I am leaving Menucha Retreat in Corbett, Oregon. I've just participated in an intense discussion around racial equity work where the question "What is blackness?" had been put on the table and was being hotly debated. Mount Hood's majestically snowy facade is in my rear view mirror. The carotenoids are poppin' as the sun's light hits the autumn leaves, giving me orange and red life on this clear and cloudless day. The Columbia River glistens in silent reverence of itself to my right, and the powerful green that radiates from the coniferous hill to my left is perfection. Sippin' on my retreat coffee provided by Stumptown roasters, I coast down I-84 in almost-kinda'-sorta' traffic back to P-Town in anticipation of crossing over the Morrison Bridge to get my kiddo from her school and take her to our favorite sushi go-round joint Downtown. Afterwards, a walk through Waterfront Park will cap off the evening as we run from the geese and dodge the cyclists zooming by. We'll go home to her brother who has completed his homeschooling assignments, put clothes in the washer, and is creating another song to play for us before bedtime.
Yep. Portland on a good day. Nope. I didn't just make up that detailed description. Seriously.
Numero dos on my list of non-regrets is moving to Portland, Oregon. Surprising, I know, for those who know I'm trying to get the hell outta' here for my own sanity. But, yo...for real, though. I am SO glad I moved here.
Yep. So glad.
I've managed to paint for you a cool little picture of this lovely small-city-big-town that has had the dubious honor of being the whitest city in the United States of America. Yep. There is much that goes with that tidbit, and I will get to it, I'm sure, later in this post. But for now let's focus on the picture I painted. I mean, it's part of the reason my family and I are still here and why I am glad I moved here.
I grew up in Los Angeles, California in a part of town that didn't have a name, really, until recent years. My neighborhood is snuggled between Inglewood and Watts, if that makes sense, with Gardena to the south and (what used to be) South Central to the north. In a later post, I'll talk about why I don't regret moving from this bustling city that is my birthplace; however, don't get it twisted. My life growing up here was cooler than a mutha and that city is its own legendary, culturally-spicy entity on the planet. I find that I am proud to say I'm from L.A., and even more proud that my roots are based there.
Portland, though, has taught me a lot about myself and how I relate to the world. Like Treach rapped so beautifully back in '91, "No matter where ya' go/there ya' are!". I fled to this city that is less than a mil deep compared to my hometown's 3.6 million-plus population. I fled here, runnin' from my old life, runnin' from teaching, runnin' from my son's father (who ran after me and became my husband), runnin' from my family's judgments, runnin' from traffic and gang-bangin' and more traffic*, runnin' from myself.
"No matter where ya' go/there ya' are!"
I arrived here with $750 in my bank account and no job. Yep. Lisa "Left Eye" Lopes-style. All good, except I had a 7 year-old son in tow and a new life to create, STAT. My brother and sister-in-law were lovely enough to hook us up with a couple of rooms in their house and let me slide on the rent for two months while I got my footing. I immediately grabbed onto and held down two jobs and made moves to get my masters degree. It was hard and it was lonely and it was painful and lovely and fun as hell to discover that this city was nothing like my hometown. I hung out with single white folks who really liked me and wanted to spend time with me. They eventually couldn't grasp why I couldn't bar-hop with them on a random Wednesday night. They didn't know who The Isley Brothers or Jodeci were but jumped down my throat when I couldn't name more than one Talking Heads song (Seriously. That shit really happened.). Hell, the only reason I even know "Burning Down the House" is 'cuz of Video One with Richard Blade and KIIS FM. I mean, I have a diverse palette when it comes to music, but damn! Cut a sista' some slack.
Digressing.
Anyway, that life in Portland seems like a lifetime ago, although it's only been 6 years. It's no longer just me and my baby boy. In 6 years, I've managed to have another child, finish that masters, get married, and repurpose my purpose (sorta'). This is a whole new life in Portland. I'm creating relationships that are meaningful and I realize the impact I have on other folks. Portland life has been good to me and I don't regret moving here. Why? I guess I'd better get to that.
