Poet. Blogger. Speaker. Author of “Moments: A Poetic Autobiography”. Unapologetically a lover of God, a lover of love and all things nature. Hardcore logophile with an epigrammatic style. Creative soul. Artsy to the core.
Beforeword: True abundance isn’t measured by what we have but by how we see. Abundance in gratitude is a shift from a mindset of lack, opening our eyes to the richness of God’s provision all around us.
Abundance is the morning light, spilling through my window, a whispered promise in the quiet like mercy, it comes again.
Abundance is the breath I breathe, easy, unworried, full and free, pulse of grace— the gift unearned yet freely given to me.
Abundance is the laughter shared, the hand outstretched, the love that stays, the meal made warm, the prayer made whole, the kindness woven through my days.
It isn’t wealth, it isn’t store— not counted coins nor things possessed, but how my heart receives in simple joys, in peace, in rest.
Here I stand with open hands, not grasping tight but ebb and flow, for what God gives is always full— enough to take, enough to sow.
And this year, I’m celebrating in a special way—by stepping back from the hustle and bustle of life. Instead of just marking another year, I want to embrace this month as a sacred pause, a time to reflect, renew, and realign my heart.
And I want to invite you to join me in this journey.
I will be guided by five words—one for each week—that form an acrostic:
Abundance – Shifting focus from scarcity to sufficiency.
Praise – Living in gratitude.
Restoration – Being open to healing and renewal.
Intimacy – Deepening connections.
Love – Living in and through love.
Each week, I will share a poem inspired by the theme and a challenge to help us embody it in our daily lives.
We are whole— Strong. Unshaken. Shaped by history’s hands, fired in the kiln of time. But when the weight of patriarchy pressed too hard— Cracks appeared.
What does the world do with women it tries to break? It tries to—
Dismiss them. Silence them. Bury them.
They say once something fractures, it can never be the same again. That the scars will always tell a story of loss, of defeat, of what can never be reclaimed.
But they are wrong.
Because struggle is not the end. The fight is part of the becoming.
Kintsugi—golden repair— Not to erase the cracks, Not to hide our place in HIS-story, but to illuminate our legacy— our resistance, our resilience, our power. To honor our voices. To make them art.
So let us treat our pain that way. Let every crack of injustice, every fracture of oppression, every attempt to silence us be transformed—not hidden, but held.
What if… our wounds weren’t wounds at all, but spaces waiting to be filled with something precious?
What if… our struggle wasn’t our ruin, but our revolution?
What if we take this pain, these centuries of resistance, this history soaked in defiance, and forge something new?
What if like seeds, we grow Piercing through, defying the -isms of oppression
What if we melt down discrimination into gold, pour it into the cracks, and let it bind us together— not in spite of our struggle, but because of it?
We do not bow. We do not break. We rise.
We are not just survivors. We are warriors. We are visionaries. We are unstoppable.
Mirror, mirror on the wall not for vanity at all but for reflection’s call Now the whispers grow louder, not from the world, but from within.
It was never just about beauty. Not the tilt of your chin, or the grace in your walk— but the fire in your voice when you finally stopped asking for permission.
You look back not with regret, but with awe at how far you’ve come. Bearing the stories of survival, You thrive Not confined to the borders drawn by others.
They can stare. Let them. Their curiosity can’t contain you. Their silence can’t stop you.
You are light, and shadow, and the spectrum in between. You are allowed to take up space. To be loud. To be seen. To simply be— the imperfectly perfect you.
2025 All Rights Reserved Image Facebook/unknown source
Orchid mom’s delight: these variegated beauties making my heart and home smile
#Shadorma is a Spanish poetic form consisting of six lines (a sextain) with a syllabic pattern of 3-5-3-3-7-5. It has no set rhyme scheme and often conveys deep emotions or vivid imagery in a brief, structured way.
In the beginning, before the rush, the grind, the deadlines, before the calendars filled themselves like storm clouds, before work became a badge of worth, God stopped.
He shaped the world with words, spoke light into being, breathed life into dust, separated waters, stretched out the heavens— and then, He did something radical. God rested.
Not because He was tired. Not because He ran out of ideas. Not because He needed a break before the next big thing. But because stopping was part of the design.
God stopped working. Not to be more productive later. Not to maximize efficiency. Not to hustle harder tomorrow. But to see, to savor, to call it good.
And yet, here we are— worn thin like paper pressed too hard, calling exhaustion ambition, calling busyness purpose, calling depletion devotion.
But what if stopping was sacred? What if rest wasn’t a luxury, but a law written into our bones? What if we weren’t made for the race, but for the rhythm— work and then cease, create and then breathe, to remember that we are not the sum of what we produce?
God stopped working. And maybe, just maybe, we should too.
Let joy sneak up on you Like the first breath of spring after a long winter Like an old song you forgot you loved
Let wonder catch you off guard Like a child chasing fireflies Like laughter spilling out at the wrong moment
Loosen your grip on what must be Let the unplanned The unexpected The beautifully uncertain Reshape what you thought you knew
Not everything needs an explanation Not every step needs a map Some of life’s best moments arrive unannounced, wrapped in the ordinary, waiting to be noticed
Let life interrupt your plans Turn left when you expected right Not every answer is yours to hold Some things are best discovered in the space between knowing and not knowing
So open your hands Open your heart And, Stay surprise-able
Facebook reminded me of this post I made on that platform in 2019!!!Different platform, different dates, but the sentiments of the message remains the same — stay surprise-able!
Heaven is not still. Not now. Not when the hourglass is down to its last grains of sand.
The throne room pulses, electric with anticipation, the atmosphere thick with expectancy. The angels shift in place, their coronation songs echo in celestial halls. They know their next cry will not be soft, but a trumpet blast so fierce it will shake graves open, call sleeping saints from their slumber, and send the living skyward their burdens abandoned in the wind.
And there—on the edge of His throne— Jesus leans forward. One foot planted in the courts of heaven, the other pressing against the rim of the earth. His gaze is locked on a world unraveling, His hands grip the armrests, His voice a whisper beneath His breath: “Father, is it time?”
Heaven holds its breath.
Guardian angels stand at attention, hearts pounding with urgency Rehearsing the stories they will soon tell— of unseen battles, of near-death moments turned miracles, of the countless times they blocked, protected, shielded, intervened, and whispered: “Hold on just a little while longer.”
Below—chaos is raging.
The earth is squirming in agony— its bones fractured by quakes, its lungs scorched by fire, its veins flooded by tsunamis and storms. Cities are crumbling, nations are falling, war drums thundering, famine spreading, and the air is thickening with the stench of genocide, infanticide, suicide.
