Short answer:To provide a space for my voice to be heard.
Why I write declaration: I will be brave, my voice will not die within me unexpressed and unheard.
This is therefore a brave and intentional space for creative self-expression.
There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.
Maya Angelou
I am motivated to write from observing what I believe God created-by-design like nature, family, love, and relationship.
The title, “createdbyDEEsign”, therefore signifies the co-creation of the works here by my DaddyGod and me.
THE BLOG CONTAINS a collection of poems about love, life, relationships and nature; and midweek motivational boost and inspirational reflections in prose, poetry and images.
Whether you landed in this space by choice or curiosity, I hope being here inspires you to be brave and to use your voice and your mode of creative expressions to show up fully and influence the spaces you occupy.
I appreciate your choosing to meet me here and to interact with my thoughts/words/creative expressions.
To never miss a post click HERE👈 to subscribe & follow the blog. I love hearing from you, so remember to “like” & comment. For more content start HERE👈
In creative solidarity, Dawn
PLEASE NOTE: Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without the express and written permission from me as this site’s author/owner is strictly prohibited. Permission may be requested through a comment to which I will reply granting or denying permission. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Dawn Minott @ http://www.createdbyDEEsign.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
I am honored and grateful to be featured by Spillwords in their “Spotlight on Writers” segment.
It’s a privilege to share my work and passion with readers, and I truly appreciate the platform Dagmara and the editorial team have provided for voices like mine to be heard!
Please drop by Spillwords to read the full interview to get a bit more insight into what motivates and inspires my writing.
And while you’re there, would appreciate your leaving a “like” and/or comment.
THANKS 🙏🏽😉🙏🏽
2024 All Rights Reserved Designed with Canva Images by Pexels
Beforeword: Hello reader!!! So if you’ve visited the “About” page of this blog, you’d have seen my profile.
Well, I’ve now transformed the “About” page into this poem. I hope you enjoy it!!!
“A Creative Soul’s Embrace”
In creative spaces I find my solace and delight Words—a poet’s heart, a blogger’s guiding light A speaker’s voice, in stories unfold My pen, a vessel, for tales yet untold
In “Moments: A Poetic Autobiography”I share My thoughts, my verses, my joys, my care Unapologetically, a lover of the Divine My adoration of God, evident in every line
Love’s tender embrace—my muse, my song In verses, I’ll celebrate it all the day long Nature’s beauty, a treasure trove to explore In each flower, in each leaf, a story I’ll implore
A logophile, yes, words are my kin In dictionary’s depths, I always begin Epigrammatic style—concise and clear My poetic soul is forever sincere
Creativity flows, an endless tide In art and words, my heart doth glide Artsy to the core, in colors and rhyme I paint my world, one verse at a time
So here I stand, a creative soul’s embrace Of poetry, of prose, of words, interlace Whether as a poet, a blogger, a speaker, or more My love for words, I will forever explore
Before-word: As I’m spending more time building this blog, I’ve been thinking a lot about writing—the art of writing and the power of the written word. I love to write. And chances are if you’re on this site, you’re a blogger which means you also love to write. Or, you’re here because you love to read. Either way, I hope you enjoy this short piece where I share the reasons why I write and the value I place on the written word. As well as a poem along the same theme, “Writing Is”.
To as far back as I can remember, I wrote what I could not or wished not to vocally express. Words help me unlock what I think and feel subconsciously. And, writing is the process through which I can harmonize and connect my mind (inner thoughts and feelings) with lived experiences.
Writing is a powerful tool—it can create, influence, inform, and communicate. In fact, I’d say it’s arguably the best connector. Writing connects us to each other and it connects stories, experiences and cultures across time and space. When you read the writings of a writer from eons past, for instance, it allows you into her/his mind and into the experiences of that period. In this way writing transcends time.
Writing allows for creative self-expression reflective of the state we’re in. Ideas and experiences change as we grow and what’s once written can be updated with our evolved thoughts, expounding on the past and being influenced by the present.
Because the written word immortalizes thoughts and feelings, as a writer I know I must be authentic. Authenticity requires vulnerability, transparency and truth—first to myself and then to the subject at hand. And writing in this way requires bravery. Bearing all of this in mind when I write, gives my voice a trustworthy platform that I hope readers discern.
When all is said and done though, I write for this one reason: so that my voice does not die within me unexpressed and unheard!
There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you. Maya Angelou
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This poem celebrates love as the source of both feeling and creativity—the rhythm at the center of the heart, where emotions reverberate like music.
—what can I say … LIFE! you’re a giver you’re a taker you tear-down you build-up you bring smiles you bring tears
—what is it about you … LIFE? you keep me guessing wondering what lies around your curves beyond your corners up your hills down your vales
—what makes you … LIFE: your beautiful mysteries your spiraling unpredictability your anxious uncertainties your known past your unknown future your unending surprises
A Haiku celebrating the official start of summer in this hemisphere. It will also be the longest day of the year. Happy summer vibes!!!!
Sun reaches zenith Longest day, radiant glow Summer’s beginning
2023 All Rights Reserved
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Beforeword: Appreciating the beauty of what a country offers while still acknowledging its history and the injustices carried in its soil.
I’ve written quite a bit about my trip and visit to Australia. If you’ve read these posts — Tasmania, Bruny Island, Perth, Sydney, Melbourne — you may have noticed I made no mention of encounters with Aboriginal people.
Silence.
Unseen.
That wasn’t deliberate. It was unavoidable — I couldn’t write what I did not see or know how to name.
In all my experiences, in all the places I visited, I was struck by how little visible Aboriginal presence I encountered. I intentionally looked — on the streets, in the stores, in the everyday movements of public life.
That absence felt palpable.
And yet, what was very present was the Welcome to Country or Acknowledgement of Country— a statement recognizing the Traditional Custodians of the land. No meeting or public event started without it. It echoed across media, institutions, performances, and gatherings.
For Bruny Island, someone might say:
“I acknowledge the Nuenonne people of the South East Nation, Traditional Custodians of Bruny Island (Lunawanna-alonnah).”
Or in Melbourne:
“I acknowledge the Traditional Custodians of the land on which we gather today, the Wurundjeri Woi-wurrung people of the Kulin Nation.”
I appreciated the practice. I still do.
But I also wrestled with the tension of it. The tension that made me ask:
What does it mean for a people to be acknowledged in words while their presence felt so unseen?
How do you admire a country while also recognizing histories of displacement, dispossession, and attempted erasure?
Because appreciating a place and acknowledging injustice are not contradictions.
Australia gave me breathtaking coastlines, museums, architecture, wildlife, gardens, art, and moments that genuinely moved me. I stood in awe at the Sydney Opera House. I wandered through Tasmania’s quiet beauty. I watched kangaroos casually occupying golf courses as if they paid membership dues. Australia did not disappoint.
And, nowhere did this sit more heavily with me than in the story of Truganini. It was relayed in pieces by the tour guide on my Bruny Island tour. My intrigue led me to research Truganini’s story.
Born around 1812, Truganini was a Nuenonne woman from Bruny Island, often remembered as one of the last survivors of her people after colonization devastated Aboriginal communities in Tasmania. She lived through profound violence and displacement. Family members were killed. Land was taken. Her people were pushed to the margins of the very place that had sustained them for generations.
Before her death in 1876, Truganini made a simple but profound request: that her body be treated with dignity and not exploited after death. She feared being displayed as a curiosity.
Yet her wishes were ignored.
Her remains were exhibited publicly for decades in a museum — a final indignity after a lifetime marked by dispossession. It would take many years before her ashes were finally returned to the sea near her ancestral homeland, fulfilling, belatedly, the dignity she had requested all along.
As part of my visit I took the 279-step climb to Truganini Lookout and for me, each step felt like a blow-by-blow walk into history.
At the top, there is an unobstructed view of the island stretching out in both directions — narrow, windswept, exposed, held together by a thin strip of land. Beautiful. But grounding too. Because the name, Truganini Lookout, carries the story of a woman who fought for the survival and dignity of her people — the Palawa, the Aboriginal people of Lutruwita (Tasmania).
I did not know her full story before arriving, but something about it tugged on my heartstrings because it did not feel distant to me.
I am the product of both Jamaica and Canada, and both carry their own version of this ache.
In Jamaica, it is the near disappearance of the Taino people and the enduring legacy of Nanny and the Maroons, who fought fiercely for freedom, dignity, and the right to exist on their own terms. (See my post about Accompong.)
In Canada, it is the story of First Nations, Inuit, and Métis peoples — communities who survived displacement, cultural suppression, residential schools, and generations of policies designed to erase Indigenous identity.
In both countries, the story is not one of complete disappearance, but of remarkable survival.
What remains are the fragments and the continuities: names, memory, ancestry, language, stories, traditions, and a growing effort to recover what was lost, restore what was taken, and call people and places by their rightful names.
Standing on Bruny Island, I recognized the familiar—Different histories. Different peoples. Different continents. Yet the same enduring struggle to remember, reclaim, and remain.
Travel Reveals Strange Mirrors
When I travel I almost always visit the museums or historical sites, looking out for what mirrors my own history and experiences. Sometimes travel reveals strange mirrors — like familiar names in unfamiliar places.
Kingston.
A name I know as home in Jamaica also exists in Tasmania. And, of course, there is Kingston, Ontario, in Canada — another place woven into my story.
It made me pause, first from the feeling of familiarity which made me reach for my phone to capture this sign post:
Three Kingstons. Three geographies. Three distinct histories shaped, in different ways, by the legacy of empire and colonization.
The connection is not in the name itself but in what it prompted me to consider: how places separated by oceans can carry stories that mimic one another. How histories of settlement, displacement, resistance, and survival often leave similar footprints on different shores.
As a Jamaican-Canadian standing on Australian soil, I found myself noticing these intersections everywhere. Not because the stories are identical, but because they ask similar questions about belonging, memory, identity, and whose stories get told.
Different continents. Different peoples. Yet familiar sentiments shaped by similar patterns.
Talawah & Palawa
The other mirror showed up in two words, not as a shared meaning but a shared feeling.
Palawa is the name for Aboriginal Tasmanians and it echoed a word deeply familiar to me as a Jamaican— talawah.
In Jamaica, talawah describes something small but fierce. Resilient. Tough. Quietly powerful. The kind of strength that survives.
And somehow, standing in a place shaped by dispossession and endurance, the echo between Palawa and talawah stayed with me. Different histories. Different peoples. Yet something familiar in the story of survival.
Maybe that is why Bruny Island tugged at my heart more than I expected.
Because beneath all its beauty sat something recognizable: the ache of what colonization took and continues to take, the endurance of those who survive it, and the reminder that history matters.
The beauty of Australia in flowers
Australia did not disappoint.
But neither was I oblivious.
I can appreciate the beauty of what a country offers while still acknowledging its history and the injustices carried in its soil.
Perhaps that, too, is a kind of acknowledgement of country.
Beforeword: The lesson of Juneteenth: hope may lay the foundation, but love is what opens the door to freedom and keeps it open.
Image Credit: Globe & Mail
As I watched the official opening of the Barack Obama Presidential Center from here in Nairobi, I found myself connecting threads. I was struck by how Juneteenth, Obama’s Kenyan ancestry, and June’s theme of love converged in one moment.
Story of freedom and hope
Juneteenth tells the story of freedom that arrived late. And is a reminder that hope can travel a long road before reaching its destination. And it is that hope that shaped Obama’s presidential journey and is now the bedrock of his Presidential Center.
The opening of this Center is on the surface the dedication of a building. But more than that it is a house built from hope—a hope nurtured by generations who believed that freedom could be broader, justice more accessible, and opportunity not reserved for only the few.
Yet hope alone does not build houses. Love also does.
Story of love
Love is woven through this story. Listening to Michelle love on her husband, retelling his myriad accomplishments with admiration and pride. The love of family that shapes character long before the world takes notice. The love of country manifested in selfless service. The love that believes a nation can become more faithful to its ideals than it was yesterday.
Juneteenth itself is a testament to that kind of love. It celebrates those who continued to believe in freedom even when freedom had not yet reached them. Those who held fast to dignity when circumstances denied it. Those who imagined a future larger than their present reality.
Stories rarely belong to one place
As a Jamaican-Canadian who’s lived in various countries and now living in Kenya, I am aware that stories rarely belong to one place. They cross oceans. They carry names, dreams, and unfinished aspirations.
The Presidential Center is one such story that stretches from the village of Nyang’oma Kogelo off the shores of Lake Victoria, Kenya to the South Side of Chicago. From a Kenyan father to an American President, from possibility to legacy.
The first American President of African ancestry meant the rules were different, the expectations were higher. It’s what led Ta-Nehesi Coates to say: “For eight years he walked on ice and never fell.” An imagery used to describe the extraordinary scrutiny and constraints that accompanied Obama’s presidency as the first Black president of the United States.
He had to strike the balance of carefulness and calm in navigating political, racial, and cultural expectations with an almost impossible degree of precision. And as Michelle highlighted, he did so guided by an unshakable moral compass. And what we saw at the opening of the Center is testament to not only President Obama successfully getting through two terms of service—eight years—but that he came through to the other side true to himself as a Black man, a faithful husband and a dependable father.
Standing here in Kenya, where part of that presidential story began, I am reminded that the hope that fuels the Obama’s is never built alone. Nor was it the work of one man alone. It was carried by those who crossed oceans before him, those who marched before him, and those who loved him enough to believe that history could bend toward a wider freedom.
And just as how it is installed on the wall within the Center, this hope is constructed—intention by intention, through sacrifice, courage, partnership, and love—and to be installed in each of us.
HOPE permanently etched on the wall inside the Presidential Center
I titled this reflection the “The House That Hope Built” drawing from Billy Brown’s song of the same title. The song questions whether hope is real while the Presidential Center shows what hope actually builds when it’s rooted in love, lineage, and legacy. A flip of the script, as it were.
To be clear: “This is the people’s house” is declared inside the Center
The Center is a library, a museum, and the people’s house.
It is the ongoing work and enduring partnership between Barack and Michelle Obama—two people who choose to widen the circle of freedom for those who come after them.
And perhaps that is the lesson of Juneteenth: hope may lay the foundation, but love is what opens the door to freedom and keeps it open.
Beforeword: Juneteenth, celebrated on June 19th, commemorates the emancipation of enslaved African Americans in the United States. It became a federal holiday in the United States in 2021.
Free, Not Free
The declaration rang out Crashing through Congress halls Reverberating across states Proclamation of liberation Breaking slavery’s stronghold Yet Liberation’s dawn was delayed Silenced for two and one-half years Freedom stalled at the horizon Massa’s grip tightened Freedom declared Yet freedom withheld Free, not free
In the shadows of deception As days turned to months Months turned to years The shackles lingered Around wrists and ankles Of those who toiled on Unaware of the broken chains A paradox etched in the soil Where news arrived late Lingering in untold tales Where some sang jubilant hymns While others knew not the lyrics had changed Free, not free
Juneteenth June 19, 1865 A second birth of Liberty, unobscured The undeterred crawl of truth toward justice Steady as dawn It came Free, not free
Marcus Garvey’s words a beacon: “Emancipate yourself from mental slavery” For chains unseen bind tightest Freedom must be claimed in heart, in mind, in spirit For liberty blooms not only in fields and on flags But in the fertile soil of awakened minds Where seeds of empathy and justice take root Where the harvest of equality awaits A reminder etched in the annals of time Of struggles waged Of victories won Of battles yet to come Free, not free
On this Juneteenth Let us pause to reflect and renew To honor the journey From bondage to liberation A pledge to self to the ongoing quest For a world where freedom rings true for all Free, truly free
For more about Juneteenth, you may like this post here!
2023 All Rights Reserved [republished] Imaged Designed by Canva
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Beforeword: This poem is a collaboration with the folk song “Where Have All the Flowers Gone”from the 1960s which carries a powerful anti-war message. The song poignantly illustrates the futility of war—girls pick flowers, they find partners, the men go to war, and eventually, they return only to graveyards covered in those same flowers. With over 50 armed conflicts raging in our world today, when will we ever learn: all that remains in the end is, loss?!
Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing?
Girls with their tender hearts plucked them Bending to the earth, sending dreams towards the sky Gathering the petals of innocence Weaving hope into the garlands of their dreams
Where have the young girls gone, long time passing?
Their laughter lost in the silent fields of grief Their dreams and aspirations woven into the wind, carried on whispers Where hands once clasped in promise Now hold nothing but memories and fading scent
Where have all the young men gone, long time passing?
From the tender embrace of youth, to the stern call of duty They marched in lines, with hearts beating strong Into the fury of battles, into the silence of fields Leaving behind only death, only regret
Where have all the soldiers gone, long time passing?
Their songs now silenced, their dreams laid to rest In the cold embrace of graveyards Where flowers bloom anew, their petals bright and tender Covering the earth with the soft whisper of remembrance
Where have all the graveyards gone, long time passing?
In fields where life begins anew, flowers bloom in their stead The cycle of loss in a dance of futility Girls still pick flowers, men still march to war And flowers still cover the graves in the end
Where have all the flowers gone, long time passing?
Gone to graveyards, every one, When will we ever learn, when will we ever learn? That flowers and dreams, loss and tears Are all that remain in the end
2024 All Rights Reserved Designed with Canva Image credit: unknown
Beforeword: Oceania had been on my travel list though I was not entirely sure what version of it I would encounter. It turned out to be Australia and New Zealand. This is the travel story of Australia.
Australia—where landscapes shift dramatically from coast to coast, cities each have their own vibe, and nature’s offerings are next level—is the only country that is also a continent. Besides the geography, what stood out most for me was the range of offerings: Gastronomy. Museums. Art. Music. Architecture. Wildlife. Vastness.
It was the “Triple A Experience” of Art, Awe and Architecture!
I flew in and out of Perth—so it was just a pass through. What I encountered on my transit however was a piece of my island home, Jamaica—JamaicaBlue coffee—and made the pass through more meaningful.
Tasmania and Brune Island on the other hand, stole a part of my heart in ways I have written about separately. What remained of this Australian story unfolded through Sydney and Melbourne.
Sydney
Sydney is built around one of the world’s most beautiful natural harbours decorated with crisscrossing ferries, the Harbour Bridge that stretches confidently across the water, and a captivating skyline including the Opera House—the central piece of my Sydney visit.
The Sydney Opera House
Perched on Bennelong Point, surrounded almost entirely by water, the Opera House is one of those architectural wonders I’ve long admired, especially when it’s lit up for New Year’s Eve. Seeing it in person was different—bigger, more textured, more alive. Its sail-like shells against the surrounding water gives the entire structure a sense of movement.
There were no operas showing while I was there, which initially felt like a missed opportunity. But as the arts gods would have it, Jeff Goldblum was performing jazz for the first time in Australia, in Sydney, with a 50+ orchestra, for only two nights—and wait for it—those exact nights aligned with my stay in Sydney.
There I was, inside the iconic Sydney Opera House.
And it was jazz!
The show itself was spectacular.
The acoustics inside the Opera House? Phenomenal.
Paint me satisfied and hang me in a museum. The artist in me felt fully curated.
In my post about Tasmania I shared that: Aussies rock! This is how Aussie kindness showed up in Sydney:
Less than 48 hours before my trip, a friend had connected me to her friend in Sydney. I expected perhaps a quick conversation and a few recommendations. Instead, I got that and more.
Not only did she suggest places to visit, but we met for lunch. Conversation flowed so effortlessly you would think we had known each other for years. Turns out she is Kenyan and has lived in Sydney for nearly 30 years.
And yes — I am now up to my second new friend in Australia. [I chronicled the first friendship-making experience here.]
