Remembering and Honoring Legacy

November 22, 2014, a mighty oak fell in our family tree.  My dad called early that Saturday morning with the sad news.  Our uncle, one of my dad’s favorite uncles, Richard Cromwell Peace, had gone to Glory.  I say “our” Uncle Richard, because no matter the familial relationship, everyone pretty much referred to him as Uncle Richard.  My dad said that one of the things that he admired most was the way Uncle Richard always took care of family and always helped the community.  He worked with you and showed you how to do things so that you could be self-sufficient too, such an important life lesson that runs throughout the family.  I also found out in talking with Daddee after the memorial service, that Uncle Richard is actually “Little” Uncle Richard, as he was named after his uncle, “Big” Uncle Richard Cromwell Peace.  I’ll tell you more about him a little later in my story.

I remember when I was a little girl how he instilled in us cousins and siblings, little acorns then, the importance of family and legacy.  Uncle Richard was one of the elders who would gather us together at the family reunions, make us sit up front, show us pictures and tell us the stories, history, and the legacy of the Jordan clan, born from the great Peaces, Alexander and Lethia Downey Peace.  These stories sustained me, made me proud, and helped me to endure when times got tough for me, especially in college and when I first started teaching.  I would think back to the fact that “I am from a long line of preachers and teachers”, and I could then square my shoulders more resolutely and press forward.

Sometimes we met for the family reunions at “The Home Place”, at Uncle Richard’s house down in the country past the family cemetery and Uncle Garland’s apple orchards with the best apples for eating, making pies, and making Mommee’s famous homemade apple and apple/plum jellies and homemade applesauce, chunky or smooth, the only applesauce that I would eat.  After some of her homemade applesauce, thawed from the freezer so that it still had a few frozen bits of applesauce it in, I never wanted to eat store bought applesauce.  One of the stories that we listened to was the story of how “The Home Place” came to be in the family.  The story goes that back in the day when the family went to the bank to make purchase of the land, the banker scoffed derisively and granted them the loan, saying, “You’ll be giving it back soon; that land will never be yours”.  That was over one hundred years ago, and I remember that legacy of determination, pride, a hard work ethic, and family, that “I’ll show you” attitude of quiet defiance that propels me to endure until I achieve my goals and overcome obstacles in life.

In talking with my dad, I always learn something new, that there were TWO Uncle Richards, a “Big” Uncle Richard Cromwell Peace, and a “Little” Uncle Richard Cromwell Peace.  Their connection was another example of how family legacy would help me overcome an obstacle standing in the way of my life’s goals.  In graduate school at Duke, my first class was a history class about the immigrant experience in America.  Our final paper in the class was to write about an immigration experience of someone in our family.  Although I can go back a few generations in my family tree, especially on my father’s side of the family thanks to my cousin Chuckie, the family historian and genealogist, the only immigration experience I really knew was being stolen from Africa, somewhere in Africa perhaps never to be known by me, and brought to this land in chains to toil as slaves.  As I studied and asked my dad about my family’s history, I discovered that most of us chose to remain planted near our NC roots, but in talking with Daddee, he pointed out a notable exception, “Big” Uncle Richard, who I mistakenly thought was the same Uncle Richard that I grew up knowing.  Though in class readings and discussions we glossed over the Great Black Migration within the United States in the 1930s-1940s, a mass migration of African-American people seeking better lives and opportunities by leaving the repressive, regressive south and going to the big cities in the north, I knew a lot about the subject from my undergraduate days at Duke and four semesters of US and Afro-American history under the teaching of Dr. Raymond Gavins, who taught from the perspective of the disenfranchised and powerless people and regions in American history. 

I had discovered my topic and began to interview my dad, who told me the story.  “Big” Uncle Richard left Oxford to seek his destiny riding “The Silver Meteor”.  He was a Pullman porter on the route from Florida to New York, and was very successful in his career.  “Big” Uncle Richard was my Great Grandpa Peace’s brother, who “Little” Uncle Richard was named after.  As a porter he worked hard and saved his money.  He had a nice car, and always had money in his pockets.  My dad said that was a really big deal, especially for an African-American in the segregated society of 1940s America.  When the train would come through Oxford, “Big” Uncle Richard would stand on the back of the train, waving as the train passed by the station blowing its whistle.  I wonder if that is where the Jordan tradition of gathering on the porch to say the “Great Goodbye” came from, everyone calling out a chorus of goodbyes and waving as our car turned around past Mrs. Gregory’s house on the way back down W. Front Street, on our journey from Grandma Jordan’s house back to our home in the Warren County country.  From Grandpa Peace, preacher, ice delivery man, farmer, and jack-of-all trades, to “Big” Uncle Richard’s successful service as a Pullman porter, to “Little” Uncle Richard’s business and real estate acumen along with his brother, my Uncle John Thomas “Biggis” Peace, I could not help but learn the lessons of using dogged determination to reap the labors of hard work and working endlessly to achieve one’s goals, even when faced with difficulties.  The fruits of my labor earned me a B+ in my first graduate level course, and I was very proud of myself for figuring out a way to successfully accomplish the assignment’s goal.

That strong sense of legacy and family pride, and memories of a big family clan gathered together to fellowship at family reunions are nestled right beside memories of running around and playing with my cousins, my aunts and uncles slapping down books and laughing at the Bid Whist table (I always wanted to learn how to play), Uncle Ed frying the best fish and chicken in the big, black, cast iron cauldron pots in the back yard, and always, always, big pans of fresh corn pudding.  Those memories filled my heart and flooded my soul during the memorial service and bathed me also in the loving memory of Grandma Jordan, sitting in the short pews in the front of the church, right side, second row, adjacent to where the big organ, now in the choir stand, used to be.  As my cousin, Franthia Darby, sang Uncle Richard home to “Amazing Grace” (one of my favorite hymns), on his final leg of the journey to the everlasting life, I was overcome with emotion.  I wept quietly and shamelessly, but they were not tears of sadness; they were tears of uncontrollable joy as we said goodbye and remembered fondly a man we all loved, “Little” Uncle Richard Cromwell Peace.  RIP

P.S.  Uncle Richard, please tell Aunt Rosa Lee that the grass she and I stomped down leading the Love Train one year when the family reunion was at our house in Embro has finally grown back, hahaha!

