Mega moment

Wealth before the win
Indwelling love incubates
Inner joy the prize

My Tit Story

The statement to LOVE THE WAY I LOOK has finally gotten through to me.

I think it was timely that today I decided to love my breasts, especially the right tit. It seems the only day I usually notice my body is after my monthly nude weigh-in. When I glanced into the mirror and examine my coloring, texture, shape and girth, my sight often rests on my breasts and especially that one inverted nipple. This time I decided not to blame it or regret its disconcerting look. Perhaps I should have considered this inverted tip petulant; looked upon its insistence on being different or irregular, bravery of a sort.

I don’t know why I faulted this nipple – at times, castigated it. Even here I refer to it as not quite mine with “this” nipple rather than “my” nipple. Was I ashamed of another flawed part of myself? Here was another thing wrong with my body, my reproductive organs were already abnormal, deformed; my endocrine or hormonal system unbalanced, my body went menopausal before its 25th year when in fact, my hormone levels dropped to pubescent levels. Then my nipple stopped demonstrating sensitivity to hot or cold or arousal by refusing to pout or hardened. Initially I was worried, frightened senselessly, after all, an inverted nipple can be an early warning sign for breast cancer, but after diligent monthly self-exams and dozens of medical exams those fears were dispelled. My nipple was just plain strange.

It seems I had to defend this breast or more accurately explain that this tit could not be relied upon to reflect my heightened libido. Guys wanted to know if I was excited, they worked the breast and nipple to the point of discomfort or pain in an effort to see the aroused tip. Too often I heard myself explaining that, “this breast doesn’t work.” Now I realize it was a dreadful thing to say. Nothing on one’s body is identical, why must my nipples be so.

I almost forgot how for years I prayed my breasts would grow. I was a flat-chest teen save for my large dark mahogany areolas. I loved the attention my braless breasts received when my nipples protruded. As a Catholic school girl, I donned a bra for high school days and Mass but freed them every chance I got. In fact, I don’t recall wearing a bra during those college years. When I gained excess weight or grew phat (sexually appealingly plump) my breasts grew from an AA size cup to a perky A cup and finally into a B cup. I felt voluptuous; I could finally be proud of my feminine bosom. But this admiration was short-lived because one tit stopped acting right a few years later. And I stopped loving them. I stopped appreciating their color, shape and size, I no longer enjoyed having that one tit fondled because it wasn’t right, it wasn’t normal, and it remained inverted and deflated. What’s wrong with Waldo now?

Alas, I believe the universe wants me to do more than pay lip service to this realization that my breasts did not fail me by being intractable and diffident. The universe wants me to affirm their worth. I think I’ve been challenged to adore my physical self in all its resplendent flawed beauty. Now I accept that I do not have to be perfect to be beautiful or magnificent. I declare: I love my body!

It was serendipitous that I received an emailed message about the women’s empowering project on breast health where women share their intimate stories about ones relationship with their breasts: TELLING INTIMATE TRUE STORIES (TITS). I am grateful I have an inverted nipple because it has taught me to appreciate what I have and don’t have. I love my body, the way it looks and feels. But I am more than my body and my bosom. I love myself with or without these tits. And for this, I am grateful.

Myrtle Beach [Haiku]

Waves lapping the shore
Tourists savor heat rays on
Wondrous wet playground

ISO healthy turbo boost (Have you tried electrolytes?)

Walked early today in this oppressive heat, it wasn’t the temperature or unabated sunshine that had me feeling like I was melting, it was the dank humidity! Immediately upon returning home I downed 2 glasses of delicious cold water but it didn’t refresh me like I expected or needed. Minutes later I had a piece of fresh fruit thinking that my body would benefit from a healthy glucose rush &/or antioxidants—I really wanted sweetened iced lemonade, but I found my body still unsatisfied. I doubled checked myself to make certain I wasn’t dehydrated. Satisfied my body was flushed, I headed to the shower.

As water flowed over me the word: Electrolytes entered my thoughts. Electrolytes, what are they, only the print or televised ads came to mind. Why would I even think of such things--electrolytes? I’m wondering now if I’m even spelling the word correctly. Ever the non-athlete, I have never tasted a Gatorade or any sports drinks made popular by professional athletes and the marketing machinery. But I’m pausing to consider: Is my body talking to me in ways differently from the usual painful scenario? Would an electrolyte boost relieve me of this strange thirst for liquid rejuvenation?

