Efflorescent Memoirs

Last week of instruction. Bittersweet.  Feel like I still have so much to give them but they must move on...and I have to move on as well.  Talking all that sh’t about not missing them but I know I will. They are my family.  If I had time, I would write a poem where I list  all of the annoying phrases that got on my nerves. Tell stories that end with the unexpected life changing lessons they each  taught me.  I will make time.  Not just for my reflective pleasure but for their growth.   My poem will be a love letter...writing personal notes is one of my favorite forms of providing feedback to them.  That type of writing is a challenge for me, it prompts me to be compassionate, intentional, and non-judgemental with my words. I rise at this thoughtfulness-challenge because the kids grow from it. But sometimes, that letter is the only thing I can get them to read, all year, at the end of the year. I need to take time to write them way more, even if only for specific students who need ong

This series of writing has been so freeing.  For years I collected people’s projections of me and used them as guides.  This series was my intentional practice of reflecting on myself and only listening to what my deepest, innermost self had to offer. Projections live in our minds and we hear them inside of our heads so we think the doubts, accusations, and fears are coming from us but that is false. Our mind’s are only repeating, not creating. There’s a difference.  Projections are illusions, born of things that we witnessed happen to others or experienced for ourselves, in the past.  Projections typically come from places of hurt — and we visit those places every time we allow projections to effect us.  Projections are like a train, in sense, that can only be stopped by a conductor, not us as passengers. And if we try to pull the emergency brake, we will only hold up the process of getting where we are bound to go because when that train starts up again, it still has to get to its d

Analytics: Pictures of me with my natural fro get half of the views and “likes” than pictures of me in my 26” wig.   Questions: What does this data imply about my social media audience’s preference of my beauty? Is this data a reflection of their ideal definition of beauty? How does this data differ among other women on social media? How may this data impact or influence the beauty decisions of women on social media? How is this data connected to historical standards of beauty?

Stop looking for me. I’m not here to be seen. Stop listening. I’m not here to be heard. I was. But not anymore. There’s a different version of self here now, who is not ready to be introduced, yet. Sorry.  Still learning myself.

Thinking about the ways I see myself.  Reading books on imagination.  Thinking.  Reading. 

Let there be breath.  Let there be stories.  Let them be true.  Let them be joy.  Let them be lived.