Blessed be the ties that bind,

Your niece, Jan

Standing Strong in the Midst of the Storm

Lately I have been feeling less than happy, dealing with the curves that life always seems to throw at me just when I am on the way to making a breakthrough towards living one of my dreams for myself.  Trying to stand strong in the midst of the storm is tiring, but I have been holding on, praying, and somehow maintaining.  Thinking back on the events of the last week, I have been feeling like my life is on a little upturn, and I am claiming a little success.  I measure that success through the filter of what it means to me to be an adult, a parent, a responsible person. It means biting my lip to mask the pain.  It means putting on my big girl pants and persevering.  It means thinking and planning, and trying really hard, harnessing small opportunities for success.  It means when I fall short, monitor and adjust, and try again.  It also means to keep believing, even when things seem impossible and highly unlikely, always believing that something good is going to happen for me.  And when things do go well, it means celebrating and saying thank you, and being happy if even for a moment, and using that moment of momentum to propel myself forward.  I am writing this blog tonight, the first one since July, and celebrating small successes.  Woot, woot!  Thank you, Lord!

Speaking of putting on my big girl pants…  Saturday (9/20), I had hoped to go to my hometown, Warrenton, NC, for the 1^st Annual African-American Cultural Festival.  I had my camera charged up, and envisioned rolling through town with my boys, Jordan and Jalen, showing and telling them about my childhood life, and listening to the rich, proud history of contributions of black people to the County of Warren, carved from the huge swath of land once owned by the Earl of Bute.  I had even pictured in my mind how I was going to see the exhibits set up in the old Community Center, home of the former library for black Warrentonians during the time of segregation.  Jordan and Jalen would go up the long, wide rows of concrete steps, so fun to sit on back in the day, and video and take pictures of everything on display so that I could feel a part of the exhibit.  I had hoped that I would see some of my old schoolmates, especially Veronica Coleman Alston and her husband, Herman Alston, who spearheaded and organized this annual event.  I have heard and read nothing but positive reviews about the festival.  Awesome job, you guys!  I am hoping that next year will allow me to attend.

Though bummed by not being able to attend, I still feel good about the reason that I didn’t—sacrificing my wants and whims for the real necessity of meeting family obligations.  I try to spend my money in thrift, and try to plan for fun times every now and again, lately only every once in a blue moon, as my mom used to say.  I received an unexpected but greatly appreciated financial blessing earlier in the week, which made my heart smile, and gave ease to the worries I have been mulling, fighting, and wrestling with in my mind lately.  I tried up until the last minute of Saturday morning to convince myself that the boys and I could go to the festival (Duke had to work) and have frugal fun, and finish up homework and other obligations Saturday night and Sunday.  But my reality silently screamed in my head at me and said that I was listening to Jan, child, and was ready to satisfy her wants of the idyllic day I had planned in my mind and heart.  But Jan, mom, tugged on my gut and pulled on my familial heartstrings as my mind refocused on our reality and the blessing of being able to fulfill family obligations, that this is the responsible, loving thing to do, and what I am supposed to do to help the family through tough times.  After coffee and morning news, I made sure that Jalen got up to finish his outside of class reading so that we could go to the library to check out new books.  He also wrote excellent journal entries about his reading for the week, much better than the drivel he tried to pass off the week before, which I made him redo several times before passing the muster of something the teacher would want to read.  Kudos and parent signature on the first go round.  Blessing!

We got showered and dressed, and went to the library.  Jalen got another Walter Dean Myers book, The Autobiography of My Dead Brother, which I secretly smiled about as we met at the self-checkout counter.  I didn’t dare arouse his rebellious nature with my approval and make him not want to read the book, lol.  But it is a book that I have on a list of books I googled with him in mind, books that are pretty good reads, popular among avid teen readers, and often discussed in 8^th grade language arts classes. I have such knowledge, why not shower it on my own child, I figure?  After all, the legacy of sharing the love of books with others has been a passion since birth, and not just because of teaching.  Story hour with Mommee before going to bed at night, fondly remembered, and later reading under the covers with a flashlight, desperate to finish the book I was reading, were the precursors to my love of reading made manifest in my teaching.  He seems to be enjoying the book so far.  Blessing!

While drinking my coffee, I was also surfing the net on my Nook, and ran across a sale at Belk’s that really decided that we were not going to the festival.  We did not buy new uniforms at the beginning of the school year.  Jalen has plenty of the horrendous, mandatory to order to get the right shade of woodsman green polo shirts worn in the middle school, and his shorts from last year still fit.  But with playing football and a markedly increased appetite, they were beginning to get snug.  Belk’s had a fantastic door buster sale on men’s Savane slacks—buy one, get TWO free!  At $65 a pair, this was an excellent deal at about $22 bucks a piece.  Perfect—the choice of how to spend my money was easy, and I didn’t care if he really didn’t want them because he wanted more shorts.  As fall began this week and the temperature has become crispier, I totally ignored him and made him go try on a pair of the 32 x 32s.  Great fit, room to grow, the sales clerk and I scoured the shelves to find the 3 pair of khakis left in his size.  Blessing!  Monday morning I saw him in his old shorts, but when he finally emerged from his room he had on the slacks and looked really nice.  I smiled; another victory.  Blessing!

After a quick pick up of a few items at the grocery store, we headed home to complete chores, work on homework, and veg out on football.  By the time that Duke got home from work, the aroma of a turkey vegetable soup well on its way was filling up the kitchen.  Judging by the little bit that is left today, it was delicious.  My mama taught me how to make a good soup stock, no matter what is on hand to throw in the pot.  We were like Bill Cosby on The Cosby Show when he was determined to make an anniversary dinner from the Islands for Clair—“Cal-la-loooooo!”  The soup was yummy and filling.  Blessing!

It’s just a little more struggle until the end of the month, but I am thankful for family, friends, and life.  I am standing a little stronger, I feel a little happier, and my wings are not so low to the ground.  My dreams may still be simmering on the back burners, but I still believe they will come true.  I am standing strong in the midst of the storm.  I am reasonably happy, and these are the things that really count.  Blessing!