I actually don't regret moving here because:
1) I would only have sipped on Heinekens and Coronas for the rest of my life. No. I really think I would have. That early bar-hoppin' exposed me to strawberry wheat beer, IPA, stout (there is chocolate stout, for God's sake!), and a host of tastiness that makes me scoff at the thought of ordering another overpriced Heineken. Like, ever. Let's not even discuss the red wine I've been exposed to. Yep, I'm bougie now.
2) Planning to move to Portland in February and actually moving in August of the same year proved that I am a bonafide bad-ass. Yeah. It does. Sorry if you disagree, and I know people do it all of the time. Or not. It's the "or not" that puts me in the category of bad-ass. With $750 and a kid, with no job? Just confidence, a degree and a credential, and hope? Bad-muthableepin-ass. Don't hate.
3) Green is really a color. Green exists. Portland and the state of Oregon have taught me this. Green in all of it's greeny glory simply radiates at full pulse here. Green like in the crayon box, green. Green like you've never seen, green. Green is important and green is here.
4) I have come to realize that I am loved. I spent most of my life feeling zero love for myself and I never really understood why people were drawn to me or even wanted to be my friend. I know now that being unable to accept love is a direct reflection of one's own lack of self-love. I moved here completely oblivious to who I was leaving behind and how impactful that was. I remember friends and family being sad, and I couldn't empathize because I was ready to go. Being here now and taking myself with me, I understand that eventually that loathing of myself would rear its ugly head, even here in Portland. It has, numerous times. The difference now is that I'm aware of it and working to increase my self-love. If I hadn't fled here, I might never have known this. Nah. I KNOW I wouldn't have known this.
5) It really does take 30 minutes to get someplace that is 30 minutes away. It really does take 6 minutes to get someplace that is 6 minutes away. I am so glad that I have experienced this in my lifetime. It is possible to not sit in your car for an hour. It is possible.
6) I understand that white folks don't have to think about a lot of things. Give or take the white colleagues I had the pleasure of working with, I didn't have white friends in Cali once I hit adulthood (with the exception of Amy...HOLLA!). I lived 10 minutes from all of the schools I worked in and my friends were in town. I co-mingled with white folks, but they weren't really a part of my fabric. Now, though? Things are different. So different. I am surrounded by white people all day, every day. My children are surrounded by white people. We are surrounded and inundated with dominant culture like never before, and it has affected our family to its core. I don't want to make this a racial equity piece, so I will just say that moving here has proven to me without a shadow of a doubt that white folks don't have to and don't like to think about a lot of things. Nope.
7) I have finally made peace with the fact that I abhor mud. I thought something was wrong with me and I should get over it, but no: Moving here has solidified this hatred and I am okay with that.
8) I am truly bad-ass. This bears repeating. I may or may not have discovered this while I was in L.A. because of that whole self-love ish. But yo: You have to check my resume' now. I've led and facilitated groups, been on boards and shit, taught dance classes, organized events, paneled discussions, created curriculum, advised teaching staff, and am really just a bonafide mover-and-a-shaker. Had to move here to grasp that, unfortunately, but hey!
9) I have been exposed to organic food, cooking on a regular basis, and paying good money to eat well. My baby boy grew up on those frozen chicken dinosaurs from Costco and boxes of Pasta Roni and Tuna Helper. Now, I'm not knocking that because that got us through and gets most of y'all reading this through. Hell, when times are lean, I'm tempted as hell to heat up some ramen and call it a day. Moving here, though, exposed me to a culture of eating well and growing your shit and reading labels and watching documentaries and passing on the good news about changing how you eat. Of course, we ain't perfect and we partake of wack ish, too. But I don't know if I would be cooking as much or reading labels as much had I not changed my scenery.