I do want to reward this organic machine -- my blessed body -- for heartily carrying me around the neighborhood today and through the years, in spite of my ignorance, abuse and neglect. Do my cells require electrolytes or something more than common fluids to replenish it on dog days such as these? Electrolytes: It’s my big question for today.

Medicine for Melancholy film query

Have you seen this 2008 film: Medicine for Melancholy? I’m trying to identify several sites the characters visited in the San Francisco area. It’s a smart, provocative story of a young Black couple’s one-night stand laden rich with a discussion of contemporary racial politics, i.e., identity, dating, gentrification, etc. Also, San Francisco is more than a backdrop for this storyline, it’s another tantalizing character. (I love the SF, Oakland, Berkeley, and wine country region.)

I want to know more about several places they visited on this 24-hour fling. It seemed like a culturally rich African American tour of the city. One site appeared to be a gallery hosting an audio-exhibit, a door had Maya Angelou’s name on it; another place was an urban waterfall and beneath the serene downfall, a wall inscribed with powerful thoughts of some noted African American and then there was a popular place where the spoken word was revered.

This artsy film aired on Showtime (on our DirectTV channel) but I missed the credits which may have cited these interesting venues which I want to visit. If you get a chance please screen this film. I think many of you will find it interesting. And if you have, or do see it then let’s talk about a couple of points. Medicine for Melancholy, a provocative film with discernible layers. Hopefully, I’ll get to see the film again, and soon.

Wedding Day Haikus for Mary & Luz

Encompassed by love
Partnered by kindred nature
Lawfully wedded

# # #

Uncommon lovers
Interdependent friends
Vowing life journey

# # #

Desire flows from core
Love's glowing flame ignited
Connection realized

This is not a blog

A wise woman reminded me that blogs usually hosted a particular theme, one subject. But my passions are many and my interests diverse and I won’t rein in this curious energy to one topic or theme, therefore, waldo525.blogspot.com is not a blog.

Waldo’s Ink Place is a writing room, a studio and romper room to post creative exploits, ruminations and quandaries. I am licensed to express in any form: essays, poems, short tales or whatever provokes me. I hope they will move you.

This place is a rink to test my mettle and exercise a new craft. It is a safe haven where I learn to weather the discipline and solitude of a creative life. Can I give voice to that which yearns to be heard? Can I embrace the silence so that wisdom and insights reveal themselves? It is daunting to unleash new powers. Am I up to the commitment? I will see. Meanwhile, I invite you to drop in my special space to relax and ponder a thought of two. I invite dialogue, feedback and different points of view. Waldo is in, and she welcome a visit from you.

A Reluctant Environmentalist

Earth Day was celebrated on April 22nd but I had no plans to participate in neighborhood or regional activities, and didn’t. But it seems Mother Nature cajoled me into some outdoor housekeeping nonetheless – a month later.

While out walking my neighborhood, I spotted numerous empty plastic bottles and litter strewn about where I trek for exercise. I’m very observant about trash. Disgusted I shook my head but thought there’s nothing I can do: there’s no nearby trash can. I have nothing to put this garbage in; and my hands would get dirty when suddenly an empty plastic bag blew by my feet putting an end to my objections. It was almost as if Mother Earth commanded my assistance, so I bent down, picked up the bag then gathered the recyclables, e.g., cans, glass and plastic bottles that littered my route. Why do some thoughtless people behave as if the outdoors is their private trash dump? My verdant green neighborhood is beautiful; I would like it to remain this way.
*
After my first trip to Africa I returned home more water conscious. There I discovered that water is a precious resource. I learned that clean water is medicine; it heals and wards off minor illnesses. It was the 90s, and I congratulated myself by doing my part simply by turning off the faucet while I brushed my teeth and shortening my showers upon returning home. It took a second African sojourn to give birth to a serious water conservationist. Since then I’ve conserved water use and waste. I recycle water. I flush less, particularly between midnight and dawn. I stopped emptying old prescriptions into the toilet. I learned more about waste that pollute our local and national waterways. I have taken greater interest in oil spills as well as refuse and toxins that make its way into the local sewage systems.
*
Dangerous lipid levels tricked me into eating several meatless meals. While Lipitor managed my cholesterol for a time, the triglyceride refused to be minimized unless I ate considerably less meat and more vegetables and legumes. Once vegetables took center stage I paid more attention where my food was grown. I began to frequent farmer’s market and learn about eating veggies in their harvest season.

