Journey to Empowerment (5 page)

B
Y
R
EV
. V
ICTORIA
L
EE
-O
WENS

I
first encountered my conscious destiny more than twenty-five years ago, when I stood at what was a crossroad in my life, unaware that I had entered a place of dark journeying. I would either recover spiritually and physically from self-inflicted degradation or lose my life, not necessarily dying a human death, or remain in a zombie-ish state, wandering bewildered through life. It would be an additional five years of drifting along as an unlearned parent to five children, after three failed marriages, the last one being of an abusive course, before I realized that I was emotionally still a child.

Looking back down that long, winding road, I am grateful for the lessons learned and even the discovery that I was an alcoholic. This sojourn actually saved me from sinking into a whirlpool of ignorance by giving me false courage to do that which I would not have been able to do under my own power. I went back to college and got my master's degree, yet something was still missing. I had no real concept of God except as the meanest of retaliators, because I was raised in a home where fire and brimstone were the rudiments of punishment for those things deemed not of God. Today, it's so wonderful to know that punishment comes by my own hands, based upon the choices I make. In other words, I am punished by my “mistakes” and less-than-best judgments, and not by my “testing the waters” to see how much I can get away with. However, in the fundamentalist belief system I grew up under, it seemed that everything was “wrong” in my youth. There was no fun, no makeup, no boyfriends, no movies, no sock hops or dances, no hanging out at the drive-in—the very lifelines of my peer group's world.

Eventually I found my first “Eskimo” in the person of a secret boyfriend, who guided me toward a way out of my depressed, repressed and oppressed situation through the glow aroused by my first alcoholic drink. In that moment, I experienced my first “I don't care what's going on” feeling. In time, I found myself depending on liquid and powdery courage to satisfy that short-lived taste of euphoria. As it became less and less available to me, I sank deeper into the hold of addiction. Soon I would need a little “suppum suppum” just to make it through another day.

I recognize today that I carried many of the characteristics of my mother (I still do, but I'm aware of them now, at least), who I often thought wasn't equipped to be in this world. Little did I know that I was fighting the same deficiencies in my own life. The only difference was that I could mimic what I saw in others really well and, chameleonlike, I used this ability to mask my inadequacies. Eventually, it took increased usage of substances to engage
any
inner strength, this time to pick up my bed after a second divorce—and second set of children—and move forward in life.

Although I had been raised in a religious home and attended church frequently, I was never taught to rely upon the Divine Spirit or God that lived and dwelled within me, and to ask it to guide my way. Instead, I relied on that liquid courage to see me through the death of my father, whom I dearly loved, and help me hold on to my anger toward him for abandoning me. I harbored feelings of deep sadness, rage and lethargy, only to juxtapose them with hostility toward my mother. I'd ask, “Why hadn't she died instead of my beloved Daddy?” It would be years before I made amends to her and myself for thinking about my mother in that way. It took moving out of the country by way of military duty to journey back to self-forgiveness.

Liquid courage became my parent and I obeyed it for many years—through the last two years of senior high school, through college graduation and graduate school, into the military and into my profession as a hospital administrator. However, through the fog of the late 1960s and entire 1970s, I caught glimpses of my call to service as a religious-science spiritual therapist. I would eventually accept that call to my ministry. In the interim, I embarked on my journey to recovery.

Upon entering these programs, I detested having people tell me what to do, and my feelings were often hurt when I was told that I was unable to function properly due to my spiritual, emotional and physical debility from intoxicants. I took it to mean that they did not approve of me or my behaviors, or perhaps that they were jealous because I'd traveled around the world, was earning a high salary, and outwardly appeared to be doing quite well in life. Paranoia set in, as I reasoned that people were conspiring against me. With time and growing willingness, I began listening to people who talked of knowing where I came from and the feelings that accompanied that state. I slowly began to recognize a sense of well-being through prayer. Was that a speck of light beginning to pierce through my dark journey?

Still unable to find any inner faith, a spiritual guide taught me how to sit and contemplate what God is to me, at least as much as I could understand about this new exercise called meditation. And what emerged was my vision of God as my very best friend, with no restrictions in that friendship. With continued seeking, through transcendental meditation and other practices that found me baptized, dunked, splashed, having hands laid upon me, and God knows what else, my course led me to recognize Infinite Spirit within. Today, there is a peaceful, spiritual satisfaction that resides in me, and with every step I bounce with the joy of knowing “I got over” to this side of belief. I'm now able to call upon it when darkness seeks me out from time to time. It delicately urges me to communicate with Divine Spirit and gratefully surrender to deeper clarity in my life. I practice being completely open to Divine Spirit by giving up that little egotistical part of myself that wants to hold on to patterns of negative thoughts and deeds. By retreating into meditation, I begin the process of complete abandonment to God's will, releasing my excessive imagination and selfish yearnings, and clearing the page of my mind for right and proper visioning.