 

 

 

Saying Bye-bye to the Old Boredom Blues

In my last post, I spoke of being at a crossroad, wondering which way I should go, what can I do to give myself some direction, some purpose, a little more satisfaction than what I currently feel about myself.  I am tired of the earworm that keeps looping in the background of my life, “I can’t get no… satisfaction… I try, and I try… but I can’t get no… SATISFACTION”!  Crescendo, cymbals, drum solo spazz out, bam!  I have been nursing a mega cup of dissatisfaction lately, succumbing to and venting over some of the realities and limitations that MS has brought my way.  I have to a certain degree given in to such a fate, doing a lot of sleeping after having sat up most of the night watching TV, and waking up only to watch more TV.  I do the daily crossword in the newspaper, and read the paper afterwards, and I play a lot of online Scrabble, currently touting over five million, two hundred something points.  I get Jalen to help me with fixing us some lunch and preparing dinner, and I make sure that he does a little reading Mondays-Fridays, building on the outside reading schedule that he maintained during the past school year.  He does the same amount of reading, 2.5 hours/week, but I don’t bother him to read on the weekends, so he feels like we have compromised, heh, heh.  Plus, he knows that is his ticket to get outside to play or visit his friends, so we have had no reading drama this summer.  In fact, he is really enjoying the book I got him for his birthday, The Harlem Hellfighters, by Max Brooks (son of Mel Brooks).  It’s historical fiction, a graphic novel in format that tells the experiences of black soldiers in France during WWI, and is very well done, in the same caliber of Art Spiegelmann’s graphic novel about the Holocaust of WWII, Maus.  I am glad that he likes it and finds the story interesting.  This summer has been low key and lazy for sure, and, lounging in endless lethargy, I have begun to bore myself. 

My dad wrote me a beautiful letter a couple of weeks ago, reminding me that I still have a few things yet to contribute to the world.  He told me not to be discouraged, to say my prayers, and to talk to God.  “Be still and listen to Him.  He will hear you and guide you”.  My dad told me that sometimes He will give you an answer that you may not want to hear, but it will be the truth and you should listen.  God always answers prayer, by and by.   Good old dad.  He is such a wonderful man—thoughtful, practical, enduring, spiritual, always loving without fail.  I have always thought that I get my literary acumen from my mother, but my dad is a powerful writer, too.  He knows exactly how to string words together to convey his thoughts, and is very thoughtful in his correspondence and conversations. I always learn much from him, and know that my literary gift is entwined just as much with his genes as it is with my mom’s.  After reading his letter, I have begun to feel a lot better; my spirit has somewhat been lifted to a happier place, especially after all of the birthday love I received.

My dad is also full of surprises.  July 27^th was Jalen’s birthday, the big 13, which means he now officially can be called “the teenager” (shout out here to my Aunt Lethia, who can really lay on saying that phrase; family members know what I mean, lol).  We had a family cookout and birthday party in his honor, so Jordan and Zuri were here, too.  Jordan announced, “Mom.  I’ve got a surprise for you!”  I had been preoccupied with making sure Jalen had a fun party, even down to the Party Cake ice cream he requested (which he and Duke ate all of, an entire ½ gallon, in less than a day!), and wasn’t expecting anything, so my face lit up like a Christmas tree as he walked in with a keyboard!  It belonged to my mom, and had been sitting in the closet back home.  “Right on time, Dad”, because it was like an answered prayer as to what I can do while at the crossroad.  Unlike playing the guitar, which I can’t do yet, I know how to play the piano.  I have not played in years, not even very much when I go home to see my dad, but I took formal lessons from the age of seven until seventeen, when I graduated from high school.   It’s not a full keyboard but it’s a nice one, with a good sound and a lot of bells and whistles to play around with.  The piano sound is really nice, and I started playing with it immediately.  Jordan didn’t bring me any of my music books, which is just fine with me as I will definitely know where they are, so I started trying to pick out something from memory.   I do not play by ear, something I hope to learn how to do someday (perhaps if I get off of my tuchas and learn to play my guitar I’ll be able to), but those many years of music theory and practicing scales do not fade into oblivion.  Pieces of practice, practice, practice admonishments somehow permeate the musical soul and psyche.  I was proud of myself as I was able to pick out and play “Happy Birthday” to accompany us singing to Jalen that afternoon.  I’m not talking any piddly one finger action, either.  I’m talking full chords and triads, and a couple of gospel-like seven chords at the end.  I am still very rusty, but when I tried to play the song again today, there was less hesitation in my fingers. 

Today when I practiced, I warmed up with a little “Happy Birthday”, and then messed around with trying to remember the chorus of “How I Got Over”, ala Aretha Franklin.  I also started working on playing “What a Friend We Have in Jesus”, because these are the songs I grew up playing and singing in church, and they are kind of ingrained in me.  I love hymns, spirituals, and old-fashioned gospel sheet music songs.  Such music takes me back to my Baptist roots, back to Penn Avenue and remembering my Grandma Jordan, back to Mount Zion and Sunday School, and riding to church picnics at Kerr Lake on the back of Mr. Boyd’s old farm truck packed with all of us kids, back to Greater Lovely Hill and getting baptized in the pond down the road, singing in the Junior Choir, playing piano and organ, homecoming outside with the sawhorse-made serving tables when everyone brought their favorite dishes to share and everyone found somewhere to sit, maybe even on the back of a pick-up truck…  Oh the joy that floods my soul!  (A reference to “He Touched Me”, yet another favorite song in the key of F, my  favorite key in which to play, only one flat and a soulful sound that fits most of the churches that I grew up in).

I did a little internet surfing yesterday on Amazon, and looked up some of the hymnals I used to play from.  I told you, I don’t play by ear; I am “a slave to the page” when it comes to playing piano.  I read and interpret music, so I need some notes to look at while I play.  I found all three that I was looking for: The New National Baptist Hymnal (“the red book”), Songs of Zion, a paperback collection of hymns and gospel, and Lift Every Voice and Sing II, both of the latter two I used when I played for a predominantly African-American Lutheran church in Durham, Abiding Savior.  I really hate that I lost touch with the people I met in that church.  Even though I am Baptist, I really felt at home there and was abundantly embraced by its members, and also grew tremendously in my faith.  When Jordan was born, he was adopted as the “choir baby”, as he was usually sitting with someone in the choir, having been stolen away from Duke most of the time, or on those occasional Sundays when I came alone.  I tried to let him sit near me in his baby carrier and he was mostly fine and content, but I would look around during the opening hymn and he was gone, being rocked in somebody’s arms.  Some Sundays he would make it all around the church, hugged and cuddled throughout the whole service.  Agape love is beautiful!  With all of these pleasant memories, how could I not go back to my church roots for peace of mind?  Even though I want all three books right now, I have decided to be “fiscally responsible” like the kids in the Kmart back to school commercial, and just order them one book at the time, starting with Songs of Zion, which has a nice selection of hymns, and is also the least expensive.  Then I will save up and get the other two.  Gotta stay practical and grounded so that I can stick to my plan.