I am starting my very first vegetable garden. A crash reading course on gardening has left me greatly concerned about the pesticides routinely used to treat our lawn. If I’m going to eat what I grow, I want organic vegetables—and soil matters. Healthy dirt is key to a bountiful harvest. I’ll start with containers and garden boxes this growing season to allow myself a longer learning curve. I am intent on starting a compost pile for future planting. Learning the fundamentals of composting, often referred to as black gold, is crucial to the life of an organic garden.
*
After spending time on an orphanage compound that lacked electrical energy, I began dreaming of a home where fifty youngsters would have light to read by and the possibility to learn about and use computer technology. Solar energy is a viable energy option for this facility. After realizing that it makes great sense there, I realized it makes great sense here. The need for safe, renewable, cheap (or cheaper) clean energy is critical since I depend on modern conveniences. Also, I can live with less energy dependency. But I’ve done little to learn about this field. I feel lazy when it comes to learning scientific things. However, I shall explore having solar panels on my next house.
*
By Earth Day 2011, I intend to lighten my eco-footprint another 50 percent. A healthy planet is critical to human and animal life. I care about my home planet; reluctantly I realize it’s time to take better care of Mother Earth and not because she’s all I’ve got -- I want future generations to thrive. And it’s a beautiful world after all.

Crossroads to Africa

Spent Thursday with Jackie, a friend, who will leave shortly for Togo on an OCA cross-cultural project. She's leading a team of nine volunteers who will work respectively on a reforestration, microfinance business and an education project. It will be the first trip to Africa for her team members.

Driving home I found my thoughts wandering back to Mother Africa. Africa is my ineffable joy. The next day I searched in vain for my memory book, also known as, a travel journal. I wanted to relive that first visceral connection with the continent--an awakening. Some of it was painful, all of it was cathartic. That journey or homecoming gave birth to my passionate love for its people, the land, new, strange and sometimes, puzzling customs. I fell in love with my African self.

I did locate a few poems which I penned in Ghana.

~My DNA's Journey~

The sea could not bear me again

I travel via air through the portal of time.

The journey is complete

I am on African soil.

Home.

# # #

I am a prayer made flesh

Tears, sweat and blood

Music of your lungs and the power of your loins

I am the fruit of your womb; or is it your wounds?

Spring Fever (series)

Garden dalliances
Regeneration birth daze
Supplanting the past

# # #

Sexual frenzy
Bees and butterflies delight
On arresting buds

# # #

Orgasmic season
Surreal buzz from perfumed air
Floral scents drug me

Company on the Journey

Amidst the thicket of morning traffic, I had to promptly remind myself that it was indeed Sunday, not Monday or a weekday. So taken back by the sheer volume of vehicles cruising around and beside me, I scanned each car's interior noticing the drivers and occupants as I sat at a red light. Like me, most people were dressed for church services. St. Joseph's Catholic, St. Michael's Lutheran, Evangel Cathedral and First Baptist Church of Glenarden were among several nearby places of worship. (My Sunday pilgrimage would take me 20 minutes farther.)

It was a sacred moment to realize that I was surrounded by my sisters and brothers in Christ. Our early mornings comings and goings demonstrated our longing to worship with our respective faith families. This rush hour traffic represented my extended Christian community and I was in blessed company. "Surely the Lord is in this place..." Gen. 28:16

Fertility; and Meditation

Soil lives to give birth
Seeds of change take root blossom
In rich consciousness

# # #


Cooling engine off
Tranquil spaces beckon me
To park my soul here

Happiness Prayer

I am happy you needed me

Thrilled, just to be

Life, I am yours.

Asante sana, Gracias,

Danke, Arigato...et Merci.

Sunbather

Delicious kisses gently brown me
into a sweet dark chocolate goddess.
But I must not linger long or else your love will burn.

© Diane T. Waldo

Haïku Efforts

Last week a friend invited me to write and share Haïku poems with her after she listened to an inspiring interview of scholar, activist, and poet Sonia Sanchez. This request evoked a painful moment in my creative past when after a few weeks in Japan I rendered my joyful and mystical experiences into Haïku. I shared them, but was summarily informed that my poetry was NOT Haïku. And that I disregarded every aspect of this revered poetic tradition. Enough said! I never wrote another.

