing.
Fear no one.
Giving birth belongs to you as much as your name does.
Mommy.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Solange
I love Solange. The young mother and artist seems so humble despite having the voice of an angel and a sister who has taken over the world. Since following her career, it is quite apparent that her first job is being a mother and that beauty spills over into everything that the young talent is made of - her writing, her singing, her fashion, her hair, etc. She is currently featured on Black Cab Confessions, where five friends came together with the idea to see their favorite performers by inviting them to record acoustically in the back of cabs in London. Watch the beauty and control below.
Women Making History
If you haven't noticed, you're standing in a pool
of feminism here. I'm always searching for something to empower and
inspire our young queens and it seems I have struck gold.
Ava DuVernay has become the first black director
to ever win "Best Director" at the Sundance Film Festival. It's 2013
and the black race is still kicking down doors, moving mountains and peeling
the sky back to find a new ceiling. And Black women? Burdened with
two identities of inferiority, we are striving. We are working. We
are present in a different capacity than our mothers and sisters before us, but
we're here. The soft spot I have for women is not really soft at
all. It is a solid reassurance that there is still work to be done.
There are still souls to save and tears to wipe away.
This short film starring Gabrielle
Union, Alfre Woodard, Emayatzy Corinealdi, Adepero Oduye and Goapele
is a direct representation of female friendship. It is the evidence of
evolution of a woman experiencing a breakup, the distress, the healing and
unconditional love by her friends. Sometimes splitting up with a man is
really splitting up your soul into dividends you can't even piece together in
peace. God, it hurts sometimes. And sometimes it hurts all the
time.
Your friends, your sisters, the angels God sent to watch over
you - it is their golden duty to bring you back to life. What an
honor to be blessed by them. This film, The Door, shows me how nurturing
our hands are, how sometimes her heart has to beat for the both of you.
And we will resist, we will fight because we are hurting inside but she
does not retreat. She is not afraid of your ugly. She will not
surrender you to a devil that doesn't love you anymore. She is your
friend, your sister, your queen. And as much as we share ourselves with
the men in our lives, we belong to a feminine circle, a pool of womanhood. We
belong to an honor society in which we have to repair one another. We
must feed each other, clothe each other, and drag sunshine into each other's
windows.
I remember when this was me. I remember not wanting to eat, my hair falling out when him and I fell out. I mean, I was a wreck over and over again. The sun couldn't even melt the frozen tears on my eyelids. It was my sisters who brought me back, who resurrected me, who beat my chest in until my heart mimicked life again. They pulled him out of me like a tape worm sucking the nutrients I tried to ingest. My sisters brought me back and I'm so unapologetically thrilled that this film was made for us and by us.
I share with you the display of our kind
womanhood. Enjoy and then share.
P.S. The fashion is nothing short of amazing. Below the two videos are some stills I captured attached to the poem I heard in my head.
Sometimes I lay still, hoping if I'm still enough, the rest of the world won't notice that I'm even here anymore
And then she comes over with her attitude and her healing
Her resilience
I wish I could be as strong as she is
But I'm not
I'm nowhere close
It hurts to even stand up
She invites the sunshine in
The darkness is still here though
In the corners, in the crevices of my couch
In the creases of my skin
When she touches the ice that is my flesh, her warmth almost makes me cringe
Her pulse is the only music I've heard in days and my ears are just not used to the sound of life anymore
Let me sit here for a moment longer
My bed has become a casket
The most comfortable part of death is the linen
She wants me to put clothes on
Doesn't matter what I wear
They will see the scars
They will see what he did to me
They will see me
I will see me
And I'm sure I won't like what I see
As she slides the plate closer to me, I'm reminded of the dinners he made
The way he diced the tomatoes and washed the lettuce
This plate is just a memory of all the pain I've digested
Too full of absolutely nothing to try
I am defeated by our failure
Skeptical toward my own healing
Back in my robe and back into the confines where broken hearts hide away
I'm not ready to dance Marie, there's no music here
There's no melody
The silence is deafening and I just want to sleep until a tune is beautiful and honest enough to wake me
She holds my hands and pulls my body into motion
I move my hips to her happiness
I borrow her joy, I borrow the brown of her hands
I borrow her glow
And a smile creeps out of me
From a little tiny place within me, the smile comes out to play
And I sway to the curve of that smile until I'm too tired to remember I'm in pain
But here Evelyn comes knocking with two tickets to an emotional paradise
I can't enjoy anything, it hurts too much
I just tried walking and dancing, my limbs are still on fire
Leave me here
I guess I have no say in your attempts to heal me
The dress looks nice
In awe of her silhouette
She is so put together
You can't see her stitches
You can't see her scars
I know she has them, I have them
They are there
I am not making them up
Am I just a bag of bones?
Is my silhouette anywhere near as beautiful as it once was?
She sings
And heaven crawls out of her voice
Her happiness makes me remember mine
With my short white veil, my open arms and a band to promise to love till death do us part
Indeed
Death has parted us
It is real
And she kisses my sadness away
I kiss her back in gratitude
And finally return home
To arms that have sometimes been too critical but always open
Please Mom, just help me
Just tell me it will be okay like you did when I had a stomachache in the first grade
She watches me arrive, her scent for me still strong
She can smell my weakness
She can smell her blood in my veins
Clasped in her wings, it is safe here
It is warm here, her eyes beaming at my experience
Her heart thrilled that she can be here to receive me
Like the day she first held me, she gazes at me as if it were that day again
Two things are true, I am her baby and tea cures everything
I inhale the steam and I am amazed that a tiny cup can warm my entire body
Hold me Mom
Again, I am amazed
How two arms can heal my entire body.
Monday, February 11, 2013
Practice makes perfect
I roll the hips back and forth
The bones creaking from my last affair
The dust of my ribs sprinkling onto this new flesh
I want to love him in a rhythm that even God's choir stands in awe of
I grew tired of vibrating against his chest
Lay in angst and sweat wondering if this would ever feel normal
He rubbed my cheek with his satisfaction
He wanted me and I wanted to want him back
But I was struggling trying to fit into him like a glove I haven't worn all winter
His breath stuck to my skin and I tried to store it to memory
He wanted this to work
But for me, it was work
Sighs
Showers
Sex
Caffeine
Maybe I could get used to loving him
Maybe I could get used to the drumming in my soul
Maybe I could sing into his microphone and finally feel comfortable on the stage of our potential love
Every night I go to sleep trying
Then I deny it in the morning, over pancakes and regretful text messages
Maybe it's a mistake
Or maybe it takes practice
He's cute enough to practice on so I roll the hips back and forth
I put practice back into my vocabulary
And I learn to love him
I learn to really love him more than myself
And eventually when I see my ex, I thank him for being the practice that made perfect.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)