Men’s hearts failing them for fear— fear of the unknown, fear of the inevitable, fear that the darkness is winning. Lawlessness rises like smoke, murder stains the streets, red Despair grips the souls of the broken.
And hell? Hell is unhinged.
Demons are moving amidst the earth without restraint, their assault — reckless their attacks — relentless because they know their time is just about… up.
And heaven? Heaven is about to move.
A white horse stands ready. Its rider breathes in the last moments of waiting. He’s about to exchange His ministering gown for Kingly robes, clothed in righteousness, His eyes ablaze with justice, His name inscribed for all to see: King of Kings! Lord of Lords!
No manger this time. No wooden cross. No crown of thorns pressed into his brow.
This time, He rides in power! This time, He comes in glory!
The sky is about to shatter like glass, The heavens will soon roll back like a scroll, and the sound of His name will shake the foundations of the earth.
Every knee will bow— willingly or by force. Every tongue will confess— in joy or in terror.
And in that moment, when heaven and earth collide, eternity will kiss mortality, sorrow will be swallowed up in defeat, the grave will lose its victory and the King will gather His own— Thundering the words they have longed to hear: “It is finished! Welcome home!”
Hold fast. The King is on the edge. The command—“Go! Go get My children!” That time is almost… now.
To the woman that you were— I see you. Standing in storms that tried to break you, yet you bent like the willow, never snapping, never folding. You held your ground, turned pain into power, turned silence into voice, turned fear into fuel. I admire your resilience, your unshaken resolve, your quiet strength when the world tried to tell you to hush.
To the woman you are— Your journey is not complete. But oh, how far you’ve come! You walk now with wisdom earned in fire, scars that no longer bleed but blaze— reminders that you lived, that you learned, that you are still here. You hold space for growth and grace, shed doubt like autumn leaves, rooted deep in lessons you once feared. You are the bridge between who you were and the promise of who you will be.
To the woman you’re becoming— You are a whisper of dreams realized, a vision not yet fully seen, but I know you’re there, waiting. A phoenix rising, a story still unfolding, a force stepping boldly into her becoming. You carry all that was, but you are free to be. No chains, no fear, no limits— only the boundless sky ahead.
Beforeword: Forty years ago today, We Are the World brought together some of the biggest voices in music for a cause greater than themselves. Written by Michael Jackson and Lionel Richie, and recorded by an all-star ensemble, the song raised over $80 million for famine relief in Africa, proving that music has the power to move not just hearts, but mountains.
Since then, many have tried to imitate its magic, but none have truly duplicated its impact. It wasn’t just the melody—it was the message: unity, compassion, and a shared responsibility for the world’s most vulnerable. And looking at our world today, we need that message more than ever. Hunger, war, displacement, and inequality still demand our collective response.
We Are The World
As we mark this milestone, let’s not just remember We Are the World—let’s live it.
There comes a time When we heed a certain call When the world must come together as one There are people dying Oh, and it’s time to lend a hand to life The greatest gift of all We can’t go on Pretending day by day That someone, somewhere will soon make a change We are all a part of God’s great big family And the truth, you know, love is all we need We are the world We are the children We are the ones who make a brighter day, so let’s start giving There’s a choice we’re making We’re saving our own lives It’s true we’ll make a better day, just you and me Well, send them your heart So they know that someone cares And their lives will be stronger and free As God has shown us by turning stone to bread And so we all must lend a helping hand We are the world We are the children We are the ones who make a brighter day, so let’s start giving Oh, there’s a choice we’re making We’re saving our own lives It’s true we’ll make a better day, just you and me When you’re down and out, and there seems no hope at all But if you just believe, there’s no way we can fall Well, well, well, well let us realize Oh, that a change can only come When we stand together as one (yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah) We are the world We are the children We are the ones who make a brighter day, so let’s start giving There’s a choice we’re making We’re saving our own lives It’s true we’ll make a better day, just you and me We are the world We are the children We are the ones who make a brighter day, so let’s start giving There’s a choice we’re making We’re saving our own lives It’s true we’ll make a better day, just you and me We are the world (we are the world) We are the children (we are the children) We are the ones who’ll make a brighter day So let’s start giving (so let’s start giving) There is a choice we’re making We’re saving our own lives It’s true we’ll make a better day, just you and me Alright, let me hear you We are the world (we are the world) We are the children (said, we are the children) We are the ones who’ll make a brighter day So let’s start giving (so let’s start giving) There’s a choice we’re making We’re saving our own lives It’s true we’ll make a brighter day Just you and me, come on now, let me hear you We are the world (we are the world) We are the children (we are the children) We are the ones who’ll make a brighter day So let’s start giving (so let’s start giving) There’s a choice we’re making We’re saving our own lives It’s true we’ll make a better day, just you and me, yeah, yeah We are the world (we are the world) We are the children (we are the children) We are the ones who’ll make a brighter day So let’s start giving (so let’s start giving) There’s a choice we’re making And we’re saving our own lives It’s true we’ll make a better day, just you and me We are the world (one world) We are the children (our children) We are the ones who’ll make a brighter day So let’s start giving (so let’s start giving) There’s a choice we’re making We’re saving our own lives It’s true we’ll make a better day, just you and me We are the world, we are the world (we are the world) We are the children, yes, sir (we are the children) We are the ones that make a brighter day (we are the world) So let’s start giving (so let’s start giving) There’s a choice we’re making We’re saving our own lives It’s true we’ll make a better day, just you and me (ooh-ooh, dear, God) We are the world (we are the world) We are the children (we are the children) We are the ones that make a brighter day, so let’s start giving Alright, can you hear what I say? (So let’s start giving) There’s a choice we’re making, we’re saving our own lives It’s true we’ll make a better day
Beforeword: Whenever multiple planets become visible to the naked eye, it is often referred to as a planetary alignment. On the other hand, a planetary parade describes the breathtaking phenomenon where planets appear to form a “straight line,” as if marching in unison across the night sky. This cosmic event is usually of 4, 5 or 6 planets but 7 is quite rare. On 28 February 2025, 7 planets perfectly aligned, displaying the grandeur and harmony of the universe, a fleeting spectacle that connects us to the vastness beyond our world.
This shadorma captures the essence of this rare cosmic dance across the February 28th night sky.
Planetary Parade
Mercury
Plus Mars, Jupiter,
Uranus
Neptune joined
Rare—seven planets aligned
Venus, Saturn too
#Shadorma is a six-line (sextain) poetic form with a syllabic pattern of 3-5-3-3-7-5.