10) I wouldn't have my baby girl if I hadn't moved here. Period. I know that my life in L.A. would be where it was when I left: Chuck and I wouldn't be together or would be kinda' together or whatevs. I know that everything happens in its own time and our girl was conceived here out of sheer head-over-heels love and heart/soul commitment.
There are a ton of other reasons why I don't regret moving to Portland, Oregon. I could go on and on, but the crux of my deep and profound appreciation for the move stems in my self-realization. It brings to a head the ongoing love/hate affair I have with myself and how, contrary to Treach's admonition, I keep expecting someone else to be in the space I occupy. That ain't happenin'. Moving to Portland has made that painfully obvious, yet it's so wonderful to be able to be aware of it. Awareness moves me in the direction of making it right with myself so that I don't find that I must flee, anymore.
Trust me: I want to flee from this town every other week. I can't run from it, though. I can't run from the love that my family and I have established here. I can't run from the life we have established here. I can't run from myself. There is too much at stake now. I'm gonna' have to fight through it and understand the grace that has come to me through this move.
Plus, the Hefeweizen is plentiful here.
*For the record: There is a bit of traffic here, too. Gang-bangin'? We've got Hoovers and GD's, to name a few! Utopia, PDX is not. But it's home.
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
Saturday, September 21, 2013
Marrying my husband was good for me. Yep. (A Love Letter to Chuck)
A friend of mine who's known me since 1987 and went to middle school, high school, and (unofficially) college with me stepped to me a couple of weeks ago at our reunion. I hadn't seen him in about 2 years but it's safe to say the dude knows me up and down, back and forth, in and out. We always pick up right where we left off whenever we see each other. You know that type of friend. Anyway, this was one of our many short check-ins during the evening:
Him: Yo, Dawnn. How's Chuck*?
Me: He's good. You know, he's Chuck. He's doin' really well.
Him: Yeah, he's married to yo' ass, so I know!
Me: *sips wine*
Him: For real, though. He's good?
Me: Yep.
Him: Yeah, okay. I'm gon' have to check in with him. I know yo' ass ain't no walk at the beach! *laughs maniacally*
Me: *eyes narrowing*
Him: *strides away*
Other friend standing nearby: Bartender!
Muthableeper, please.
Let me make it clear: My old friend is right. And wrong. Waaaaay wrong. I am not a walk at the beach. But if I'm not a walk at the beach, my beautiful hubs ain't necessarily a hike on a serene trail. Not by a long shot. We are what I've heard folks refer to as fire and ice, Mars and Venus, apples and oranges. We are on different planets most of the time; however, if there were a planet strictly focusing on music, food, and books, we'd be golden. Add money management, how to handle conflict, and picking up socks off of the floor and we've got a problem.
I love Chuck. I love him more than any other man I've ever loved in my life. I've always started relationships and always gone back to him when the relationship was over. Sometimes, I'd go back to him in the middle of the relationship. Yeah. It's like that. We got married last year after 17 arduous years of off-and-on dating/living together/having babies together/paying bills and not paying bills together. Technically, we're newlyweds. Our first year of marriage proved that. It was hard. I don't know why we made it that way, but it was. There is something to be said about having a full-on family and then deciding to become one. Expectations are the same but change, too. Perspectives shift. Shit gets realer. Taxes are filed together. Shit. Gets. Realer.
We met in 1995, the greatest year of all time in my opinion. He was a junior; I was a sophomore at a UC in Southern Cali. I was awestruck by his proud embrace of his Latino heritage, and spellbound by his African-ness. He was tall and serious with a huge afro and a love for his people, both in his close circle and within the Diaspora. In our African American Student Union meetings, he would speak so profoundly about shit and I thought this was a dude to know. Not on THAT level, though. He wasn't friendly (I later found out what that was about) and he wasn't struck by my humor or cute shorts. Weird dude, I thought.