At her recommendation, I visited the Queen Victoria Building.
A stunning Romanesque architectural gem that feels more like an art boutique than a shopping centre. Ornate details. Stained glass. Elegant arches. And as if the architectural beauty alone was not enough, a pianist ignited the space with music adding yet another layer of artistic expression.
At St. Mary’s Cathedral, I sat for a while.
To listen as the organ was being played.
To quietly pray.
To simply be still.
Nearby, Hyde Park offered breathing room in the middle of the city with water moving through the Greek-mythology inspired Archibald Memorial Fountain.
St. Mary’s Cathedral, Hyde Park, Archibald Memorial Fountain
Then there was Kings Cross neighbourhood. Once known for its nightlife and bohemian spirit, I could see that its edgier past is softening with cafés, leafy streets, and beautiful old buildings now spread throughout the neighborhood.
For places I could not fully explore, I learned from a distance aboard the hop-on-hop-off bus, listening to snippets of history while passing landmarks like Sydney Tower and Central Station’s clock tower — affectionately known as “the working man’s watch.”
Beautiful Sydney
And then there was El Alamein Fountain in Fitzroy Garden which is one of Sydney’s most iconic fountains.
El Alamein Fountain
It looks almost like a giant dandelion or burst of water suspended in air. It was designed in the 1960s as a memorial to Australian soldiers who fought in the Battle of El Alamein in Egypt during World War II.
Melbourne
For Melbourne, the Great Ocean Road and the Twelve Apostles were my choice of must do things.
The Great Ocean Road drive was breathtaking — dramatic cliffs, what seemed like endless coastline, and amazing views. And to think that it was hewed out of cliffside terrain by returning soldiers after World War I.
Built between 1919 and 1932, it was originally conceived as a memorial to those who died in the war—and remains the world’s largest war memorial.
What makes it even more striking is that it was constructed by hand, cut into rock and dense coastal landscape under difficult conditions, with sections completed by the very veterans it was meant to honour.
One stop was the Memorial Arch which marks the official start of the Great Ocean Road. It carries the words honoring the returned servicemen who worked on the road’s construction. Cars pass beneath it as a quiet reminder that this scenic route is also a war memorial.
One lookout point, Cape Patton, stood out because the road lifts high above the coastline.
Another stop was at Maits Rest—the quiet rainforest in the Otway Ranges. We walked along a boardwalk that winds through dense ancient forest, where tree ferns stretch upward and massive myrtle beech trees with trunks so massive I fitted inside them.
We also passed through sections like Kennett River, known for koala sightings in the eucalyptus tree. Kennett River stood out because it bears my uncle’s name (though a different spelling) and I did see koalas lazing in eucalyptus trees!
Earlier in the trip the driver also took us to the Anglesea Golf Club. It’s famous for its resident population of kangaroos—often seen casually grazing across the fairways as though they own the place. Humans coexisting with the wild.
Maits Rest, Kennett River, Anglesea Golf Club
The journey toward the Twelve Apostles felt like an unfolding tale of nature’s contradictions. On one hand, the breathtaking beauty it created — wave after wave, century after century of erosion sculpting towering limestone formations that rise dramatically from the Southern Ocean. And on the other, the quiet reminder that the very forces that created them — wind, salt, and relentless waves — continue to reshape them. Some stand weather-worn. Others have already disappeared into the sea.
The Apostles are no longer twelve. Those that remain feel like the final punctuation marks of that tale still being written by the coast.
Standing there was a reminder of nature’s power and that its beauty, too, can erode.
Architecture
Finally, the architecture in Australia repeatedly caught my attention. Buildings of different periods and styles existing side by side — historic facades meeting contemporary design.
One building covered in a vertical garden particularly stayed with me. Living architecture.
I could not help thinking how much I would have loved to use some of these buildings as muse for my interior design studies.
Australia did not disappoint.
What it offered in museums, art, music, and architecture, it matched with exceptional food and unforgettable experiences.
But perhaps the greatest gift of the journey was the unexpected friendships I formed along the way.
the beat in my heart the air in my breath the spirit in my soul
She is
the melanin in my skin the rhythm in my steps the swing in my hips
She is
the kink in my hair the roundness of my nose the fullness of my lips
She is
the lineage in my genes the legacy in my ancestry the history in my story
She is
Africa in my heart
2026 All Rights Reserved [first published 2021]
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New Zealand — an island nation in the southwestern Pacific, feels otherworldly in the truest sense of the word.
My take? Mother nature conspired with geography and created landscapes that were too cinematic for the human mind not to conjure up fantasy.
And fantasy was exactly what I came seeking.
The one experience I pre-booked before arrival was the Hobbit Movie Set. Everything else—whatever it turned out to be—would simply orbit around that.
From flights over the island to drives through the countryside, the nature lover in me was awed—jagged mountains against lush green valleys. Rolling farmland that stretched lazily into the horizon dotted with sheep and cows grazing. This is dairy country for sure. The taste of their ice cream and cheese confirmed it.
Because I visited in fall, I experienced the variations of nature’s moods all in a single day—sunshine and drizzle, warmth and chill, blue skies and grey clouds.
On my flight into Auckland I was fortunate to be seated beside a Kiwi, and somewhere between takeoff and landing he became my unofficial guide to New Zealand.
So engaging was our exchange that I forgot entirely about filming the aerial approach as he proudly pointed out his own house nestled among the rolling hills.
“Breathtaking,” I said.
The flight attendant sitting across from us (the emergency seats) who had interjected in our conversation as we came into the landing, nodded in agreement.
Again I left room for what locals would recommend and so my Air New Zealand seatmate unexpectedly helped shape my New Zealand experience.
Exploring Viaduct Harbour. This is Auckland’s premier waterfront lifestyle and hospitality precinct.
My time there was brief—far too brief to claim I truly did New Zealand justice—but it was enough to quench a particular kind of wanderlust: the longing for fantasy, the pull of my island-girl spirit, and landscape so extraordinary it feels—well, otherworldly!
Into Middle-earth: The Hobbit Movie Set
Before The Lord of the Rings took the movie world by storm there was The Hobbit—a fictional species resembling short humans with furry, leathery feet who live in underground houses and are mainly farmers and gardeners.
What began as a bedtime story that J. R. R. Tolkien invented for his children grew into one of the most beloved fantasy novels of all time, laying the foundation for the vast mythology of Middle-earth. So naturally, I found myself heading into rural New Zealand to experience that imaginary world firsthand.
The journey from Auckland to the Hobbit Movie Set felt like an unveiling of sceneries—but one I nearly missed.
According to Google Maps, my hotel was just a ten-minute walk from the pickup point. Confidently, I decided to walk, thinking it would also give me a chance to absorb a bit of Auckland in the process. Now, following directions has never quite been my strength, but surely—with a generous buffer—I could not possibly be late.
That was the theory.
Reality looked very different.
I arrived in the nick of time huffing and puffing after yet another dramatic sprint to avoid missing transportation, and while traveling at that! Lucky me because the driver left exactly on time. Two other would-be passengers were not as fortunate.
I settled into my seat and enjoyed the delicious breakfast my hotel had packed for me while watching the city gradually dissolve into countryside. And so the unveiling of sceneries began: skyscrapers gave way to winding roads, grazing sheep, and farmland so green it almost looked digitally enhanced (who knows in this AI age, right).
Then came one of those stories that feels too perfect.
The famous movie set sits on the Alexander family farm, and as the story is relayed by our guide, fate—or extraordinary luck—played a role in its discovery. When filmmakers searched for the ideal setting for Hobbiton, they considered locations that reflected Tolkien’s imagined world: rolling hills, pastoral calm, and storybook charm.
The Alexander farm stood apart because it had everything in one place—including the magnificent tree that would become central to Bilbo’s famous party scene. Rather than having to piece together landscapes from multiple locations, filmmakers found a setting that already seemed to belong to Middle-earth.
The bus ride from the visitor center only heightened the anticipation. With every hill we crested, I scanned the landscape for clues that the village might be near.
And then—there it was.
The set up is as if Middle-earth had existed there all along, and not part of a movie set on a working farm. Unlike other movie sets that must be torn down after production ends, this one could stay up in its entirety.
What struck me most was the astonishing attention to detail.
This was not a hastily assembled movie site. It was so perfect I’d say even obsessively so. Every fence post, garden path, vegetable patch, stain glass window and weathered detail seemed placed with purpose to remain faithful to Tolkien’s descriptions. We learned that when nature did not cooperate with the vision, filmmakers simply created what was missing—including an apple tree and another huge tree that had to be constructed where none existed so the setting would feel true to the world Tolkien imagined.
That huge tree—real or not? Definitely faux!
Fantasy, here, was precise.
Walking through Hobbiton felt delightfully disorienting. Tiny round doors and stained glass windows dotted the grassy hillsides. Laundry fluttered on lines. Gardens overflowed with flowers and vegetables, making the village feel lived in rather than staged.
And then there was me—very much reminded that I am not, in fact, a hobbit.
Inside one of the hobbit homes opened to visitors, my height became the reference for warnings of: “Watch your head”! I found myself bending and ducking to fit comfortably into spaces clearly designed for residents much shorter than me. It added to the charm somehow—the physical reminder that this world was built intentionally small, inviting visitors not only to see fantasy but to briefly inhabit it.
For a few hours, my imagination and my love for architecture were one.
Waiheke: A Day of Island Ease
After wandering through fantasy, I traded Middle-earth for island ease.
When time is not on your side but curiosity is, a thoughtfully designed day tour can become the perfect compromise. So it was with Waiheke.
Just about 40 minutes by fast ferry from Auckland, Waiheke Island feels worlds away from the city despite its proximity. The ride itself was quick and because of the weather quite choppy as the ferry bobbed and weaved, slicing through the water as Auckland slowly receded behind us and island life beckoned ahead.
Known for prestine beaches, vineyards, olive groves, and relaxed coastal beauty, Waiheke was a welcome reprieve from the city.
I visited during the off-season, which gave the island an intimate feel. Our guide pointed out that the short five-minute drive through the main town could stretch to thirty minutes during peak tourist season—a reminder that I was seeing Waiheke in its quieter, gentler mood.
The Taste of Waiheke Day Tour packed a surprising amount into a single day: sightseeing across the island, private transport, vineyard tastings at two of Waiheke’s celebrated wineries, an olive oil tasting at an award-winning grove, and a two-course lunch that felt far more elevated than the standard tour fare.
The views alone were worth the trip.
Vineyards rolled across hillsides toward the sea. Beaches framed by dramatic coastlines. Even under gloomy fall skies, the island’s beauty couldn’t be masked.
We visited wineries including Mudbrick Vineyard and Restaurant and Batch Winery, but, what lingered with me most was not the wine itself.
I usually book wine tours because from my experience I’ve found they tend to attract a fascinating genre of people. There is something about beautiful vineyards that encourages strangers to become companions. And when you solo travel and want to have connections what’s better than an activity that brings together the curious, the conversational, the temporarily carefree. By day’s end, our group felt less like tourists sharing transport and more like old friends sharing an experience. We even joked of pooling our resources to purchase one of the beautiful, very expensive, beach homes our guide drove us by.
That unexpected camaraderie became part of the memory.
The weather may have been gloomy, but the company, scenery, food, and laughter was sunshine enough.
New Zealand deserved more time than I could give it.
Yet even in a short visit, it managed to satisfy a longing to wander through worlds imagined and real, to step inside stories once read, and to be reminded that Mother Nature prides herself on her power to astonish.
Fantasy in Hobbiton. Island bliss in Waiheke. And landscapes so extraordinary it’s like somewhere beyond this world.
Beforeword: In recent days, Jamaica has found itself in renewed conversation about the place of Patois/Patwa in national life, sparked by debate over its attempted use in Parliament. The moment reignited discussion—at home and across the diaspora—about language, identity, culture, and belonging.
This piece,“Speak Jamaican”, does not enter that debate. Rather, it pauses to appreciate something the conversation itself reminds us of: that Patwa is deeply woven into the fabric of Jamaican life and culture. This piece is an offering to the story of Patwa. [Read and listen along]
Speak Jamaican
As a Jamaican living abroad When asked where I’m from an’ me seh: “I’m from Jamaica” Non-Jamaicans are soon to ask me to: “Speak Jamaican!”
Dat usually mean: Dem wan fe ear de melody De lilt—yuh know dat sing-song way dat we talk? De rhythmic roll like poetry pan beat
Dem ear de music But dem nuh feel de fight
Cause when yuh ask mi fi “speak Jamaican” Yuh nah jus ask fi ear de soun Yuh ah ask me fi call pan Mi lineage Mi bloodline Mi people dem Yuh ah ask me fi reclaim me identity, me dignity, me language— Patois (Patwa)!
Patwa a nuh “broken English” It’s a language dat was bawn in bondage Shape pan suga plantations weh African tongues blen wid de colonial Spanish, French, Portuguese, an’ di “Queen’s English”
It was code It was kin It was freedom in syntax It was survival
So when yuh ask me fi “speak Jamaican” Yuh really a ask mi fi channel de powas of dose dat come before me Like Louise Bennett-Coverley—who we lovingly call Miss Lou Who tek de same words weh dem seh wasn’t proppa, an mek dem magic She seh: patwa belang pan di page, pan di stage, an inna de people dem mout Suh, She gi we permission fi talk like weself
But when you seh: “speak Jamaican” Mi know weh yuh really waan fi ear, yuh nuh Yuh waan fe ear: “Wha’gwone?” “Mi irie!” “No problem, mon.” De cute phrase dem De soundbites Yuh nuh really waan fi ear ’bout de istry weh mix wid sweat, blood, bullets, an rebellion Cause yuh nuh undastan seh yuh a ask mi fi talk a language weh carry di istry, di struggle, an di brilliance of a people who neva did wait fi freedom but who tek it
Suh— Yuh ready fi ear bout colonial rule? Bout how we bruk free? Bout de 1950s, early ’60s— De rise of Patwa in book, in band, in beat? Yuh ready fi stan up in de trut, bout how English siddun high pan pedestal while di native language was silenced in classrooms an courtrooms?
An’ who can feget de ’70s— De era when reggae did a com inna its own—saturated wid Patwa, it chant de Jamaican struggle against poverty an social injustices It was de voice of those who lived in de ghettos dat was turned into garrisons De cry gainst dose dat ‘arm de yout dem fi lock dun votes an’ lock dun neighborhoods Where Cold War powers played chess wid people lives An’ in a matta of months, ova 800 dead in di lead-up to a election An still we cyaah feget di cries inna di streets
So when yuh ask mi fi “speak Jamaican” Mi haffi ask yuh back— Yuh ready fi listen? Yuh ready fi feel how dis language carry trauma an triumph, ardship an ope? Yuh ready fi know dat dis language hol’ we togedda— Jamaicans ah yawd, to Jamaicans abroad wid— One tongue One riddim One heart One love
Patwa— A resistance song A blueprint of resilience A living archive of emotions Dis a de voice weh preserve culcha long before wi could a write it dun Wid every phrase a reflection of who we are as a people weh we ah come from an how we still a rise
Suh yeh, mi can “speak Jamaican” But understan— Yuh nah jus get words Yuh a get all ah we— All a we legacy All a we istry An how wi tek back wi voice How wi claim independence— Not just fe we nation But fi weself
Suh, yeh, mi can “speak Jamaican” But, can you hear it?!
Leaning because He is strong Leaning because He is dependable Leaning because He will never let me fall
My Beloved is kind and supportive He never mistakes my leaning for weakness He is my confidante My bona fide The One who always has my back
He is trustworthy He loves me completely fully unconditionally
Even in my wilderness— of wrongdoing of loneliness of wandering of weariness— He is not judgmental
He’s not elusive dodging emotions or distant from my pain— He stays He listens He leans in when I need Him most
He invites me to lean on Him He promises— I will never leave you in the wilderness Come, walk with Me to the place I prepared for you You are My girl
And so I keep coming— Up out of barren places Up out of broken spaces Up leaning on the One who holds me steady
I am my Beloved’s and my Beloved is mine
My heart is safe Safe in His love Safe in His arms Safe in Him
Afterword: Solomon, former King of ancient Israel is the OG of love poetry. Long before playlists, podcasts, or relationship gurus, he was dropping bars on love, longing, devotion, heartbreak, desire, and intimacy. But beneath the romance is something deeper: a portrait of a love that pursues, protects, reassures, and remains—God’s love. This poem is about that love based on Song of Songs 8:5
It was not on my radar at all for this trip. In talking with an Aussie friend before departure, she strongly suggested I add “Tas” to the itinerary. The good thing is that although the recommendation came only days before I left, I had not yet booked my internal flights. Soon the tickets were secured, days reshuffled, and Tasmania quietly inserted itself into the Oceania quest.
I am glad it did.
Oceania quest?
I am on a personal quest to travel to all seven continents. With Australia and New Zealand now under my belt, only one continent remains: Antarctica. It also means I’ve had the privilege of living in or having spent significant time in 54 countries.
This Australian journey took me through Melbourne, Tasmania, and Sydney.
This post is about Tasmania
I already shared separately about Bruny Island because it deserved a post of its own. What follows is the rest of my Tasmanian experience.
Tasmania is south of mainland Australia, separated by the Bass Strait. It is Australia’s island state — rugged, windswept, and lush. Compared to the bustle of Sydney and Melbourne, Tasmania felt almost intimate.
And this is how it started.
Hobart & Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra
I arrived late evening in Hobart, the capital city, at the Hotel Grand Chancellor Hobart. As I checked in, a pianist was playing lovely instrumental music in the lobby and everyone seemed unusually dressed up. I noticed it but thought little of it beyond wanting to hear more of the music.
I quickly freshened up and returned downstairs finding a seat at the end of the bar. I settled onto a stool, opened the Notes app on my trusty iPhone, and started writing.
A few minutes later:
“Excuse me,” a gentleman said. “Are you waiting for someone?”
I looked up from my phone. Smiled.
“No, I’m not.”
“Are you going to the concert?”
“What concert? I don’t know, I only just arrived.”
“There’s a classical concert upstairs at the Federation Concert Hall.”
Sidebar
At this point the puzzle pieces finally started connecting.
I had booked the hotel simply because Google said it was conveniently located for the things I wanted to see in Hobart. I had absolutely no idea it was attached to the Federation Concert Hall, home of the Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra.
Suddenly the pianist made sense. The elegantly dressed guests made sense. The crowded lobby made sense.
Back to the conversation.
“Would you like to attend?” he asked casually. “It’s just upstairs.”
Sidebar again
Now, one thing about solo travel: I always leave room for the unexpected. I usually lock in a few must-do experiences, then deliberately leave space for whatever surprises the trip decides to hand me. I’ve come to know that some of the best moments in travel cannot be planned.
Back to the conversation.
“Sure,” I replied. “I love classical music. Where can I get a ticket?”
“Please allow me,” he said. “Let me see if I can get the seat beside me. Or any seat.”
Sidebar once again
I remember blinking in surprise and bringing my clasped hands up toward my mouth, as I often do when I’m filled with gratitude.
“That’s very kind of you. Thank you.”
I have learned not to interrogate every unexpected kindness life offers. I gauge the situations, always. Sometimes you simply receive the moment.
Off he went while I returned to my writing. He returned, sure enough pulling a ticket from his breast pocket to A Midsummer Night’s Dream. And yes — the seat beside him was available.
The concert was fabulous. The company was equally enjoyable.
And just like that, Tasmania opened itself to me through music, conversation, unexpected generosity and best of all—a new friend.
The kindness only continued from there. I found Tasmanians — or “Tassies,” as I kept hearing — warm, courteous, and deeply proud of their island. They also pack a remarkable amount into their tourism experience for such a relatively small place.
