Journey to Empowerment (3 page)

B
Y
C
AROLINE
S
HOLA
A
REWA

T
he sky turned from gray to blue and the sun warmed my face. I sat quietly breathing in and
Opening to Spirit
. I wrote words of thanks in my journal as I recalled the blessings of the past few days in St. Kitts and Nevis, West Indies. I know that what we do not experience positively can only be experienced negatively. Therefore I try to release that which is not going well and focus on the radiance in my life. I had the opportunity to do both as I journeyed in St. Kitts and Nevis. In so doing, the Creator showered forth blessings in abundance.

There was a wonderful sense of community as sistahs and a few brothas of the Diaspora joined together for the Caribbean retreat. People arrived for different reasons. I came to present a workshop on the healing power of the chakras, called “The Spiritual Woman.” Many other workshops were offered on the same day. Throughout the workshops, the healing voice of Oya, the Yoruba Goddess of Change, could be heard calling in the wind. During the few days we spent together, as the winds of change blew, I witnessed so much healing taking place both within myself and around me. I would like to share the words that found a resting place in my journal on a blessed Tuesday while I sat relaxing in my new friends' home in Nevis.

 

Nevis, 8 May 2001—from my Journal

 

I am a traveler. I have traveled. I entered the depths of the ocean in the Great Barrier Reef. I scaled the heights of the Himalayas in Nepal. I sailed the Nile in Egypt. On every continent I have placed my feet and shared my words. I have traveled inside and out. I know the depths of my being and the pain buried there along with my love, beauty and passion. I know the heights of ecstasy, both in the arms of a lover and the stillness of myself. I know the calm of the river and its sensual f low. What I am saying is, I have lived, and many sweet memories have kissed my breast in this past week. This has been a most fulfilling week.

Never would I choose to travel for a week. No! I would want a year, six months, at least one month. When I received Maria Dowd's e-mail asking me to present at a workshop on the island of Nevis, I thought, “Okay, I could make it, but only for a week.” Then, I went into the anticipated beauty of these rain forest–rich islands. As sixty others and I
Opened to Spirit,
time stood still. A portal in the earth opened and allowed us to explore the depths of our being. Together with the sea, air, sand and sun, we played, laughed, cried and healed. Held in the arms of the ocean Yemonja, moved by the winds of Oya, supported by Ile, Goddess of the Land, and overlooked by Ra, God of the Sun. What a week. It was a loving experience, a healing experience, a forgiving experience. A touch of paradise dwelled both within and around us. It was uplifting to see sistahs dance and smile, laugh and sing, embrace, learn, grow and be. A wonder-filled week that stands high as one of the most peaceful and fulfilling weeks in my life. It was so full, so rich, with new friendships made and nurtured. I can even say it was a year, six months, a month, a dream.

Give thanks and praises for the synergy that is created when we come together throughout the Diaspora and
Open to Spirit
.

B
Y
Q
UEEN
M
UTIMA
I
MANI

Heal our Relationships with Earth and Community…

 

Visualize your community as healthy, whole and vibrant.

 

Ask the spirits, the higher powers, to cooperate in healing the community.

 

Send loving energy (pink light) and healing energy (green light) to the community at a special time each day.

 

Create an altar that represents your love for the community.

 

Allow some time and find some space for communion with the earth. In communion, the earth speaks her language of quiet rhythms and you respond with quiet rhythms of appreciation.

 

Expand your love of self, family, friends and community to love of all the peoples of the earth who share the journey of life.

B
Y
M
ARIA
D
ENISE
D
OWD

M
y grandfather left this world on a breezy autumn day. My mother lost her father, my grandfather, my daughters' great-grandfather. He was ninety-one. He was a great, honest, God-loving man. He was perfect in my eyes. During his funeral on Monday, I watched and listened to four generations of family and friends rejoice in his glory, as he—Uncle Willie, my grandfather—had tenderly touched so many. My ninety-year-old grandmother continues to carry the family torch. She lives with Alzheimer's, but not woefully—not in the least bit. As we mourned, her humor amazed and calmed us.

On Monday, as I watched her emerge from the white limo, aided by her two youngest daughters—my Aunt Carol and my Aunt Jewel—the very first thing I saw was the pink halo that surrounded her head. My aunts had dressed her in a fine black-and-white wool suit and this magnificent black-and-white hat with a magenta-hued brim, and all I could say behind my smile was, “You go, Girl.” I whispered in my Aunt Carol's ear, “Very good choice of hats.” And she quietly responded, “Yes, it makes a statement.”

And it did. Queen Mother—my mother's mother, my grandmother, my daughters' great-grandmother—had arrived to celebrate her husband's near century-long life…and she brought along with her the splendor of this brilliant pink halo into the halls of New Creation Church. New Creation.

