The Glass Ceiling of Fear

"You can't "prop up" a person that refuses to stand."-me

Recently, I asked one of my "homeboys" to read a few of my blog posts and help "plug the gap" where my feet often stumbled.

He didn't read one, but he read all of them!

After a gut-wrenching, "throat punch of truth," he unleashed the dragon.

I was knee-deep in the swamp of hot ashes.

Needless to say, I had allowed fear to become my glass ceiling!

Each time, I took off running for the hills, I looked back to the valley for "familiar hands."

The "child within" had learned to go without the things needed most; so as an adult,

I counseled my fears.

I nursed my vulnerabilities.

I coached my failures.

However, my hands kept reaching for the "mentor within" that the younger version of me survived without.

Let's face it! Kids learn what they live, even inherited dysfunction.

Grown-up habits can resurface as future hurdles.
Childhood denials can become adult superhighways of constant delays.
Lack breeds superficial lust.
Past avoidance can manifest as future addictions.

Over the years, I kept a "trigger finger" on my pain.
I had a love-hate relationship with my process.

My "healing" wasn't a linear race that I could just sprint to without:

the highs and lows,
bumps and bruises,
wins and failures.

Therefore, my frustration unraveled each time I placed my insecurities on the altar for public display.

They say the highest form of rejection is choosing something/someone that doesn't choose you in return; so don't let the relationship that you neglect, be the one from within.

Offer love.
Offer hope.
Offer patience.

Don't sit in the pit of your pain, nursing a passive aggressive bandage, because the enemy within has convinced you that evolution is selfish.

You can either be passive in pity or productive at healing!

Kick the crutch of superficial validations from underneath the surface of your foundation.

Heal at your pace.
Grow in His grace.          

Maybe you were created to help ease the pain by ushering the broken-hearted to the Divine Healer.

Such A Time As This

"Don't let doubt make you a slave to fear"

My friends keep trying to talk me off the ledge...B-U-T...

Some days, I am afraid to jump!

Some days, I give a slight pivot but retreat!

Some days, pitiful outweighs powerful.

However today, I am "crip walking" blindly on faith.

I am out here in "these streets" without:

life support,

a respirator,

mechanical ventilator,

or back up plan.

Don't bother asking for further clarification, cause I can't explain what I don't understand. (inserts nervous laugh).

All I know (for certain) is my 2020 vision got downsized by the "survival of settling" and I had been sulking in bondage every since.

This morning, I intentionally crawled out of my "woman cave of darkness" and declared that I'm not "finna" waste one more tear on anything left behind.

I refused to yell to the masses that refused to acknowledge my worth and
I refuted the weeds of rejection regurgitated by the enemy within.

I opened my eyes to a different reality and a fresh coat of paint.

What if God created "such a time as this" to:  

My passion has always been social work.

renew the commitment,
revisit the vision,
reaffirm the "empathetic social advocate,"
refresh the goals,
and reclaim the victory.

What if the only baby in Philly with a black crib learned to stand on her own two feet and take the first step to destiny?  

What if she threw away the soaked pillow of excuses and got busy?

What if this was the "appointed hour" that she shook off the shackles of codependency and lived free?

What if she started dreaming out loud again?









What if she closed her eyes to the clouds of pain and opened her heart to the power of prayer?

Examine your own heart....

What if the worrier woke up the warrior?

What if the passion collided with purpose?

What if the impossible was made possible?

Let the power of his promises restore your vision, resurrect the death of shattered dreams, and reclaim your faith.

You have the God given provision to

 protect justice for all, 

promote love from within,

and produce necessary change.

This is US

Sometimes the "pain of remembering" is just way too overwhelming...  

I opted out of the traditional Father's Day this year.

I did not make my annual graveside visit.

I did not make a social media post honoring my dad.

I did not celebrate the legacy seeds that he deposited on the inside of me.

I did not share the memories.

Sunday, June 21st popped up (on me) like spam with a virus attached--my dad was not physically present!

So, I could either cram my face with carbs, cry my eyeballs out, or retreat to the confines of my bed.

