Lately I have felt
nudged
encouraged
commanded
demanded
pressed
reminded
mandated
brainwashed
obligated
indoctrinated
compelled
enticed
tempted
but never called
to love that way.
Tuesday, 6 April 2010
Monday, 29 March 2010
the jig is up
I like hugs.
And people.
And hand-holding.
And kisses, too.
I know that I have said for the longest time that I am not stimulated by touch, that it is not a way that I receive love, and all of my adult life I really have believed it. I yet hold this position, but with much modification. I think after much introspection that I have come to the right compromising conclusion, and I'm pretty sure I'm not alone in this conviction.
Physical affection that is insincere leaves me with a feeling akin to touching wet trash.
My quest for honesty at all costs leaves me with a very small window of tolerance for what I accept. My standards for this type of intimacy can be quite unreasonable, I'll admit. But after much thought I can venture that one reason for my funk a while ago was because I have carried on as though I do not need people. With my lack of a cell phone I tried to ignore the pang in my heart that activated every time I thought of someone to call, and then I remembered my plight. Brushing off those feelings came at the expense of my sanity this semester, or lack thereof. What a humbling experience.
I find that I shy away from physical affection because I always have. It is hard for me to open up that part of my love, to let people in and handle it as they will. I am still under the idea that I do not like frivolous, afterthinking touch...but by completely refusing this form of love I am essentially throwing out the baby with the bathwater.
I may be yearning for the affection that I took for granted up until 10 months ago, gestures that were as sincere last May as they were the day that I was born. It is possible that my high standards are derived from experiencing contact that was a physical manifestation of love so pure that it could only be true. Maybe I'm under the impression that I will never experience this again. Maybe I think I'm right. Maybe I am.
I miss that love, so I take an indignant stance against anything that dimly reflects what I once had. I sit in the corner and sulk, but I think my stubborness is beginning to fall away. With each brush of the hand, with each caress, with each embrace, my defense is melting. I am forced to relent, to collapse, to surrender. I am forced to acknowledge my need for God's grace in the form of His people.
And people.
And hand-holding.
And kisses, too.
I know that I have said for the longest time that I am not stimulated by touch, that it is not a way that I receive love, and all of my adult life I really have believed it. I yet hold this position, but with much modification. I think after much introspection that I have come to the right compromising conclusion, and I'm pretty sure I'm not alone in this conviction.
Physical affection that is insincere leaves me with a feeling akin to touching wet trash.
My quest for honesty at all costs leaves me with a very small window of tolerance for what I accept. My standards for this type of intimacy can be quite unreasonable, I'll admit. But after much thought I can venture that one reason for my funk a while ago was because I have carried on as though I do not need people. With my lack of a cell phone I tried to ignore the pang in my heart that activated every time I thought of someone to call, and then I remembered my plight. Brushing off those feelings came at the expense of my sanity this semester, or lack thereof. What a humbling experience.
I find that I shy away from physical affection because I always have. It is hard for me to open up that part of my love, to let people in and handle it as they will. I am still under the idea that I do not like frivolous, afterthinking touch...but by completely refusing this form of love I am essentially throwing out the baby with the bathwater.
I may be yearning for the affection that I took for granted up until 10 months ago, gestures that were as sincere last May as they were the day that I was born. It is possible that my high standards are derived from experiencing contact that was a physical manifestation of love so pure that it could only be true. Maybe I'm under the impression that I will never experience this again. Maybe I think I'm right. Maybe I am.
I miss that love, so I take an indignant stance against anything that dimly reflects what I once had. I sit in the corner and sulk, but I think my stubborness is beginning to fall away. With each brush of the hand, with each caress, with each embrace, my defense is melting. I am forced to relent, to collapse, to surrender. I am forced to acknowledge my need for God's grace in the form of His people.
Tuesday, 2 March 2010
in like a lion
Coz when it's always winter, but never Christmas,
It seems this curse just can't be lifted
I never thought that I would be able to physically relate to the Relient K song, speaking as a native Georgian who has been spoiled by fickle seasons. I never thought I liked the inconsistencies of 60 degree Januaries....until this year. Never have I ever seen Georgia so resolute in its frigidity! Three snowfalls?!?! I have heard about it before, but I never thought it was possible to experience snow on the ground more than once a year, for more than a day at a time. I took the sporadic summer-y days for granted, even wished them away in the hopes of experiencing a legitimate and consistent winter season. Now that my complaint was filed and processed by Mother Nature, I wish that they had a return policy on requests for greener grass.
This sucks.
It stinks especially since, as the South gets the hang of these colder days, there is no hope for respite in the particular form of snow days at Tech. As we trudge along in the freezing water I am embittered.
Make it stop, God! Warm me up, thaw this world out.
And then I wonder, as I pray this prayer....am I even talking about the weather anymore?
But deep inside our hearts we know
That you are here and we will not lose hope
It seems this curse just can't be lifted
I never thought that I would be able to physically relate to the Relient K song, speaking as a native Georgian who has been spoiled by fickle seasons. I never thought I liked the inconsistencies of 60 degree Januaries....until this year. Never have I ever seen Georgia so resolute in its frigidity! Three snowfalls?!?! I have heard about it before, but I never thought it was possible to experience snow on the ground more than once a year, for more than a day at a time. I took the sporadic summer-y days for granted, even wished them away in the hopes of experiencing a legitimate and consistent winter season. Now that my complaint was filed and processed by Mother Nature, I wish that they had a return policy on requests for greener grass.
This sucks.