I am still at a crossroad, but I now think I will have a better time as I begin the journey down the road.  I have been reading the beginning of my drawing manual, and plan to get me some pencils (4H, HB, and 4B are the basics, I’ve learned), and art gum this weekend.  I decided to put these purchases off to help ensure Jalen had a happy birthday (and he did!).  I already have an 11 x 14 sketch journal, a good size for me to hold, brand new, still in the bag, so I’m ready.  Armed with my keyboard and my sketch journal, I am ready to start filling up my days a little bit more creatively, with songs and doodles, which already is starting out as fun.  Bye-bye, old boredom blues.  Maybe now I can get a little “satisfaction”.  J 

 

 

Reflecting, Refocusing, and Rejoicing

It’s been over a month since I’ve last posted, that topic focusing on the death of one of my supreme muses, the mighty Dr. Maya Angelou, née Marguerite Johnson.  She adopted my state, The Tarheel State (the only way this Wolfpack grad will acknowledge her Tarheel status, lol), as her home.  One of the things she admonished was the importance of literacy, so that one can record his or her story, so that the world will forever know upon discovery that we were here.  So it is perhaps appropriate that I should take time, having celebrated fifty-one years of life this past 19^th of July, to reflect upon and chronicle a few moments of my life over the past year.  I need to remind myself that I am still here, still have something to offer in this life, and still am a voice in this world (been watching the Different World episode where visiting professor Whoopi Goldberg has the students write their own eulogies).

Feeling like I am at a crossroad, at the age of fifty-one, physically disabled but vibrant in mind, wishes, and ideas, I must admit is kind of scary.  It is also rather depressing and mundane, not being able to do much of anything, trapped in the house all of the time, wishing for hand controls to freedom.  I sometimes get lost in thought, imagining driving myself to the YMCA to use my Silver Slippers membership for some much needed exercise, or driving myself to Nash Community College for the painting, or photography, or creative writing, or basic guitar, or basic Spanish class that I most recently signed up for.  I can even see myself being able to volunteer or work in some small capacity in a school, or start working on renewal credits to keep my teaching certificate current.  June 30, 2018 will be here before we blink our eyes. It is frustrating to think that such lonesome days of longing and dreaming may be my lot for the rest of my life.  I just cannot accept such a fate.  I can’t!

So…  I reflect.  What have I done with the last year of my life? The biggest thing that pops into my mind has been the personal financial goals I have set for myself, the things I have been doing to help myself and my family.  I will not go into great detail, because as my husband is fond of saying, “Everybody’s business ain’t nobody’s business”, lol.  But I have reached my goal of paying off several bills, little by little, a little extra when I could, lifting that drain off of me, which really feels good.  I have learned and continue to try to pare down my wants and whims, to the brass tacks and “that’s the facts, Jack” bare necessities of life, and a few minimal splurges, usually at holidays and birthdays.  For example, we have wireless internet and upper tier cable but forego movies at the theater most of the time.  In the last year, we went to the movies to see The Butler and 42, and before that, I have to scroll way back to Red Tails.  Otherwise, I wait to watch a movie as many times as I want, stopping when I want, on cable.

Vacations are also a distant memory.  One of the best was back in 2008, also remarkable because that was when I finally had a definite name for what was happening to me, multiple sclerosis, July 1, 2008.  I had three days of steroid treatments, via IV drip, back and forth to Greenville daily, with the IV line still in my hand, trying awkwardly not to disturb it or get it wet while in the shower.   But I was happy because I finally knew what was making me stumble sometimes, or drag my foot, or lose my balance—MS, my cruel, personal warden.  Our vacation to Myrtle Beach was exceptionally nice that year.  The following two summers we were able to go back to the beach for good times and a little chillaxing, but since then, we have been on a four year drought.  “Ahhh… maybe we’ll get to be beach bums next summer…”  The reverie winds its way through my mind as I imagine the warm, sea salty air at sunset as I sit on the deck with a cool drink in hand, savoring the long, saved for moment.  Hmmm… I wonder how much to rent a beach wheelchair for a few days?  Convincing myself that the beach is no good because of jellyfish, sharks, and riptides is wearing really thin with me, not to mention Jalen, too.  I think Duke could even stand a day or two of fishing and beach fun as well.

 

I am thankful upon reflection that my health has been pretty good overall.  Had a couple of sniffles, once probably needing to go to the doctor but didn’t.  Not being able to drive myself anywhere is quite limiting.  Duke has been working Monday through Saturdays pretty steadily, and he is my mode of transport.   I just hated to ask him to take off, which I know he would have, and chose to doctor on myself instead, knowing that he would take me to see the doctor if I felt like I was not getting any better.  But God continues to bless me with relatively good health.  While I remain humbled by MS, I rejoice every day that I open my eyes that I am in my right faculties, have a roof over my head and food in the fridge, can grumble profusely but still pay my bills, and still have enough hope to dream of and make plans towards better days.  My house may not be the one I want, but it is a happy home filled with love.  For that blessing, I am most grateful.

As I look forward to the rest of this year, I am refocused on my main goals: adding savings to my secret stash, shopping sales, clipping coupons, and getting the best deals for the things we need for living, allowing for a little fun every now and then; finding something constructive and fulfilling to do during the day to make myself feel more purposeful in the world and less of a burden; putting myself first and making myself an appointment to go to Raleigh and see my neurologist, even if it means Duke has to take a day off of work; continuing to focus on getting my truck outfitted with hand controls; and helping us move to a better house, one more suitable for my adaptive needs.  My initial purpose for my secret stash was to be able to help make Christmas a little merrier this year, but lately I have been giving a lot of thought to regaining my independence and getting my truck back up and running, and ready for me to drive myself.  That may be the best gift of all, not only for me, but also to help shuttle Jalen to more extracurricular activities just like I was able to do for Jordan.  If I can do that, the world better look out!  I can see myself back in the game again, true player for real, doing something purposeful to make myself happy and to help someone else, hopefully in the educational arena.  Closely followed by that is my deep desire for us to get our own house, one that we can truly call our own.