That fall, when he became a senior and I a junior, we connected one night over a rap verse. No shit. He rapped a random line from Q-Tip's verse on "Jazz (We Got The)" and I finished it. Cue love music. What followed were three whirlwind, unseparable weeks together over winter vacation. Dope. We were both vulnerable, though: He had just come out of a long-term serious relationship that he would go back to off-and-on, and I had just ended a relationship with someone I'd been in love with since I was 15. Vulnerable as hell. Green in the relationship arena. Two non-daters. Two hard-lovers. Looking for solace. Looking for compassion. Grasping for straws. Loving and not loving and being young and effin' each other over and seeking one another for comfort and hurting each other again. It was a delicious and nerve-wracking and beautiful and dramatic time. The next four years would see other lovers come and go and our relationship ebb and flow and all of our closest friends and family members would serve as counselors, confidantes, and support. Enter one child in 2000, 3 apartments, 7 jobs, 60 more break-ups, 2 music groups, 1 move to Oregon, the second child in 2009, the death of two uncles, three grandparents, and a father, and here we are, one year after our wedding day and me understanding the non-regret that is marrying this man.
It's been hard. My expectations of myself are high. I am self-deprecating and extremely mean to myself. By default, I am these things to Chuck. He is mild and smooth, quiet and pensive, processing things forever, making decisions slowly. I need to be these things, and most of the time I can be. Wait a minute...hold up. That is NOT true. Most of the time, I am NONE of these things, dammit. Really, I am not. I will ask him his opinion about something and tend to do what I want in the end, anyway. I make decisions based on emotion much of the time and I am most definitely not quiet. I come in like "Kaboom! Guess who stepped in the room!", while he's easier to approach. It's been hard for me to understand him most of the time, and it is only after being with him for so long and learning about the road in which he's traveled that I get him. He's long said that he loves me more, understands me more, finds compassion for me more, than I him. Sometimes he's right. Sometimes.
Our first year of marriage was met with our son in the midst of middle school and having a struggle. Our family was in the throes of a battle and it tested my and Chuck's ability as a couple to handle every challenge as a team, an unbreakable, unbendable, strong-as-a-muthaeffer legion that would go into the fire unapologetically. There were so many sleepless nights and late-night talks and disagreements and compromises about how to move forward as parents to this child. We got through it stronger than ever, more confident in each other and who we were and are to one another. We understood that this step was important for us to be who we needed to be as heads of the household, as decision-makers, as role models for our babies. When we celebrated our one-year anniversary in Seattle a couple of weeks ago sitting in our hotel room eating pints of Ben and Jerry's and watching "Roadhouse" after a day at the EMP Museum and traversing the transit system and filling our bellies with Filipino food and making new friends, it fully occurred to me that I do not regret marrying this guy whose verse I finished in '95.
This guy who introduced me to yucca and garbanzo beans in yellow rice. This guy who shared my love for Sade and played me Bob Marley's full catalog. This guy who read his favorite Bible verses to me at age 22 and cooked Jamaican rice and peas when we didn't have anything but ramen and Hamburger Helper in our food arsenal. This guy who speaks fluent Spanish and watches The Honorable Louis Farakkhan on public access television. This guy who took care of me when my lightweight self drank five Smirnoffs at a house party, held my hand when my labor pains were unbearable and held up a picture of my goddaughter as inspiration through the intensity. This guy who told me a myth about the moon and brings me ice cream whenever I ask. This guy who has nicknames for all of his girl cousins and my girl cousins and buys the kids too many damn tokens at Chuck E. Cheese's. This guy who moved here after I left with his son and understood that this is what needed to happen so our family could be a family. This guy who adds garlic to everything and plays with puzzles on the floor with his kids. This guy who is patient with my mother on the phone, calls my grandmothers by the same pet names I call them, and was just as, if not more, devastated as I was when my father passed away. This guy who teaches his son Supreme Mathematics and prays fervently and holds his daughter up on one foot in mid-air. This guy who loves his students and worries about them and takes them to the movies and out for milkshakes and takes it personal because it is for him. This guy who wants his mother to be proud and loves and honors music and doesn't know his own greatness. This guy who celebrates his friends' victories and considers himself last after everyone else. This guy who wore Chuck Taylors in his wedding and lets his wife do whatever she wants...lets his wife do whatever she wants because he loves and trusts her THAT much.