Salamanca
Salamanca Place quickly became one of my favourite areas in Hobart. Sandstone warehouses lining the street. Cafés spill onto sidewalks. Fish an’ chips and ice cream joints along the dock. Sailboats in the harbor. Art galleries sit tucked between restaurants and bookstores. And a grand market that takes place every weekend. There was a vendor for just about every thing—from wooden neckties, to clothing, trinkets, books, food. You name it, they had it. I was traveling with a backpack so having no extra space was the only reason I couldn’t shop.
Botanical Gardens
The Royal Tasmanian Botanical Gardens were another highlight. The grounds themselves are beautiful, but what stayed with me most was the Japanese garden.
There was a stillness there that was surreal and felt sacred. The curved bridges. The koi moving lazily through the water. The deliberate placement of stone and plant life. Everything invited pause.
Travel can sometimes become consumption — ticking off landmarks, rushing toward the next thing. The Japanese garden interrupted that instinct. It asked me simply to sit for a while. So I did.
MONA
Then there was Museum of Old and New Art — MONA, owned by David Walsh who often speaks of if it as his “peacock feathers.”
MONA is not the kind of museum you passively stroll through nodding politely at paintings. It invites you to pause with seatings arranged over plush carpets and sheepskin amongst the exhibits. It also provokes. Disturbs. Confuses. Amuses. Sometimes all at once.
Built partly underground and carved into sandstone along the River Derwent, the museum itself already feels unconventional before you even encounter the exhibits.
After the short ferry ride you walk up 99 stairs from the jetty, or through a tunnel, to enter. Once inside, the App is activated and every piece is described on it for you to read or listen to. You only need get close enough to a piece and it loads on the App. Really cool!
Some installations made me laugh outright. Others made me uncomfortable. A few left me standing there wondering, “What exactly am I looking at?” And, “Why is this in a museum.?” And at others I sit or stand for a while in amazement. Others were the muse to unleash my creativity.
And perhaps that is the point.
MONA does not ask visitors merely to observe art. It asks you to react to it.
There’s so much more to share about MONA but I’ll limit it to this final experience—the restaurant, Les Dîners de Faro.
I knew the restaurant existed but because I’m hopelesss at directions I only kind-o’-sort-o planned on finding it. I found myself walking down a white passage way backlit with subtle green lighting. I figured it was an exhibit of some weird sort but it was more. That was the runway to the restaurant with art in its decor, food offerings and entertainment including a dancer meandering between tables balancing a light fixture on her head. You just can’t make this stuff up.
I went for the dessert because who wouldn’t want to eat: “Pearl Of the Unconscious Mind”.
Not to be outdone by the art in the museum, the dessert was surrealist art in its own right.
It was a mascarpone and morello cherry pearl, draped by blackberry caviar, chocolate cream, toasted almonds, and red velvet cake served in a decorative shell.
The server took his time in explaining its contents. It played with the senses with different textures and tastes. It was decadent.
What I appreciated most about MONA was: even when I did not fully “get” every exhibit, the experience remained memorable because it encouraged engagement, even touching, rather than passive viewing.
For places I couldn’t spend time exploring I learned a little from a distance on the hop-on-hop-off bus.
I left Tasmania deeply satisfied — grateful that an almost last-minute decision became one of the richest parts of this journey.
Some places impress you with spectacle—neon lights, high rises, massive theatres. Tasmania did something gentler. It welcomed me, steadily unfolding its beauty through music, landscapes, gardens, conversations, and unexpected kindness.
Not bad for a destination that almost never made the itinerary, uh?!
When life turns into eternity’s grasp Will memories of your love firmly clasp? In that ethereal realm, will you recall The love we shared, ‘twas the sweetest of all?
In realms beyond where time has no bounds Will your heart seek mine in whispers and sounds? Amidst cosmic wonders will you yearn for me Finding solace in my love’s celestial rhapsody?
Know, no other soul can ignite this flame It burns too deep, ‘twill forever be the same Through lifetimes and realms our love will endure A bond unbreakable forever and sure
And when life is interrupted by the call of death Will our souls reunite, drawn by each other’s breath? In that other life will your love still survive To search, find me, keep this love alive?
Will destiny guide our souls’ embrace? Across the abyss beyond infinity of space When life turns into eternity’s night I’ll find your love, it will be my light
2024 All Rights Reserved
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When was the last time you had a surprise that both blessed you and took you back in time all at the same time?
For me that was a couple weeks ago. Of all the things I expected to happen while attending the Women Deliver Conference, I did not expect a gift to find me.
With nearly six thousand people moving through that space, what were the odds of running into someone you didn’t even know was looking for you? Slim, at best. And yet, that is exactly what happened.
This post is about the joy of that unexpected encounter, the deeper meaning of being “found,” and the lessons wrapped in the gift that came with it.
Happenstance or orchestrated?
It was the end of the day. A colleague and I were heading away from the conference to our separate hotels when I heard my name. Not as a confident exclamation but a questioning utterance in a could-it-be-you sort of way.
They were walking just behind me. His wife was certain it was me; he wasn’t so sure—ironic, given he’s the one who had worked with me for years🙂. In his mind, she had to be mistaken. Still, he called out my name—“Dawn?”—with that cautious-half-question tone. I turned, and there he was. One of the best blasts from my past, standing right in front of me.
When he heard I was coming to the conference he started thinking of how to find me while keeping the surprise in tact.
He’s a former staff member—someone I once supervised, but more truthfully, someone I had a meaningful working relationship with and had also connected with his family. He and his wife had talked through how to find me. The logistics didn’t make sense. The crowd. The schedule. The constant movement. And the day didn’t cooperate. Or so it seemed in its unfolding.
Delays. Missed timing. A few turns and twists. And then—there we were. Face to face. Without scrambling, without confusion. The meet up happened through what we each agreed was nothing short of a divinely-orchestrated unfolding.
He and his wife didn’t only talk about how the meet up may happen, but also what to gift me.
Before that moment, I might have called it a bag. Something handmade. Something beautiful. But he didn’t approach it casually, and that made me pay attention. He told me he had bought more than one. He wanted me to choose what felt right to me. That level of care told me this wasn’t about the object—it was about what it carried.
What it carried was meaning.
In Papua New Guinea, a bilum is a traditional handwoven string bag. It’s made using a looping (not knitting or weaving in the usual sense) technique that creates a flexible, expandable net-like structure.
In Tok Pisin (one of PNG’s main languages), “bilum” literally means “womb. That’s not poetic exaggeration—it’s functional and symbolic and how it is to be understood:
It stretches, it adapts, it carries weight without losing form.
It holds life—food, goods, babies.
The bag sits against the body, often supported from the head.
So the bilum becomes a physical extension of care, protection, and survival.
It is made by women
His wife went on to explain that because of the high levels of intimate partner violence—which affects 80% of women (a rate that may be the highest in the world) many women use the creative process of making the bilum to speak their pain into the process. In so doing they have woven the unspoken stories into these bags—truths society does not always openly acknowledge.
You may never hear her voice directly, but carry that bilum into the world and her message goes with you.
What looks simple is actually built through repetition, patience, and intention. You don’t rush a bilum. You build it. Not quickly. Not casually. Each strand prepared, each loop formed by hand. In that regard, no two are the same. Each carries the individual decisions, rhythm, and emotional imprint of the woman who made it.
They both concur on this point: the bilum/womb I’ve been gifted is unique and it’s connected to a specific woman’s story.
And as I heard this, I started to understand why this was the gift he chose.
The first time I carried the bilum I noticed some fibers were exposed. My “neat girl” mind immediately went to: you should clip them off. However, I was drawn instead to examine the underside.
That’s when I discovered there’s another layer to a bilum that you don’t see until you look closer.
Turn the bilum inside out, and the underside tells a different story. Knots. Tension points. Threads crisscrossing in ways that don’t look refined or finished. It’s not what you would display. But it’s what makes the bag hold.
The outside is smooth. Structured. Coherent. The kind of beauty that makes sense at a glance. Each pattern has a symbolic meaning. Some of these are described by the UN Population Fund, that runs a #BilumCampaign:
Diamond: represents a young girl’s journey into womanhood.
Half diamond: is worn by young women who have already passed through puberty.
Fallopian: inspired by the shape of a woman’s ovaries and fallopian tubes.
Mountain: symbolic of the challenges women must overcome in society.
Spiderweb: symbolic of the role of methodical attention and diligence in a woman’s craft.
Skin pik: reminder of the unequal status of women in traditional PNG society.
As I’m coming to realize that bilum patterns are not merely decorative but are a visual language, I’m more and more intrigued to know the pattern of my gift. Is it communicating status, transition, grief, womanhood, resistance, becoming?
However, more important than knowing the pattern or motif, is knowing the knots, tensions, and hidden threads beneath the surface are as much a part of the story as the beauty seen on the outside. The weaving itself becomes testimony.
The inside is where the work actually sits—the pressure, the tightening, the places where things had to be pulled together to keep from falling apart.
And it struck me how easy it is to confuse the two:
One, to look at what is visible on the outside and assume the process was just as clean. But that is only how it looks.
And, two, to mistake the finished side for the full story. But that’s only how it’s lived.
What if I had cut off what I first saw as excess fiber? I would have missed this lesson—the bilum doesn’t hide the truth, it just places it underneath. Both sides are real. But only one shows the cost.
And maybe that’s the part I needed to hold onto most.
Seasons of knots over seasons of progress
There are seasons that feel like the underside—tight, uncomfortable, not yet making sense. The kind of moments where you can’t see the pattern, only the strain. Where everything feels like knots instead of progress.
But the bilum doesn’t come apart because of those knots. It holds because of them.
Every pull. Every loop. Every place where the thread had to be worked into position—none of it is wasted. It’s all part of the design, even when the design isn’t visible yet.
You won’t understand the pattern while you’re underneath it. You can only understand it when you come through.
So now, I don’t just see a gift. I see a reminder to trust what’s being woven, even when I’m still on the side that doesn’t look finished.
And then there’s the part I can’t ignore.
I received a womb at Women Deliver
That alignment is too precise to dismiss. First, because it reinforced that “women deliver” far more than babies:
They deliver stability into homes, often through unpaid care that is not systematically tracked.
They carry emotional weight for families, workplaces, communities—holding space, smoothing tension, anticipating needs before they are spoken.
They deliver ideas, solutions, resilience.
They show up, again and again, in ways that are expected but rarely named.
What they carry is constant. What they produce sustains more than we often acknowledge.
And second, because a womb means something is being formed. Something is being carried before it is revealed. Something is in process, whether or not anyone else can see it yet.
And if this bilum carries anything, it carries that truth.
My bilum’s pattern: becoming
After reviewing a few bilem patterns mine seem to resemble a Skin Pik variation:
the rectangular segmented blocks,
the earthy tones,
the strong black dividing lines, and
the structured geometry.
A pattern born from women being diminished…now becoming a gift carrying affirmation, voice, memory, and destiny.
What is being woven now—quietly, intentionally, even through the tension—is not random. It is on its way to becoming.
Doing something a little different this week. No poetry. No prose. Instead I’ll be posting a series of snappy one-liners that are as good as a mouthful like:
Without soul care you’ll not be at home in your own heart.
I’m writing this post sitting on a tour bus that’s parked on a ferry that is transporting us back from Bruny Island to mainland Tasmania and I’m reflecting on the day that is now concluding.
About Bruny Island
Bruny Island is set just off the southeast coast of Tasmania. A 30-minute drive south of the city, Hobart, to the ferry terminal followed by a short ferry ride and you’re there.
Geographically, it’s part of Australia, yet once you cross that stretch of water, you feel the shift—the most obvious is that the roads narrow. But, as the distance grows, so is the sense that you’ve stepped into a different rhythm altogether.
Start in tranquility
The morning started on a quiet beach.
Before a single “attraction” had been ticked off, the tranquility of the beach set the tone.
Breakfast was oysters (hard pass for me), cheese, and bread. The cheeses were delicious including Bruny Island award-winning C2 hard cheese. The bread was decadent and that’s not an exaggeration. Freshly baked, still warm, stored in a used microwave turned breadbox set in the baker’s fence.
And guess who collected the bread?! Moi!!
You’re wondering how that happened, aren’t ya?! Well, the only seat on the bus where my legs fit comfortably was up front by the driver (tall girl problems) so I became his sidekick on the tour.
Someone on the tour surprised me with this video of me retrieving the bread from the microwave turned breadbox.
Adventure in wild life and light house
Next we made our way toward Adventure Bay. One adventure was scanning the landscape for a white wallaby. Albino. Rare. Not promised. Of course, this laidback island would not deliver on cue. You show up, you look, and if you’re lucky, you see. If not, you keep moving. And we saw—not one but four white wallabies.
Further south, the road eventually gives way to one of the island’s most striking landmarks—Cape Bruny Lighthouse. Built in 1838, it is one of the oldest surviving lighthouses in Australia. Though no longer functional it stands watch where the Tasman Sea meets the fierce winds rolling up from the Southern Ocean.
We climbed about 70 steps up a narrow cast-iron spiral staircase that winds upward through the tower. At the top balcony, the reward was immediate—rugged cliffs and the wild southern coastline stretching in every direction to the horizon.
Lunch was at the quaint and small Hotel Bruny. The tour guide described the pink eye potatoes, that are native to Tas, as scrumptious so you know I ordered those as part of my lunch. The tour guide didn’t exaggerate.
Sweetness in small doses
We were treated to sweetness in small doses. First at Bruny Island Honey then Bruny Island Chocolate Company. The honey ice cream left me craving more!
More goodies in unusual places
Somewhere between those stops—no sign announcing it, no marker alerting to pay attention, only a slight hint by the tour guide—then a set of three antiques refrigerators sitting by the roadside came into view at Sheepwash Road.
What was this?
Inside, loaves of sourdough bread and cookies baked by John Bullock, aka the Bruny Baker. Not a shopfront. No one standing there. Just a small box for payment and an unspoken agreement: take what you need, leave what you owe.
That stayed with me for a while. That system only works because people choose to make it work. It depends on trust, not enforcement. If it works on Bruny island couldn’t it work elsewhere!?
That’s when the island started to make more sense.
As we continued, I realized how easy it would be to miss entire parts of Bruny if you weren’t paying attention. Again, I’m not exaggerating.
When I say if “don’t blink or you’ll miss it” had a physical form, it would be Bruny main town. I kid you not, the tour guide announced: “We’re entering the main town” and by the time I changed the phone from photo to video we are through the town and he wasn’t driving fast.
The Island truly moves on a different frequency. The way distances are marked reinforces it.
Road signs don’t tell you how far something is—they tell you how long it will take to get there. Time, not distance, is the measure that matters.
And just like that you stop asking: “How far?” and start asking: “How long?”; and not in a “are-we-there-yet?” way but from an unaware shifting in your thinking. And somehow, that small change slows everything down.
As the day was winding down the tour guide told the story of Truganini. By the time we got to Truganini Lookout climbing the 279 steps felt like a step-by-step walk back into history.
Bruny is also known as Lunawanna, a name from the Aboriginal people of the island. And standing there at the Lookout, it’s impossible not to think about Truganini—her life, what it represented, and what was lost.
From the top you have an unobstructed view of the island stretching out before you in both directions, narrow and exposed, held together by a thin strip of land. It’s beautiful, but it’s also grounding. Because the name carries a history of a powerful woman who fought for the protection and freedom of her people—the Palawa people of Lutruwita (Tasmania).
I didn’t know her specific story but it tugged on my heart strings because it didn’t feel distant to me.
Jamaica carries its own version of that story. The near disappearance of the Taino people. The powerful woman, Nanny, who also fought for the protection and freedom of her people. The fragments we continue to hold on to today (see my post about Accompong). And, the things we’re still trying to recover and name properly. Different geographies, same pattern.
By the end of the day, I realized Bruny hadn’t tried to overwhelm with highlights.
It had the feeling of: do one thing, do it properly, and don’t complicate it. So, you savor it.
It didn’t stack experiences on top of each other or rush me from one moment to the next. It gave me space—between places, between thoughts, between expectations.
And in that space, the details started to matter more:
A fridge on the side of the road.
Experiences that traveled across continents and found similar meaning.
A place so small you could miss it.
A lighthouse so imposing you can’t miss it.
Bruny doesn’t overwhelm. It doesn’t ask for attention. But if you give it, it stays with you.
Have you ever found yourself between a rock and a hard place? Feeling as if you’re trapped between two difficult circumstances with no obvious good option or feeling you must act under pressure and uncertainty?
There are moments in life that don’t come with certainty—only that questioning “maybe.”
He was there because an enemy nation had established a garrison blocking in Israel and holding them in fear. Jonathan took action unbeknownst to the King who had taken up a position of passivity under a pomegranate tree with his soldiers.
Because of the enemy’s blockade, the only options before Jonathan to break through were two cliffs. And as if that wasn’t challenging enough, one cliff face was thorny while the other was slippery.
On either side, there was a different kind of challenge. The path was not clear and there was no guaranteed outcome. Yet Jonathan took a decision to move forward anyway.
That’s the tension of a “maybe moment.” Even when you’re walking in God’s will, it can still feel uncertain, unsteady and even sharp in some instances.
In the story of Jonathan there’s no record that God spoke beforehand to give reassurance or to lay out a roadmap. Yet Jonathan moved. Then God showed up.
Faith often lives in those “maybe” cliffs. Not the ones outside of us, but the ones within—fear, doubt, hesitation, the need for control.
Victory in those moments asks something uncomfortable of us: vulnerability. That is, the willingness to let go off of what hinders our faith so that we can step forward even without full clarity. To trust God when we have no proof or to move even when there are no guarantees.
It was after Jonathan moved that the way to victory was revealed.
That is where a life of faith is lived—in the space between what is and what could be.
Jonathan’s willingness to act, based on his trust in God, sparked the deliverance of his people.
So, if you find yourself in a “maybe”moment today—standing between slippery and thorny ground—don’t wait for certainty.
Trust God and step anyway.
Shabbat Shalom. May God’s peace be with you and guide you through thorny and slippery places.
I love the way the wind moves through leaves The way sunrise dances across the seas Birdsong breaking the dawn of day Rain tapping rhythms on my window pane
I love the big ripples little pebbles make Snowflakes falling softly on my face The sky’s vibrant colors before day nods goodbye Thunder rolling low across a darkened sky
I love the way small things bring joy A baby’s shy giggle at my peek-a-boo ploy My niece cajoling: “Aunty, let’s dance!” The DJ finding my song, by chance
I love the softer side of nature Low tide breathing slow beside her Cuddly koala bears and star-filled nights Cloud formations dripping in white
I love the small things The quiet joy they bring Things that have no price Small things that pay back, twice
I love The joy Small things Bring
Afterword: The muse for this poem was a beautiful baby girl peeking over her mother’s shoulder, looking squarely at me, tears still staining her cheeks. We were making our way through the gangway onto the plane when I started playing peek-a-boo, hiding my eyes behind my boarding pass, then peeping out silently mouthing, “peek-a-boo.”
At first, she stayed guarded. Then slowly she softened—a tiny smile, then a giggle, as she tucked her face into the crook of her mother’s neck. That was the moment her mother realized the sudden change in her baby’s mood was the doing of a stranger’s quiet shenanigans.
That small exchange brought me pure joy. It reminded me how often happiness arrives in the simplest moments—unexpected, unpriced, and easy to miss if we are not paying attention.
