If you really knew me…

If you really knew me, you’d know I live with my soul on my sleeve, for better or for worse, for richer which I’ve never been, or poorer, and until death does my spirit part.

If you really knew me, you’d know I have a pair of flip-flops for every occasion sharing coveted closet space with 6 inch platforms and knee high boots, all equally a part of who I am.

If you really knew me, you’d know black people do not only swim, but love the beach, hike like Robinson Crusoe, come in all colors, dialects and get sunburned.

If you really knew me, you’d know I live to get lost in a book, write like my life depends upon me moving my fingers along a keyboard or gently gripping a smooth ballpoint gel pen or watching heroines look good while healing the world on the small or mighty screen.

If you only knew me, you’d know I love to have my nails done as much as I love hiking through a dust ridden trail that approximates a desolate paradise.

If you only knew me, you’d know I’m still rebelling from the overarching childhood restrictions governing an already perfectionistic and overly conservative only child.

If you only knew me, you’d know I miss my daddy and close my eyes to hear his voice, feel his presence, and go the way he would tell me to.

If you only knew me, you’d know I regret being so cautious, safe and planned and wish I had not embraced the belief that hard work pays off and celebrated the moment because it would never return.

If you only knew me, you’d know I am afraid of being alone, being rejected, wallowing in stress and depression in spite of the smile that plasters my face like a mask alluding to inner strength and confidence.  

If you only knew me, you’d know the phone call, message, hug and encouraging words are what allow me to take the next breath to continue in service.

If you only knew.

A Homecoming for SHE...Finding the Fierce that Once Was

Where is that Girl?

Because she held her head high, sounded more like a valley girl and actually loved any body of water, she was called a “stuck up, Oreo,” by the girls who looked like her and was treated like a question mark by those who didn't. Heads turned as she almost glided through the halls, dressed either to the nines, in sweats, uniform or anything that made her different from the others. It was the way she carried herself that set her, what those of the male persuasion called, above the rest. Some said it was her smile and for others, it was her eyes and the way they looked straight into your soul.

For her, it was deciding nothing and no one would keep her from being anything short of unique and incredible all wrapped into one. The best or nothing with fierceness, class, sass and fire. For her it was about futures with no room for error.

Her workable plan came to fruition with the the expected highlights of hard work. A budding career, the proverbial two children and two of America's favorite canines, as close to a picket fence as suburbia would allow; the American dream personified until she stopped to think about what really mattered. 

A hole in her heart. A void where friendships, laughter, and bliss should have been was filled with grief, loneliness and questions about all those sassy sacrifices in addition to all the, “No, I must waits,” “I can’ts,” and “I don’t deserve it’s,” took hold instead. A place where the woes of unemployment, loss of loved ones and the unimaginable pain that comes with that along with impossible expectations clogged what should have been an abundance of vacation memories, empty bottles of wine with girlfriends that she never nurtured relationships with, which left her entering her forties asking, “What did I do wrong?”

Where had the passion and fire gone?  In what was supposed to be the best of times, pain and regret pervaded and “get through” and “serve others” became the mantra. And she did that, for a bit. But the pain reared it’s ugly head with a vengeance as life continued its barrage of gems.

A few from her past resurfaced to remind her of who she was while a spark inside continued to flicker with a gradual increase in presence. Trying to remind herself SHE is still there and that SHE wants out. That SHE is still a fighter and that SHE has not let the fire die completely, in spite of the thunderstorms both internally and worldly inflicted. SHE wants to come home.

Welcome home, my true love, my first love, my SHE. Look out. SHE is no joke if I remember correctly.

The Kind Of “Love” I Wish for You

Real Love is Mary J’s someone to set your heart free.

A partner in crime, not Bonnie and Clyde, but through good and bad. Triumph and death bond you closer. No room for just physically taking up space or playing a part or co-existing.

Someone who will talk to you, listen to you, question and challenge you and make you a better person.

Someone who wants to show you off and be proud that you are theirs.

Someone who is always asking themselves, what can I do to make my love smile today? To make my shared soul feel valued?

Someone who desires you. Like their hands are in pain if not on your body. Someone to look into your eyes like they give strength derived from no other source.

Someone who wants you like they must have you as nourishment to keep living.

Someone who sees your strength, but knows even strong people need encouragement and a system of scaffolding to keep you up when the elements are almost too harsh to bare.

A playmate to run into the ocean with your fingers intertwined, roll down a grassy hill, scream like kindergarten girls at a scary movie.

Someone whose smoldering gaze can make you lick your  lips in anticipation of a sweet kiss to come from across the room.

For this is love. This is living. This is what it should be.

Is it too much to ask?

Is it too much to ask...

That I catch a break or even a breath?

That my winning number is drawn and I get the concert tickets or have my photo taken on the red carpet?

That I get the invite to meet the girls for dinner at that new, posh spot where half the fun is spying who wore what, said what and did what?

Or the call to see the movie everyone is anticipating and discuss it over wine and an outdoor fire pit later?

Maybe even to share a hotel room in paradise and have the vacation I never got to when I was supposed to be young and carefree?

That I am on someone’s “A” list and not the afterthought and, “Oh, I should have invited you,” list?

That I be the love interest, center of attention, Tiara-Wearing Goddess, even if only for one night instead of just inside my own consciousness?

That I be the one who’s treasured, envied, emblazoned upon the hearts and minds of others enough to be actively remembered?

That I be happy with the freckles, grays and extra pounds stress and life’s lovely way of choosing some of us more heartily for challenges have inflicted upon me?

Is it too much to ask of you, the universe, and of every cell in my body?

Am I asking too much?

It’s Time - A Celebration of all My Wonder Women

Wonderful Wonder Women who work with what’s left of their souls to ensure others are well.

Wondrous Women roaring against social pressures while mothering the planet with wisdom, words of kindness and praise.

Wounded Women who've been beaten by standards of beauty so unattainable that only computer generated good enough is “good enough.”

Warrior Women who've faced the blazing eyes of poverty, cancer, violence and won.

Women, you survive in-spite of, to spite and with inspiration.

To the Queens, Goddesses, Mothers, Lovers - I salute my Wonder Women. It’s time to honor you when no one else seems to notice. I do. A regal bow and gift of continued enchanted energy is my homage to all you do.