Somehow, I  mustered up enough strength to step out of the pain and into a garment of praise.

I met my responsibility with accountability, because I had "eyes on me."

My grandson was starting to show signs of distress, due to the overwhelming nature of surrounding events and I could not allow my grief to take root in his heart.

I knew dad would want me to take care of him...

to be bold,
courageous,
and loving.

to smile the frowns away,
to paint the skies with rainbows,
and to nurture the king in him.

I also knew that "our dad" would want me to make space for new memories.

I am so grateful for our father's undying love and God's continuous grace.

I am blessed with an amazing "tribe of family" that

 translate my love language,

comprehend my silence,

and offer me space to grow.

Even with a lump of sorrow in my throat, I offer a heartfelt  "Happy Father's Day" to the memories of yesterday and a "Happy Father's Day" to the memories underway.

This is U-S...  

God's love dipped in the "Powell blood".      

Happy Father's Day to my amazing brother.

Happy Father's Day to our dad.

The Watering Hole of Grief

"Grief is love unfinished." -author unknown

Yesterday, I intentionally chose to ignore the cardboard trail of boxes that disrupted my path of productivity. I snoozed on the to-do-list! I really didn't care to entertain the emotions of "unpacking;" because then, "moving" would become an immediate reality.

Somehow, I just knew that God was about to flip my world upside down, but I watered the "adrenaline rush" down with a cocktail of hesitation and insisted on a splash of doubt.

What if things went left?

What if my ambition was "overstepping" God's plans?

What if my expectations exceeded what was available (for me)?

As my eyes scanned the piles of excess, tension erupted into an aggressive, fire blazing migraine.

I felt flushed and consumed by the ashes of despair.

However, my agitation was interrupted by a quote from Alphonse Karr, "The more things change, the more they remain the same."

Geez! It had just dawned on me. I had been standing in this valley before. I always managed to camouflage in the shadows of darkness to conceal the light of the truth. I had become a prisoner of war---an internal war!

In my natural habitation, I stockpiled doubt for rainy days and frequented the "watering hole of grief" to pacify the "void" of unfulfillment.

I reluctantly inhibited God's healing abilities, because I draped my wounds with "superficial" fillers.

It was a feeble attempt to dress the ruins of what was dying on the inside--dreams, visions, & goals.

I drank from the well of grief.

I ate from the plate of fear.

I stood on the unstable  pillar of unfinished love.

Survival had claimed my abundance, because I insisted on forfeiting my inheritance.

Don't get stuck in a season of the wilderness of wishing, wanting, and waiting.

Your "purpose" is contingent upon your willingness to surrender to your Higher Power.

Come up out the pit of sorrow, drown your excuses, and let God's will prevail.

Don't let your L-O-V-E lay "unfinished" in the tomb of grief.

In Due Season

In due season, you shall reap a harvest...

Over the past weekend, my family and friends cleared their hectic schedules and helped empty my cluttered apartment.

According to the 2020 vision, my time had expired in that temporary space, but closing doors ALWAYS created a veil of doubt, anxiety, and FEAR.

My lack of formal planning had unintentionally created all sorts of challenges for my help and the future uncertainty of those cardboard boxes flooded my heart with waves of uneasiness.

I had buried my head in the sand of chaos for months and "my indecision" had become a landfill of never-ending complaints that sheltered my inconspicuous agitation and heaviness.

Sadly enough, I had perfected "good-bye's" a long time ago. (Leaving was familiar). It was like breathing--necessary for survival and required little effort on my part. In fact, I was ALWAYS the first to Q-U-I-T, because staying required the courage to ENDURE unwelcomed rejection!

However, my mental capacity had already collapsed against the war of unfairness, inequality, and injustices.

Therefore, I surrendered my flag and extended my formal resignation (without peace).

I found myself "spinning wheels" in the mud of repetition.

Even though my feet were ALWAYS moving, I wasn't gaining traction.

I kept ending up on the "back side" of hope. The man made barriers impeded my bridges of optimism.