Words stitched together thoughts pressed into form set afloat in the ether
a web virtual vast interconnected
link to link they travel
until—
found read
POW 💥
a poetic moment that hits grabs stays
and somewhere in the scrolling this one was chosen
Poet Of the Week
Afterword: This is a poem of recognition for David for the various ways he uses his platform to bring poets together and to showcase their work including hosting the W3 prompt which concludes each week with a Poet Of the Week (POW) nomination. And a special shout out to Yvette for choosing my poem—Aerocene: Breath of Life—for the POW nomination.
Beforeword; I had the privilege to visit Mona Museum, in Hobart, Tasmania, which is mostly underground. It has a playful vibe with old and new art. One new art is the muse for this piece—“Breath of Life.”
The art is a complex constellation by Tomás Saraceno called A Thermodynamic Imaginary captured, in part, in my photos below, including one that reflects the images of those observing it, emblematic of the intersection of art and life.
Saraceno’s fragile hand-blown aerial sculptures, mirror reflections, intersections and video projections ask you to imagine a new future: the Aerocene, ‘an era of the air’, a world of solar energy ‘free from carbon and extractivism’, where life and breath are attuned to Earth’s systems rather than at war with them and where anthropocentric entitlement has no place. This is my poetic rendition to this imagined world and in honor of thePalawa people of lutruwita (Tasmania), whose deep and enduring connection to Country—land, waters, skies, and spirit—continues to shape and sustain life.
Breath of Life
New life begins in Aerocene
Where gravity loosens its grip
Humans unlearn the weight of stay
No ownership, only orbit
No engines, only breath
Lungs, rivers, wings
Everything inhales, exhales together
There are no borders here
Equity and equality quells
The hands that clenched too tightly
Nothing is taken
Because nothing is kept
Everything passed
Warm, bright, alive
Humans no longer extract,
But at one with nature
Maps dissolve
Humanity move as shifting kinships
Connecting as one breath
History is a shed skin
Afterword: Also contributing to this week’s W3 hosted by David. The Poet of the Week, Yvette, invites us to create a poem that explores a fictional world in 20 lines.
I had taken him to Build-A-Bear, he dressed his bear—tiny comouflage jacket and pants, military dog tags, a little attitude. When I complemented his bear’s look, he stepped back, looked at me with swagger beyond his years and said, “Aunty, it’s drip.”
“Drip”?! I had never heard drip used in that context. In response to my naïveté he proceeded to school me on the word. Not to be completely outdone by this precocious little human, I later educated myself on not just what it meant, but where it came from. I learnt how it moved through music, through culture, through people who know how to turn what they have into something that speaks.
At the surface levelwhat “drip” actually means is fashionable, put-together, expensive-looking. But culturally, it goes deeper than what you wear. It’s how what you wear lands.
That moment with my nephew stayed with me.
Because long before “drip” trended on TikTok or echoed through tracks like “Drip Too Hard” by Gunna and Lil Baby, there was another kind of drip—ancient and deeply spiritual.
As the children of Israel prepared to leave Egypt, something unusual happened. After generations of bondage, they didn’t leave empty-handed. The very people who held them captive handed over silver, gold, and clothing. They didn’t fight for it. They didn’t negotiate for it. They asked and it was released—that’s provision.
After years of bondage and subjugation they not only came out free, they came out “dripping.”
Wrists that once labored now layered with jewelry. Bodies that once bore the weight of oppression now draped in gold. This provision was a visible sign that their story had shifted.
When God uses your enemy to bless you.
This part of the Exodus story is easy to skip over, but it shouldn’t be.
Notice, the blessing didn’t come from a new ally. It came from the same place as the struggle.
There may be something uncomfortable about that. We like clean narratives—good on one side, evil on the other. But this story flips the script. It reaffirms that God is not limited by who or what stands against you. He can reach into the very space of resistance and pull provision right out of it.
What opposed you can end up resourcing you.
And the resourcing may not always come in ways you expect. Nor in the ways that feel immediate. But there’s a pattern in this and similar biblical stories:
pressure that strengthens capacity;
delay that builds endurance;
closed doors that redirect purpose; and,
sometimes—blessing that comes from unlikely hands.
Are you in a hard season?
When you step out of it, don’t be surprised if you’re carrying more than you thought you would.
You didn’t just survive it. You gathered strength on the way out.
What does it mean to “come out dripping”?
In the same way that “drip” in hip-hop culture is more than what you wear but style as an expression with presence, “drip” in the spiritual sense—as manifested in the lives of the children of Israel in the exodus—was overflow, not excess.
In other words it’s the unassuming confidence of someone who knows their story didn’t end where it could or should have. It’s coming to terms that grace was layered over your struggle, provision over your lack, and dignity over what tried to shame you into the shadows. It’s peace where there used to be anxiety; clarity where there used to be confusion; and stability where there used to be constant disruption.
A Shabbat pause:
As the sun sets and Shabbat begins, consider this—
Where have you been brought out and what did you carry with you?
Think not of what you lost or what you escaped, but what you gained, what you grew into, how your life has shifted as a result. You may not have noticed it at the time. But look again.
You didn’t come out empty.
You came out dripping with provision—jewelry of grace, gold of strength and clothing that covers and protects you.
As a Canadian I’ve long admired Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau’s leadership—especially his commitment to feminist foreign policy and the bold move to back it with a $300 million investment in the establishment of the Equality Fund—a long-term investment in women’s rights organizations around the world, especially those working at the grassroots level. The kind of work that often goes unseen, underfunded, but changes everything.
But admiration from afar is one thing.
Meeting him, standing in that moment, and sharing directly how those decisions have mattered… that was a whole other level of I-can’t-believe-I’m-in-this-conversation!!
This was a reminder that the work we do travels farther than we see—and sometimes, it brings us face to face with the very people who inspired it.
And with that, I close out birthMONTH 2026—grounded in alignment, walking in fulfillment, and anchored in the knowing that honing what has been entrusted to me—my skills, my talents, my gift—creates access. It opens doors, makes room, and carries me into the spaces I’m meant to occupy.
World unfolds Seven continents Six complete Travel log Australia, birthmonth’s quest Antarctica waits
Pexels.com
Afterword: The world is a globe of borders and of bridges. This birthMONTH I crossed into Australia—and with that step, another continent claimed! Six down, one to go—Antartica is next!
This year, 2026, my birthday fell on a Tuesday again—the seventh time it has aligned this way since my birth. It won’t align this way again until 2037!
There’s something about that number that makes me pause. Seven often marks completion, a cycle coming full circle. For this reason this year’s birthday feels like alignment.
And, this year’s birthday finds me in Kenya! This marks my seventh rotation for work—my seventh time stepping into a new place and being asked to build a life from the ground up. That process has taught me that there’s a difference between simply living somewhere and actually building a sense of belonging. Living is transient. Building requires intention.
At the center of that intention is community.
With each move I challenge myself to stretch beyond my instinct to stay inward and ask: who will I gather, and who will gather me? Over time, I’ve come to see that community isn’t something you passively find. It’s something you actively create. It takes openness, presence, and a willingness to invest in people before anything feels settled.
This year, that realization came into focus in a simple but meaningful way—my birthday dinner at DAWN. The restaurant’s name obviously didn’t escape me. A new place, a new chapter, and a gathering under a name that echoes my own.
Around the table, under the canopy of an array of monochrome-shades of red faux flowers, were a mix of people who, not long ago, were strangers—Kenyan, Jamaican, Canadian, American, Italian, Ghanaian, Indian, Korean. Different backgrounds, different stories, all brought together in one space.
What stood out and warmed my heart most wasn’t just the diversity, but the presence. Everyone invited said yes. In a world where schedules are full and connections can be fleeting, that kind of response spoke volumes.
The evening was conceived first as a celebration, but as the evening wore on it also became a quiet confirmation that something had taken root. I was finding my place in Kenya. Starting to feel settled. Not because everything is familiar, but because I am no longer navigating it alone. There is a flow beginning to form, shaped by shared moments, conversations, and the early foundations of trust.
Seven alignments. Seven new beginnings. Seven reminders that while place may change, the need for community does not.
And maybe that’s the real alignment—not just the calendar returning to a familiar position, but the realization that wherever I go, I have the capacity to build, to connect, and to belong.
When it comes time for that vacay getaway—whether for a weekend or a month—“check” ✅ sets the journey in motion.
My trip for a weekend getaway to explore yet another part of gorgeous Kenya flowed like this:
Staying in a “surpriseable” frame of mind. Check ✅
Besides the plans you make, every good escape needs room for the unexpected. How else will your inner child come out to play?
Good weather. Check ✅
Imagine the sun peeking over the horizon, meeting soft morning breezes as if ushering in the dawn of a new day. When I’m heading on vacation, I make every effort not to waste any part of the day—so I’m usually on the earliest flight in and close to the latest one out.
Seat selected. Check ✅
Without fail—even when I say I won’t—my trusty iPhone is ready to capture what’s below as the aircraft comes in to land. When you want an unobstructed view of the landscape, a window seat is best. So yes, I’m ready for online check-in the moment it opens.
Mode of transportation for a weekend getaway. Check ✅
This time, a propeller aircraft. Not my preference. But if you want quick and efficient, you bottle up your fears, get onboard, and settle in for the flight.
Dream destination. Check ✅
Imagine wide stretches of white, powdery sand against clear, turquoise-blue water. A “natural mystic blowing through the air,” giving off Bob Marley vibes.
Only, this is not imagination. It’s real.
It’s Diani!
Diani sits on Kenya’s south coast along the Indian Ocean—a short one-hour flight from Nairobi. One of Kenya’s most laid-back coastal escapes. Easy. Unassuming.
Days rise and settle into kaleidoscopic shades of yellow and orange against the horizon’s unending blue. Sunrise beckons a yogi’s sun salute—upward and downward stretches, standing tall in tree pose, letting the break of day center you. And sunsets lull you into a quiet sense of peace at day’s end.
At low tide, the sea recedes so far it reveals unspoilt white sandbanks. Walking these small expanses in the middle of the ocean feels like you’re suspended between water and sky. If “surreal” had a form, this would be it.
Along the beach, you’ll see dhows and glass-bottom boats, catamarans and speedboats, jet skis and canoes. I opted for a glass-bottom boat, having sailed a dhow while in Zanzibar. The beauty of it lies in the surprises it reveals—sea dwellers dashing by. At one point, our guide dives in and reappears beneath the boat, feeding the fish and giving us a closer look at the ocean’s varied life. This time, zebra fish made an appearance.
Starfish—different colors and sizes—dot the seabed, while sea urchins and sea cucumbers remain tucked into the crevices of coral exposed by the receding tide.
The diversity in the ocean is matched on land—flora and fauna varied in form and color—each one drawing out soft exclamations of appreciation.
Mother Nature has been kind to this land. And Diani is not shy about it.
It invites you to chill on its open, calm, spread-out beaches lined with palm trees. Trees that actually give shade—not just an aesthetic backdrop for photos (though the photos are, indeed, spectacular).
It moves at its own unbothered pace. And it nudges you to join in its rhythm—slow walks, ocean breezes, dhow cruises, a stretch into yoga, or simply frolicking in warm ocean water.
Vendors walk the beach, widened by the receding tide, peddling what they have—coconuts, woodcraft, wristbands, even camel rides.
And then it happens.
You find yourself in that in-between space—where you don’t feel rushed to do anything.
And you don’t.
You comply.
You do nothing… just chill.
And somewhere in that stillness, you find exactly what you didn’t know you needed.
She called it confusion. Bad timing. Even blamed the stars for not being aligned, and created stories to cushion its impact so it wouldn’t sting as much.
When he showed up, he showed up just enough—texting late, calling when it suited him, ghosting then slipping back in like nothing changed, a dismissal of the shift. And every time, she let him.
Because part of her believed that inconsistency meant he was figuring things out.
It took longer than she’d like to admit to see it clearly: there was nothing to figure out; he wasn’t undecided.
He had a long time ago decided.
He just hadn’t said it out loud.
His silence did the work for him, though.
His distance spoke.
His patterns repeated.
He kept the door open, not to walk through it fully, but to make sure it stayed unlocked—for him.
Access without accountability.
And she had been handing him the key, over and over, no questions asked.
One night, sitting with that truth, she asked herself something she could no longer avoid:
Jersey, are you really going to keep giving access to someone who isn’t choosing you?
The question landed heavier than anything he had ever said.
Because this time, it wasn’t about him.
It was about what she was allowing.
And for the first time, she understood—he could only stay as long as she kept the door open.
Afterword: I haven’t done an R&B collab in a while. This song, “Trust My Lonely”, by Canadian singer-songwriter Alessia Cara, was the nudge that brought me back. A shorter version, using the Cameo form, was published earlier.
Lyrics
It’s time I let you go I made the mistake go writing your name on my heart ‘Cause your colours showed But it was too late, you left me stained, called it art
Do you crave control? I’ve been your doll, that you poke for fun too long So you should go Don’t look back, I won’t come back Can’t do that no more
Go get your praise from someone else You did a number on my health My world is brighter by itself And I can do better, do better You and I were swayin’ on the ropes I found my footing my own I’m a-okay, I’m good as gold And I can do better, do better alone Alone, alone
There ain’t no love ’round here I loved you once, but it made me dumb Now I’m seeing it way too clear You hurt me numb, and for that I’ve run out of time To have pain to feel (Pain to feel) I’ve been your game Just taking the blame for too long Get on out of here Don’t look back, I won’t come back Can’t do that no more
Don’t you know that you’re bad for me? I gotta trust my lonely …
Beforeword: I was born on a Tuesday. 2026, this is the seventh time April 14 lands on a Tuesday since my birth. Seven—full, complete, alignment. The next alignment will be in 2037.
So, today, I return to the beginning—the history that led to my existence through the voice of my mom, through her memory of that day. A day shaped by my birth, as well as the weight of what was happening in the world beyond her. Though we are on opposite sides of the globe today—at 7:38 AM EST on the day of my birth, we met each other for the very first time—me and my mom! This poem draws us back into that moment.
Dawn Rising: A Birth in the Beat of Change [my mom’s poem]
It’s the early dawn on a Tuesday, the 14th day of April I check into the maternity ward of the country’s teaching hospital The pain still mild, the morning humid The nurse at my side doesn’t just comfort— She prays over me, over you, because the world you were entering needed warriors wrapped in prayer
Before you took your first breath outside the cocoon of my womb You were covered in a shield of faith— Because in these times, prayer wasn’t a ritual, It was survival, it was prophecy
Around us, Jamaica’s streets rumbled with unrest Voices rose demanding land, work, dignity The poor cried out for a share of the promise of independence— Government struggled to calm the storm While reggae’s heartbeat began its rise Giving rhythm to resistance Giving melody to the march for equal rights
I fought my own war through contractions crashing like waves. Gripping the bed rails with a mother’s resolve— Knowing that you, my child, were coming into a world Aching for justice Hungry for change
The doctor’s hands caught you at 7:38, as dawn broke the horizon And it was as if Heaven whispered: Dawn is here You cried, fierce and new Your voice piercing the stillness with the song of beginnings
And so you entered this world poised and prayed up To be MAD—to: Make A Difference!
Born in times that shaped you to be A crusader for justice A champion of equal rights For reggae itself was rising as the sound of the people Beating in time with your tiny heart Promising you’d never forget where you came from:
A dawn of hope A dawn of change A dawn of possibility
Beforeword: Modern science has long challenged Plato’s claim that the heart is the seat of emotion, placing that role firmly in the brain. Still, the heart endures—across cultures and centuries—as the language of love, compassion, and connection.
In “The Art of Love” (Ars Amatoria), Ovid reminds us that “love is ruled by art.” In this poem I lean into that idea imagining heART not as a physical organ but a creative space. And, a description of love as both something we feel and something we create, shape, and live from the heART.
the heART of love
The soul is the gallery of emotions Love is its art, painting connections The canvas of life, a beating heart Each beat creating a timeless art
Whether brushstrokes of joy, hues of pain Colors of sunshine, or droplets of rain Through every emotion, a masterpiece grows A portrait of love in its highs and its lows
Love is the sculptor, it shapes the clay Molding our lives, a masterpiece on display With hands of compassion carving each line Etching life’s stories, connected, intertwined
In the dark of night or the light of day Love is the rhythm that guides our way Each stanza follows the chorus of dreams Unfolding life’s songs in symphonic streams
The heart is the canvas, each beat a stroke Painting the moments emotions evoke Shades of passion, a palette mix of colors Love painting life’s journey from winter to summers
Heart beats love, a timeless art A rhythm pulsating, art to heart Souls displayed in life’s gallery sublime In love, the masterpiece of the Divine
Beforeword: This is Easter weekend, when Christians remember the life, sacrifice, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. The story does not begin at the cross. It begins with a humble birth and unfolds through a life spent teaching, healing, and showing the world another way to love.
This poem traces that journey—from cradle to cross—and the path that led to the hill called Calvary. It is the poetic-story of the Man on the middle cross.
Born to a humble girl named Mary And raised by the carpenter Joseph Laid in a manger in Bethlehem A cradle made from straw instead of gold
A child who puzzled scholars in the temple Speaking truth beyond his years While elders listened in quiet amazement To the wisdom of a boy
He walked dusty roads telling simple stories Seeds, vineyards, lamps, lost coins Turning everyday life into lessons On mercy, faith, and the kingdom of heaven
He sat with fishermen and tax collectors Touched lepers others failed to see He called the poor and the broken “blessed” And made the last feel first
He opened blinded eyes and lifted bent backs Spoke peace to storms and demons alike Where despair had taken root Hope began to breathe again
He overturned tables in sacred halls Questioned the pride of priests and rulers Teaching that love of neighbor Was greater than ritual or rank
And there he hung between two thieves On a hill called Calvary The Man who healed the world now crucified The Man on the middle cross
Beforeword: It’s been a while since I shared a Shabbat Shalom post, so I’m returning with this piece—“The OG!”
“OG,” short for Original Gangster, traces back to 1970s Los Angeles gang culture, but its meaning has widened. Today, it points to a founder, an originator, someone who sets the standard and earns respect. As the dictionary puts it: someone or something that is an original—an originator, especially one held in high regard.
This piece plays on that idea—with a holy twist.Listen and read along:
The OG!
The OG don’t knock. It kicks in doors that lock up your blessings Hops the fence of your past and repossesses your future Tags every wall of your history with one word— forgiven
The OG lifts the weight off your neck that guilt tried to chain there It steps in the street between you and judgment and tells death sentence: stand down!
The OG snatches shame before it can speak your name. It rolls up on fear’s corner and shuts the whole block down Pulls you out the alley of regret Brushes off your soul like dust on a jacket
The OG don’t check your record first It moves first Flips the script Claims the territory your mistakes tried to ruin
You thought mercy was soft?
But watch the moves:
Doors kicked in. Chains broken. Records cleared. Future reclaimed.
That’s the work of the OG—
Original Gangster? No Original Grace!
Shabbat shalom. May the God of peace also covers you with grace unending.
Just in time for my birthMONTH, Spillwords published my poem, “You”. Grateful to Dagmara, Chief Editor, and the editorial team for selecting this piece.
I’m intentionally making my way through Kenya. Trying to experience as much of this vast land as I can.
Today—Tigoni.
Why Tigoni?! A friend took me for a drive and to spend time at an organic farmers market.
Tigoni is northwest of Nairobi, in the highlands of Kiambu County. You pass Ruaka—a very busy built‑up spot with lots of shops, stalls and traffic—before the road gets more rural and heads up toward Tigoni.
In just about twenty or so minutes outside of Nairobi you start to feel the shift: quieter, greener, and noticeably fresher and lighter than the city. My lungs got a proper fill.
We are now surrounded by tea farms and open countryside.