While the universe conspires to give me just what I seek, from time to time inability overtakes me, sneaking in through a family trauma, hurtful words, through my adult children's behavior or through people who seemingly ignore me. During these moments, I become agitated and agitating, unable to meditate. During these times, by connecting with spiritual practitioners and prayer partners, my strength is reclaimed. They help to anchor my intention to grow through that which darkens the night of my soul. The recovery is quick, as it's only a passing phase. And then, I'm made whole again, and am reminded of my need to always dwell in the protective shelter of unconditional love of myself and debunk all those strange, dark, senseless things.

I love the spaciousness of being whole and holy. Thank you, Spirit, for my deliverance.

B
Y
M
ARIA
, A S
POKEN
W
ORD
A
RTIST
?

C
reate your own love poem, over and over and over again. Experiment with limitless blends of sights, touches, sounds, scents, breaths…And propel your body poetry into cosmic motion, and know that it's safe to go to a wild, crazy, galactic place that takes you around the world and back again.

Let go and wrap everything you've got and take what you didn't know you had and allow your sacred self to stretch outside of the four sides of that pliable box with removable walls. Mold your parts in and out and around the body, mind and spirit. Trust me. It will fit, like a loose goose that transports you to heaven and back…and mighty tighty, if that's your earthly pleasure.

Explore the prose in your toes, in the sand at the shore, and you'll discover that it only takes reading between the lines to reveal what's most sensational…to you. And don't forget to study the seagulls that see high above and dive deep below to grab hold of what feeds them. Take time to learn what yearns, and yearn to learn about the cuckoo clock that makes your creative juices tick.

Ask and you just might receive…an original song, one that's solid gold and uniquely yours for show-and-tell. No secrets here. Talk it up and feel it out…on an open mic or in a haiku, that is. Because making love to your free-forming creativity is both artsy and aerodynamic. And it feels oh, so good doing it in the park or doing it after dark. Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah.

Know it, show it, bestow it…for your gifts glow like a sun and groove like a moon…full and blue and all like a dat-dat-dat. Who knows, sometime tonight, this morning or tomorrow afternoon you just might write a new verse for our ancient's love poem. And so, it is…and always will, or at least, always
should
be…

B
Y
V
ICTORIA
J
OHNSON

I
was born in the segregated parts of the Deep South, one of eleven children. My brothers, sisters and I worked in the fields of rural Louisiana, picking whatever crops were in season, while my father traveled north, for months at a time, earning a living as a farmworker. Once the harvest was complete, some of the men would pool their earnings and buy a used car that was barely able to take them back home; the men who could not afford the trip home would stay on indefinitely. It was always a relief to see my father walking down the road home, safe again.

Despite our poverty, our parents loved us deeply, and whenever we had money, family meals were a time of comfort and joy. When the crops were good, we'd feast on ham, biscuits with butter, mashed potatoes and gravy, sweet-potato pie and fried okra. We'd sit around the table for hours, talking and laughing. These special times were abundant and comforting.

When I was five, my parents relocated the family “up north” to Washington state so that my father could find more work and we children would have a chance at a good education in nonsegregated schools. I'll never forget the first day. As I peered into the classroom window, I was so nervous I felt sick. Here I was, one of four black children in the entire school, staring into a sea of white faces. The teacher tried to reassure me: “It's okay, Victoria. We're all the same, no matter what color our skin is.”

Yet, I didn't see color. What I saw were little legs—pair after pair of skinny little legs. And my legs didn't look like that. Mine were big and round and they rubbed together when I walked. The teacher continued to try to coax me into the room. “They are just like you,” she said. I wanted to scream, “They're not like me!” I have thighs and they don't! As I took my seat, which felt snug against my body, I realized for the first time in my life that I was different. I was big.

Despite every attempt to lose weight and be accepted by the other kids, I never outgrew my baby fat. By the time I reached high school, I was obsessed with food and dieting. As soon as I got up in the morning, I'd wonder what was for breakfast. Then, after the last bite of Mama's homemade biscuits and butter, I'd think about what she'd packed in my lunch.