Yesterday, I picked up, packed a bag, and pulled up to an oceanfront view.

The beach had become my....                     

                         
safe haven,
therapy, and
"calm" in the middle of a storm.

It was in the ripples of change that I found new direction.

Do you trust God for the "provisions" to live, laugh, and love, (even when your feet are buried in the sand)?

Do you have "the faith" to receive the blessings on the way?

Do you have the courage to "wait" in expectation of the BEST?

Chasing Butterflies

Seems like the "outside world" had finally caught up to the unfiltered chaos that had been churning in my belly for months.

In the midst of all the madness, COVID-19 came like a "thief in the night" and interrupted my trajectory.

My optimism faded into the backdrop of forest fires caused by consuming racial tensions.

My faith wavered on the mountains of constant criticism of the "judge & jury" trying my every move.

My hope became overshadowed in the valley of contagious helplessness.

Social injustices claimed my attention: on the news, in the workplace, and even in my own backyard.

The roses wilted.
The gardenias lost their fragrance.
The lilies surrendered their petals.

Everything that I had prayed for last season became an eyesore in this season.

I missed the "calm in the storm" days of:

watching my grandson, stand up on the couch and play in my grandmother's silky, black tresses.

having morning coffee with the Tuckers.

book club discussions with my tribe.

trail walks and bike rides.

Most days by 6pm...

I drew the blinds on the outside interference,
closed the curtains to the current realities,
heavily sedated with carbohydrates (by default),
and escaped to the confines of the little gray couch for comfort.

I chased the "butterflies of familiar faces" that made me feel safe, secure, warm, and loved.

I replaced the clouds with the Son.

I nursed the infirmary of insecurities with the word of God.

Don't let the darkness of the world dispute your faith in the Father.

Turn on the LIGHT in the middle of the storm.

Sail your ship...until all of those 2020 visions manifest.           

Unraveling

Every "ending" has a new beginning...

COVID-19 hijacked my 2020 vision.

Doubt silenced the explosive dreams (in my belly) with a sporadic, Diabetic comatose oblivion.

Racism robbed every radical hair of optimism from the roots of my graying head.

Most days, the alarm clock was the only morning reminder of the faint pulse that surprisingly existed after the reservoir of sorrows dried up from the night before.

I had been suffocating under the collapsed bridges of failed attempts.

I had been forced into a shelter of introverted isolation.

I had been confined by self-imposed limitations.

Somehow, "answered prayers" resembled unopened mail, postmarked, "return to sender."

My "hands" kept coming up short!

Days became nights.

Nights became prisons.

Real became fake.

Love became hate.

When I discreetly unveiled "daily vulnerabilities" from underneath the protective mask of the COVID madness, I couldn't tell if my heart was still under subjection of the merciful God that my grandma once prayed to or had I been illegitimately tossed in the wrath of vengeance for any overlooked unrepentant sins.

I was always a day late and a dollar short in man's eyes.

And with each step forward, there were always broken cracks on my sidewalk.

The cracks were the visible signs of unhealed trauma from the brutal, harsh realities of my brown skin, because I was suffocating long before George Floyd's face hit the concrete.

Society stepped on my neck when:

- the fight of good faith was somehow misconstrued into having to turn the other cheek and walk away with our wounds licked, our scars tucked, and our pride misplaced.

- privilege trumps freedom, equality, and justice {for all men}.

- our resistance to comply in silence is deemed as insubordinate to authority.

- our refusal to be bullied into submission makes us appear incoherent and uncivilized.

-my allegiance to my sister and brothers is perceived as a communicated threat and deems me a deviant.

Pardon me, if it seems that we are all "unraveling" in the face of such global adversity.

Pardon me, if we seem a little traumatized by the unhealed attacks of lingering racism.

Pardon me, if you can't feel the depth of pain inflicted by my "dark skin" daily reality.

We are crushed.

We are perplexed.

But we will NOT wave our flags  and  "surrender" to defeat.

We will endure the backlash.

We will continue to fight for freedom.

We will overcome.

We will WIN the war.

We will NOT be moved to the back of the bus.