Once we got out of the car, I moved slowly through it all. Soaking it all in:
Fresh juices that taste exactly like the fruit they’re made from, no additives.
A farm-to-table meal that didn’t need any dressing up.
I picked up a bouquet because it contained my favorite flower—the calla lily—and because it looked like it belonged in a painting.
At some point, the cutest baby girl wandered over, carrot in one hand, reaching for my bouquet with the other. She stopped munching on her carrot, and leaned in to smell the flowers in my hands, completely locked in. Be still my heart. That was an unguarded moment, one that will stay with me.
There was live music.
The singer greeted us as we walked by the tent and explained that she’ll restart singing soon.
After complementing her beautiful kaftan I asked what genres she sings—among them she listed … you guessed it …reggae! Now, hear the clincher, her surname is Reggae. You can’t make this stuff up!!! Some would say the universe was aligning. I say, that was a God-moment.
As we milled about, iconic Bob Marley songs wove themselves through the tea leaves and drew me to the white tent, where Ms. Reggae was doing the reggae!
I spread the kanga (also called leso)—Kenya’s colorful cotton fabric—and joined others sprawled out on the grass, just being.
No rush. “…Don’t worry about a thing…” melodically sung while Ms. Reggae lovingly cuddles her daughter and I couldn’t help but join in, making it a sing-along:
My ultimate find of the day was a handmade mango butter body moisturizer. I asked the shop owner skeptically: “Mango has butter?!” To which she gladly informed it’s in the seed and went on to describe how she makes it—the end product whipped, soft, almost like cream. It smells divine, and it lingers.
Now, not only do I get to eat one of my favourite fruits, I get to wear it too. My skin’s still holding onto it, smooth and hydrated. (I know what will be in Christmas stockings this year! 😆)
As if the vast spread of greenery all around wasn’t enough, somewhere behind it all, a waterfall—you don’t quite see it, but you hear it, steady and soft, like a backdrop Mother Nature threw in just because she could!
Nothing dramatic about the day. But it felt full. The kind of full that comes from slowing down enough to actually notice where you are.
This Cameo form poem [7 lines; syllable count: 2 / 5 / 8 / 3 / 8 / 7 / 2] is drawn from a short story of the same title, written in response to this week’s W3 challenge andOLN at d’Verse.
Beforeword: Each year on March 25 the UN recognizes “International Day of Remembrance of the Victims of Slavery & the Transatlantic Slave Trade”. This year’s theme, Justice in Action, calls on the global community to confront this history with honesty and to acknowledge its enduring impact. This is my tribute poem.
On this day we name the past, refuse to turn away A brutal, shameful history we’re called to face today Not only grief, but action too must rise from what we see For echoes of that suffering still shape humanity
Across the seas, in chains they bore what none should have to bear A system built on stolen lives, on violence and despair It carved the lines of race we know, still visible and deep A legacy of injustice the present world must keep
This day is not just memory, not bound to what has been It lives within our current fight, in systems still unseen To remember is to challenge all that remains that’s wrong To raise our voices, stand aligned, unyielding, firm, and strong
We honor those who suffered, those who dared resist By working toward a world where equity and equality exist Let justice be our answer, let truth our guiding light Remembering the past to confront, and racism to fight
“Ballet students, Tembisa, South Africa” A photo of two 5-year-old ballet students posing outside a dance academy in Tembisa, South Africa [photographer unknown]
Parched ground beneath they bow into shared silence learning each other
Heels pressed together Cracked pavement holding shadow still, they hold their shape
Delicate tutus Hands clasping, feet turning out Excellence starts here
Afterword: I came across this photo of these two young ballerinas. The contrast—their softness against concrete, their care in the pose—pulled me in, asking to be translated into another form: poetry.
Have you ever heard a cow mooed in the wee hours of the morn, that low rumble rolling through dawn’s stillness, before the sun disappears the night sky?
Have you ever walked past Maasai herdsmen, red shukas dotting landscape’s green, their cattle answering only to rungu’s sway?
Have you ever locked eyes with a baboon, a baby wedged in tight while she leaps and runs and feeds?
Have you ever seen a lioness frolic with her cubs, letting them tumble over her body, teaching them survival dressed up as play?
Have you ever stood still while elephants trample grass, felt the ground rumble in low tremors, watched a matriarch trudging along, alone, as if waiting for life’s end?
Have you ever noticed cattle egrets clinging to elephants’ backs, white against grey, small beside massive, yet moving in symbiotic agreement?
Have you ever heard the crowned crane sing in unison, nature’s orchestra on the open plains on long legs lifting seamlessly through marsh?
Have you ever seen impala startled by hyena, leap— body suspended mid-air, as if gravity paused in step with fear?
Have you ever realized, somewhere between dawn’s moo and dusk’s shadows, that a safari is not about sighting— but about scale?
Have you ever felt yourself shrink in the vastness of the wide sky, small beneath the Kilimanjaro, grateful the wild needs no permission to perform?
I have stood in that open vastness, reconnected to the magnificence of nature something in me answered back to the call of the savanna
Wise in the way you guided me, your younger brother— a teacher in tone and standard, yet never softer with me than with anyone else
In my life you stood steady, not just sister but confidante, walking beside me through years and seasons
No birthday slipped past your memory— You marked each one like it mattered
Never afraid to correct, a disciplinarian who believed love should have structure
In every action, in every plan, order lived— you prepared to the last detail
Faith was not an accessory; you lived for your church, showing up, serving, staying
Rooted in God, dedicated, steady in belief
Earth has released you now, but heaven knows you finished the course
Done with labor, your reward kept secure— stored where neither time nor sorrow can touch nor moth destroy
This piece was commissioned to be a brother’s tribute to his sister’s life. He wanted it to be a celebration of her life by focusing on her name so I used an acrostic poem. Sharing it as an addition to dVerse- MTB, hosted by Kim: to write an acrostic name poem.
Never allow someone to be your priority while allowing yourself to be their option.
— Mark Twain
The longer you fight The longer lies masquerade as hope Empty promises sound like plans Deceit manipulates you
The longer you stay The more you shrink Massaging truth to explain silence Mistaking absence for relationship
The longer you wait The more you erase Your needs Your voice Your worth
The longer you hope The more you ignore What actions have been spelling out in bold
The longer you fight The longer your heart beats pain The clearer it becomes: you’re at war—alone
And love— Love was never meant To feel like survival
So you stop
Not because you don’t love But because You are no longer willing to abandon yourself to prove it
Afterword: Time and emotional energy run out. They are not endless. So where you place them matters. Pouring into what pours back builds something. But, giving all of yourself to what won’t choose you only leaves you empty.
I’ve always been a lover of nature—now it practically sits at my doorstep. What once took planning, traffic, and intention now meets me effortlessly. There’s a kind of healing I’m experiencing in this shift. The quiet here settles in a different way. In other places quiet was something I’d go looking for—here, in Kenya, the quiet finds you.
Contrasting this to the last place I lived—New York City—where nature felt negotiated. Central Park and Bryant Park were two of my nature chill spots. But one cannot escape the reality that they are framed by steel and concrete, that silence is interjected by sirens, and the sky is viewed through the framing of high rise buildings. The city made every effort to ensure nature had its place, but it was contained. You visited it. You scheduled it. You left it behind.
Here in Kenya you’re surrounded by nature. I live in the city, Nairobi, yet nature is not on the sidelines I only need look beyond my patio to cows grazing in a meadow.
Nature stretches wide across the land, unbothered, uncontained. From the vastness of the savannah to the bespoke authority of the mountains, nature just IS. And somewhere in this transition from the city that never sleeps to one that lulls your senses into calm, something in me loosens, unclenches, exhales.
Photos by me: Amboseli & Nairobi Parks, Giraffe Center
A weekend drive can take you into the heart of Maasai Mara, the horizon seems to stretch on endlessly. Or to Amboseli National Park, where gentle giant elephants roam and playful lion cubs romp beneath the shadow of Kilimanjaro. And you feel present in nature.
Snow-capped Mount Kilimanjaro, photo taken by me while on a safari drive through Amboseli National Park
But Kenya isn’t only nature, it’s what I’d also describe as being “layered”.
Nairobi has its own city qualms but moves to a different kind of energy. The art scene is alive—galleries, street art, design studios—and fashion tells stories in bold color, texture, and form.
There’s a confidence in the creativity I’m seeing here meaning it’s not an imitation, it knows intuitively what it is.
The pace of life also demands something different. Or maybe it offers it.
Work is still work—I still work hard and work long hours but it doesn’t consume in the same way. There’s an unspoken insistence on balance. You feel it in how people gather, how they pause, how they step away. It forces me to let go the grind mentality and to recalibrate what urgency really means and what’s to be prioritized.
And then there’s the contrast that keeps surprising me—the topography itself. Vast savannahs that stretch into forever, then a shift, and suddenly you’re met with coastline—warm waters and soft sand along the Indian Ocean. I’m slowly coming to learn that this country doesn’t settle into one identity, it’s too vast and diverse for that.
What I didn’t expect, though, was the familiarity.
I find when I say I’m from Jamaica, Kenyans light up. Almost immediately they go to reggae. The rhythm of reggae floats easily here. It’s not unusual to hear it in the gym as I work out or its beats blaring out of matatus (minibuses) zipping by on the roadways.
Jamaica-culture inspired minibuses (matatus or nganya) on the streets in Nairobi (complete with Jamaican flag waving in the wind)
And Jamaica is well known and embraced. It’s the music, the culture, the energy—it lives here in a way that feels genuine. And for me, that lands deeper than I anticipated. There’s something about hearing those sounds, seeing that appreciation, that makes me feel at home in a place that is still new.
Wanted.
Recognized.
Connected.
That’s a feeling that can’t be beat.
Moving to Kenya was first a change in geography and since I’ve been here it continues to be a shift in how I experience space, time, and even myself.
Even now as I write this piece, I can hear birds outside my window serenading the break of dawn, ushering in the new day with nature’s tweets. It feels like the wild outside has found its way inward—quietly restoring, gently rebalancing.
Beforeword: The “glass ceiling”, was coined by Management consultant Marilyn Loden in 1978. It symbolizes the invisible barriers that hinder women and marginalized groups from advancing in their careers.
The thing about “glass ceiling” when smashed is that the shards don’t vanish— they fall Sharp, jagged, relentless, raining down like a warning, like a punishment for daring to rise
Falling glass cuts deep— Patriarchy, splintered but still clawing Violence, turning freedom into something fragile Laws, binding instead of breaking chains Norms, polished smooth but when harmful they wound Root causes slicing through progress turning triumphs into scars Rights into relics Hard won gains into loss Reproductive rights overturned— choices stripped, voices silenced, autonomy reduced to a battlefield where laws are weapons, and women’s bodies contested spaces
But how does the ceiling hold? It’s not chains you can see, not walls you can touch— It’s an unspoken limit, the silent “no” It’s underrepresentation dressed as “not the right fit” It’s the weight of pay gaps The care work not paid The lock on leadership doors The promotions that never come no matter how qualified or how high women climb
They say, “You’ve come so far” But they don’t mention the cracks beneath our feet The unequal shifting ground The backlash waiting at every turn Every step forward risks another wound, another push back, another war to fight—again
The thing about glass— It was never meant to be a cage Meant for clarity, yet it distorts, letting light in but keeping power out
The thing about ceiling— It was never meant to hold in Meant to shelter, yet it confines, holding dreams beneath its weight
So, like Maya Angelou, women—we rise! Not just breaking, but building Not just shattering, but shaping Hands wrapped in armor, feet steady on the dust Helmets on, hearts fierce, forging new foundations Until the sky stretches wide, and the only thing above us— is rights, equality, justice
IWD is a worldwide day of activism, celebrating achievements while continuing the fight for women’s rights.
IWD began in the early 1900s as a movement for women’s labor rights, better working conditions, and suffrage. But the first milestone in US was much earlier – in 1848. Indignant over women being barred from speaking at an anti-slavery convention, Americans Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Lucretia Mott started the US first women’s rights convention in New York. Inspired by protests in New York, socialist activist Clara Zetkin proposed an annual Women’s Day in 1910, leading to the first official IWD on March 19, 1911, in several European countries.The 8 March date was chosen after Russian women demanded “bread and peace” during a war-time strike in 1917.
Black History Month — 100 Years Theme: A Century of Black History Commemorations
It started as a week, quiet but determined A steadfast commitment to keep memory alive In the stories carried by teachers, parents, preachers On the wings of “good trouble” when the fight is needed It started as a week, quiet but determined From 1926 to 2026, black history kept moving A century marking time with names, faces Experiences that became presence When derided, learned how to go high It started as a week, quiet but determined.
Reggae Month — Jamaica Theme: Rhythms of Resilience
This music rose from survival, not trend From yards, sound systems, everyday struggle Lyrics telling truth before it was safe Bass line steady as the voices that hummed it This music rose from survival, not trend By 2008, the world was already listening— to justice wrapped in melody to culture feeding both soul and economy Reggae still teaches us how to endure This music rose from survival, not trend
warmth hums through patience sun summons light’s rays beaming
DAVID
window slightly cracked a cautious fragrance wandering nothing urging bloom
DAWN
except when soul cries the joy of the human heart springs forth abundance
DAVID
first cry of a newborn child the world answers with warm hands
DAWN
frost returns as dew tiny fingers curl and cling It’s morning again
Afterword: A rengay is a short collaborative linked-verse poem which unfolds in six three- and two-line stanzas, with poets alternating sections. Each stanza connects to the one before it. It relies on suggestion, image, and restraint. By the final stanza, the poem subtly circles back to its beginning, creating a sense of return—two voices linked through attentive exchange.
Beforeword: “Koi no yokan” is a Japanese phrase that translates to “premonition of love,” describing the feeling of meeting someone for the first time and intuitively knowing that you will inevitably fall in love with them in the future. It differs from love at first sight because it’s not about the love happening at that instant, but a certainty about love that is yet to come.
This was not love at first sight
When we first met my heart didn’t skip a beat my breath didn’t catch in my throat It exhaled like it had been held for years and didn’t know why It was like meeting someone and feeling the future in a knowing way Like feeling the rain will fall before it does
We spoke of ordinary things— weather, work, tea versus coffee We laughed easily We communicated in the silence as if somewhere inside we knew our spirit had leaned into each other and whispered, “This one”
No fireworks— It started way quieter than that No falling It started safer than that Slow Certain with inevitability Just knowing
And now— on a day dressed in red and roses— I don’t celebrate a spark I celebrate that quiet certainty That gentle, steady pull that brought us here without noise without fear without doubt
I grew up when reggae was finding its roots When reggae was suspect When Rasta meant trouble When dreadlocks closed doors and the music was blamed for what the country didn’t want to face
Flashback—seventies Jamaica Transistor radios balanced on window sills Needles dropping on scratched vinyl while elders shook their heads: “Turn down dat” “Change de station” “Dat a no music”
Reggae wasn’t welcomed then It was scrutinized, watched Dreadlocks meant no job, no classroom Rastas crossing the street to avoid harassment Church sermons thick with warning Babylon named, not understood as Rasta knew it—as rebellion not revelation
Sound systems told a different story Speaker boxes stacked like monuments Bass ricocheting off zinc fences Beats thumping through yards where truth was louder than fear Reggae carried news The sentiments of a people in the struggle Stories the national newspaper wouldn’t headline
It survived on borrowed amps on spiritualism and repetition on voices that refused to be silent: Toots and the Maytals helped to name the genre: “Do the Reggay,” Toots said in 1968 The Wailers—Bob Marley, Peter Tosh, Bunny Wailer—grounded reggae in social reality and Rastafarian thought Then came Jimmy Cliff, preparing global audiences for reggae
Now look—
The same music once dismissed is Jamaica’s loudest ambassador The same rhythms once scorned now open world stages Reggae feeds families Fuels festivals Artists across the world build careers on this foundation— our basslines under their success, our cadence shaping their sound
Some cite the source Some remix and rename it But the root remains— Reggae. Jamaica.
So Reggae Month is a pause to remember how we once doubted our own voice and how that voice went on to teach the world how to listen
A four-part birthday tribute to the Legend and in honor of Reggae Month 2026
(6 February 1945 – 11 May 1981)
PART I: BEFORE THE ICON
Before the T-shirts Before the flags dangled in dorm rooms Before the word legend softened the edges There was a yard Tin roofs Shanty houses Bare feet kicking soccer ball Musicians learning rhythm from dust
Reggae wasn’t a product yet Bob arrived as a witness One more voice from Trench Town saying: This is what hunger sounds like This is how hope stays alive
PART II: THE MESSAGE
People like to say the music was about love That’s only one side of it
Love, yes—but, It was A love that argued back A love that named Babylon—the system of oppression A love that would not let leadership lapse into amnesia A love that challenged power, challenged politicians, that made comfort uneasy
“Is this love that I’m feeling, or is this the love that I’ve been dreaming of?”
When bullets came for him, they weren’t confused They knew the danger of a man who could move crowds without running for office
Bob didn’t claim politics Politics claimed him
PART III: WHEN JAMAICA SPOKE TO THE WORLD
Through Bob, a small island stopped whispering Suddenly, Jamaica wasn’t just a place on a map— it was a position A voice in the hallowed halls of the United Nations Denouncing apartheid Reggae crossed borders South Africa heard it Rhodesia heard it as Marley’s liberation song “Zimbabwe” ushered in independence Reggae in the hands of Bob— Protest learned melody Redemption was song Philosophy you could dance to People who had never seen Jamaica felt understood by it
Bob didn’t market He transmitted
PART IV: THE COST OF IMMORTALITY
Now he is everywhere Often reduced to smoke and slogans Stripped of context Sold back to descendants of struggle as lifestyle
But listen closely— the songs still resist simplification They still ask hard questions: “How long shall they kill our prophets, while we stand aside and look?” They still refuse silence: “Get up, stand up: stand up for your rights.” They still carry the unfinished work: “Open your eyes and look within, are you satisfied with the life you’re living?”
Legacy Legend isn’t comfort it’s responsibility Bob Marley was never asking to be worshipped He was asking: Who will carry this next?
Globally, February is widely known for celebrating Black history, and in Jamaica and across the Caribbean, for celebrating reggae.
Theme: A Century of Black History CommemorationsTheme: Rhythms of Resilience
This year I’ll be writing about bothbecause2026 is a significant year. It marks one hundred years since Black history was formally named and recognized in the United States, and eighteen years of acknowledging reggae music’s impact on culture and global consciousness. It is also no coincidence that reggae legends Dennis Brown and Bob Marley were both born in February—on the 1st and 6th, respectively.
I’ll be writing about both together because they carry shared histories of Africans displaced from the Motherland. Both are rooted in demonstrations of African love, resilience, survival, and the demand for social justice. Both exist to remember out loud our story, struggle, creativity, and endurance. Both became global while remaining connected to their African roots.
And, writing of both side by side show that history is not just about books or dates, but that its a living force in rhythm, language, memory, and the ways we tell our stories across cultures and borders.
I was walking past a pole one day, when a list caught my eye. I read it aloud, quietly unsure— testing the moment in time.
A voice answered, close and clear, as breath behind my ear: “Take what you need.” I turned. No one there. I was caught in that moment, still.
The list—simple, yet profound. “Take what you need,” it said again, no pause, no hesitating. What you take for you will go outward, to mend the world’s broken pieces.
So I started with love. Then hope. Courage came next— because each day the world seems to need all three without shortage.
Love to mend the brokenhearted. Peace that quiets unrest and war. Courage strong enough to choose what’s right, no matter the cost.
As I held them, something shifted: The atmosphere leaned in, the air, the weight of things lightened.