Without feeling guilty, I need to learn to be more selfish and focus on me, and do things that will make Jan happy.  My guitar is still sitting patiently, waiting for me to strum some tunes with the interest and enthusiasm I had when I bought it.  I am still working on that.  I also ordered me a how to manual for drawing, a passion I once had growing up and was pretty good at doing.  My book came today, and while we are out shopping for Jalen’s birthday presents this weekend, I plan to at least get me a couple of drawing pencils, charcoal pencils, a pencil sharpener, and some art gum, which will at least let me get started.  Perhaps rediscovering my penchant for drawing will give me a spark, help me figure out something that I can do with others, make those connections that I long for.  I hope that I can get back into the rhythm of writing, and pull what is floating around in the crevices of my brain onto the printed page in some form.  I plan on asking the neurologist about how to go about getting the hand controls for my truck.  Perhaps that wish can finally become more than a mere pipe dream, and I can begin to feel a little independence and feel like I am truly back again in control of my destiny.  I am smiling now just thinking about the possibilities.

It may seem as though all I have done in this blog is complain, but I really am not trying to sound ungrateful or elicit pity.  Every day I am enveloped in love, both the kind I adore, like when my husband fixes me coffee every morning, and the annoying kind of love that Jalen gives me daily (yes, I am being a little facetious), and that I can’t imagine living without.  Even Jordan brings me joy, as he continues to grow into manhood, balancing college life, basketball, theater, and a part-time, grave yard shift job.   My prayers over him are being answered.  Thank you, Lord!  I am very thankful for life, and am very happy for the love of family and friends.  Even amongst complaint I rejoice, for I realize that I am fortunate that I can still do basic things for myself; albeit slowly or awkwardly, I can still do them.  I am happy that despite all that I go through, I can still see the positive side of life’s situations and still believe that things are going to get better, that something is going to open up for me that will let this black butterfly spread her wings and fly once more.   Thank you, Lord, thank you, Lord! 

Here I stand at a crossroad, a little scared, somewhat confused, but a whole lot of happy, and determined to get back into the game, even if just for one last dance, a final swan song, this time ending on my own terms and in my own way.  Overall, as I reflect, refocus, and rejoice, I realize how bountifully I have been blessed.  My life is not perfect, but it is good.

 

 

 

 

 

Saying Goodbye

“The ability to have somebody to tell your story to is so important… It says: I was here.  I may be gone tomorrow.  But you know I was here.”  Dr. Maya Angelou, talking about the importance of literacy 

In my sadness, I have a story to tell.  My thoughts may be rambling, but they are real.  I have shed quite a few tears in the last couple of days, in different moments of sadness, but one common thread seems to run through my tears… the mention and reminders of mothers.  A mother’s love is encompassing and deep, a love that can be crushing when she is gone, yet cherished and adored just the same, all swirled together at the same time.

Already feeling the loss of a great literary giant, Dr. Maya Angelou, a woman whom I liked to imagine could have easily fit into my family as my mother, my aunt, or a dear first cousin, I watched the news as Kelli Bordeaux’s mother said that final goodbye to her daughter.  She was a soldier who was killed in Fayetteville and hidden away in a shallow grave for over a year, and finally the sad news was recently revealed.  She was so pretty, seemed so full of life, and from all accounts was a fun, vibrant person.  So many people searched for her, including the man who killed her, before he finally was convinced to lead police to the grave where he had buried her.  “Why”, is still not known.  Seeing Ms. Bordeaux’s empty boots, the final roll call was given, and her mom kissed her picture goodbye; the tears flowed again as I said a prayer for her mother.  Mothers should not have to bury their daughters.  The reverse is hard enough.

Earlier in the day, Jordan texted me and broke the news that Maya Angelou had passed.  I was watching TV and doing a little midmorning snoozing after having sat up to watch both Venus and Serena lose during the early morning broadcast of the French Open.  That was a double bummer.  I woke up, stunned, and just sat there, still and quiet.  I thought about the morning that I was pulling into the parking lot at school when Tom Joyner announced that Coretta Scott King had lost her battle with her illness, cancer, if I remember correctly.  I remember sitting in the car, still and stunned, and I just had to give into the tears that began to fall.  I also started thinking about my mom and how much we both loved Maya (and Alice, and Toni…), and a quiet sadness waved over me and made my tears spill onto my cheeks. 

I always could imagine Maya Angelou as a member of my family, laughing and talking and telling stories. Ever since my mom gave me a trilogy of her books for Christmas when I was in ninth grade, back when I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings was listed in the fiction section of the library, when that book and only a few scant others were the only ones found in the "special section for Black lit", that one shelf in the back of the store or in the front to the side so they could watch you, or when the bookstores had no black authors at all--thank God for The Know Bookstore in Durham... ever since all of that, I have loved Maya Angelou. Just thinking out loud and remembering.

I also changed my profile picture briefly in honor of Maya.  I plan to change it back to the “bring back our girls” picture I have posted to represent my profile, as I have not forgotten them, and continue to await hope in vigil with their mothers and those praying across the globe for their safe return.  I am standing by my bulletin board in my old classroom, Room 507, Literature Heaven (my name for my old haunt, and also the name of a wiki page I made back then, circa 2008). That was my picture I took for a project that I did with my homeroom that year, a mini poster introducing ourselves.  When I taught, Maya Angelou was one of my teaching heroes; my other teaching hero and role model was my mother.  One of the many things that they both had in common, and I worked hard to emulate, was their superb storytelling ability.  I try to give my voice a musical cadence when I read, to really become the character of whom I am reading, to break out in song when the music is embedded within the story or just seems to enhance the story and thrill the listeners.  How could I teach Virginia Hamilton’s “The People Could Fly” without introducing the story with a verse of “I’ll Fly Away?”  Even big children love to be read to, in middle school and high school, and I learned how to teach, mesmerize, and instill a love of literature in my students from two of the best role models on the planet!  Zora would be very proud that her legacy for storytelling lives on, from the lips of the famous and the not so famous, everyday sisters, extraordinary teachers like Mary Elizabeth Mayfield Jordan, great legends like Dr. Maya Angelou, and even a good but paling in comparison  storyteller like me.

If I were still teaching, my lesson would have to include Maya in some way. I would make it work, even if I had to table part of my planned lesson. She is that important to the literary world. It would not even be a stretch to deviate. In all of her amazing ways, I know she would have fit—poetry, fiction, writing, history, memoir, informational text... my mind is popping with possibilities... autobio, end of the year road maps, life stories as you say goodbye to middle school, epitaphs, thoughts about "the hyphen", a letter to the author... Oh, how I will miss her.