The zero-sum game in love is always lose-lose, never win-win. 100% or nothing.
Love measured in fractions isn’t love at all because —
Love demands presence, not pretense; commitment, not calculation.
When one must lose for the other to win, both hearts bear the cost.
True love, like true success, multiplies rather than divides, expands rather than contracts.
The moment love becomes a competition, it ceases to be love and becomes a transaction—one where everyone walks away empty-handed/hearted.
The same is true in life—the zero-sum game in life is always lose-lose, never win-win. 100% or nothing.
Progress in life, built on someone else’s loss is not progress at all because—
True advancement uplifts rather than undermines.
When one person’s success comes at the expense of another’s dignity, opportunity, or well-being, it is not progress—it is exploitation disguised as achievement.
This is the fallacy that fuels resistance to gender equality: the mistaken belief that when women gain, men must lose.
But gender equality is not a competition—it’s a collective advancement.
A world where women thrive is a world where everyone benefits.
Stronger economies, healthier families, more just societies—these are not prizes won at someone’s expense but shared victories that uplift us all.
True equality doesn’t divide; it multiplies.
The only real win is one we build together.
2025 All Rights Reserved Designed with Canva Images by Pexels
Beforeword: This piece was commissioned by a bride who was renewing her wedding vows and wanted a piece to cover her walk down the aisle. It was to start with visualizing her love relationship with God, then the love relationship between her and her husband and culminate in imagining what it would be like to have a face-to-face encounter with God.
When a piece is commissioned I usually consult with the client to get the backstory to create a piece that is personal and reflective of the context the client wishes to convey. In this case the client gave me a song as muse. On the day, the piece was narrated to that song: “I Can Only Imagine”.
Although You have proven Yourself to be true
And there is nothing else You will ever have to do to show Your love, to prove Your faithfulness
To reassure me that You are love, you are faithful, that You hold nothing from my past against me—in You I’m forgiven, renewed
What manner of love is this?
A love that loves me, restores me, completes me
Now I stand at the beginning of a path to walk
To walk in whole-completeness
In His perfect love
Fear casted out perfectly
Perfect love remains resolutely
And me—I remain in Him
Whole—a state of being
I could only imagine
And you, who are you?
Who is this man that I will walk to?
I see in you the embodiment of Christ
His on-earth love to me personified
A glimpse, a manifestation of His in-glory love for me
But I will not mistake His place for you
In my life, He comes first
For it is He who first loved me
Before you, He engraved me in the palm of His hands
Before you, He emptied Himself of everything
He gave Himself for me, for you
I walk in His love to recommit my life to you
Can you imagine?
I imagine you, my arrival awaiting
Like the church, His bride, expecting His returning
I imagine you, me, wondering what we may feel, anticipating
Will our feet allow us to dance?
Or our voices allow us to speak?
Standing still or prostrate falling?
Dumbfounded or shouts of hallelujahs exclaiming?
What will our eyes see?
What will our thoughts be?
You and me, His majesty beholding
Nothing will compare
Check the reference, if you don’t believe me:
1st book to the Corinthians, in the 2nd chapter and the 9th verse you’ll read—
No eyes have seen, no ears have heard, nor has it even entered within any heart to conceive
In the splendor of His grace
We’ll stand together, husband and wife
To behold Him face to face
I can only imagine
2025 All Rights Reserved Designed with Canva Images by Pexels
Beautiful black skin we age with grace Testament to the strength of melanin flowing through our race A positive stereotype about physical appearance While all the time oppression wearing down mental perseverance
Erasure of oppressions in subtle superficial narrative: “black don’t crack” Historical misconceptions, lay weight on black women’s back Superwoman schema, generations of history—a heavy load Cape-like shield, deflect society’s discriminating code
Obliged to show strength, while hiding tears Suppressing emotions, internalizing fears Vulnerability, misconstrued, like foe to resist Success pursued, while resources run amiss
Juggling roles, carrying burdens not her own Strength for all, unrealistic seeds are sown Grounded in racist history, archetype cast The Mammy’s devotion, dangerous legacies that last
At the intersection of expectations, unrealistic Femininity and strength, a delicate balance characteristic The scales tipped her resilient stride “Strong black woman” trope, stereotypes collide
That’s what they say: “black don’t crack” Racist expectation of strength, attack Express no emotion, hide fear, hold back tear “Superwoman” schema, worn as protective gear
Yeah! That part … we dismantling that
For what won’t crack will surely break Unravel, put a whole race at stake So take your label, and take your trope Being black is … well, yeah, it’s dope
I’m a black woman, see this face Beautiful melanin, skin age with grace I’m Educated. I’m Empowered. I’m Motivated. For my strength, for my resilience—loved? Nah, that’s hated
But that’s what haters do Prejudice won’t let love come through You won’t bring me down though, make me feel blue Your hate is your own poison, I ain’t gonna chew
The “strong black woman”, sexist-racist construction We taking back our power, reset the foundation Resilient women of African descent Across the diaspora, beyond the continent
We come in all shades of choc-lit Like fire, we blaze legit, won’t quit Hear us roar, our beautiful is black, back We define our strength, yeah, that won’t crack
Women who stay in abusive relationships often hear the same questions: “Why don’t you leave?” “Why do you go back?” But leaving isn’t always simple. The ties that bind are deeper than what the eye can see—woven from fear of retaliation, financial dependence, isolation, and the emotional manipulation that distorts reality.
Help is Available
If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence, you are not alone. There is help. In the US:
The flight took off through snowstorm’s might We trusted the forecast, we trusted the flight But when time came for landing, the winds took their stand As if the enemy determined, “They won’t safely land”
The engines groaned, the wings bowed low City lights flickered, dimmed to a glow A whispered prayer, a held-back scream— A battle raged beyond what can be seen
I believe God stood, firm in the darkened sky “Their purpose remains, they shall not die” Plane nose dipped down—the runway clear The wheels reached out, the ground drew near
But darkness grinned, the crosswinds rose And up we climbed—the landing closed Four times the storm would toss and turn Four times the pilot’s skills would burn
Yet heaven’s hand refused to sway “Not on My watch, not now, not today” Guardian angels wove through the steel A hush of peace the soul could feel
The winds did howl, the tempest rise But God still reigns beyond the skies “My child, hold on, for I am here Your time’s not up—give not in to fear”
Back to the start, though shaken still Weary, yet heart with gratitude is filled To breathe, to rise, to see the dawn— A life preserved, a journey drawn
Now I stand on solid ground With grateful psalms, my praise resounds For what was spared, for what’s in store For battles ahead and victories more
Afterword: As I pondered how to capture that night in poetic form, I was reminded of a powerful quote from one of my favorite spiritual writers, E.G. White, in The Great Controversy:
“If the veil could be lifted, and we could see the struggle of the angelic hosts with the powers of darkness, and the efforts of our guardian angels to protect us from the snares of the evil one…”
Reflecting on that night (6 Feb 2025) I cannot help but see it as a battle between good and evil—each attempted landing thwarted by the winds as a struggle for the souls aboard that small aircraft. But through it all, my good-good Father prevailed. Even now, I’m still in awe of His protection.