With urgency I reached for luck, brief in its moment, manifesting its alignment with divine unfolding.
Money—I took with caution, knowing its seductive power to destroy. To be used not for excess, but to level the ground: no empty hands, no divided lives, only dignity in our humanity shared.
And passion— I grabbed with fervor, that fire to keep us faithful to destiny, our purposeful calling fulfilling.
Happiness was last on the list. But I left it right there, for it was already in abundance I could see it everywhere— falling like light, changing us all.
Oh what a dream! Oh could this be? “Take what you need”— a list for all the world to heal.
Timing really is everything. My trip to Jamaica aligned with one of the island’s longest and most enduring stories of freedom, resistance, self-determination, and cultural resilience—the story of the Maroons.
The original Maroons were a mix of indigenous Taínos and Africans brought to Jamaica in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries who resisted British enslavement and established independent communities deep in the rugged mountainous interior known as the Cockpit Country.
On January 6, 2026 I had the privilege of attending the 288th annual celebration of the Maroons of Accompong.
The story behind the Accompong celebration stretches back nearly three centuries to the end of the First Maroon War.
The day commemorates both the birth of the Maroon leader Kojo (Cudjoe) and his victory over the British, which led to the signing of the 1739 Peace Treaty. That treaty formally recognized Maroon freedom, granted land and self-governance, and laid the foundation for an autonomy that is still honored today.
The road to Accompong took us through small rural farming towns and villages, many shaped during the plantation era. Roads precariously carved into mountainsides—with deep precipices on one side—kept my foot planted on an imaginary brake on the passenger side, while the driver calmly assured us he knew these roads well enough to get us there safely.
Accompong is in St. Elizabeth Parish. The community sits approximately 1,400–1,500 feet above sea level, surrounded by steep limestone hills and dense forest—terrain that once provided natural protection for Maroon resistance fighters.
The Parish was severely impacted by Hurricane Melissa. The damage is still visible in both nature and infrastructure. Known as Jamaica’s breadbasket, St. Elizabeth contributes a significant share of domestic food output. The effects of Melissa’s destruction will be felt here and across the Island for years to come.
Still, the hurricane could not interrupt 288 years of commemoration. Even as rain fell, the Maroons, under the leadership of Chief Richard Currie, carried on.
As I arrived, the sound of the Abeng horn—a cow horn once used to signal danger and communicate across the mountains—rang out, calling the Maroons to assemble.
We made our way to the Kindah Tree—Kindah meaning “one family.”Once a massive mango tree that spread its canopy wide to shelter gatherings from the sun, it now stands reduced to less than half its size after Hurricane Melissa’s winds.
Chief Currie addressed the gathering with no script, speaking plainly about peace, autonomy, and the responsibility to keep Maroon culture alive, not simply remembered.
Drummers, singers, and dancers gathered for ritual. Attendees sat on rocks likely used by Maroon warriors centuries ago—places where strategies were planned against the British or victories quietly celebrated.
Though as visitors we looked on, this was no performance, no spectacle—only purpose. Sound and movement drawing people into a shared memory. And for me, standing there alongside two of Jamaica’s leading historians who offered history lessons in real time, the past felt close and conversational.
Later, the Maroons descended to the old town to honor their ancestors with offerings of freshly cooked food. This part of the observance is reserved for Maroons only, and the boundary is deeply respected.
Attendance was lighter this year due to the storm’s aftermath, but those of us who were present witnessed ancestral rituals, drumming, dance, and storytelling—core expressions of the Maroon legacy.
For a first-time witness, nothing about the day felt like reenactment. In the movement of bodies, the rhythm of drums, the blare of the Abeng, and the unfiltered words of the Chief, I saw pride, reflection, and remembrance moving together. I felt humbled to witness it.
The drums still beat. The Abeng still calls. The people still gather.
Ever wondered what it’s like at a Maroon celebration? It’s not history on display. It’s continuity. Accompong remains freedom practiced—resilient, rooted, and self-defined.
Monument close to entrance of the town reads: HOMAGE TO THE HERO Kojo or Cudjoe is regarded as one of the great resistance leaders against the military-plantation governments which followed the English conquest of 1655. This town of Accompong grew out of a fortified Maroon outpost established about the commencement of the 18th century during the First Maroon War. The town was established by Accompong at the direction of his brother Kojo. The war continued for nearly 50 years. Finally the English asked for peace. On March 1, 1739, a treaty was signed bringing the First Maroon War to an end. Kojo died at over 90. Jamaica National Trust Commission
Have you ever wanted to express a deep feeling and standard English words just weren’t enough?
Take njabulo — from isiZulu and also used in isiXhosa — it names a joy so full it spills over. The kind that rises from deep inside and radiates outward, touching everyone in its path.
Or, have you had those moments when language needed stretching?
In Jamaica, we play with the English language to say more, to create words that carry weight. For instance, apprecilove—instead of appreciate—to express a level of gratitude rooted in care, affection, and presence, not mere politeness.
I start here because this piece is an expression of njabulo and of apprecilove — written for the friends who held me while I came home to support hurricane relief in Jamaica. (You can read that piece here.)
I came for three weeks to volunteer in communities affected by the hurricane. I was able to do that freely because friends stepped in without hesitation. When I said, “mi need a place fi cotch” (I need somewhere to stay), the response was immediate: “Yeah man, come.”
They opened their homes. Offered beds. Shared meals. Made space for rest between long days. One friend gave me a base — a place to store suitcases packed with supplies as I moved from parish to parish. Another offered her Airbnb so I could pause, breathe, and reset. In that small window of reprieve I had a few days to walk on sand soft as clouds under my feet and swim in water as clear as glass—Jamaica still knows how to restore!
Photo taken by me
Their generosity removed every practical barrier and let me focus on supporting. But more than that, it deepened our bonds. In the middle of relief efforts, shared tables and quiet conversations became part of the healing too. Their care didn’t just sustain, it strengthened our connection and affirmed the JamaiCAN-do spirit in the most personal way.
In apprecilove Open doors, steady friendships Thanks that run deep still
When next you plan to visit Jamaica and Ocho Rios (in beautiful St Ann Parish) is on your itinerary, check out this sweet spot—click HERE—the Airbnb with a most stunning view and easy access to beaches that feels like a glimpse of heaven.
Photos taken by me while enjoying this stunning view at the Airbnb
In my article Holding Change & Loss I promised to return with more writing and on-the-ground updates from being in Jamaica.
You’ll recall, on October 28, 2025, Hurricane Melissa — a catastrophic Category 5 hurricane with sustained winds around 185 mph (295 km/h) — made historic landfall near Jamaica’s southwest coast. At the time, every major news outlet carried images and stories of devastation; now the world has moved on, but the work of recovery is just beginning and sustained attention, accountability, and action are essential.
With that in mind, I made it to Jamaica. I wanted to be here sooner, but the reality is this: the country will be in recovery for a long time. So arriving now still feels right — not too late.
If you’ve read my other posts about Jamaica, you know how heightened the anticipation of returning home always is for me. I’m always on the lookout for that first stretch of green and coastline which always settles something in me. This time I started filming earlier than usual — not just the landing, but the first sight of land itself.
When the wheels touched down, the usual clapping broke out — the applause of gratitude. Then the flight attendant invited a louder one. We obliged. It felt earned. My lips spoke the sentiments of my heart: “Me reach home!”
But this trip wasn’t just about returning home. It was about the work on the ground, and seeing what’s real beyond the headlines.
In Kingston it’s possible to feel like all is well. That illusion didn’t last long. On the drives west the story changed. There were more than 170 communities severely impacted in the 6 parishes that felt the brunt of the storm. I went to three of them: St. Elizabeth, Trelawny and Hanover.
From a distance, you’d miss the damage.
But, the reminders came fast. Downed light poles. Roofless houses, churches, schools, hospitals, infirmaries. Roads riddled with potholes that are now more like craters. The storm’s imprint cuts clearly through the green — twisted sheets of zincs wrapped around tress so tightly as if that was their natural home and trees precariously leaned to one side, an indication of the effects of sustained winds — all a physical reminder of what western Jamaica endured.
As hills and mountains passed by, what was most evident is that nature was already healing itself.
People tell me that the fresh greenery masks the havoc that stripped trees of bark and leaves and left slopes bare and brown.
What stood out just as much was the response.
People are already helping themselves and each other. Schools shifted to tents. Makeshift repairs are everywhere — zincs repurposed, tarpaulin stretched taut across roofs so that the landscape is dotted with blue. I said it out loud, and the CEO of the foundation I’m volunteering with agreed: she said soon after the hurricane, people were snatching zincs from wherever the wind had blown them to use to protect their homes.
In talking with people, amid the horror of having lived through Hurricane Melissa, what consistently emerged were stories of neighbors rallying around one another. In one case, someone gave a building to a shopkeeper who lost her entire business so she could start again. No waiting. No dramatics. Just movement. That’s the JamaiCAN spirit in action.
Hanover took us further into the hinterland. The drive was painstakingly slow. The hurricane had worsened the roads so severely and one shorter route was still submerged, appearing more like a dam from our view above. Our driver navigated potholes like a minefield as we followed a minivan bobbing and weaving its way through, carrying the more than 200 care packages we were to distribute to families as well as supplies for several small enterprises.
The needs are wide — from safe roofing materials and school supplies to infrastructure support, equipment for small businesses, and psychosocial care.
I chose to focus on schools and female-headed small enterprises, supporting both education and livelihoods while investing in people’s capacity and dignity. Based on advocacy efforts I was able to assist schools with books and, in one case, a tent mobilized through UNICEF that now serves as a gathering space after the school’s roof was completely ripped off. With electricity still not restored, the solar-powered lanterns and power banks were well received.
I was grateful to also be able to speak with people, offering a listening ear and psychological support. One that stood out was a single mother of three children in school who lost her home and everything in it. The only structure still standing is her small shop. Her shop served as a community meeting point—aptly called the “Hilltop Chill Spot”.
In fact, while World Central Kitchen was operating in the area, her shop served as the site where more than 250 meals were prepared and distributed each day. Now that WCK has moved on, the shop has the potential to continue as a community support hub with the right backing. Being part of the shift that allowed her — and another female shop owner — to look forward rather than backward was a privilege. Watching a flicker of hope brighten as practical support came into view is why getting here mattered. Seeing it firsthand matters.
But this isn’t just about Jamaica.
Hurricane Melissa joins a litany of climate-intensified storms that hit Small Island Developing States like ours with disproportionate force. These nations contribute the least to global emissions, yet face more frequent and severe hurricanes, rising seas, and shifting weather patterns that threaten agriculture, infrastructure, culture, and heritage—from livelihoods to historic sites and community roots. SIDS like Jamaica are on the front lines of this global challenge.
Cultural loss, heritage destruction, and community displacement are climate impacts that demand global responsibility. This isn’t a local issue — it’s an issue of climate justice.
Recovery will be long-term, and preparedness alone isn’t enough.
Infrastructural change is needed to build back not just what was lost, but what’s stronger, more resilient, and more equitable. This means supporting micro- and small enterprises — including those owned by women — to rebuild better and more sustainably. It also includes reskilling people in modern farming technologies, AI-driven resilience tools, construction practices that anticipate future climate realities, and ensuring meaningful community engagement at all stages.
Moving around the country, seeing firsthand and speaking with fellow Jamaicans, the national pledge kept coming back to mind and it stopped being just words. The pledge begins with the words “Before God and all mankind,” followed by lines expressing dedication of heart, mind, and body to the service of fellow citizens. Specifically:
Raised on this pledge, Jamaicans embody it. I saw it in action — a people committed to helping one another, rebuilding together.
This article is not to imply that Jamaica isn’t carrying damage, but to show that it also carries resolve.
Jamaicans are resilient, yes, but resilience should not be mistaken for self-sufficiency. They are already rebuilding, but doing so with the same materials and methods risks repeating destruction. Resilience should be met with resources, systems, and sustained commitment — supporting communities, schools, churches and micro- and small enterprises, especially those led by women, to rebuild stronger and more sustainably. Small shops are often run by women and are the heartbeat of their communities: they provide income, social support, and gathering spaces, and their recovery is central to restoring both livelihoods and local life.
I’m here. I listened. I watched. I learned.
Being here allowed me to hold space for what was lost, to learn from what’s being rebuilt, and to bear witness to a country that refuses to yield — a people whose strength is matched only by their resolve to rise again.
If you’re able to support Jamaica’s recovery, the government has set up a site to coordinate all support coming to our beautiful island. We are grateful for all the countries, organizations, individuals, charities etc. that have come to our aid. We’re eternally grateful.
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. didn’t choose comfort. He chose the slow, costly work of justice, knowing resistance would be fierce and progress uneven. He understood that intimidation and discrimination aren’t accidents—they’re tools meant to diminish resolve. This explains why his response was to be persistent.
Honoring Dr. King means resisting the urge to romanticize the past and instead committing to the unfinished work in front of us—justice, equity and equality!
The word I chose as my ‘north star’ for 2025 was HOPE. Little did I know that the shifts in the global health architecture would test what I thought hope meant.
Hope showed up as restraint, as holding ground when the ground was shifting.
Budgets shrank, systems cracked, and innovation was rebranded as survival. Gender equality was not celebrated; it was defended. Holding the line became the work. And climate shocks made this uneven—hitting small islands hardest: livelihoods washed away, unpaid care multiplied, choices narrowed. Still, the line held.
We learned that keeping the door for a clinic from closing can be as hard as opening one. Partners asked what was new, and the truest answer felt almost defiant: we stayed. We protected what women and girls already fought for. We held the line—not because it was easy or visible, but because retreat would cost too much. That’s where hope lived—in the dogged refusal to undo progress, in the daily choice to guard sexual reproductive health and rights when attention moved elsewhere.
This was not loud hope. It was working hope. Throughout 2025 hope carried on as a quiet expectation that progress, though slowed, was still possible.
And, as we stand on the cusp of 2026—for gender equality, for sexual and reproductive health and rights, for bodily autonomy and dignity; from conflict-affected and climate-exposed communities to the frontlines where women’s bodies remain contested terrain:
Let hope stand its ground Without banners or applause Possibility
2026 All Rights Reserved Photo by Absalom Robinson on Pexels.com
At the beginning of this new year, I reflected on how that word shaped this blog over the past year—because what I write here is always shaped by the world around me and the one within me. From this reflection I came to see how hope was threaded through the themes of the blog—life, relationships, nature, inner growth, and resilience:
1. Personal voice as witness
This blog exists as a platform to speak my truth—to give voice to what I observe and experience. That choice in 2025 was a metaphor for hope: not loud, but intentional and present.
2. Creative expression as survival
Over the year I saw that creativity was less about expression and more about survival—a way to stay present when the days felt heavy and the world unsteady. And, hope appeared throughout the posts almost as writing itself—as a way to endure, to make sense of the disruptions and shifts of 2025.
3. Nature as mirror
In several posts I reflected on what nature kept teaching me—that hope is not urgency, but patience. Rain arrived without apology. Gardens grew on their own timelines. Slow seasons lingered. Quiet days endured. And I captured these shifts in poetry and prose.
4. Resilience in real life
Through poems like “Jamaica Strong” and “A Prayer for Jamaica,” I shared about the devastation of Hurricane Melissa on Jamaica in ways that moved beyond documenting an event. My poems spoke to the emotional toll carried by a nation and its diaspora. They embodied endurance, rebuilding, but more so hope rooted in community and persistence after loss.
5. Inner work as outer change
Reflections captured in poems like “Your Future Is Starving For You” and “Echoes of A Silent City” I was able to show how internal transformation and curiosity are acts of hope—belief in growth even when circumstances stagnate.
6. Memory and renewal
Posts about memory (i.e. “The Taste of Memory” and rest (i.e. “Travelogue: La Quinta, A Retreat for the Soul”) spoke to hope as reconnection to self, to God, to what lasts beyond chaos.
7. Relationship themes
In posts after posts I realize that I repeatedly go to love, timing, silence, and intimacy to inform my work. In 2025 these became markers of hope lived between humans—not in abstraction, but as intentional interpersonal choices.
8. Prayer and spiritual grounding
Prayer has always been my mainstay. So undoubtedly there’d be prayer-centered posts. These posts placed hope in the spiritual—trust, surrender, praise—not as fantasy but as anchor when the world felt unstable.
In looking back on the posts of 2025, one thing became clear: hope was not written to promise ease. It was written to ask for attention. That may not have been my intention, but I showed up again and again—pen in hand, heart open—trusting that small acts of meaning still mattered.
Now we are in a new year. My word for 2026 is FORGET. It comes from the first verse I read in the Bible (using the App YouVersion) on the first day of the year; and, it also happens to be one of my favorite verses:
Happy New Year, WordPress fam!
Here’s praying for a year that brings newness to the places of your life where you need to forget the former things that stole your joy.
There is one resolution that will be worth keeping
The gift to ourselves first then to others bestowing
Dedicate the new year to loving ourselves more
Seizing the 365 opportunities the New Year has in store
From my heart to yours sending joy and cheer
For a happy and love-filled New Year!
2025 All Rights Reserved
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Beforeword: In the wake of Hurricane Melissa, as Jamaica grieves and rebuilds, a renewed sense of patriotism has emerged. In moments of devastation, we are often drawn back to the strength that has carried the island through its darkest hours. It is in this spirit of reflection that I return to the story of Samuel Sharpe and the Christmas Rebellion of 1831.
Guided by faith and influenced by the growing abolitionist movement, Sharpe—a Baptist deacon—organized what was to be a peaceful strike on Christmas Day, demanding freedom and fair wages. At the time, Jamaica essentially functioned as a single vast plantation under British rule, sustained by the labor of an enslaved majority. What began as nonviolent resistance soon ignited into the largest slave rebellion in the British West Indies—an uprising born of courage, faith, and an unyielding demand for freedom—the same resilient spirit that continues to drive Jamaica to rebuild, endure, and rise again in the aftermath of Hurricane Melissa.
A Dectina Refrain
When Sam Sharpe Rose that day In Jamaica Revolution birthed Christmas strike sought wages Plantations burned, peace was lost Sixty thousand enslaved rose—armed Hanged, yet named National hero When Sam Sharpe rose that day in Jamaica
Beforeword: This spoken-word tribute celebrates the life and legacy of Jimmy Cliff, one of Jamaica’s most iconic voices. As a cento, it is crafted entirely from Cliff’s own lyrics but stitched together as both a celebration of his life and a rallying cry for hope and resilience for Jamaica’s recovery from Hurricane Melissa.
I can see clearly now the rain is gone, I can see all obstacles in my way. The dark clouds that had me blind, they’re gone I feel the sun returning to shine.
Take a look at the world, See the state it’s in today. I am sure you’ll agree We all could make it a better way, If we put our love together.
Man and woman, girl and boy, Let us try to give a helping hand— Lift each other up. Between the day you’re born and when you die, They never seem to hear even your cry. I’d rather be a free man in my grave, Than living as a puppet or a slave. The bigger they come, the harder they fall, one and all.
We still have—
Many rivers to cross, When you can’t seem to find the way over, Keep moving, as you travel along, your will keeps you alive
For— You can get it if you really want, If you try, try and try, try and try. You’ll succeed at last.
Afterword: I used 5 of his most popular and “truth-to-power” songs:
I Can See Clearly Now — A bright, optimistic anthem about overcoming obstacles and finally seeing hope after hard times.
The Harder They Come — A gritty, defiant song about struggle, resistance, and standing your ground against oppression. The movie, by the same name, brought reggae beyond Jamaica to a global audience.
Many Rivers to Cross — A deeply soulful reflection on hardship, loneliness, and the long journey toward freedom and peace.