It stinks especially since, as the South gets the hang of these colder days, there is no hope for respite in the particular form of snow days at Tech. As we trudge along in the freezing water I am embittered.
Make it stop, God! Warm me up, thaw this world out.
And then I wonder, as I pray this prayer....am I even talking about the weather anymore?
But deep inside our hearts we know
That you are here and we will not lose hope
Thursday, 25 February 2010
revelation about dirt
My shoes, out of use since the funeral...they were what we waltzed in, what we made memories in. What a redemptive turnaround for the pair.
Thank you, Lord, for turning my mourning into dancing.
Thank you, Lord, for turning my mourning into dancing.
Wednesday, 10 February 2010
dirt on my shoes
That was all i needed this time to remember. I thought I wore those heels since then?
"How are you doing?" My mom asks me. I remember that I like it when she asks me that.
I was drawn to the phone today out of duty, but that fog cleared quickly. I am the daughter, aren't I?
I pass by the receptive hills of green, freckled in marble and iron, and I recall that this earth is grasping something that belongs to me.
I don't know how willing I am to reclaim what I am debted. To at least work out joint custody.
I knew I was forgetting to process something!
Why do people visit cemeteries?
I think I should find out.
And soon.
"How are you doing?" My mom asks me. I remember that I like it when she asks me that.
I was drawn to the phone today out of duty, but that fog cleared quickly. I am the daughter, aren't I?
I pass by the receptive hills of green, freckled in marble and iron, and I recall that this earth is grasping something that belongs to me.
I don't know how willing I am to reclaim what I am debted. To at least work out joint custody.
I knew I was forgetting to process something!
Why do people visit cemeteries?
I think I should find out.
And soon.
Monday, 1 February 2010
up to here
I am an angry black woman.
It has been a series of completely unrelated events that has brought me to this point. Little comments made on the side, glances here or there, the way that I have felt (dis)respected over a recent span of time. It has also been interesting posts that have sparked up conversations, both out loud and in my heart. And I think it is just where I am in life, an almost-college graduate who has to learn how to market herself in a way that won't turn people off, but won't have people agree to contract with someone that is a diluted version of me....and Senior Seminar. All of these things have caused me to come to the conclusion:
I am an angry black woman. I can't help it.
And I don't want to.
I hear you when you make off-the-cuff jokes....also, I understand them. I see you when you avert your eyes because the conversation does not concern my ethnicity...never mind that I would not mind hearing about it, anyway. I know what you mean when you say place AB is "dangerous" or "sketchy"...I have been places with mostly blacks, and I know what that does to people and their sense of security. I know that you know my name because I am the only black woman in your class. I know that I have won your respect and trust because I "talk properly", and I have a firm grasp on subject-verb agreement. I am acutely aware of this tenuous bond, and I am aware of how easily it can be broken. I see your surprised looks when I provide insight in class....didn't I just get here to fulfill a minority quota, anyway? Who would have thought I could contribute something to an institution that is only giving me affirmative handouts? I know why you change the subject whenever dissent about Obama is spoken....surely I laud him as the second coming of the Christ, so any opposition is firmly dismissed. I always, always, always make a note of the hesitance you give when trying to classify my race or ethnicity....black? African-American? I guess you figure it's less offensive to guess than to just ask me what I and other blacks (that's right, blacks) prefer. Why don't you stand on the other side of this communication gap and speculate about the people on the other side...please ignore the bridge that time and circumstance has laid down for us, putting us together in the same school, same bus, same church, same life....just stay over there, figuring out the best way to deal with me.
I'll be over here, watching, listening with the same five senses that you have been equipped with. I'll stay over here and revel in my new status as an angry black woman.
It has been a series of completely unrelated events that has brought me to this point. Little comments made on the side, glances here or there, the way that I have felt (dis)respected over a recent span of time. It has also been interesting posts that have sparked up conversations, both out loud and in my heart. And I think it is just where I am in life, an almost-college graduate who has to learn how to market herself in a way that won't turn people off, but won't have people agree to contract with someone that is a diluted version of me....and Senior Seminar. All of these things have caused me to come to the conclusion:
I am an angry black woman. I can't help it.
And I don't want to.
I hear you when you make off-the-cuff jokes....also, I understand them. I see you when you avert your eyes because the conversation does not concern my ethnicity...never mind that I would not mind hearing about it, anyway. I know what you mean when you say place AB is "dangerous" or "sketchy"...I have been places with mostly blacks, and I know what that does to people and their sense of security. I know that you know my name because I am the only black woman in your class. I know that I have won your respect and trust because I "talk properly", and I have a firm grasp on subject-verb agreement. I am acutely aware of this tenuous bond, and I am aware of how easily it can be broken. I see your surprised looks when I provide insight in class....didn't I just get here to fulfill a minority quota, anyway? Who would have thought I could contribute something to an institution that is only giving me affirmative handouts? I know why you change the subject whenever dissent about Obama is spoken....surely I laud him as the second coming of the Christ, so any opposition is firmly dismissed. I always, always, always make a note of the hesitance you give when trying to classify my race or ethnicity....black? African-American? I guess you figure it's less offensive to guess than to just ask me what I and other blacks (that's right, blacks) prefer. Why don't you stand on the other side of this communication gap and speculate about the people on the other side...please ignore the bridge that time and circumstance has laid down for us, putting us together in the same school, same bus, same church, same life....just stay over there, figuring out the best way to deal with me.
I'll be over here, watching, listening with the same five senses that you have been equipped with. I'll stay over here and revel in my new status as an angry black woman.
Sunday, 31 January 2010
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