This guy who lets me tell our story. This guy who is the man I married. This guy who is numero uno on my list of non-regrets. This isn't our whole story, of course, but it's enough for you to know. I don't know of any other man who could love me through what he has, hang with me through depression and grief and more depression and more grief, and give what it takes to love me. My friend was right: I ain't no walk at the beach. But muthableeper, please: LOVE ain't no walk at the beach. Year one is in the books for us. I can't feel anything but joy about that.
Start another verse, Chuck. I'll be glad to finish it for you, love.
*Name has been changed to protect the dude who this is about. Straight up.
Him: Yo, Dawnn. How's Chuck*?
Me: He's good. You know, he's Chuck. He's doin' really well.
Him: Yeah, he's married to yo' ass, so I know!
Me: *sips wine*
Him: For real, though. He's good?
Me: Yep.
Him: Yeah, okay. I'm gon' have to check in with him. I know yo' ass ain't no walk at the beach! *laughs maniacally*
Me: *eyes narrowing*
Him: *strides away*
Other friend standing nearby: Bartender!
Muthableeper, please.
Let me make it clear: My old friend is right. And wrong. Waaaaay wrong. I am not a walk at the beach. But if I'm not a walk at the beach, my beautiful hubs ain't necessarily a hike on a serene trail. Not by a long shot. We are what I've heard folks refer to as fire and ice, Mars and Venus, apples and oranges. We are on different planets most of the time; however, if there were a planet strictly focusing on music, food, and books, we'd be golden. Add money management, how to handle conflict, and picking up socks off of the floor and we've got a problem.
I love Chuck. I love him more than any other man I've ever loved in my life. I've always started relationships and always gone back to him when the relationship was over. Sometimes, I'd go back to him in the middle of the relationship. Yeah. It's like that. We got married last year after 17 arduous years of off-and-on dating/living together/having babies together/paying bills and not paying bills together. Technically, we're newlyweds. Our first year of marriage proved that. It was hard. I don't know why we made it that way, but it was. There is something to be said about having a full-on family and then deciding to become one. Expectations are the same but change, too. Perspectives shift. Shit gets realer. Taxes are filed together. Shit. Gets. Realer.
We met in 1995, the greatest year of all time in my opinion. He was a junior; I was a sophomore at a UC in Southern Cali. I was awestruck by his proud embrace of his Latino heritage, and spellbound by his African-ness. He was tall and serious with a huge afro and a love for his people, both in his close circle and within the Diaspora. In our African American Student Union meetings, he would speak so profoundly about shit and I thought this was a dude to know. Not on THAT level, though. He wasn't friendly (I later found out what that was about) and he wasn't struck by my humor or cute shorts. Weird dude, I thought.
That fall, when he became a senior and I a junior, we connected one night over a rap verse. No shit. He rapped a random line from Q-Tip's verse on "Jazz (We Got The)" and I finished it. Cue love music. What followed were three whirlwind, unseparable weeks together over winter vacation. Dope. We were both vulnerable, though: He had just come out of a long-term serious relationship that he would go back to off-and-on, and I had just ended a relationship with someone I'd been in love with since I was 15. Vulnerable as hell. Green in the relationship arena. Two non-daters. Two hard-lovers. Looking for solace. Looking for compassion. Grasping for straws. Loving and not loving and being young and effin' each other over and seeking one another for comfort and hurting each other again. It was a delicious and nerve-wracking and beautiful and dramatic time. The next four years would see other lovers come and go and our relationship ebb and flow and all of our closest friends and family members would serve as counselors, confidantes, and support. Enter one child in 2000, 3 apartments, 7 jobs, 60 more break-ups, 2 music groups, 1 move to Oregon, the second child in 2009, the death of two uncles, three grandparents, and a father, and here we are, one year after our wedding day and me understanding the non-regret that is marrying this man.