2025 All Rights Reserved Image by me (from plane window of return flight to NY)
Mirror, mirror—what do you see? No masks, no tales, the truth of me. Full lips, proud nose, skin sun-kissed like earth at dusk. Wearing hair-itage like a crown, a symphony of strength and soul.
Let them look— The questioning gaze. You were never made for their approval. You were made to radiate. To take up space. To shift rooms.
No need to chase what already lives within. No need to mold what was meant to be free. You are the art, the standard, the source. Unapologetically the quintessential you.
Before-word: This is a paraphrase of a psalm penned by my best-Bible-friend, David (King of ancient Israel), as recorded in Psalms 139.
Dear God, investigate my life; get all the facts firsthand. I’m an open book to You; even from a distance, You know what I’m thinking. You know when I leave and when I get back; I’m never out of Your sight. You know everything I’m going to say before I start the first sentence. I look behind me and You’re there, then up ahead and You’re there, too— Your reassuring presence, coming and going. This is too much, too wonderful— I can’t take it all in! Is there anyplace I can go to avoid Your Spirit? to be out of Your sight? If I climb to the sky, You’re there! If I go underground, You’re there! If I flew on morning’s wings to the far western horizon, You’d find me in a minute— You’re already there waiting! Then I said to myself, “Oh, He even sees me in the dark! At night I’m immersed in the light!” It’s a fact: darkness isn’t dark to You; night and day, darkness and light, they’re all the same to You. Oh yes, You shaped me first inside, then out; You formed me in my mother’s womb. I thank You, High God—You’re breathtaking! Body and soul, I am marvelously made! I worship in adoration—what a creation! Like an open book, You watched me grow from conception to birth; all the stages of my life were spread out before You. The days of my life all prepared before I’d even lived one day. Your thoughts—how rare, how beautiful! God, I’ll never comprehend them! I couldn’t even begin to count them— any more than I could count the sand of the sea. Oh, let me rise in the morning and live always with You! Investigate my life, O God, find out everything about me; Cross-examine and test me, get a clear picture of what I’m about; See for yourself whether I’ve done anything wrong— then guide me on the road to eternal life.
“There’s no way your flight will take off in this weather. You’ll be back soon.”
With those parting words from my other-mom on February 16th, I headed to Pearson International Airport, bracing myself against one of Toronto’s worst snowstorms in recent history.
Toronto digs out from biggest winter storm in more than three years Credit: The Weather Network
As the Uber driver cautiously navigated through snow-laden side streets and treacherous highways, I gripped my seatbelt tightly, my foot pressing an imaginary brake, eyes fixed on the road ahead.
All day, I had been refreshing my flight status, fully expecting a cancellation.
At the airport, a complete whiteout swallowed the tarmac; not a single plane was visible. Yet, somehow, our flight remained scheduled. Trusting that the weather forecasting service deemed it safe, I boarded.
After an extended de-icing process, I willed myself to sleep, hoping to escape the turbulence I was certain awaited us.
But no intensity of sleep could have prevented me from this experience.
I woke up as we began our descent into LaGuardia—a route I had flown countless times. But this time it felt different. The plane trembled violently, the wing I had my eyes fixated on was swaying against the wind. My body tensed, pressing into the seat for stability. I could see the landmark buildings and high rises. Then, suddenly, we lurched into a steep climb—our landing aborted. The city lights below faded rapidly as we climbed back into the dense darkness.
The intercom chimed, and the pilot’s voice cut through the uneasy silence:
“Due to heavy winds near the surface, we were unable to land. We will circle and attempt another approach.”
Attempt two: The turbulence was worse. I watched the wing shake as the cityscape came into view, again. And again—another sudden ascent.
Attempt three: Even more violent. Passengers were now visibly ill; flight attendants hurriedly distributed motion sickness bags when we leveled off.
Attempt four: The same gut-wrenching pattern. The aircraft shook violently. My eyes were fixed on the wing. It was flapping as if it might snap.
The fourth attempt felt closest. We approached over water, the familiar low urban approach into LaGuardia. I prayed intensely as water gave way to land. I thought, this is it—we’re landing. But then—another abrupt climb.
A collective gasp of terror and despair filled the cabin. Followed by a deafening silence.
No passengers spoke.
Even the pilots remained silent, undoubtedly giving this relentless battle against the wind their undivided attention.
In the absence of information, I turned to the flight map. It now displayed an estimated arrival time back to Toronto. My heart sank. If conditions here were this treacherous, what awaited us at Pearson?
The intercom chimed again, the pilot’s voice calm but firm:
“We will not attempt a fifth landing due to fuel constraints. We are heading back.”
A wave of confusion spread through the cabin. Passengers exchanged panicked glances. Then, the collective question, I also joined in:
“Heading back, where?”
The intercom beeped once more.
“Back to Toronto.”
The flight map was indeed correct. We are heading back to Toronto!
Minutes passed. Then another chime.
“We are diverting to Hamilton—we do not have enough fuel to reach Toronto.”
Every plane crash story and movie I had ever watched flashed through my mind. This was the moment for faith and self-talk. I whispered reassurances to myself, willing my body to remain calm as I prayed.
We landed in Hamilton with a jarring thud. Passengers, desperate for solid ground, rose from their seats before we even stopped moving. The pilot’s voice returned:
“We will refuel and return to Toronto. Please remain seated.”
Tensions rose. The flight attendants did their best to soothe frayed nerves. The line for the bathrooms stretched the length of the small plane.
My legs up against the seat in this small plane. I can endure this for 1.5 hours, 14 hours was hellish
Our only sustenance? Pretzels and water.
Four hours later, after refueling and de-icing, we were airborne again. By this point, exhaustion had dulled my fear.
At almost 4 a.m., nearly 12 hours after our journey began, we arrived back at Pearson—right where we started. The baggage claim area was packed with hundreds of stranded passengers. My suitcase, like so many others, was nowhere to be found.