By the time I went to college, one of my friends had taught me a handy technique for keeping weight off—throwing up. I spent a good portion of my college years hunched over a toilet and trying to hide my shame. Yet despite throwing up, I still managed to gain the freshman fifteen—and then some. Instead of paying attention to the signals my body was sending me—low energy, depression and headaches—I'd reach for a candy-bar pick-me-up or a jolt of soda with lots of caffeine.

You know the old saying, “If you want to look thinner, hang out with people bigger than you”? That's exactly what I did. To soothe my emotional needs, I hung out with women who looked like me, thought like me and ate like me. Believe it or not, I was their fitness instructor at the time. Unfortunately, we didn't view exercise as a way to gain health—it was a justification to eat more. My girlfriends and I would get all dressed up in our workout clothes, barely break a sweat and then hit a McDonald's drive-through. “Sure I'll have fries with that! I just worked out—I deserve it!”

One day while I was leading the class, I felt a little dizzy. Ten minutes into the workout, I fainted. The blackout scared me and I immediately scheduled a doctor's appointment. I sat with clipboard and pen in hand at the doctor's office as I began to lie about my health history, with no regrets.

“Has anyone in your family ever had diabetes?”

“No.”

“Do you…?”

“Nope, never. I eat fruit and vegetables and drink eight glasses of distilled water every day.”

Then I had to answer the magical question, “How much do you weigh?”

Well, when exactly? In the morning? Before PMS? After PMS? I scribbled one hundred and thirty.

The nurse came in to check my vital signs and glanced over my questionnaire. “One hundred and thirty?!”

“Well, last time I checked it was.”

“Please step on the scale.”

“Shouldn't I take my shoes off? And my belt—it's metal. It must weigh a few pounds.”

After removing everything I reasonably could, I stood on the scale, held my breath and pulled in my stomach, trying to be lighter.

She whizzed the metal bar way past 130 before she clicked to 150, 160, 170. When the ruler clicked at 175, I jumped off the scale in horror.

Still shell-shocked, I met with the doctor. What he said did little to soothe me.

“Young lady, if you do not change your eating habits and your lifestyle, you are on your way to developing type 2 diabetes.” Holding a large syringe and getting right in my face, he continued, “You will have to take this needle and stick yourself with it every day. You will become a pharmaceutical drug addict if you don't make a major life change!”

His words hit me like a hammer. I thought about my aunt who had her leg amputated because of diabetes and my grandfather who had chronic heart disease. The doctor told me I was headed down that same path if I didn't do something…and soon.

After I left his office, I sat in my car and sobbed. A thunderstorm was kicking up outside—yet it was no match to the raging storm I felt inside. I had been given great opportunities in my life. My mother and father had sacrificed to provide me with an education and a life of equality. I felt like I'd failed to live up to their standards. And I knew that I wasn't doing my life justice in this condition. Did I want to continue on the road to self-destruction or did I want to take control of my health? Did I want to be one hundred and seventy-five pounds and uncomfortable, or have a body that allowed me to move freely? Did I want to be out of breath and tired at the end of the day, or have the energy to do things with my family and friends? I had to make a decision.

At that moment, I asked God to forgive me for not honoring the gift He had given me—the gift of life. I asked Him to forgive me for not honoring my body, my health and my talents. I asked Him to please show me how to get well. I told Him that I promised to do whatever it took to do the right thing. As I prayed through my tears, something indescribable happened. I felt God's unconditional love. God promises us a “peace that surpasseth all understanding,” and He'd given me a gift that day in the parking lot of my doctor's office. I suddenly felt freed from the prison of food addiction, poor health and emotional bondage. I was enveloped by love and filled with a burning desire—a calling—to change my life from that moment on.

From that epiphany forward, I used the power of prayer and spirit to transform my existence. I turned my life over to Him, and He led me to people and places, books and seminars that supported my transformation. I experienced a Body Revival. From that moment on, I dedicated myself to changing my spiritual life, my relationships, including my relationship with food, and my health. Step by step, each and every day, my life got better and better. I was shown a way to overcome my poor body image, my love of “comfort foods” and my old habits that had sent me down a road to self-destruction.

Once I overcame my own demons, I realized the purpose God had for me included service to others. In turn, I've had the opportunity to teach thousands of people how to fill the emptiness with something more than chips and soda.

Today, when I see myself on national television helping others achieve their victories, when I feel the rush of leading twenty thousand people to their “breakthrough” of self-defeating habits, or catch my reflection in the mirror training towering NBA basketball players on the importance of nutrition for their performance and career, I know that I've conquered the dark despair of secret eating, loneliness and depression that I felt for so many years of my life.