Scores of family proceeded behind her and her pink halo. And she was led—in formation—by her white-gloved grandsons and great-grandson. I joined arms with my sisters—my expectant sister-in-law, Kim, and my cousin, April, and I marched in my grandmother's footsteps. I held my head high in the cloud of my grandmother's pink halo—for I am her firstborn granddaughter, my grandfather's firstborn granddaughter—flanked by my unborn niece, Jordynn Sierra, and my grandparents' last-born granddaughter, maybe on this day not-so-ironically named the month of my birth. Teary-eyed, I breathed in the synergy and geometry of death and life. New Creation.

My grandfather's Spirit lives earnestly in me—his firstborn granddaughter and a very early riser, as he was. I believe that I walk pensively along his near century-old cobbled road of high principles, resource-fulness and thoughtfulness. And, when my day comes, I trust that he'll greet me with complete pride and joy, even though I never did get the secure civil service job he'd hoped for me.

His kiss to my cheek will be damp and his plaid flannel shirt will be musky. I'll meet him in his garden of mile-high collard greens and Swiss chard. And he'll have a glass of sweet-as-can-be lemonade, made fresh by his strong, loving hands.

This writing is my morning meditation to my family, friends and colleagues, as I step audaciously into my day—blessed to walk in my grandfather's big shoes and in the radiance of my grandmother's pink halo.

B
Y
M
ARY
E. P
ASCHALL

Busy hands clap for Jesus, vibrations fill the air, Moans of joy, moans of sorrow, sometimes in silent prayer,

When I think of Mt. Nebo, its fragrant pine-needle path,

Trees and cousins aplenty, those memories make me laugh.

 

Busy hands churning butter, cooks everything from scratch,

Country sausage, fried apples, sweet oatmeal none could match,

I think of a country homestead with a sweet magnolia tree,

Warm, cozy patchwork quilting, those memories strengthen me.

 

Busy hands create a poultice, pungent, strong medicine,

Red flannel warmth flowed freely, healed me from toe to chin,

Memories of Momma Celie's steaming spiked-honey tea,

Still Angels linger watching, those memories comfort me.

 

Busy hands making biscuits, crochet scarves Argo stiff,

Cactus plants in red clay pots, create sharp, pointed tips,

Memories of seeds and harvests, big families once strong,

Take me to the water, those memories linger on.

Busy hands peeling apples, tart slices, simmering sauce,

Steamy, hot-sugared laughter, red-checkered tablecloth,

Strong bridges brought me over, times I just can't repeat,

But when my life tastes bitter, those memories are sweet.

B
Y
L
OIS
H. C
ARTER

I
remember crying silently in the backseat of my cousin's car. I was about sixteen. My older sister, my cousin and I were coming back from a party. I remember being thankful for the darkness of the car so that they wouldn't notice my tears. I was crying because I didn't think I was pretty like my sister and cousin. I've always been overweight and was very conscious of it. I didn't love myself and that feeling stayed with me for a long time.

I had no idea what to expect when I participated in a women's Rites of Passage workshop. It turned out to be a most rewarding experience. While the women I met were from all walks of life, within that weekend we became like sisters. I remember singing, “Am I my sister's keeper? Yes, I am!” with them and rejoicing in that fact. I felt the love and it was beautiful. A seed was planted within me that weekend. It was the beginning of a transformation for me, one that was completely unexpected.

Although I had a better idea of what to expect when I participated in the Rites of Passage again the following year, I was still in for a surprise. Both times were amazing experiences, but what became a part of me the first year made the second time more special. The seed that had been planted was about to blossom. Although it was for only a couple of days, it truly felt like a journey. Our spiritual teacher's heart was so loving, it was as if I'd known her all of my life. She gave me a gift that I always carry with me. She heard my silent cry for love, self-love. She told me that I was a queen, and by the end of that weekend I felt like one. This time around, deep in my soul, I believed it! For the first time in my life, I truly felt beautiful inside and out!

I remember gazing around the room at the different women dressed in white, waiting for our “crossing over” ceremony to begin. I saw how beautiful black women are in all our diverse colors, shapes, features and sizes. And I was one of them! I cried silently again…but this time it was for joy! And it wasn't about the outer beauty. We were all smiling and our inner glow radiated. We were queens and proud of it.

We were all given cards with angels on them at the end of the Rites of Passage ceremony. It was so fitting that the card I received was the Angel of Beauty. That weekend was the beginning of my journey to self-love. From that special day forward, whenever self-hatred rears its ugly head, I promptly remind myself, “I'm a queen.” With that affirmation, I hold my head up and face the world as the beautiful black queen that I
know
I am.