You Can Get It If You Really Want — An encouraging, motivational tune about perseverance and believing in yourself despite setbacks.
Wonderful World, Beautiful People — A joyful celebration of love, unity, and the beauty of humanity set to infectious reggae grooves.
Rest in Peace & Power Jimmy Cliff. May your soul cross the river to its resting place.
2025 All Rights Reserved Designed with Canva Images by Pexels
There is a quiet, stubborn force that runs through the blood of Jamaicans.
It shows up in how we speak, move, and survive. It lives right there in the word JamaiCAN — a declaration, not a suggestion: we are a people wired for CAN.
1988, four Jamaican men — Dudley Stokes, Devon Harris, Michael White, and Freddy Powell — took on the Winter Olympics in Calgary, Canada. Temperatures hovered around 14 °F (–10 °C), far colder than their tropical bodies were built for. Their bobsleigh crashed. They did not medal. But they stood. They walked off that ice and in true JamaiCAN spirit, they finished.
That story became the 1993 film “Cool Runnings”. Its theme song, Jimmy Cliff’s cover of “I Can See Clearly Now”, became the anthem of saying “yes” when the world expected “no”.
Decades later, on November 25, 2025, one day after Jimmy Cliff’s passing (may his soul Rest In Peace), the Jamaican 4-man bobsleigh team — Shane Pitter, Junior Harris, Andrae Dacres, and Tyquendo Tracey — made history!! They captured gold at an international bobsleigh competition in Whistler, Canada — Jamaica’s first.
I wonder if, as they hurtled down that icy track, they thought of home — battered and bruised from Hurricane Melissa?
I wonder if they vowed — not by kissing an egg like depicted in “Cool Runnings” — but on the lives of every Jamaican that this would be the year, this must be the time?
Whatever drove them, they delivered a victory when our country most needed a boost.
More than skill, dedication and precision was that indomitable yes we CAN spirit that took men from a tropical warm island onto an ice-cold track. And it is that same yes we CAN spirit that will rebuild Jamaica—one house, one school, one road at a time and keep hope alive.
Jimmy Cliff’s song, now part of our history, remains with us to remind us:
I can see clearly now the rain is gone. It’s gonna be a bright sunshiny day.
This is who we are. This is what we do. We CAN rise again! We are JamaiCAN!
SUPPORT JAMAICA REBUILD
If you’re able to support Jamaica’s recovery, the government has set up a site to coordinate all support coming to our beautiful island. We are grateful for all the countries, organizations, individuals, charities etc. that have come to our aid. We’re eternally grateful.
I’ve been quiet here, not from lack of words, but because life shifted fast and hard. I recently relocated to Kenya for work — a major transition that has demanded my full attention, mind, and energy.
At the same time, my heart has been anchored back home, as I watched the devastation of Hurricane Melissa unfold across Jamaica. Many of you have shared kind words to the posts I managed to get out on the situation in Jamaica. Again, THANK YOU!
Holding both realities at once has been heavy. The emotional toll of uprooting, starting over in a new country, and witnessing so much loss in a place that shaped me has been A LOT. Some days I’ve felt stretched thin between responsibility and grief, between staying strong and needing rest.
I’ve taken this brief pause from this online space to steady myself and make space to process it all. Writing is never far from me, even when I’m quiet, and I’ll be back here soon with new stories, new reflections, and the same commitment to honesty and hope. I’ve got so much to share including from being on the ground in Jamaica, watch this space!
Thank you for your prayers and your steady presence here.
Quiet roots take hold Storms pass, tired hearts still rise Rest, to bloom again
If you’re able to support Jamaica’s recovery, the government has set up a site to coordinate all support coming to our beautiful island. We are grateful for all the countries, organizations, individuals, charities etc. that have come to our aid. We’re eternally grateful.
October 28, 2025, Melissa roll een— category 5 a true Goliath, full a noise an’ might breeze a tear dun tree sea a climb ova hill she come wid a hundred-eighty-five mile a hour win’ pressure low like she mean fi mash up everyting
But she never know bout Jah-mek-yah dat Ja-mai-ca is more dan a place pan a map it’s a pulse, a community, a people weh she couldn’t stop an when she roar she wake up all a wi worldwide from Bronx to London tide
She never know wi bigga dan har storm— dat when wi unite, wi turn grief inna form an’ show di worl’ weh it really mean to be JamaiCAN
Wi aguh pick up di piece dem— bit by bit, brick by brick fram yard to lane, from mountain to sea Melissa wake up all a we an’ we aguh move togedda like one family
From di likkle one dem a sweep di yard to di elder a patch roof wid nail an’ hamma every han’ pon deck every heart a beat— yeh man, wi still deh yah
Di breeze try fi ben’ wi di rain nuh try fi drown wi but wi—wi aguh build back betta from storm an’ rain wi aguh sing again louda dan di soun’ a pain but resilience nuh mean we fi walk alone so sah even di mightiest tree need support jus’ like we
So yeh, wi proud— but pride cyan pour concrete Yeh, wi strong— but strent still need sleep fe keep Even tallawah need a han’ fi lif’ when troubles come heavy an’ penetrate deep
Wi likkle—but wi tallawah Wi batta—but wi beautiful still Wi shaken—but wi nuh bruk Wi hurt—but wi a guh ‘eal
Fram Black River to deep inna St. James Parish wi aguh rise again like mawnin’ sun pan Blue Mountain hill, we cherish wi not jus’ survivin’, but wi revivin’— wid one heart, one love, one will
So when di worl’ look pon wi mek we tell dem clear an’ true fram de diaspora to de yawd crew T’ough we batta an’ bruise We are JamaiCAN— so we CAN rise again Stronga. Betta. Jamaica!💚🖤💛
Afterword: Why I Write in Patois
I was intentional in using patois to write this tribute poem because some pain refuses translation. The pain of watching the land that shaped you being whipped out of shape by forces beyond human control can’t live comfortably in borrowed language. It has to be spoken in the tongue that raised you, the voice that knows your cadence, your memory, your silence.
Patois understands my inner being. It carries the weight, the humor, the ache, the defiance. It translates not just what happened, but how it felt. It connects me to every other Jamaican—whether in the diaspora or at home—as we collectively felt the trauma inflicted on our homeland and our people. When I speak in patois, I am not performing culture — I am returning home. To my people. To my roots. To the land that made me.
Some grief is only fluent in the language of home.
SUPPORT JAMAICA REBUILD
If you’re able to support Jamaica’s recovery, the government has set up a site to coordinate all support coming to our beautiful island. We are grateful for all the countries, organizations, individuals, charities etc. that have come to our aid. We’re eternally grateful.
🇯🇲 Now the storm has passed, leaving behind a trail of devastation unlike anything Jamaica has seen in decades.
🇯🇲 Over the past three days, I’ve ridden waves of emotion watching the destruction of my homeland unfold in real time.
🇯🇲 There’s something about Jamaica—something magnetic—that makes even those not born there feel an unexplainable pull to it, a sense of home. Many have reached out to check in, and that solidarity has meant a great deal.
🇯🇲 What we’re experiencing is a collective trauma—felt both on the island and across the diaspora. Yet amid the heartbreak, what stands out most is the indomitable spirit of Jamaicans: people with machetes and chainsaws clearing fallen trees so aid can reach cut-off communities; others pushing ambulances through mud where roads no longer exist, determined that care be delivered.
🇯🇲 As I witness these acts of courage and compassion, I hear the first part of our National Pledge echoing:
🇯🇲 That is Jamaica—tallawah*, unbreakable, with grit and grace in equal measure. We are moving through grief and loss, we are doing so together, yet even the strongest hearts need lifting. Strength without support is not sustainable. And, the burden of recovery cannot rest solely on the shoulders of those who are suffering.
🇯🇲 For those asking how to help—every possible humanitarian need exists right now. Follow your heart in giving, but give responsibly. Make sure your support flows through credible channels that truly reach those most in need (the government of Jamaica established a site to ensure coordination of support: https://supportjamaica.gov.jm).
🇯🇲 Through it all, we will rise and rebuild—Jamaica strong.
🇯🇲 To my fellow Jamaicans and friends of Jamaica—may we keep showing up for each other, wherever we are in the world.
Credit: Jamaica Observer
*Tallawah is a Jamaican Patois word that means strong, fearless, or strong-willed, and it’s often used to describe someone who is not to be underestimated. It captures a sense of resilience and power, especially when used in the proverb “Wi likkle but wi tallawah”, which means “We are small, but we are strong.”
SUPPORT JAMAICA REBUILD
If you’re able to support Jamaica’s recovery, the government has set up a site to coordinate all support coming to our beautiful island. We are grateful for all the countries, organizations, individuals, charities etc. that have come to our aid. We’re eternally grateful.
Beforeword: Hurricane Melissa is inching toward Jamaica. Jamaica often feels larger than life — bold in color, rich in sound, unbreakable in spirit. But right now our island feels really really small. Vulnerable. Exposed beneath the vast expanse of this storm, a reminder just how fragile we are, floating out here in the Caribbean Sea. Climate change has turned the balance we once took for granted into these unprecedented storms. This is my prayer — for Jamaica, for our people — it’s linked to our national anthem. It’s also a prayer for the planet we all share.
Eternal Father, bless our land, Guard us firmly with Thy hand — From the storm, protect this night, Respond to our cry with all Thy might. Melissa creeps across the deep, Slow and heavy — no rest, no sleep.
Our little island, tallawah, proud, Feels small beneath this swelling cloud. Swirling spirals, fierce and loud, Thunder speaks — the heavens bowed. O God of storm and stillness, heed, Cover our homes, our lives—indeed.
Keep us free from evil powers, Be our light through these dark hours. We still believe in mercy’s flame, We call upon Your holy name. No roof can stand this raging test, No road can outrun so much of rain’s unrest. And if the power fails us at night, We’ll hum our hope by candlelight.
For we’ve seen dawn break disaster’s chain, From wild Gilbert to Ivan’s reign. We’ve seen joy rise after pain — O spare us, Lord, from loss again. Let mercy move swifter than storm’s form, Let peace command winds to deform.
And when the tempest’s fury’s through, Let rainbows tell what You can do: You kept us — a symbol like Noah’s dove, As You always do — Jah-mek-yah, land we love.
Beforeword: You may be familiar with the Bible story of a young shepherd boy, David, who defeated a mighty giant, Goliath, with nothing more than a sling and a stone. I chose that story as the inspiration for a children’s lesson I was asked to teach at church about bullying. To bring it to life, I wrote a poem—a playful riff on one of my earlier pieces, “That’s It, I’m Telling Jesus”. The kids all joined in by shouting the refrain: “That’s it, I’m telling Jesus”.
He towered over me that day, Stomping so loud the earth did sway. He mocked my God, he mocked my song— That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
He shouted and laughed, then turned away, Like bullies do when they have their way. I felt so small, for I was just a boy, But I knew God had a plan, oh joy! That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
He scared the people all around, Even the king went and hid his crown. But God gives courage to see things through— That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
I gathered my stones, smooth and bright, They’d be my shield today, that’s right! Pray and trust, then seize the day That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
I swung my sling round and round, It made a swishy, twirly sound. But just before I let it fly, He called me a shepherd boy—oh my! It made me mad, so very, very mad— That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
I twirled my sling again and again, Then let it go with all my strength. The stone flew fast, straight through the air, AND GUESS WHAT? It hit him here!
Right between his beady eyes it land He fell with a thud by God’s mighty hand! The victory was not mine, I must give thanks— That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
Afterword: David chose smooth stones for the task at hand. We can choose smooth stone words filled with peace, love, joy, hopewhen we come up against our giants (whatever forms they may be).
Beforeword: I came across this young poet—Cherry Paul Ede’s—powerful rendition of Fragile Dogubo’s poem: “Gucci Cross” which I first posted in 2022. Reposting it now with the lyrics:
“I don’t know who needs to hear this, but Jesus was not crucified on a Gucci cross. He didn’t have on a crown of Versace thorns or Nike shoes on his feet when the nails pierced through. There was nothing bougie about Calvary. That old raggedy wooden cross wasn’t even befitting to hold the carpenter’s son, but there our God hung, held on by His love for us, by His love for all.
It wasn’t the red carpet affair for your favorite celebs. Matter of fact, the only paparazzi was an angry mob as a crowd of witnesses. Once upon a time, I thought the crucifixion was like the Grammys, an award show only for a self-righteous view. But the Bible didn’t mention an ovation – only wrongful accusation, hate speech and boos from fools. The King of Glory came through.
Jesus “felt every nail, felt every whiplash, every rib crack. It was for you that He embraced the pain.
Jesus was placed in the tomb, but then He showed up on the third day like, ‘I’m good, and you are, too’ — one with the Father, my blood makes you brand new. So what other proof do you need that God loves you?
So when the serpent comes to the ring – hissing, whispering deceitful accusations speaking in passive tongues. This is clapback season. Declare: fully my sins are forgiven.
I do not know who needs to hear this, but Jesus was not crucified on the Gucci cross. It doesn’t matter your age, gender, race or net worth – only that you have been made holy.”
I’m grateful for the old rugged cross and the blood that saves!
Five years anniversary is symbolized by wood—the symbol of endurance, strength, and growth. When I began this blog, the world was shut down, literally, by COVID. In the stillness, I reached for what I knew best—writing—words became a refuge, a way to shape uncertainty into meaning. What started as a tender seedling has taken root, stretching upward and outward. Each post is a ring in the grain, each shared reflection a fruit carrying stories reflecting the world around me, each reader a branch that gave life to the tree. Looking back, I see how writing not only sustained me but connected me to others—you dear readers—reminders that bonds can be formed even in silence, and friendships forged even through words.
Blogiversary— five years of growth and beauty here’s to words, to us
Update: Thanks to Dagmara and the editorial team at Spillwords for publishing this piece. Please drop by and show some love with a 👍🏾❤️ or comment. Thanks 🙏🏽
This piece of mint upon my tongue, Cool and sharp, a memory clung. Refreshing tea, from pot, flow like song A feeling I had forgotten for far too long
Steam curls upward, time bends in its sway, Suddenly I’m taken back to Montego Bay. Rain ra-ta-tat on grandma’s kitchen zinc roof Her voice is a calm to thunder—a lullaby, my living truth.
“Endure the storm, my child, you’ll find your way— After the darkest nights, there’ll come brighter days.” While mint’s fragrance floats effortlessly, A healing balm for all that ails me.
Now, in this city—a jungle of concrete Where busyness masks life, blanketed in conceit The mint revives me—channeling memories of choice, Like grandma’s kitchen and her soothing voice.
And when the world around me feels heavy, unkind, That taste of mint reminds me what I must find: Strength that lingers, roots that last, A living hope connecting future and past.
Afterword: This piece written for Spillwords prompt: to create a piece where a character experiences a vivid, forgotten memory triggered by a specific flavor (e.g., burnt sugar, sour lemons, or something unusual). Weave the memory into their present-day conflict.
stones listening, ancient and still at the summit, trees embracing pain inked on paper, jagged edges scatter, confessions releasing like small birds from my hands mountain listens, no judgment—only air receiving what no longer serves me I breathe, heart restored held by something vaster than fear ENOUGH cares left hanging in the thin mountain air
Dawn nature serenades chirping birds, morning breezes eyes flutter open
David whiskers quiver in the air fangs clack toward windowpane
Dawn sunbeam on the sill paw lifts, curiosity stirs, reaching for light
David hands unclench bedside machines hum lashes twitch
Dawn curtains billowing softly like a prayer on the wind
David radio crackles Bon Jovi drifts through static song becomes the sky
Afterword: My first rengay!!! Thanks David for this beautiful collaboration! The co-creating process was flawless and flowed seamlessly—two minds working in synchronicity to create a single piece of art!!!!
Rain is precious Not just water— When meted out in the right measures, a treasure
I remember, as a child The first few drops on parched ground drinking like it had been waiting for forever and then—steam Lifting up, escaping And the smell? It was like earth opened her chest and breathed out life We’d dig in dirt in child-like abandon Mash it between our fingers Make mud pies Pies served to makeshift dolls
It was magic to my little girl mind
But night rain? Oh, that was a whole different vibe. When the drops hit zinc— rat-a-tat lullaby rising just above silence Better than any pill It lulled you into peace A deep sleep of sweetest dreams
I miss that— Those simple days when rain was enough. Enough to make magic. Enough to make rest. Enough to make me believe.
Afterword: This piece grew out of a comment I shared in response to a reader on an earlier post, which also touched on the theme of rain. My comment was:
When you’re standing on the edge of a major life change, it’s natural to feel a mix of excitement and anxiety. And when that change involves relocating to a new country? The stakes feel even higher.
I’ve learned that the best way to meet these moments is to pause, breathe, and deliberately make space for wellness. For me, that space opened up at La Quinta Resort & Club in Palm Springs (California)—a desert oasis that has been welcoming guests for nearly 100 years.
Palm Springs is already renowned as a wellness destination, with spas that rank among the best in the nation. But when a friend raved about her time at La Quinta, I knew I had to experience it for myself. It felt serendipitous, almost like a nudge from the universe saying: go, restore, and prepare for what’s ahead. And, I’m so glad I obliged.
From the moment I checked in, the service was impeccable. I was greeted by the assistant front office manager—who, to my delight, is Jamaican. (It’s true what they say: wherever in the world you go, you’re bound to find a Jamaican!) That warm welcome set the tone for the days to come.
I began my retreat with a symbolic act of release.
Taking the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway up more than 8,500 feet to the top of Mount San Jacinto, I carried with me the issues I wanted to let go of before stepping into a new chapter of life. With intentionality as my aim, I wrote them down on paper, tore it up at the mountaintop, whispered a prayer, and left it all behind—physically, mentally, spiritually.
There, at one of California’s highest points, I felt lighter, freer, ready for the days ahead.
Before my trip, I had been reading “Self-Compassion: The Proven Power of Being Kind to Yourself” by Kristin Neff. Her words reminded me that true wellness begins not just with external rest, but with the practice of inner kindness. I worked through her exercises, learning how to soften the harsh self-talk and extend to myself the same grace I so easily give others. I carried those lessons with me into La Quinta, approaching the retreat with intentionality—choosing to treat myself gently, to honor this pause as a gift rather than a luxury.
Each morning at La Quinta started the same way: quiet contemplation on the private patio of my casita, under the shade of swaying palms, with mountains rising in the distance and desert stillness all around. In that sacred quiet, I re-centered myself, tuning in to the Creator, finding oneness before the day unfolded.
The days were a perfect blend of indulgence and restoration. Spa La Quinta more than lived up to its reputation—no wonder it ranks among America’s Top 100 Spas. I treated myself to facial, massages, and the rejuvenating Vichy shower and CBD oils that left me glowing inside and out.
Meals were another highlight of my stay. Each day began with a hearty breakfast at La Quinta, but the most unforgettable dining experience was watching the sun sink behind the mountains while dining at the Peak Restaurant. Perched high above the desert and accessible only by the aerial tram, the restaurant offers amazing views of the valley miles below. It’s no surprise that Architectural Digest recently named it #8 on its list of the World’s Best Cliffside Restaurants. Dinners at the Cliff House and at Morgan’s in the Desert, were equally memorable.
And then there was the casita itself—a private sanctuary, complete with its own pool. Of course, the property also boasts an array of larger pools scattered across the grounds, so you’re spoiled for choice whether you seek solitude or a more social swim.
La Quinta is preparing to celebrate its centennial in 2026, when a time capsule buried a century ago will finally be opened. I couldn’t help but wonder what treasures will be unearthed—what messages from the past will speak to a future generation!?