My mama here on earth is gone. My hero, my shero, Dr. Maya Angelou, born Marguerite Johnson, has gone to the Great Beyond. She broke all of the fettered cages that threatened to silence her voice while on her journey through this life, a life lesson to be admired and to learn from.  Shedding a few tears right now. I will miss your sonorous, melodious voice, so beautiful, rich, and strong. Tell my Mom hello. I know you and she will be sharing poetry tonight. RIP. 

 

“Listen to yourself and in the quietude you might hear the voice of God.”  Dr. Angelou’s last tweet with the world, May 23, 20014

Storms Raging, but I’m Still Smiling

“Mom, I’m sorry for all the things I did when I was a kid.  Will you please take off the curse that my kids will be 10x’s worse than me?  I can’t take it anymore.”

What a time, what a time!  The last two weeks have been a rollercoaster ride.  Started off great, plummeted downhill with celerity, and rebounded with amazing surprises and blessings.  To put it down plainly, my youngest son is a fiery little hellion, full of intelligence, wit, and opinions, and he has been giving me a serious run for the money in the fight for maintaining my faculties.  Such behavior has created major consternation in my soul, and I have been brooding and questioning where I have gone wrong with my youngest.  I was starting to feel like I was having a “Steve Perry Save my Son” moment.  I chuckle now, but one morning I had even started looking up wilderness camps for wayward children.  (I figured, “You want to be a Joe Hardrock?  Let me show you some real ones, lol.”)  Yes, I went there.

The opening quote is from a meme making the rounds on fb recently, one that I posted on my wall.  Lately, I have been thinking about those words as I deal with my youngest son, my sweet, rebellious, smart, maleficent, funny man (at least in his mind), the mighty Jalen Christopher Bunting.  As he stands on the precipice of turning 13 this summer, it seems as though he is fighting growing up, tooth and nail.  This school year has been a rough one for him, as he has often used his powers for evil and not for good, choosing to be rebellious and hard over being smart and knowledge seeking.  His grades are good overall, but could be even better.  He could easily be in the National Jr. Honor Society, but he doesn’t want to be.  We are working on him about why, if given the opportunity, it is a good thing to participate.  As I reviewed his performance on the tests given at school to monitor levels of student learning during the year, I got a little upset at how he has chosen to travel under the radar, so to speak, in his school performance.  All of his scores, in math, reading, and science, are all consistently in the above average to high range.  In a lot of ways Jalen is just like me—smart, opinionated, creative, musical and artistic.  He gets mad easily and shoots off his mouth way too much, just like me.  But the way that he rebels against his God-given smarts really gets my goat, and is radically different from the way I am, and the way that we are trying to raise him to be the best young man he can be. 

The Mother’s Day joy and love I got from him seemed to dissipate quickly as the week began.  Monday morning began with grumbling, fussing, and moving slowly to get out of the house to the bus stop. Monday evening got even worse with homework hassles.  Tuesday and Wednesday were not that much better, and by Thursday he was as “foul as maggoty stew”, full of that snarly, surly teenaged angst that makes a mom want to eat her young.  I had spent a large part of the week worrying over him, praying over him, wondering why he seems so hell bent on straying away from all of his talents and interests, his natural smarts and creativity, and gravitating towards this unengaged, angry, isolationist always wanting to be hidden away in his room, sullen, silent, and basically on an island unto himself.  No, no, no!  All alarms and whistles were going off in my mind—what is going on?  We are losing our child.  Even Duke had begun to express concern because Jalen had even become mum during their father-son talks, which occur all of the time. 

By that Thursday evening, amidst all of the torrential rain and thunder that created huge afternoon traffic snarls, toppled mighty oaks, and caused many creeks to overflow their banks, our prayers were answered.  Duke braved the wicked elements to pick him up from his second day of after school detention (yes, he had even started to act ugly at school), and as the floodgates opened up that afternoon, so did Jalen.  I don’t know what they discussed, but when he got home he apologized for his behavior, at home and in school.  He said that he knew better than to call the girl who rudely cut in front of him in the lunch line a “gardening tool”, and that he was going to do better.  His dad gave him his phone back under the absolute condition that if there is a phone call, email, or any contact from school that is negative, then the phone is gone—forever.  No more second chances.  I relented, even though the phone was supposed to be gone until summer for the detention incident. 

But I can happily say that since then and through the writing of this blog today, Jalen has been a changed man.  He has returned to the sweet, playful, creative pre-teen that we know and love.  He is being responsible for getting his work done without incessant nagging from me, and is not talking back and mumbling ugly, inaudible thoughts under his breath.  He is doing his chores without complaint and looking forward to the return of his allowance (no chores, no pay).  He and I are even talking a little bit more, and there are a lot more “thank yous” than complaints.   He still has his moments, but who doesn’t?  I can deal with this Jalen, and I count this as a blessing.  Not a surprise mind you, because as parents, we are trying to raise and nurture a positive, happy child who will grow up to be a thoughtful, productive, positive contributor to this world, and it is our expectation that he will be reasonably good.  I am very thankful for the blessing.

Out of the blue, over the past weekend, I got the biggest thrill and surprise, one that I never imagined or had even thought of, except in passing, for a very long time.  I was scrolling my fb feed and saw a post on my wall from LaShaun Bellamy, one of my line sisters from Duke!  Talk about a shock.  As my life unfolded and I left Duke University for NC State at the end of my sophomore year, and after pledging the burning sands of Delta land, I lost touch with that part of my life while forging ahead along the new path on which my life had decided to journey.  Sometimes, in talking with my husband about some of my good old college days and antics, I have talked about my life at Duke and reminisced about my pledging days, but pretty much those times are just a part of my memory bank, a part of my life’s résumé.  After accepting her friend request, I also have found and reconnected with almost all members of our spring ’83 line (in line order): Sharon Gramby-Sobukwe, Lavern Jones, Songhi Scott, Melvia Wallace, Shirley Lawson, and Sheila Anderson.  I brought up the rear as #9, and I hope to hear in the near future from #1 in the line, Freda Vandiver.  LaShaun was the median point in our line, #5. 

