I originally posted this October 5, 2005. This week, I've needed a reminder.
Sometimes, I forget that I'm fabulous.
Life has a tendency beat your black ass down and make everything good that you know about yourself become null and void. Some days nothing anybody says can get through the wall of depression and self pity that you choose to hide behind. You will question every decision that you ever made. Every mistake, flaw and fault will come back to haunt you with excrutiating detail bringing fresh pain, and you will hurt all over again.
One thing of the many things that I've learned about hurt is that it digs deep and falls onto your soul like fiddle sticks and sticks into your heart like push pins. It is not contained to one little part of your spirit. Instead, it permeates your being and brings you into a place that has no light and is devoid of color.
I truly believe that you should allow yourself the opportunity to fully experience each emotion that springs from the well of your existence. Embracing the good of your character while constantly seeking to hide your imperfections does you an injustice. You should acknowledge each part of your being - good, bad and ugly.
Embrace the good. Give your best shot at reforming the bad. And sometimes, accept the ugly. In addressing all parts of who you are, even on bad days - remember, remember, remember and please do not ever forget to CELEBRATE, CELEBRATE, CELEBRATE YOURSELF!!!!!!!!
Because your conscience gets so buried under all that life throws at you, it's hard to remember.
Trust me, I know.
Because sometimes,
I forget that I'm fabulous.
12.20.2006
12.19.2006
I am not strong
Society places a lot of value on strength. Strong man. Strong medicine. Strength of Character. And I could go on.
Strength is a desirable characteristic to be endowed with. Most believe that if you are strong, you can withstand anything.
Many times in my life, I have been admired for my perceived strength.
Sometimes, it's not been strength at all. More often than not, what most mistakenly name strength in my character is something else altogether. Sometimes, it has been fear of failure, which is euphemistically called courage. Sometimes, I go on to keep from embarassing myself. This is where strength should more correctly be called pride. Then there are times when I put on my bravest face and see something through to the end because I do not want to be called a quitter. It is here that strength should be called stubborness. I must also mention the times when I stay the course because I really have no ideas on what I should be doing differently. Strength here should be called failure to have a backup plan.
I have come to realize that strong is not what I am. And I am okay with that because I do not need to be strong. For it is during my weakest times that I allow myself to rest on the strength of the Hands that move me. Yes, where I am weak, He is strong. During my weakest times, I lay burdens that I never should have tried to bear alone at His feet. I allow myself to be cradled in his arms and the two sets of footprints become one.
It is when I am most fearful, when I am most overwhelmed, when I am most troubled, that I am finally able to do what He wants me to do every day. I leave it all to Him and trust Him to direct my paths.
During these times, I am tasked with leaning not to mine own understanding. I aim to display grace under pressure. I strive to stand still so that He can move.
But strength, I do not pray for, I do not attempt to pull it from my reserves. Instead, I acknowledge my weakness and glory in His power.
For I am not strong.
Strength is a desirable characteristic to be endowed with. Most believe that if you are strong, you can withstand anything.
Many times in my life, I have been admired for my perceived strength.
Sometimes, it's not been strength at all. More often than not, what most mistakenly name strength in my character is something else altogether. Sometimes, it has been fear of failure, which is euphemistically called courage. Sometimes, I go on to keep from embarassing myself. This is where strength should more correctly be called pride. Then there are times when I put on my bravest face and see something through to the end because I do not want to be called a quitter. It is here that strength should be called stubborness. I must also mention the times when I stay the course because I really have no ideas on what I should be doing differently. Strength here should be called failure to have a backup plan.
I have come to realize that strong is not what I am. And I am okay with that because I do not need to be strong. For it is during my weakest times that I allow myself to rest on the strength of the Hands that move me. Yes, where I am weak, He is strong. During my weakest times, I lay burdens that I never should have tried to bear alone at His feet. I allow myself to be cradled in his arms and the two sets of footprints become one.
It is when I am most fearful, when I am most overwhelmed, when I am most troubled, that I am finally able to do what He wants me to do every day. I leave it all to Him and trust Him to direct my paths.
During these times, I am tasked with leaning not to mine own understanding. I aim to display grace under pressure. I strive to stand still so that He can move.
But strength, I do not pray for, I do not attempt to pull it from my reserves. Instead, I acknowledge my weakness and glory in His power.
For I am not strong.
12.07.2006
I had a Dream
Tonight, I had a dream.
It was so vivid, so real, so clear that I KNEW that I had to get up immediately and get it down before it retreated to the corners of my mind.
I dreamed that it was 1960 and that I was at a rally for Wilma Rudolph to encourage her and support her participation in the 1960 Olympics.
Speaker after speaker got up and proudly spoke solemn words of encouragement honoring the young runner.
I held my breath as the next speaker was announced. It was Coretta Scott King. Mrs. King in all her stately glory glided to the podium, removed her gloves and set them to the side. Then she eagerly leaned into the mike and with as much power and as might as she could muster, she yelled into the mike with a voice full of joy and and enthusiasm,
"RUN LIKE YOU'RE THE GREATEST!
RUN LIKE YOU'RE THE GREATEST!
RUN LIKE YOU'RE THE GREATEST!"
The crowd went wild.
Coretta Scott King said nothing further.
She politely gathered her gloves from the podium top, and in her trademark queenly manner swiftly left the podium where she was quickly ushered into a waiting car, to the still celebrating crowd.
Now, I don't know what made me dream about 1960, Wilma Rudolph or Coretta Scott King. 1960 was 12 years before I was born. My mother was 6 years old when Wilma Rudolph set Olympic records and brought home three gold medals. And from what I have read of the wife of the great Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. such an unrestrained outburst was not a part of her very dignified public persona.
But what I do know is that I had a dream and that I woke up wanting to run.
So whatever goals I am reaching for, whatever duties I am tasked with, whatever job I must complete, and in every area of my life, even the smallest things, I know that I must approach each single and collective effort like I'm the greatest!!!
It was so vivid, so real, so clear that I KNEW that I had to get up immediately and get it down before it retreated to the corners of my mind.
I dreamed that it was 1960 and that I was at a rally for Wilma Rudolph to encourage her and support her participation in the 1960 Olympics.
Speaker after speaker got up and proudly spoke solemn words of encouragement honoring the young runner.
I held my breath as the next speaker was announced. It was Coretta Scott King. Mrs. King in all her stately glory glided to the podium, removed her gloves and set them to the side. Then she eagerly leaned into the mike and with as much power and as might as she could muster, she yelled into the mike with a voice full of joy and and enthusiasm,
"RUN LIKE YOU'RE THE GREATEST!
RUN LIKE YOU'RE THE GREATEST!
RUN LIKE YOU'RE THE GREATEST!"
The crowd went wild.
Coretta Scott King said nothing further.
She politely gathered her gloves from the podium top, and in her trademark queenly manner swiftly left the podium where she was quickly ushered into a waiting car, to the still celebrating crowd.
Now, I don't know what made me dream about 1960, Wilma Rudolph or Coretta Scott King. 1960 was 12 years before I was born. My mother was 6 years old when Wilma Rudolph set Olympic records and brought home three gold medals. And from what I have read of the wife of the great Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. such an unrestrained outburst was not a part of her very dignified public persona.
But what I do know is that I had a dream and that I woke up wanting to run.
So whatever goals I am reaching for, whatever duties I am tasked with, whatever job I must complete, and in every area of my life, even the smallest things, I know that I must approach each single and collective effort like I'm the greatest!!!
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