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.

An Everyday Man

I enjoy a beautiful man, one whose lusty presence and smiling eyes warms my mornings no matter the weather outside. His beauty issues forth from his spirit, his zeal for life and not from his face or frame.

Breakfasts and dinners I want to share, although our lives may have different interests and demands. An everyday man to journey with, not regular trysts or vacation flame: his or mine.

Someone to take charge and tend those things that need masterful hands; a male to keep me on my toes, and make them tingle too. Helpmate, housemate, partner, friend--an every day man, I seek.

I desire my bearings, a true north, who shares my values and world view. I want to amplify my love. Love is energy, you know. I relish a fuller life, and this life welcomes you.

Remembering Michael Jackson

Michael graced us with his talents,
He gifted life with his joy,
Spirit imbued him with heightened energies,
The man-child surrounded himself with toys.

No matter what his flaws, foibles or sins,
Simply love him, admire his best.
His temporal challenges are over now,
His Maker will take care of the rest.

~

Thanks Michael, for your extraordinary presence.

What happens to my dream deferred?

As February concluded I decided to reflect on the history of a WRITER. I selected Langston Hughes, author, poet, playwright. One of his more famous poems gave me content for the following journal piece which I'm sharing with you. It had me pondering 'what happened to MY dreams or lack of them? It made me question, "now what am I going to do about it and them?" Febrary 2009

"What happens to a dream deferred?" – Langston Hughes

Defer – put off, postpone; submit to the opinion or judgment of others [in my case in the absence of other opinions or in spite of my fears]

I didn't dream; as a youngster I didn't know what it was to dream, imagine, or how to hope -- not really. I had a notion about writing, knew I liked it and received occasional praise for how I phrased sentences or wrote a paragraph, even an essay. I drafted a few promising pieces but suffered a broken spirit by even slight criticism. I adored words, revelled in them; thoroughly enjoyed reading, loved how some could wield power and stir the imagination with their writings. Stories were interesting inventions but I dared not imagine that I could assemble a plausible storyline, fill it with interesting characters, or craft intelligent dialogue. However, I felt great when I wrote. Time collapsed when I wrote.

Back to the question of what happens to a [my] dream deferred? My notion grew sullen, melancholy and lazy; these fledgling thoughts of penning words took deeper refuge in my shy personality. During my academic years the writing demands in literature classes constricted my imagination. I could not recognize opportunities to branch other styles. I lacked the discipline to learn the mechanics of grammar subsequently, writing paralysis set in. No professors, guides nor muse appeared to help me or acknowledge nascent skills. Introversion seized my timid soul, my few words lapsed into a coma, my passion faint until years later, until now.

But the moratorium is over. I dare to dream of the flow of words, sentiments, and ideas flooding my consciousness daily. It is no longer simply the "I" that wants to speak out but the Spirit within that seeks to be freed. I recognize that I have been given gifts that must be shared—my medium is the printed word (though I wish I could sing). It wants to elicit a hearing, to extend an invitation to action, to inspire others to service. It is not I but the Spirit within that seeks greater expression. I shall not tarry nor brook delay further for I am a world of possibility for creative expression. And yes my ego lives too, it wants to be excellent at something, something real, something that is me.

So what happened to my dream deferred? It has awakened from its comatose state, it is ravenous, and anxious to get out and about! I dream of words and they want to play.