It's been hard. My expectations of myself are high. I am self-deprecating and extremely mean to myself. By default, I am these things to Chuck. He is mild and smooth, quiet and pensive, processing things forever, making decisions slowly. I need to be these things, and most of the time I can be. Wait a minute...hold up. That is NOT true. Most of the time, I am NONE of these things, dammit. Really, I am not. I will ask him his opinion about something and tend to do what I want in the end, anyway. I make decisions based on emotion much of the time and I am most definitely not quiet. I come in like "Kaboom! Guess who stepped in the room!", while he's easier to approach. It's been hard for me to understand him most of the time, and it is only after being with him for so long and learning about the road in which he's traveled that I get him. He's long said that he loves me more, understands me more, finds compassion for me more, than I him. Sometimes he's right. Sometimes.
Our first year of marriage was met with our son in the midst of middle school and having a struggle. Our family was in the throes of a battle and it tested my and Chuck's ability as a couple to handle every challenge as a team, an unbreakable, unbendable, strong-as-a-muthaeffer legion that would go into the fire unapologetically. There were so many sleepless nights and late-night talks and disagreements and compromises about how to move forward as parents to this child. We got through it stronger than ever, more confident in each other and who we were and are to one another. We understood that this step was important for us to be who we needed to be as heads of the household, as decision-makers, as role models for our babies. When we celebrated our one-year anniversary in Seattle a couple of weeks ago sitting in our hotel room eating pints of Ben and Jerry's and watching "Roadhouse" after a day at the EMP Museum and traversing the transit system and filling our bellies with Filipino food and making new friends, it fully occurred to me that I do not regret marrying this guy whose verse I finished in '95.
This guy who introduced me to yucca and garbanzo beans in yellow rice. This guy who shared my love for Sade and played me Bob Marley's full catalog. This guy who read his favorite Bible verses to me at age 22 and cooked Jamaican rice and peas when we didn't have anything but ramen and Hamburger Helper in our food arsenal. This guy who speaks fluent Spanish and watches The Honorable Louis Farakkhan on public access television. This guy who took care of me when my lightweight self drank five Smirnoffs at a house party, held my hand when my labor pains were unbearable and held up a picture of my goddaughter as inspiration through the intensity. This guy who told me a myth about the moon and brings me ice cream whenever I ask. This guy who has nicknames for all of his girl cousins and my girl cousins and buys the kids too many damn tokens at Chuck E. Cheese's. This guy who moved here after I left with his son and understood that this is what needed to happen so our family could be a family. This guy who adds garlic to everything and plays with puzzles on the floor with his kids. This guy who is patient with my mother on the phone, calls my grandmothers by the same pet names I call them, and was just as, if not more, devastated as I was when my father passed away. This guy who teaches his son Supreme Mathematics and prays fervently and holds his daughter up on one foot in mid-air. This guy who loves his students and worries about them and takes them to the movies and out for milkshakes and takes it personal because it is for him. This guy who wants his mother to be proud and loves and honors music and doesn't know his own greatness. This guy who celebrates his friends' victories and considers himself last after everyone else. This guy who wore Chuck Taylors in his wedding and lets his wife do whatever she wants...lets his wife do whatever she wants because he loves and trusts her THAT much.
This guy who lets me tell our story. This guy who is the man I married. This guy who is numero uno on my list of non-regrets. This isn't our whole story, of course, but it's enough for you to know. I don't know of any other man who could love me through what he has, hang with me through depression and grief and more depression and more grief, and give what it takes to love me. My friend was right: I ain't no walk at the beach. But muthableeper, please: LOVE ain't no walk at the beach. Year one is in the books for us. I can't feel anything but joy about that.
Start another verse, Chuck. I'll be glad to finish it for you, love.