Descending the escalator from immigration into the baggage claim area at 3:53 AMlooking in one direction
By the time the ordeal ended—including the scramble to secure another flight—it was nearly 4 p.m. I had been in travel mode for 24 hours for a trip that should have taken 1.5.
Trying to find a ticket online for the day after 😵💫🫣🤯🙄😲The phone number we were given rang with no answer so we stood in a long line to rebook tickets at the airport
No sooner had I settled at home than the news broke:
A Delta Air Lines regional jet had crash-landed at Pearson. The plane flipped upon landing due to strong crosswinds and heavy snow. Miraculously, all passengers survived, though some were injured.
I stared at the TV screen, my body still buzzing from adrenaline.
My straddling that thin line between routine travel and catastrophe had never been closer.
And in that moment I’m reminded of how the convergence of severe weather and aviation underscores that delicate balance between safety and the unpredictability of nature.
Reflecting on my own harrowing experience, I couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude.
I still have a flight ahead of me to get back to my second home. Praying for safe travel has never had such profound meaning.
The Sabbath rises with the setting sun Whispering rest into the restless Calling the hurried world to stillness Never a burden, but a breath— A pause written into creation’s rhythm A covenant carved in time A gift wrapped in intention, divine
Before nations had borders Before laws were chiseled in stone Before toil bent the backs of laborers— Sabbath was God blessed the seventh day Not for one people Not for one tribe But for all who bear His image For all all who crave intimacy with the Divine
It is the hush after the storm It is the table set with bread and wine It is the gathering of hearts around sacred space It is a call to cease, a call to worship, a call to remember— We are not the sum of our labor not the weight of our worries not bound to endless striving
The Sabbath is mercy unfolding Healing hands extending— the hungry fed, the weary restored, the broken made whole It was never meant for idleness— but for goodness, for justice, for love
God, the Author of time wove rest into its fabric A holy refrain between the days A reminder that He is the source, that we are His, that the world turns not by our hands, but by His will
So, let the thirsty drink deeply of its blessings The weary find rest in its embrace The seeking surrender to its sacred peace Come O Sabbath day of rest Be a healing balm for every soul
Shabbat Shalom.
I pray you find the divine gift, the covenant of peace, and the sacred rhythm of Sabbath calling you to restoration, justice, and peace.
In shades of blackness, three black women stood By the ocean’s lapping waves, because they could Their skin adorned in shades of black A tapestry of edenic beauty, flashback
In shades of blackness, colors bright They wear a tapestry of strength and light Their hearts yearning thoughts soaring free To Africa, their homeland, across the sea
The water’s shimmer a bittersweet sight A reminder of forlorn journeys in the night When shackles and chains bore heavy weight Yet like their spirit, resilient colors celebrate
In shades of blackness, a tapestry unfolds Stories of strength and courage retold Thinking of Africa their hearts united A land torn from them yet home ignited
In shades of blackness, they stand so tall A triumphant spirit proudly enthrall Their roots deep-seated a heritage divine In their souls, the echoes of ancient rhyme
With every sunset and every dawn They honor the heritage that’s drawn From a distant land, a sacred place Woven in a collective memory space
In shades of blackness they’ve faced stormy days Challenged bias in countless ways Their voices rose above the strife Championing one for all, a better life
In the shades of blackness they’ve come to find The strength and love of humankind Three black women united—a living art In love for community to heal each heart
Today, millions will watch as two teams battle for supremacy on US football’s biggest stage—the Super Bowl. It’s a contest of strategy, resilience, and sheer willpower, where overcoming the opponent is the ultimate goal. But beyond the field, another battle rages—the fight to overcome the noise, pollution, war, hypocrisy, and fear that permeate our world.
Love cannot simply exist passively in the atmosphere
I was struck by fellow blogger Yassy’s poem that challenged the well known adage “love is in the air” by, in essence asking: or is it?! She does so by painting a stark, unfiltered picture of current reality. A reality where the air seems to be permeating with everything but love. It’s a poignant reminder that love cannot simply exist passively in the atmosphere; it must be cultivated, lived, and made tangible.
I was also struck by a verse from the Bible which happened to be something I read today as well. In a world so aptly described in Yassy’s poem, the Bible offers this antidote: “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” (Romans 12:21). And other religious texts contain similar message about overcoming evil with good.
Love must rise louder than the chaos
Just as teams fight to outplay their opponents, we are called to outlive, outshine, and outlove the darkness around us. Love must rise louder than the chaos, transforming not just hearts but the very air we breathe.
If love is in the heart, then it must also be in our voices, actions, and presence—overcoming hate, fear, and injustice. Love is not silent. It does not retreat. It sings, shouts, and clears the air.
This reflection inspired my poem, using the #Dectina Refrain form:
Love Lives Loud
Heart Beating Love resounds Drowning out hate Piercing the darkness Cutting through hopelessness Rising beyond warplanes and lies Spreading joy, light, displacing fear Truth cleansing air, shifting atmosphere Heart beating, love resounds, drowning out hate
Heart beating, love resounds, drowning out hate Truth cleansing air, shifting atmosphere Spreading joy, light, displacing fear Rising beyond warplanes and lies Cutting through hopelessness Piercing the darkness Drowning out hate Love resounds Beating Heart
2025 All Rights Reserved Designed with Canva Images by Pexels
My curls are kinky They coil to the twist of their own internal rhythm So twisted—me and my curls—we had a love-hate thang going ‘Cause others didn’t understand ‘em They couldn’t really teach me to ‘preciate ‘em And ‘cause I wasn’t woke enough to defend ‘em I kinda sorta love-hate ‘em
My curls are wool-like Pulled over eyes, they can be deceptive They’ll coil up tight and shrink to scalp at even water’s sighting They make for a beautiful ‘fro Exposed to the elements for too long though They’ll defy any comb’s attempts to un-kink their flo’
My curls have been terribly misunderstood Their fullness and density been processed to straightness They been pressed, relaxed, texturized, straight-out-flattened Clipped, chopped, colored, razored Braided, weaved, locked, cornrowed And they been greased, greased and mo’ greased
My curls are acrobatic They’ll flip and bounce, changing with my every mood And they’ll totally flip at even the sign of uninvited touch moves Egocentric—yeah, they are—they regard only me Me and my curls now, we got mad chemistry One-hundred-percent-LOVE-only y’all—that’s we
My curls evolved empowered—now they’re unapologetic survivalists Every natural kink in bouncebackability mode Defying every relaxer, every straightening comb They curl unmolested into their resilient-mystique self—whole Conveying cultural, political and social justice opinions In stylish kinky hair expressions
From Madam CJ Walker To Mrs. Michelle Obama My curls are audacious My curls are bold My curls are fully deserving of this— Their very own ode
All rights reserved [first published in 2022, bringing it back for BHM ‘25]
Afterword: Hair was a sacred cultural and spiritual symbol in ancient African societies. Slave traders, as a first step in a process of systemic culture and identity erasure, would shave the heads of all African people they captured. Hair texture and styling played an important role in the survival of enslaved Black people. For instance, in the 1960s, the afro became a symbol of self-empowerment and activism. Black hair is black resistance.
