Aunt Snookie (found 1.24.13)

Yesterday was the homegoing service for my mother's eldest sister, Geneva, known to us as, Snookie. The first of six daughters, known for such gifts and subcommittees of the beautiful transitioned spirit Thelma Tapscott Alford, known as Queenie by her five sisters, and affectionately as GM, by her grandchildren. We are from the tree of the Tapscott/Collins/Crawford family. A family known for women who love to serve others, natural entrepreneurs, spirit women, beautiful and beautifiers, outspoken, demure, outrageous and humble. A family, now as small as 3 church pews.

Aunt Snookie was always in service to others. Modest yet confident but not flashy or showy. Her life was always a mystery to me and seemed as if she was always going to or coming from work. I mostly saw her at Ant Ceil's house (Cecelia Crawford) for the grand annual New Year's celebration, for which we'd practice setting tables and then polishing silver over Aunt Vivian's house on Saturdays to prepare for that dinner and beyond. As many people were there, this seemed to be my special time with Aunt Snookie. She always sat on this antique bench in the entrance way to the dining room. Unassuming but most definitely where you could see and hear all the action. I liked to sit on the second step diagonal to her seat. I was pretty shy and many people paid more attention to my younger sister, who loved to entertain. I used to hear the collage of conversation and out of my frustration of being ignored, began imitating folk. Sometimes I would snap out of it because of a distinctive, quick jingle of a laugh. I'd eye Aunt Snookie and she'd smile. Then we'd stare at each other. Seemed she'd know what and why I was doing what I thought were my private thoughts. Then we'd both return to people watching: the men and young boys watching football (many of whom died young), the ladies laughing at the table, people in and out of the kitchen with endless courses, my cousins up and down the basement trying to figure how to go upstairs to the other floors to play, someone coming in with long fur coat and dramatic entrance followed by cheers...and then Aunt Snookie and I would look at each other at the same time and have our faces held up by our hands and our feet overlapping. Her smile, laugh and voice remind me of the lush, full time of my childhood. Rest well, Aunt Snookie.

Musing: Homeostatic 12.26.25

I am prioritizing myself. Processing difficult emotions to move forward from extensive trauma from childhood and beyond. My little girl heart has held so much.

I am resting, lounging and being gentle with myself. My space is a delicate museum. I am an orchid. It is safe to be in place. I make it so.

I am not doing much of anything. I am undercover, under the covers. I am reclaiming and rediscovering my mind, my inners, my outers. Patterns.

I am realizing that healing manifests in the body, too. The more aware I become, the more pain in my body to stretch, move and tend to. Speak to. Free.

I am ready for the life the Creator has for me. Gathering/dissecting/examining/integrating all my parts is painful, powerful, poignant work. I am fearless.

I am built for my destiny. Ancestors in my vertebrate and blood. A stirring. A surge. A bird waiting for me at every window.

Musing 11.30.12 (found)

i hate wasting time. if you have no qualms about wasting mine, don't even come close. building, being patient and healing take time but but trying to decide if you need to do that is something to explore in your own private space. i got too much to do! foundations aren't built from fear. any man not willing to do the work is not tall enough for this ride...i don't believe in wheels, sooooo...keep it moving (bcuz i mos def will)!

Musing & Racing 11.27.25

lately, i've been gathering pieces of me: old words and works, sometimes scribbled inside of books, random flyers, napkins i've torn and saved in a special crate or folder. there's a lot in that "i'll get back to it" pile. so much was lost on the journey here. i need to examine my need to hold on. i know it hurt to take so much time sifting, discarding and reclassifying what's important and lose it all in storage. everything new is from this life here. it's been eleven years.

i miss the pictures of my life with my late husband, the wedding photos my daddy took, both sonogram pictures of my children, the journals (especially the ones i kept while pregnant), my daughter as a little girl, fabulous vintage gowns and furs i've painstakingly collected and the books. so many BOOKS. i've never cried about a lover as i did those books. the story of aquisition was as poignant as those books themselves. why do i mourn what i can rebuild? not in the same way, of course, but the same wonder? seems i can barely get through an entire book now. have i lost my will?

i fear my anxiety has grown with the overload of information from technology, misinformation, senseless chatter on the streets, the musiclessness and mimicry of acceptable tone. then, i'm wired to hear whispers, too. plus, the loud public confessions in my commute. 

the balance of the tree outside my window: the same bird in the morning, the same squirrel in the afternoon and the possum who seems to come whenever i have found the sweet spot of peace in my (neverending) insomnia- is now gone. my neighbor had it cut down. the patterns i've relied on to counter my restlessness GONE.

this cleansing before winter is less about the physical things but my emotional way of moving. the over collection of randomness (people, places, things) has lost its thrill. i am ready to know myself thoroughly, closely, lovingly. i am unapologetically still.

Musing 11.27.12 (found & YES!)

harnessing and honing. everything else is extraneous. i refuse to be a slave to past mistakes, lives and loves. i owe no one my life. so i keep working...one day all of this will make sense!

Musing 11.19.12 (found)

yesterday i was in serious meditation bcuz i was asked for money by an injured solider who was obviously homeless. i didn't hesitate to give him what was in my pocket. i can't understand this country...these men and women sacrifice their lives, families and emotional/mental health. regardless of what you think of the military or government, this is a fact that affects all people on american soil...it's disgusting. not only do we not have reverence for the poor and disenfranchised but also those who uphold the american institution...those who teach and those who serve the american population in any capacity...and those who can change this are not required to be held accountable. in fact, we worship their lack of principles and their wealth in the midst of our own suffering. i salute everyone who works to make a change, no matter how big or small. may the chaos, confusion, disregard, and hate be overturned by real people willing to give, create change and opportunity, dig and get their hands dirty and take it upon themselves to be the difference. regardless!

Musing 11.16.21 (found)

Emotional abuse is so common it's culture. We praise the bully; the one who pulls rank, the unbothered one, the one who gets away with deviousness, treachery and low morality. We push it through generations. Often, the authentic one, the truth teller, becomes the black sheep or scapegoat instead of leader or strategist. How else would you keep them in check? Who would listen anyway? We shame and punish the nonconformist until we can consume them. Whip em into shape and wear down their light.  Who are you to stand up as yourself, for yourself?