*Name has been changed to protect the dude who this is about. Straight up.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
What It Is
I've decided to blog again. Blame it on simply life happening: My recent experience at my 20-year high school reunion spurned it and it was solidified by a visit to the bookstore last weekend. Go figure.
I'm a writer. I'm also a dancer (you'll find out more later), a card designer (I hung it up, though, 10 years ago), and maybe a bunch of other things. I'm a creative person that, somewhere down the line, forgot how to be creative. A mind-blowing semi-waste of talent. Real talk. Writing, though, is where I shine. I do. I've learned to use my voice over the years in a multitude of ways, but writing really seems to give me a glorious feeling that makes my toes curl. Once I found out what kind of writing makes this happen, it was all good stuff from there. Unfinished good stuff, but good stuff nonetheless.
I have blogged twice before: once when I was really depressed after having my second child and then again right before my dad died two years ago. I deleted both of these blogs. I mean, I was sick of sharing my being sick because it wasn't making me unsick. Writing about depression begats more writing about depression with links to sites about depression and...well, you get it. My second attempt at blogging was extremely cathartic and expressive and funny, but then I realized that I was depressed again and my blog was starting to reflect that, making me depressed even more. No bueno. Delete button. For, like, ever.
I just read Aisha Tyler's newest book. Well, sort of. The fam and I were in that big-box bookstore that we all know and love and loathe at the same time and I was reading a magazine with Janelle Monae on the cover that referenced Aisha's book. The genius of that moment! I marched right over to the bio section and plucked her book from the shelf. Sat there for an hour and read as much as I could and fell in love with this woman. I mean, I like her anyway, but I really fell in love with her on this day. See, the brilliance of her latest book is this: 1) It's written in short, concise, funny-ass chapters, 2) It's written from her quirky and funny-as-shit perspective, and 3) It's totally demonstrating humility to the nth power. I laughed out loud repeatedly in that quiet bookstore (which isn't completely outside of the norm for me, even if ish ain't necessarily funny) and decided to blog again right then and there.
See, it's like this: There are some nagging things on my mind lately and I can't possibly journal about them all every day. There are just TOO many things. Mainly, I've got ish I've really regretted over the last 38 years and it's gnawing at my insides, killing my joy. Yeah, that deep. Anyone who doesn't have regrets gets a big fat "God bless 'em" from me and an eye-roll, too. Great. I wanna' be where you are someday. But there is something to the humility that I felt when I read Tyler's book. There is liberation and freedom and an unrequited compassion for yourself when you just let it out, own it, and keep it moving. No amount of prayer or meditation or journaling or acting like it never happened seems to be working for me. Blogging about my past regrets is where it's at. I think.
Of course, now I'm practicing balance in my life so if I'm gonna' let loose about regrets, I've gotta' let loose about non-regrets as well. It's just gotta' be that way. I mean, acknowledging the light is more important, actually, than acknowledging the dark and quite frankly, my dear, I'm trying to attract more light in my life at this point! My gray arm hair demands it. Life is supposed to be, well...LIVED. Can't get busy living if you're too busy dying (says Morgan Freeman-as-Red-in-The-Shawshank-Redemption). Word up.
So here goes the list of ish I DO NOT regret. The plan is to blog every day over the next month or so, alternating between the regrets and the non-regrets. Make sense? If not, oh well. I might just be a little rusty on this writing thing. Bear with a sista'.
TOP 11 NON-REGRETS
1. Marrying the man I married
2. Moving to Portland, Oregon
3. Leaving the field of teaching children and embracing teaching adults
4. Changing my parenting style and (most of) my philosophy on parenting
5. Eating organic foods, reading labels, and increasing my food bill to the (kinda') nth power
6. Trimming the insane rat-race that was my weekly schedule
7. Leaving Los Angeles
8. Taking my son out of public school and homeschooling him
9. Speaking my truth or backtracking and speaking it when I don't initially do so
10. Buying my daughter black dolls ONLY
11. Voting for President Obama twice
To view the list of regrets, check me at regretsucksthelifeoutofyou.blogspot.com
Happy reading!