Fast forward – I like some challenges. I love word play; in fact, I am in love with words and their power. Crafting a real Haïku seems a delicious challenge now, although essays and short stories are my favorite things to pen.

I picked up the gauntlet. My initial efforts were excruciating, much like I’ve imagined childbirth. Wry Creation was the flippant result after hours of struggle but ego could not give up. I am pleased with Aroma Therapy which seems to honor all the Japanese requirements. Eventually I hope to create something lovely, and perhaps truly poignant. I shall call upon my muse but meanwhile here are my humble beginnings. What do you, think?

[Oh yes, I do realize Haïku poems are not titled, please grant this student poetic license.]

[Wry Creation]

Haïku eludes me
Its form defy my capture
Exerting its power

[Aroma Therapy]

Amidst swaying pines
Winds soothe like holy waters
For body and soul

Sweet Treats

A decade ago, a friend and neighbor questioned me, "Why do Americans like their meats, sweet?" Initially this query sounded strange coming from this intelligent, well-traveled Cameroonian and new American citizen. As an immigrant he was grateful for the frequent invitations and opportunities to dine and socialize in typical American households but was dismayed by what we did to our meats.

Puzzled by this strange complaint, I queried further. And he balked at our meat preparations e.g., honey baked ham, barbecue sauces on ribs or chicken, fruity sauce on duck or perhaps it was goose, ketchup on hamburger, sphaghetti meat sauce, etc. I recalled shrugging my shoulders to indicate that I did not know when actually I thought his question was absurd. We didn't like sweetened meats.

Refusing to reveal my defensiveness or wounded American pride, but equally aware that this carnivore had dined in Kenya, South Africa, Senegal, Australia, Germany and of course, in France where he lived several years; there was nothing I could say. Very much an epicurean, he loved good food everywhere,including home cooking and haut cuisine. But he complained bitterly (to me, not toward his respective hosts) of sugary flavored meats when he expected the hearty taste of grilled or roasted meat.

Now as I begin to count calories, note grams of fat and review sodium amounts in an effort to manage my cholesterol level or to avert diabetes, I have discovered his question was not unfounded but apropos. Recently, I was dumbfounded to discover how sweet the sauces and dishes are that I savor. Commercially prepared sauces all seem laced with sugar or fructose or glucose. Many cherished home-cooked dishes seem excessively sweet to my deprived palate now. Currently I'm suffering from sugar withdrawal -- pining for it -- as I learn to make healthier food choices. Apparently, I didn't recognize its omnipresence but my taste buds feel its absence. It is one day at a time now.

American Red Cross (memories of our house fire)

The Haiti natural disaster and emergency relief efforts remind me of a harrowing experience when my grandparents' house caught fire with me inside. Thankfully, valiant fire fighters came to the rescue, and so did the American Red Cross.

Bedridden with flu, I was home from work when my 3-year old cousin harassed me with tears and cries for me to get out of bed. Dragging my ailing body from the bed to lock him out of my bedroom I discovered smoke billowing up the stairs. Unable to see down the hallway much less down the stairs, but refusing to run from the house in only a nightgown, I donned jeans, a blouse and shoes. Gagging from congested lungs, I raced into the bathroom to wet towels to swathe my cousin and myself for our great escape. Touching the wall for heat, I stumbled, fell and we tumbled down the stairs then crawled out the front door only to realize that my 67-year old blind grandfather was nowhere in sight.

I reentered the smoking building to the objections of passersby to find my granddad attempting to douse the flames in his Capitol Hill home. Unbeknownst to me, Papa found the toddler playing with matches, but he had no idea of the magnitude of the fire. After some trauma, we safely made it outside whereupon the loud sirens informed me that the D.C. Fire Department had been summoned.

The American Red Cross arrived too. Red Cross workers comforted us with blankets, liquid refreshment, information, resource options and vouchers to secure immediate lodgings. For decades I knew the Red Cross provided first aid training, sponsored swimming lessons and lifeguard certification but we had never formally met. Until then I had no idea that they represented legions of professional and volunteer persons who provided humanitarian relief services locally, nationally or internationally. And those generous donors contributed to emergency relief efforts with their money, time, and services.