My own time there felt like uncovering a treasure, too: a reminder that rest,reflection, and renewal are the most valuable gifts we can give ourselves.
When I left La Quinta, I carried more than memories of sun-soaked days and spa bliss. I carried a sense of restoration, of readiness. The desert had done its work. I was prepared to face the new challenges of living and working in yet another country—grounded, lighter, and whole.
Beforeword: A couple weeks ago the Poet of the Week over at the Skepticskaddish introduced the Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. This collection coins new words to express emotions and experiences that once had no name in English. For the prompt, we were challenged to choose one of these words, use it as the title of our poem, and either weave the word itself into the piece or capture the essence of its meaning.
I chose énouement:
n.the bittersweetness of having arrived here in the future, finally learning the answers to how things turned out but being unable to tell your past self. Pronounced “ey-noo-mahn.”
The moment I read it, I knew exactly what I wanted to write. Still, the poem took me a couple of weeks to bring to life. My muse was heaven—of course, not a place I’ve been, but one I’ve imagined through the lens of biblical reflection. I’d say bittersweetness is not a term associated with heaven, but énouement captures the emotion of knowing I will never be able to turn back and tell my past self the fullness of what I now behold—an experience even greater than the words of Scripture managed to describe.
The streets are not just gold— they are light in motion, alive under my feet. The air breathes music. Colors sing. And Jesus— Jesus is here, looking at me like He’s been waiting since before the dawn of time for this exact moment.
This is the ending. The answer. The final piece that clicks into place and makes the whole puzzle beautiful.
Every midnight question— answered. Every prayer I thought went unheard— fulfilled. Every why— woven into Heaven’s glory.
And yet— there’s that feeling. Énouement. Not sadness— no, never sadness— but a tender ache that whispers, “If only I could tell my past self— you made it. And it’s so much more beautiful than you ever dared to dream.”
But I can’t. The past is sealed. The road is walked.
I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race. I have kept the faith. The tears are sown. And now— the crown, shining with stars, is placed on my head by the very hands of Jesus.
I’m not longing for back then— Storms carved me, fire refined me. Faith tested, more precious than gold, shines to praise, honor, glory at Christ’s appearing. The waiting taught me to want Him more than the answer. Every tear, every trial, every shadow I walked through— all of it, shaping me into the child He would crown.
No eye saw this. No ear heard it. No mind imagined it. But now— I live in it.
Énouement in heaven is joy rooted in gratitude, dancing in the arms of the Father, and knowing— He always knew the ending.
They have this perfectly imperfect thing— it never faded, not with miles, not with years.
He loves her exactly as she is— the unpolished, the unguarded, And she loves him in every corner of her soul.
Yet, still… time keeps them on opposite pages.
What will it take for the clocks to agree, for the world to hush long enough for them to gather every stolen second, stack them into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into forever.
Until then, He’ll keep loving her in the milli—between—seconds, until the day time finally says yes to innumerable minutes together.
Beforeword: Each day of my restorative retreat at the legendary La Quinta Resort began with a ritual of quiet observation. From the shaded patio of my casita, I would watch the desert morning unfold—light stretching across the Santa Rosa Mountains, breezes moving peacefully through the palms. Their tall, slender forms swaying effortlessly. These palms, I discovered, are not native to Palm Springs but distant cousins of the California fan palm, the desert’s true original. This became a kind of muse for me, inspiring this Shabbat Shalom reflection captured in a haibun (Japanese form blending prose and haiku).
In the desert of Palm Springs, two kinds of palms rise against the sky—the native California fan palm and those imported, such as the Mexican fan palm.
The native California fan palm grows only where hidden springs surface. Its beauty is not in its appearance but in its unseen roots that drink from underground waters deep beneath the surface.
On the other hand, the imported palms, though graceful and tall, survive only by the care of human hands. Their beauty is in their appearance, but it is borrowed. For, without the living springs they cannot last.
So it is with the righteous—those planted by the stream of living water, nourished in the secret place of the Most High are able to endure life’s desert heat and its winds of trial.
Our faith must be more than ornamental—it must be rooted in Christ, the fountain that never runs dry.
desert wind tested— those planted in living streams bend but do not break
Afterword: As the week turns and the Sabbath rest arrives, may these swaying palms remind us to bend so we don’t break, and to stay rooted in what is lasting.
Shabbat Shalom.
2025 All Rights Reserved Images/Video by Dawn Minott
From my vantage point in a cozy California-style casita at the iconic La Quinta Resort, encircled by the Santa Rosa Mountains, I’ve come to see how the peaks of Palm Springs transform with every angle of the sun—shifting from radiant glow to deep shadow.
Through this haiku series I trace the desert’s quiet drama from morning to dusk—I chose haiku for it’s minimalist elegance mirroring the timeless simplicity of the mountains themselves.
This marks the beginning of my Palm Springs R&R travelogue—more moments, reflections, and snapshots from this desert retreat to come.
Sunrise
Golden blush awakes, Mountains stretch from their night’s dreams, Light crowns each sharp peak.
Midday
Heat shimmers the stone, Brown ridges blaze in full glare, Stillness holds its breath.
Afternoon
Deep shadows carve lines, Desert’s art in bold contours, Sun sculpts shifting shapes.
Sunset
Blanket in amber Peaks bow in a soft embrace, Day gives way to night.
My soul glorifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has been mindful of the humble state of his servant. From now on all generations will call me blessed, for the Mighty One has done great things for me—holy is his name. His mercy extends to those who fear him, from generation to generation.
Mary’s prayer concludes this week’s “Ancient Prayers for Today’s Cares” series. Her prayer is actually a song outpouring with awe, humility, and joy. She marvels that the God of heaven has noticed her—a young, humble girl—and chosen her for His plan. Her words echo themes of God’s mercy, justice, and faithfulness, showing that she knew her story was part of a much bigger story.
What’s powerful about Mary’s prayer is how it shifts from personal gratitude to a declaration of God’s character for all generations. It’s a reminder that praise isn’t just about celebrating what God has done for us, but about proclaiming who He is for everyone.
It’s the kind of prayer that moves from the page into our own mouths.
Prayer For Today: Praise
Lord— My soul can’t stay silent— it rises, it magnifies You. My spirit comes alive because You looked at me— ordinary, yet seen.
Mighty One— You have done great things for me. Your mercy is new every morning, it stretches wide, generation to generation, never running dry.
Here I am, just one voice. Forever I will say: God saw me. God loves me. God is faithful.
So let my life sing Your name. Let my gratitude spill over until it blesses more than just me.
My prayer is not that you take them out of the world but that you protect them from the evil one. They are not of the world, even as I am not of it. Sanctify them by the truth; your word is truth… My prayer is not for them alone. I pray also for those who will believe in me through their message, that all of them may be one, Father, just as you are in me and I am in you… Then the world will know that you sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me.
Jesus prayed for me. Jesus prayed for you. Let that sink in!!
In His final hours before the cross, Jesus prayed—not for Himself alone, but for His disciples and for all future believers. His words carry the weight of eternity: a plea for protection from evil, for sanctification in truth, and for unity that reflects the oneness of the Father and the Son.
What’s remarkable is that Jesus knew the challenges His followers would face—opposition, division, temptation—yet His request was not for escape, but for strength to remain in the world as lights of truth and love.
This prayer reminds us that our faith is part of something much larger than ourselves; we are bound together across generations, cultures, and nations by the love of God.
It’s the kind of prayer that moves from the page into our own mouths.
Prayer For Today: Protection & Unity
Jesus— When You prayed that night, You saw ME! Before I ever spoke Your name, You spoke mine to the Father. I’m so grateful.
Protect me from the evil that prowls, not by pulling me out of the world, but by keeping me steady in it. Shape me by Your truth until my heart aligns its beats with Yours.
And Lord, Dismantle the walls we build to separate, Erase the lines we draw, so that love speaks louder than division ever could.
Let my life be the living testimony that the Father sent the Son, that the Son loves His own.
And Hezekiah prayed to the Lord: ‘Lord, the God of Israel … open your eyes, Lord, and see; listen to the words Sennacherib has sent to ridicule the living God…. Now, Lord our God, deliver us from his hand, so that all the kingdoms of the earth may know that you alone, Lord, are God.’”
When King Hezekiah received a threatening letter from the Assyrian king, he didn’t let fear dictate his next step—he took the letter straight into the temple and laid it before God.
His prayer teaches us to bring our threats—whether words, circumstances, or fears—directly into God’s presence. It’s a reminder that deliverance isn’t just about removing danger; it’s about making God’s name known in the process.
It’s the kind of prayer that moves from the page into our own mouths.
Prayer For Today: Deliverance
Lord— You are God over all kingdoms, all powers, all voices that rise against me.
You made the heavens and the earth; there is nothing beyond Your reach.
Hear me now. See the weight I carry, the threats that echo in my mind, the situations that mock my faith.
I lay them before You— not to tell You what You don’t already know, but to remind my own heart that You are still in control.
Deliver me, Lord. Not just so I can breathe easier, but so the watching world will know— You alone are God.
Lord, the God of heaven, the great and awesome God, who keeps his covenant of love with those who love him and keep his commandments, let your ear be attentive and your eyes open to hear the prayer your servant is praying before you day and night… Give your servant success today by granting him favor in the presence of this man.
When Nehemiah heard about the broken walls and burned gates of Jerusalem, he blended confession, remembrance of God’s promises, and a bold request for favor in his prayer as he prepared to speak to the king.
Nehemiah’s example shows us that before seeking human permission, we should seek God’s approval. His prayer asking for favor isn’t just about gaining opportunity; it’s about aligning the mission with God’s heart so that God’s hand is evident in the outcome.
It’s the kind of prayer that moves from the page into our own mouths.
Prayer For Today: Favor
God of heaven— Before I move, before I speak, I come to You first.
You see the broken places that break my heart. You hear the cries of my spirit before my lips form the words.
I confess my failings, the ways I’ve fallen short, And I lean on Your covenant love that never breaks.
Open Your ears to my prayer, and open the doors no hand can shut.
When I stand before those who hold the power to say “yes” or “no,” let their ears be open, let their hearts be softened, let their decisions tilt in the direction of Your will for me.
Grant me favor— not for my glory, but so that Your work can be done through my hands.
My heart rejoices in the Lord…. There is no one holy like the Lord; there is no one besides you; there is no Rock like our God…. He will guard the feet of his faithful servants.
Hannah’s prayer rises out of a season of deep pain—years of longing for a child, enduring misunderstanding and ridicule. When God answered her cry and gave her a son, she didn’t just rejoice quietly; she poured out her gratitude in a song of PRAYse that exalted God’s power, sovereignty, and faithfulness.
What stands out is that Hannah’s focus isn’t solely on her personal blessing. She praises God for who He is, not just for what He’s done for her. Her prayer reminds us that gratitude lifts our eyes from the gift to the Giver, turning personal victory into public worship.
It’s the kind of prayer that moves from the page into our own mouths.
Prayer For Today: Gratitude
Lord— My heart sings, not because life is perfect, but because You’ve proven Yourself faithful.
You took the ache that lived in my chest, the silent prayers only You could hear, and turned them into joy I can’t contain.
There is no one like You— no other place I can run, no other Rock I can stand on when the ground shakes beneath me.
You lift up, You bring down. You close doors, You open them wide. You write the ending before I see the beginning.
So I will boast, not in my strength, but in Your deliverance. I will praise You, not just for the gift, but for being the Giver.
My mouth will tell the story: God heard me. God helped me. God is faithful.
Have mercy on me, O God, according to your unfailing love; according to your great compassion blot out my transgressions. Wash away all my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin. Against you, you only, have I sinned and done what is evil in your sight; so you are right in your verdict and justified when you judge…. Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me.
This prayer of David is one of the most raw and honest moments in Scripture. When confronted, he didn’t hide, excuse, or downplay his sin—he brings it fully to God. His appeal isn’t based on his worthiness, but on God’s mercy, love, and compassion.
This prayer reminds us that forgiveness isn’t something we can earn; it’s a gift we receive when we come with a contrite heart. David also doesn’t stop at asking to be cleansed—he asks for transformation: a pure heart and a steadfast spirit. God’s forgiveness wipes away guilt, but His renewal changes us from the inside out.
It’s the kind of prayer that moves from the page into our own mouths.
Prayer For Today: Forgiveness
God— Have mercy on me. Not because I deserve it, but because Your love never runs out.
Wash me. Not just the surface, but the places no one sees— the thoughts I hide, the motives I wrestle with, the moments I wish I could erase.
Against You, Lord, I have fallen short. I admit it. I can’t fix myself.
So create in me what I cannot create in myself— a clean heart. Renew in me what I cannot keep on my own— a steadfast spirit.
Let forgiveness be more than a word I hear; let it be the freedom I live in.
Oh, that You would bless me indeed, and enlarge my territory, that Your hand would be with me, and that You would keep me from evil, that I may not cause pain! And God granted what he asked.
This prayer is just one verse tucked away in a long list of genealogies—you could easily miss it, but when you read it — it’s impossible to forget. Jabez, whose name means “because I bore Him in pain”, makes a bold, faith-filled request for MORE. He asked God for expansion beyond “things” to a greater sphere of influence; for God’s presence to guide and protect; and for deliverance to reverse the label placed on him so that he would not cause pain.
And perhaps the most compelling part? “And God granted his request.” A reminder that God listens, and He answers.
What makes this prayer powerful isn’t its length or eloquence—it’s the courage to ask God for more and for being gracious to others while living in the blessings.
It’s the kind of prayer that moves from the page into our own mouths.
Prayer For Today: More
Oh God, my Father— Bless me… Not in the small ways I can imagine, but in the wild, immeasurable ways only You can design.
Stretch me beyond my borders. Push back the walls of my comfort zone until my life spills into territories I never thought I could walk, places my feet have never dared to tread.
Let Your hand be heavy on me— guiding, covering, steadying my steps when the ground feels like it’s breaking beneath me.
Keep me from harm, Lord. Not just the harm I can see coming but the hidden snares, the silent traps, the pain that would leave scars deeper than skin.
Let my story be a testimony of love, not a tale of wounds I caused.
Oh God, my Father— do this, and I will know it wasn’t luck, it wasn’t chance, it was You.
And like You did before, grant me my request. Not because I am worthy, but because You are faithful.
I’ll be running a series this week reflecting on ancient prayers recorded in the Bible and applying them to the cares of life today.
The Bible is filled with prayers—some whispered in desperation, some shouted in joy, others spoken in quiet trust. They were born in ancient times, but they beat a timeless heart.
I’ll begin each post with the original prayer, pause to reflect on its meaning, before sharing my own prayer in spoken word poetry.
It’s an invitation to slow down, listen, and let these ancient words shape our modern prayers.
So join me in this week where we’ll reflect, pray, and then release it all into God’s hands:
See, the world may worship the flawless But you— You got that wabi-sabi soul. You know… That 15th-century tea house stillness That ancient knowing that says: Let the bowl crack. Let the edge soften. Let the chipped corner remain chipped— It holds memory It holds story It holds truth
You’ve got the AWEdacity To belong To be seen To be— Exactly as you are.
So come Sit with me Take off your mask Unclench your jaw Rest your striving The kettle is humming The tea is steeping The room is still We raise our cups to the in-between, to the impermanence And toast thanks to the imperfect path To a self that is ever-becoming Ever-blooming Never done
Afterword: This piece draws on five poems I previously wrote (each linked above) and inspired by “wabi sabi before I knew of this philosophy.
Born from the quiet rituals of the 15th-century Japanese tea ceremony, wabi-sabi is an aesthetic and philosophy that finds beauty in the imperfect, the impermanent, and the incomplete.
It draws its name from two Japanese words: wabi, evoking simplicity and the elegance of “less is more,” and sabi, which speaks to the passage of time—a gentle melancholy, an appreciation for age and wear.
Wabi-sabi invites us to embrace the fleeting nature of life and to find quiet joy in things that show the passage of time. Cracks, wear, and weathering are not flaws to be hidden, but features to be honored. Rooted in impermanence, it reminds us that nothing lasts forever, everything changes—and in that change lies profound, enduring beauty.
For those with personality traits which can be classified as “introverted”, give them quiet chilled events, few people and less stimulating environments and they’re in their element.
I’m drawn to nature. I can spend hours by myself in a park, by a river, in a garden because the quiet and stillness that I find underneath trees and on river banks never fail to invoke wonder and contentedness within me.
For people with my personality traits, it means that we focus on internal feelings rather than seeking out external sources of stimulation. It doesn’t mean we’re shy, but more reticent.
With my quiet, reserved, and introspective way of being, the mask has been like my superpower. Not as a disguise but as a buffer. Behind the mask I can process some of the information I so readily take in from the environment and doing so discretely.
Suffice it to say, in 2025 I’m still wearing my mask —a.k.a. my superpower—in crowded enclosed spaces though it’s now okay not to mask up.
All Rights Reserved Published 2022 Republished 2025 Images by me
Some think I’m distant or aloof, others say I’m intimidating
Nothing is further from the truth
It’s likely that I’m deep in thought
Or that I’m observing the environment around me
My life compass—it’s a never ending 3-60-degree focus
Always listening, always planning, envisioning or writing
The endless balancing of mind’s up-down climb on the decision tree of “what ifs”
Shy, I’m not, reticent though—that would be quite fitting
I’m likely not the first to speak, or may not speak at all
When I speak it’s a decisive choice, a point most necessary for the making
Adding value, adding integrity, moving the needle on what’s being discussed
By the time I’ve made a decision there’s been a hundred thoughts ahead
Give me quiet spaces, time alone to just be
This is how I gather energy
Don’t mistake, then, my reservation for lackluster
I’m introverted and that’s just that
Sincerely, an Introvert
2023 All Rights Reserved
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Hey you— Yeah, you, The one standing tall in the AFTER, Wearing the GLOW of prayers answered And paths made clear.
When you get there— Where the air feels lighter And your shoulders no longer carry the weight Of the unanswered… I hope you’ll pause. Just for a moment. And remember me. Standing here In this messy middle.
I am the version of you Still whispering “maybe” Still holding space for something That hasn’t yet arrived— A job that feels like calling, A love that feels like home, A place to finally unpack all my boxes And just be.
Right now, I am Neither beginning nor ending— But… becoming. Unfolding. Stretching in faith like sunrise Even when I can’t see the sun.
I need you to know: Some days I wake up strong. Other days— I question everything. My place in this world. My direction. Even whether my prayers Are still being heard.
But still—I show up. Still—I trust. Still—I place one trembling foot In front of the other.
So when you arrive at the place I can’t yet see, Please—don’t forget me. Don’t forget how much courage it took To bloom in the uncertainty. To smile through silence. To hope in the absence of proof.
And I hope— Oh, how I hope— That it ALL found you. The promotion. The partner. The peace. Not all at once, But in the timing that taught you To value the journey as much as the arrival.
I hope your days feel settled now. That home is no longer a suitcase or a prayer, But the secret place of the Most High— A solace. A rhythm of peace. A presence that cannot be shaken.
And when the world tries to pull you into hustle, May you return to the quiet strength Of this moment— This version of us Who waited, not always with patience, but Who kept the faith When everything felt foggy.
So, when you get there— Laugh with your whole chest. Love like you were never broken. And live like the miracle you are.
And if ever again you forget who you are or your place in the world— Read this. And remember: You were always walking in the purpose of God. You were never lost. You were just in the middle Of God’s beautiful unfolding.
With love, Me—right now, Still waiting, Still becoming, But already knowing Me now… Me then… We are enough.
A collection of writing by Dominic Riccitello — intimate conversations, personal essays, and poetic reflections on relationships, loss, and self-discovery.
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