I have been floating in a very happy place and thinking on some of the marvelous times that I had with these awesome women.  I have already started thinking about how I can be a part of a reunion with folks as they come through NC or hopefully with everyone next year in 2015, as ideas, plans, and talking about possible get-togethers and reunions have already started.  I even heard from and am now friends with one of my best buddies at Duke, Spurgeon James.  Now I am wondering about and am going to start looking for some of the rest of the crew—Madeline Taylor, Anise Jackson, Marilyn Sanders, Nadina Henley, and Ramona Jester.  I have been thinking about the times when we lived in Hanes Hall, Trent Hall, and Central Campus Apartments, and how we helped each other and stuck together through good times and rough times.  We were good friends, and I am sorry that I lost contact for all of these years, but I am looking forward to fun times yet to be had in this stage of our lives.

Finding my friends through fb I count as both a beautiful surprise and a bountiful blessing, that the bond we share and the friendships we made can never be broken.  Truly life is beautiful, through the good times, and also in those times when life throws you curve balls and you miss your mark.  Despite all, at the end of every raging storm is a beautiful rainbow, a promise of better times.  The song in my heart is Walter Hawkins’, “Be Grateful”, and I am grateful—for life, for friendship, for love.

“God has not promised me, sunshine.  That’s not the way it’s goin’ to be.  But a little rain, mixed with God’s sunshine, a little pain, makes me appreciate the good times…” I’m grateful, and I’m happy.  Thank you, Lord, for both.

 

 

 

Bursting Through the Clouds

I have been suffering from the doldrums that I periodically experience, those times when all I want to do is shut myself off from the world and sleep and brood.    My mood slipped into darkness, crabbiness, and lethargy, succumbing to the malaise that crept into my fingers and sagged my soul. My mind, filled with stories and beautiful memories, became a prisoner trapped away in isolation.  All I craved was sleep, and the words scripted in my mind to be penned in my writing began to shatter like broken shards, and I lay down my pen.  Who cares about your stories, those memories you find beautiful?  Who cares?  My mind screamed at me, and I raged in silent uncooperativeness and sarcasm.  No one knows what I am going through, and they don’t even care.  The things I wanted to write about—an email from Jalen’s teacher, praising the wonderful endeavor he gave to his World War I ABC book,   Jordan’s stellar performance as Inspector Goole in the VGCC spring dinner theater production of J. B. Priestley’s An Inspector Calls, even Jordan being racially profiled during a traffic stop when on his way to work…, how despite all obstacles, I feel like I am making progress—in the last couple of weeks, none of that seemed to matter.  I was just tired, grumpy, frumpy, and mad, and only wanted to be in hibernation.  Yes, the funk clouds had descended, and I gave in to their cumulonimbus charm. Eh, heh, heh, heh… Cackling, hairpins flying...  The wicked witch was sailing on her broom.

This past Friday, the revelation of why I had been feeling this way finally dawned on me.  This Sunday would be Mother’s Day, and I had been missing my mother.  I also get down like this around February 22^nd, my mother’s birthday, and around August 19^th, the day she left this world and went, as my mom had said earlier that day, “to see her Mama and Daddy and to sleep with Jesus”.  Without realizing it, I seem to fall into a blue funk during these times of the year.  Without fail or notice, every year since 2004, I become this person so not like myself.  The feeling of sadness just seems to come over me in a whisper, as stealthily as fog, my mind oblivious to the fact but my heart willing the rest of my body to ache and creep along.  I have been going through the motions of living, doing the things necessary to keep the family running smoothly, but during the day when I was alone, all I could do was sleep.  I have not been reading, and my passion for writing became stagnant and just seemed like a laborious task.  Why write if there is no joy? 

Saturday began as another lazy day.  I had intentions of getting up early, but just lay around most of the morning, wasting time.  Duke had wanted to take me to the mall to get my toes done, something I have been lamenting and wishing that I could do for some time now.  I tried to get ready, but was so unmotivated that he ended up leaving me so that he would have time to take care of what he had on his agenda.  When he finally got back home, I was up and feeling slightly better.  Finally, the fog began to lift and my day began to brighten.  While they were out, he and Jalen got me a beautiful bouquet of flowers and a pretty vase.  That made me smile.  Then Jalen went out and came back in with a big box of pretty, giant sized, juicy strawberries.  Both of those early Mother’s Day gifts made me feel special and loved, and just as unannounced as it rolled over me, the sadness and malaise seemed to fritter away.  The final leg of my journey back to my happy self came in the door about 11:45 that night—Jordan walked in the house.  That was a total surprise because I had no idea that he was coming.  He brought me a bouquet of flowers, too.

Sunday morning, Mother’s Day, was beautiful.  I had my whole family together and I was beaming.  The depression that I had been feeling for the last couple of weeks became a distant memory.  Breakfast was good and I ate all of it instead of throwing it away when Duke wasn’t looking, like I had been doing for the last two weeks.  (He was not happy when he discovered his hard labor half eaten and discarded, and threatened to not fix me anything else.)  But, after a good cup of coffee and the chatter of family filled the house, I felt better than I had in a while and even had the energy to tackle a shower, get dressed, and get out of the house.  The cards and gifts that I got for Mother’s Day were all so thoughtful and sweet, especially the handwritten notes that both Jordan and Jalen wrote to me in their cards.  Jordan said that they were following Grampa’s directives on how to address the envelopes and write the personal notes. They gave me all of the essentials that I need to help me in my quest to learn to play the guitar—an auto tuner, a music book, and a how-to video.  I have set as my goal to be able to play a recognizable tune by my birthday this summer.  I got some good chocolate from Duke, Russell Stover chocolates that I had been silently craving.  (Yes, Duke, you know me so well.)  By the time we got to the mall and I was sitting back in the chair getting my feet pampered and my back massaged, I felt quite loved and very thankful for the day and for my life.  I even got a very pretty blouse and skirt from Belk—on sale, and I had a coupon! 