I'm a writer. I'm also a dancer (you'll find out more later), a card designer (I hung it up, though, 10 years ago), and maybe a bunch of other things. I'm a creative person that, somewhere down the line, forgot how to be creative. A mind-blowing semi-waste of talent. Real talk. Writing, though, is where I shine. I do. I've learned to use my voice over the years in a multitude of ways, but writing really seems to give me a glorious feeling that makes my toes curl. Once I found out what kind of writing makes this happen, it was all good stuff from there. Unfinished good stuff, but good stuff nonetheless.
I have blogged twice before: once when I was really depressed after having my second child and then again right before my dad died two years ago. I deleted both of these blogs. I mean, I was sick of sharing my being sick because it wasn't making me unsick. Writing about depression begats more writing about depression with links to sites about depression and...well, you get it. My second attempt at blogging was extremely cathartic and expressive and funny, but then I realized that I was depressed again and my blog was starting to reflect that, making me depressed even more. No bueno. Delete button. For, like, ever.
I just read Aisha Tyler's newest book. Well, sort of. The fam and I were in that big-box bookstore that we all know and love and loathe at the same time and I was reading a magazine with Janelle Monae on the cover that referenced Aisha's book. The genius of that moment! I marched right over to the bio section and plucked her book from the shelf. Sat there for an hour and read as much as I could and fell in love with this woman. I mean, I like her anyway, but I really fell in love with her on this day. See, the brilliance of her latest book is this: 1) It's written in short, concise, funny-ass chapters, 2) It's written from her quirky and funny-as-shit perspective, and 3) It's totally demonstrating humility to the nth power. I laughed out loud repeatedly in that quiet bookstore (which isn't completely outside of the norm for me, even if ish ain't necessarily funny) and decided to blog again right then and there.
See, it's like this: There are some nagging things on my mind lately and I can't possibly journal about them all every day. There are just TOO many things. Mainly, I've got ish I've really regretted over the last 38 years and it's gnawing at my insides, killing my joy. Yeah, that deep. Anyone who doesn't have regrets gets a big fat "God bless 'em" from me and an eye-roll, too. Great. I wanna' be where you are someday. But there is something to the humility that I felt when I read Tyler's book. There is liberation and freedom and an unrequited compassion for yourself when you just let it out, own it, and keep it moving. No amount of prayer or meditation or journaling or acting like it never happened seems to be working for me. Blogging about my past regrets is where it's at. I think.
Of course, now I'm practicing balance in my life so if I'm gonna' let loose about regrets, I've gotta' let loose about non-regrets as well. It's just gotta' be that way. I mean, acknowledging the light is more important, actually, than acknowledging the dark and quite frankly, my dear, I'm trying to attract more light in my life at this point! My gray arm hair demands it. Life is supposed to be, well...LIVED. Can't get busy living if you're too busy dying (says Morgan Freeman-as-Red-in-The-Shawshank-Redemption). Word up.
So here goes the list of ish I DO NOT regret. The plan is to blog every day over the next month or so, alternating between the regrets and the non-regrets. Make sense? If not, oh well. I might just be a little rusty on this writing thing. Bear with a sista'.
TOP 11 NON-REGRETS
1. Marrying the man I married
2. Moving to Portland, Oregon
3. Leaving the field of teaching children and embracing teaching adults
4. Changing my parenting style and (most of) my philosophy on parenting
5. Eating organic foods, reading labels, and increasing my food bill to the (kinda') nth power
6. Trimming the insane rat-race that was my weekly schedule
7. Leaving Los Angeles
8. Taking my son out of public school and homeschooling him
9. Speaking my truth or backtracking and speaking it when I don't initially do so
10. Buying my daughter black dolls ONLY
11. Voting for President Obama twice
To view the list of regrets, check me at regretsucksthelifeoutofyou.blogspot.com
Happy reading!
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