That day the Red Cross organization rose to the stature of heroic fire fighters and paramedics. While they did not resuce us from the physical wreckage, they were there to offer succor to our bodies and spirits. We were under emotional siege amid a personal disaster. (Fire completely razed two rooms, burned its way through the hardwood floors and left the rest of the townhouse covered in soot.)

Later I learned of the organization's illustrious legacy of service. I discovered other facts too. But what I learned came in a distanct second to what I experienced--and it is what one does, matters most. The American Red Cross shows up!

The Red Cross, an iconic symbol of humanitarian service, has a permanent place in my heart. I invite everyone to support the Red Cross mission with your wealth: time, talent and resources. Here is my belated high five and high praise for the legions of volunteers. I am eternally grateful for their kind service.

Take Off the Limitations

Ensconced indoors, housebound from this record snowfall, I decided to do a special exercise. As I relish companionship I thought I would invited others to workout with me. After you've lounged about or tended yourself, your family, your chores, and have cleared the walkway and dug out your car, how about tending to your inner self by musing over these questions: Is it time to shed your limitations, step free of them? Can you imagine new possibilities? What does this bring to mind?

Just to share examples of what immediately come to mind for me: Fear; Fat; Indebtedness. It's time for them to begone.

I began thinking of these as ill-fitted or well-worn clothing and that it was time to discard them. These 'state of being' don't suit this spiritual being. I intend to shed them NOW. I am envisioning new garments to adorn myself with. I'll craft affirmations and action plans to realize a new state. I can solicit support from family and friends. Carla Nash, a real inspiration, lent me powerful imagery with the use of the word: Fabulous. It's time to drape myself anew in fabulous new robes; after all, the Father is my source and my supply. My spirit and body are weary of this excess baggage. This false persona of "poor me" just doesn't work -- it never did. I am the beloved child of a generous God, and I deserve better. I'm taking off the limitations, I'm making a brand new start. What do these questions bring to mind for you? I'd like to live beyond limiting notions of what I can do and who I am. How might you take off the limitations?

Book of Eli

Bias alert!

I saw Denzel Washington’s latest film: Book of Eli. While I loathe this genre of post-apocalyptic films i.e., life after some great catastrophic event where civilization is reduced to rubble and the remaining humans live savagely with less moral fiber than the animals scavenging for food, save a few valiant characters; I wanted to know more of this book. I love books; I love a good story.

While there is merit in protecting something sacred, I wasn’t impressed with this stylized plot. I was put off by the underlining religious significance of this book or that life is impotent without sacred teachings. (Truthfully I watched only because I adore Denzel’s walk, more accurately his strut, and physique.) However, I was intrigued by this book that ordered his steps.

I heard a personal message through his character’s words. At one point he told a victimized character of how he heard a powerful voice “within,” and that this voice gave him guidance and more importantly, PURPOSE, to travel westward—a journey he had been making for 30 plus years. Eli -- his character, told of how he would “be protected” against all obstacles in carrying out “his life’s work.” I think Eli described this “voice” as a Light. Although I want to hear these messages again, this action drama was too violent for me to sit through it again.

Anyway, the film gave me HOMEWORK. My task was to re-address my life’s work, 1st reassess what it is? 2nd go inward to invite the still small voice to speak—then LISTEN intently. And last, “…to walk by faith not by sight.” Be assured that no one and no obstacles can impede me from reaching my destination, like the character said, “I am protected.” I would be curious to learn what others heard in this movie. Were there messages, metaphysical or secular, for you? Did you distill any life lessons from this piece of art?

Communications Thwarted

After placing a phone call several days ago I received a FB response that read and I quote: “…received your message…hate talking on the phone so I don’t answer calls…what’s up?...”

‘WHAT’S UP?’ you want to know. I wanted to discuss a number of things. I wanted your valued opinion on a subject. I wanted the immediacy of an answer before our communications concluded. I wanted to share an idea. Until now I didn’t realize that I wanted to hear a voice—the human connection. But alas, this is not to be because it seems you restrict some communications to emails or the social networks. Well this gives me new food for thought. Previously I decided not to FB or befriend utter strangers or anyone approximating 3 degrees of separation but perhaps it’s time to rethink this matter and retire some other folks aka FB relationships whom I mistaken for friends. That’s what’s up with me now.