Yes, I am very, very thankful for all of the blessings in my life—my children, my husband, my dad, my family and friends—I am most grateful.  When I go through my periods of sadness, memories such as the fun time I had on Sunday are what I know exist on the other side of the fog.  I have learned to be patient and to always believe in tomorrow.  Every day may not be a happy one, but it is okay.  As long as I am able to see the rising of a new day, that is the most important thing.  Plus, my feet are soft, and my toes are popping in pretty pink polish.  I am looking forward to getting my mane washed and retwisted this Friday.  I can see clearly now the rain is gone…  Life is good.  Yes!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Feeling Rough, but Going On

I have to admit to feeling pretty rough today, even though I am trying so hard not to think about how bad I feel.  Life has been really busy around my house lately.  Jalen has been in project mode.  Duke has been working six days a week pretty regularly as of late, and this week his cousin Myles is in the States, so he has been visiting with him and getting home later than usual.  I have been dealing with Jalen and homework a lot one on one, and he is taking advantage of his dad being busy and is trying to rebel against mom with his little 12 year old swagger, which makes me have to bow back and remind him who is really the boss—me.  Don’t get me wrong, I can still handle him, but it does take a lot of wind out of my sails, there is no way of masking, and he tries to take advantage, as kids will do, especially willful ones like the Mighty Jalen (Okay, Mommee, quit laughing from “Beyond the Clouds”.  Yes, I know I am getting it back tenfold.).  But that’s when I do the tag team parenting thing and put him on the phone with his dad, and when Duke finishes laying down the law, even from afar, Jalen straightens up and unpuffs that little chest.  Above all of that, I think the effects of Monday’s fall and all of this torrential rain have taken their toll on my body, and I am feeling aches in muscles that I forgot that I had, lol.  I slept pretty much all day again today, falling asleep on Andy and Barney, through the midday news, waking up just in time to see Ronan Farrow and Joy Reid, and prepare for Jalen to get home from school.  I like to be up when he leaves for school, and when he gets home from school.  I think that adds to his stability as a child.  I am thankful that I thought to take an ibuprofen, and now, as I am shucking corn to make the corn pudding that Jalen asked about yesterday and that he is helping me fix up for the oven in a few minutes, I am feeling pretty good.  I am writing my blog, and Jalen has been given a half hour of play time outside under the condition that he jumps right on his homework without complaint when he comes back inside.  In this moment of quiet relaxation, my song for every occasion is Eddie Kane’s, from The Five Heartbeats, “I Feel Like Going On”.  My happy place, my spirit, is still intact, though my body admits a little defeat for wear and tear.

In the last three weeks, I have supervised and supported Jalen as he worked on projects in language arts and social studies (an ABC book on WWI), science (a 3-D animal cell), art (a recycled garment, website, business card, and portfolio of fashions), and due this Friday, math (a foldable of math terms and definitions).  He has another language arts project due in a few weeks, a comic strip based on a book he has read and not already done a project on this year.  These have all been really fantastic projects, so many opportunities for creative thinking and out of the box learning.  Perhaps you ask, “Then why am I tired in this instance”?  Being Jalen’s supervisor is tough work because he believes in the mode of doing just enough to get by, slapping down “just the facts, Jack” and he is done.  Finito, finished, it’s a wrap.  The teacher in me cannot abide such a trifling, cavalier attitude, tossing aside such smarts, creativity, and talents in such an apathetic manner.  Because if Jalen senses that kind of weakness in you, one of a low bar of expectations, that is exactly what he will give you.  His dad and I really get on him, and when we are aware, as we try always to be, of major assignments, duties, and commitments, we force the issue of giving one’s best.  Anything less is unacceptable.  That does not mean he has to be perfect, but perfection, 100% completion to the best of one’s abilities, should always be the goal.  It’s that self-motivation and drive that we want to instill in him; we will not always be here on this Earth, so as his parents it is our duty to teach him, one we take quite seriously.  It is a blessing and a curse that his mama was/is also a teacher, for I look at his projects through my teacher eyes and according to the assignment rubric.  I make sure he completes, and re-does as needed, everything he needs to do to make his project a good one, even if it means my doing a little research or reading so that I know he is shooting straight from the hip.  My son is smart, but he “uses his powers for evil and not for good”, as I tell him sometimes, jokingly facetious, but serious in intent, nonetheless.  He gets it, and even though we do willful battle to the point where I am exhausted, the resulting projects are always amazing to me. The things he comes up with when pushed to exercise his innate talents, and earn a stellar grade that he is really proud of, whether he admits it or not, are satisfying to us both.

 I am tired, yes, but I am also committed to my children and being supportive of their talents and dreams.  I am plodding along, hoping that life will be generous and give me the luxury of time to realize my dream—getting my car outfitted with hand controls so that I can be more mobile and independent.  I often lament about my inability to drive myself around, but it also hurts me that my disability affects Jalen because I can’t get around and be the football or basketball or baseball mom or karate mom or band mom (all activities Jalen is interested in) like I was with Jordan (basketball mom supreme, even down to the crazy basketball hat I made and wore to every game during his freshman high school season).  I miss having the means and the strength to be able to travel with Jalen like we did with Jordan when he played AAU basketball.  I regret that I can’t let Jalen stay after school for activities because he has no way home in a reasonable, dependable fashion.  This guilt that I feel from my living with this disability takes its toll on all of us with delicious delight.  I try to balance my fussing with him between being a parent who is trying desperately to survive and being a 12 year old kid who just wants to be like his peers.  I know he feels so much resentment that his mom is sick, and he feels left out, like he has a grandma for a mom.  And I wrestle with having the energy and the faculties to deal with all that life has given me, the good and the bad of it all.  We cannot control the hand we are dealt, only the way we play the hand.

As I reread this blog and bring it to a close, I don’t know how I jumped from Jalen’s projects to my little pity party, but it is how I feel, and all of these feelings contribute to my fatigue, which is constant and ever present.  The way I compose my mind to deal with my life is my strength, and I am learning to be true to that part of myself through my writing.  I am letting my writing lead me and comfort me, and keep me in my happy place.  I would like to end today’s blog with a little of my creative, motherly spirit, a poem to my son, and Eddie Kane’s, “I Feel Like Going On”.  Peace and love.

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iw2rzc1RgVA

 

A Prayer Poem, For My Son

Hey there son, with your hard, hard, head

I pray every day you don’t end up dead.

I wonder, I wonder, what will I say,

If they book you, convict, you, and send you away.

I try every day, to show you the right way,

To read and to study, and to learn every day.

You have what it takes, as smart as a whip,

But you shun it, rebuff it, and don’t give a flip.

I flex my muscles and pump up the pace.

You glare at me defiantly, a scowl on your face.

I love you, I love you; I pray you will see,

And change your ways, for yourself, and not for me.

Acknowledge the lessons, hold fast to your dreams.

Life is not as bad as it seems.

Know your brother loves you, your mom and dad care.

Family is steadfast and true, and will always be there.

This is my prayer, my sincere wish for you.

Open your eyes, and your heart, and you’ll feel it, too.

1/26/14