Like what you see? 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👈
War broke out in heaven— Sin and hell introduced Sin took its shot A fruit bitten Hell made its move The world shifted When she bit, then he bit— All of creation groaned Sorrow stepped in Death rolled up And the grave claimed its throne
But this story wasn’t over— The script wasn’t sealed To rewrite the ending, Love itself took the field A price too high for men to pay, So love stepped forth and made a way
The cost? Astronomical! The method? Unthinkable! God offered the Lamb, without contemplation The ultimate heist of redemption
Incognito birth— In a barn, low on worth Swaddled in cloth so tattered and torn Who would have guessed, who could have known? This babe so fragile, this child so very small Would grow up to pull off the smoothest heist of them all
Stealth move after stealth move The enemy never saw Him coming First, He stole death’s grip Then, He stole hell’s keys He unraveled the chains— And set humanity free Next, He stole sin’s power, Left it broken, undone Ransomed for eternity— He declared, “It is won!”
But He wasn’t done For He stole condemnation Snatched guilt and shame Laid them at the altar, replaced with His name Like a thief in the night, love came breaking in Forgiveness for all, for every last sin
Jesus— Love in motion, pure devotion A rebel against a borrowed grave No swords drawn, no war to wage Just love unmatched, unshaken and true A love so deep, it made all things new
He robbed the grave with surgical precision Love was His weapon, mercy His mission No force, no foe, could stand ‘gainst His plan The Lamb became the Lion, redeeming every man
Death? Defeated! Sin? Overruled! Hell? Evicted! Love broke all the rules!
Jesus— Master of the smoothest heist on earth Snatching victory from defeat, deliverance at His birth Suffered a criminal’s death, changed the game Eternal love, infinite grace—we’ll never be the same
The mastermind Savior, swift and wise A thief of hearts with loving ties Not stealing to break, but to make whole To heal, to redeem, to reclaim every soul
His love was the heist, His death, the greatest score The cross was the setup The grave—the open door The plot twist? The comeback? Oh, that shook the floor ‘Cause victory—it wasn’t stolen— It was sealed forevermore
After-Word: I first started this poem in 2022, inspired by Michael Jackson’s Smooth Criminal. Back then, the working title was Smoothest Criminal—a bit risqué, but that’s where my creativity first landed. As the piece evolved, so did its meaning, and just last week, it finally reached completion. After testing the title with a few friends, it, too, transformed—becoming “Smoothest Heist”.
Most mornings, I run to catch the train—let’s start there.
If I take a leisurely walk, it’s about eight minutes. A brisk pace? Six minutes. Either way, I’d arrive at the station with time to spare, breathing normally like most any other commuter. But no, not me. Almost every morning, I somehow end up with the four-minute option.
That’s the Bolt. As in Usain Bolt.
Yes, it’s a full sprint. In running shoes, no problem. In high heels, dressed for work, pocketbook in tow? A whole different kind of Olympic event.
There are no fellow commuters on this path—just me, tearing through the quiet morning streets. If I’m lucky, a kind passenger will hold the train doors hostage just long enough for me to make my dramatic entrance. I bolt into the last car—that’s as far as my exhausted body can make it. I collapse into a seat, gasping out a barely audible “thank”—GASP—“you” to my door-jamming hero.
This morning was no exception. Four minutes before the train was due to arrive, my brisk walk turned to a jog-walk then a full-on sprint. Off I go, the usual fiasco playing out—except this time, a driver pulled up alongside me.
Driver: “Beautiful lady—” (Right then, I knew he was Caribbean.) “Is de train yuh a run down?” (Oh, he’s Jamaican!) “Yuh wan’ta ride?!”
Me: (Panting, because by now, I’ve hit the incline—yes, there’s a hill involved in all this.) “No man, we awrite!” I don’t break stride. There’s a train to catch, after all.
Driver: “Awrite, pretty lady.” (Sweet-mouth Jamaican, I thought with a smile in his direction.) And with that, he speeds off.
So, like I said—I’m writing this post from the Metro …finally breathing normally again, swearing I won’t do this again.
…till tomorrow.
2025 All Rights Reserved Designed with Canva Image by Pexels
Before-word: On the morning of 1st February my phone rang. My heart knew instinctively it was no ordinary call—but I was not prepared for this: “Betty passed.”
Elizabeth “Betty” Talbert, Country Representative for the United Nations Population Fund, Caribbean Subregional Office. May her soul rest in eternal peace.
In processing life’s highs and its lows, I often turn to words. This time was no exception—not just to mark the passing of a life, but to offer a reminder to those of us left behind.
Serving as international civil servants is no small feat. It takes its toll on our bodies, our families, our lives—and yet, amid it all, there is life.
This is not just a tribute to a life lost, but a call to live fully in each moment, to honor the gift of time, and to remember that even in death, we are reminded to cherish living and life.
In Her Memory, We Live
Life is fragile— A delicate thread stretched too thin, woven with moments that slip through our fingers like grains of sand too swift to grasp. The pulse, the breath, so sure in its rhythm one second, then faltering the next.
Death—in its physical form— a stillness that steals the breath, leaving nothing but the echo of a once beating heart. It doesn’t ask permission— it simply arrives, uninvited, claiming the space we once occupied and leaving us with nothing but memory to carry the weight of what was.
But there is a death— one that creeps in unnoticed, the slow fading of light, the quiet erosion of self— the death of the spirit when the spark of divinity is dimmed, and the soul wanders in a vast, empty place where prayers fall silent and even faith grows tired.
Then there is a death— a withering of joy, a loss of hope, a weight of sorrow that bends the spirit and the heart beats only because it must. You stand in the ruins of yourself, facing a reflection you no longer recognize, and wonder when you became a ghost in your own life living in emotional death.
The end of connection, the severing of bonds that once held you close. A love that once bloomed now wilts under the weight of words unspoken, of wounds too deep to heal. When the silence between you grows louder than anything you ever shared, and the phrase “you’re dead to me” lays the foundation for relational death. It’s a slow farewell to everything you once built.
Death, in all its forms, takes what it pleases, but it also leaves the quiet aftermath where nothing is ever truly the same.
Still, in the ashes of loss, there is the possibility of rebirth. For even in the deepest shadows, there is the promise of light, the faintest glow on the horizon, the hope that tomorrow, we rise again.
For the truest death is not the one that steals breath, but the one that robs life of living, the one that leaves us standing still, afraid to move toward the light that still calls us home. It is the death of hope, the quiet surrender of our dreams, the moment we forget to reach beyond the shadows that loom o’er the only true life— the courage to keep moving, toward what is yet to come.
“When death finds you, may it find you alive.” (an African proverb)
If these walls could talk, Their voices would crack like the floorboards beneath your feet, Worn down by years of footsteps that carried love and loss in equal measure
They’d tell of love, The kind that lingers in the scent of Sunday dinners, The faint echo of a lullaby, The creak of a rocking chair swaying long after the baby’s grown
They’d hum with the rhythm of life— Pulsating with the heart-drum of a family piecing themselves together, one imperfect day at a time
They’d whisper of quarrels, loud as thunder at the time, but now softened like rain, falling gently, nourishing the roots of forgiveness Voices raised, slamming doors, but always opening again with hands reaching, arms wide, inviting— “Come back, sit down, let’s talk”
Broken-down boards, their edges splintered but still holding steady
Leaking ceilings, stubbornly letting light drip through the cracks
Rusted shingles, their jagged edges like scars, each one a story of resilience
Stripping paint, layers peeling back to reveal every shade of life lived inside— a kaleidoscope of memory
And yet— Inside regales of a beauty that still blooms Faded wallpaper like the backdrop of dreams Grandma’s patchwork quilt draped over the couch Stitched together from cloths of generations past Created by hands that believed in warmth, in home, in staying
If these walls could talk, they’d tell you this: Even in decay, there is grace Even in ruins, there is history And even when the frame sags under its weight, a house holds its beauty in the love it has sheltered
So listen— To the silence that speaks volumes Listen to the cracks that echo strength listen to the walls that have always stood, not for themselves but for the stories they protect If only these walls could talk
Nothing is forever in this world, not even our problems They come and go like storm clouds Like shadows passing over All working together, in time, for your good
The most lost day in life is the day we don’t laugh
The most lost day in life is the day we don’t laugh— A day wasted Like chasing rainbows with your head down Missing the brilliance arching over you To truly laugh You must take your pain and mold it Shape it into art Turn it into a weapon against despair
Walking in the rain, so no one can see me crying
I love walking in the rain Hiding my tears in its rhythm Letting it wash the salt from my cheeks No one sees them— My tears In the rain— A secret dance with my sorrow A cleansing no one needs know
Six best doctors in the world
Six best doctors in the world Let me count them for your hearing— One: the sun that kisses your skin Two: rest that cradles your weary bones Three: exercise that awakens your spirit Four: a diet that fuels your fire Five: self-respect that builds your fortress And, six, the best of them all—friends Their laughter, their love, their healing hands, a sanctuary in a chaotic world
Life is a play that does not allow rehearsals
Life is a play that does not allow rehearsals— You step on the stage raw Your heart your script Your conscience your guide God by your side Live, love, laugh out fully Because the hands of time move forward, never back
Imagination means nothing without doing
Imagination means nothing without doing Without stepping into the wild unknown Without turning dreams into reality We think too much and feel too little Our hearts trapped behind cages of reason But the heart is a compass Its beat a map to the dreams we’re too afraid to speak out loud
Nothing is forever in this world
Nothing is forever in this world But, Today We are here And that is enough
Afterword: Charlie Chaplin, a silent screen actor whose gestures and expressions spoke louder than dialogue ever could. Yet, when he did use words, they carried weight. Today’s post is inspired by his profound words and a testament that the quietest voices can echo across generations.
Like Martin Luther King: “I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear”.
His words are oh so relevant in these times:
“I’m concerned about a better World. I’m concerned about justice; I’m concerned about brotherhood and sisterhood; I’m concerned about truth. And when one is concerned about that, he can never advocate violence. For through violence you may murder a murderer, but you can’t murder murder. Through violence you may murder a liar, but you can’t establish truth. Through violence you may murder a hater, but you can’t murder hate through violence. Darkness cannot put out darkness; only light can do that”.
Taken from MLK Jnr., “Where Do We Go From Here” speech.
Beforeword: Like an old house, the past year holds cracks, scars, and beauty—reminding us to embrace resilience, cherish love, and build hope in the year ahead. My word for 2025 is HOPE!
Happy New Year WPers!
The old year stands like an aged house, its frame leaning from the weight of time, its walls etched with the marks of joy and struggle. The floorboards groan with the memory of steps— some hesitant, some bold, each one carving its place in the story.
The roof, patched, imperfect, shielded through storms, even as the rain seeped in through cracks. Shingles rusted, paint stripped away, layers of who you were laid bare, revealing not ruin, but resilience.
Yet, inside, beauty remains. The faint warmth of a fire long extinguished, the soft hum of voices carried by the breeze. Here is where love lingered, where family gathered, where arguments burned hot but always cooled into peace.
The old year reminds you: every crack tells a story, every scar a survival. What wore you down also built you up.
As the new year rises, like a fresh foundation waiting to be laid, remember this: Mend the broken places, but don’t erase their history. Invite the light in, even if it exposes your flaws. Forgive the storms, for they shaped you. Celebrate the strength in what still stands.
Fill this new year with love so fierce it becomes the shelter you need. Open your doors to joy, your windows to hope. And when this year, too, becomes weathered, may it stand proud—like this old house, a testament to how well you lived it.
2025 All Rights Reserved Designed with Canva Image credit: Facebook
Beforeword: New Year is a New Chapter of 365 opportunities to make a difference in the spaces where purpose meets the pulsating of fresh start.
In the quiet unveiling of one year’s end A new one emerges, a cosmic unveiling Darkness surrenders to the dawn’s soft glow The dawning of a year, another chance to step into the uncharted
Pages turn, not with the creak of binding But with the silent rustle of unseen potential Each day, a leaf in the unfolding narrative of possibilities 365 chapters yet unwritten in the book of life
No rhyme to dictate the rhythm of this journey No predetermined cadence to constrain my steps With each sunrise, a new chance to redefine To shape my story unscripted, line upon line
Time, a steady heartbeat, echoes opportunity In the quiet hum of moments purpose beckons A call to craft meaning in the tapestry of existence 365 chances to breathe life into dreams
So, as the sun rises, 365 days stretch like an unwritten book I’ll bravely embrace the new chapters For in every sunrise, a promise is whispered— 365 days, 365 opportunities to live with purpose
‘Twas the days after Christmas, and all through the towns Hearts turning grey, like winter, cast down
Stockings stuffed heavy, now dangling bare All they contained distributed with care
Gifts quickly losing their “must have” splendor Owners eyeing the next “thing” to give ‘em pleasure
Twinkling lights and all their shimmer Turned off, unplugged, leaving spaces dimmer
Trees stripped down, discarded on curbs Christmas packed away, leave undisturbed
‘Till next year’s frenzy, forgetting the reason Is Jesus left behind, till next Christmas season?
2022, republished 2025, All rights reserved
Like what you see? 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👈
It was an ordinary night the kind where stars whisper and the earth gently exhales A stable, no different than any other smelled of hay, sweat, and animals— not a palace, not a temple, just a room for the overlooked
An ordinary girl barely more than a whisper young, tired her heart swelling with both fear and faith An ordinary man steady, unsure trying to make sense of a divine plan that didn’t seem to make sense at all
Shepherds ordinary men with dirt under their nails watching their flocks used to the dark and the humdrum of silence never expecting the heavens to tear open with jubilation
And yet— in the ordinary extraordinary light broke through A star, brighter than reason daring to blaze where no star had blazed before An angel joined by a heavenly host declaring the birth of the extraordinary
Wise men called from distant lands following whispers of destiny written in the skies Gold, frankincense, myrrh— gifts fit for a King, cradled in a manger
The extraordinary gift of salvation wrapped in the fragile skin of a newborn the hope of eternity cradled by hands still learning their strength
And now, we stand on the edge of the same choice— to stay in the ordinary the safe, the unnoticed, the blend-in-and-fit-in life Or to step into the extraordinary the blaze-your-trail-walk-on-water-rise-above-the-noise kind of calling
Extraordinary is our design! How then can we fit in and stand out at the same time Step into the gift of being set apart Dare to dream beyond the dust to reach for the stars to bring heaven closer to earth
Christmas reminds us that the One who shattered the ordinary called us to the extraordinary
2024 All Rights Reserved Designed with Canva Images by Pexels
Don’t die before you’re dead. Don’t let the grind of days steal the breath from your spirit Or the weight of worry cement your feet in place When death finds you Let it find you alive Let it find you with fire in your eyes With laughter tangled in your lungs And songs swelling in notes to the skies
Live. Live with joy like it’s a rebellion A refusal to let the darkness win Smile wide enough to crack the walls of your fears Let your curiosity roam untamed Chasing the edges of the horizon Like a child who believes the ocean is endless
Be audacious. Speak louder than the silence that tries to hold you Dare to dream when the world says, “Be small” Dance, even when the music is only in your head Run toward the things that scare you Because courage is not the absence of fear— It’s choosing to live fully in spite of it
Speak out. Don’t bear the agony of an untold story, not told Your voice dying within you, unheard Don’t sit still, pregnant with potential Never to give birth to your purpose Speak the truth etched on your soul Let your words carve pathways for others Let your gifts see the light of day A buried dream is a tragedy the world can never mourn
When the clock ticks Don’t just count the hours— Make them count When the seasons shift— Don’t mourn the leaves that fall, Celebrate the seeds you’ve sown
So when death comes knocking Let it find you alive Not half-lived or worn down by regret But shining with the audacity of a life fully embraced And the joy of knowing you left no moment unlived Don’t die before you’re dead
Afterword: The inspiration for this poem stems from: the proverb, “When death finds you, may it find you alive,” and Maya Angelou’s powerful words, “There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.” These are part of my life motto and together they form the foundation of my “Why I Write” declaration, driving me to live fully and to ensure my voice is heard.
Love one another with brotherly affection (Romans 12:10) Bear one another’s burdens (Galatians 6:2). Encourage one another and build one another up (1 Thessalonians 5:11) Live in harmony with one another (Romans 12:16) Forgiving one another as God in Christ forgave you (Ephesians 4:32)
Outdo one another in showing honor (Romans 12:10) Be at peace with one another (Mark 9:50) Through love, serve one another (Galatians 5:13) Submit to one another out of reverence for Christ (Ephesians 5:21) Let us stir up one another to love and good works (Hebrews 10:24)
Bear with one another in love (Ephesians 4:2) Confess your sins to one another, pray for one another (James 5:16). Do not grumble against one another (James 5:9) Welcome one another as Christ has welcomed you (Romans 15:7) Love one another, just as I have loved you (John 13:34)
Clothe yourselves in humility toward one another (1 Peter 5:5) Teaching and admonishing one another in wisdom (Colossians 3:16) Do not speak evil against one another (James 4:11) But exhort one another daily, while it’s called today (Hebrews 3:13) And above all— Let us love one another, for love is from God (1 John 4:7)
Afterword:
One of the greatest blessings of holidays like Christmas is how they bring us together, reminding us of the power of community and connection. But what if we extended this spirit of togetherness throughout the year? Would our homes, communities, and world be filled with more love? Would we see peace on earth and goodwill truly extended to all people?
The Bible is rich with “one another” statements—guiding principles that call us to live in harmony, serve with humility, and love unconditionally. These statements remind us that we are not meant to navigate life alone; they can only be fulfilled with… one another.
This cento weaves together these timeless “one another” verses. Though written over two thousand years ago, their message remains strikingly relevant today, offering a blueprint for unity, love, and hope in our lives and our world.
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
“Purpose drops in our laps as if the heavens threw it by accident” like a star slipping out of orbit like a word spoken out of turn yet somehow exactly what was meant to be said
It falls— heavy as a stone in still water light as a feather floating on the wind carrying weight and ease in equal measure
We don’t always know what to do with it— this gift disguised as a burden this question wrapped in the skin of an answer Do we cradle it like glass, fragile and precious? Or do we let it burn our palms, carving its truth into our skin?
The heavens may play coy but there are no accidents here Purpose lands exactly where it is supposed to— in trembling hands in restless hearts in the laps of those who thought they were sitting still but were actually waiting all along
It whispers: “Carry me, even if you stumble. Shape me, even if you break. Live me, and I will make you whole.”
Purpose drops in our laps as if the heavens threw it by accident
Afterword: A speech by Deshauna Barber delivered at an alumni event at the University Maryland global campus was the muse for this piece, inspired from this line: “purpose drops in our laps as if the heavens threw it by accident.”
In the still of the night, a light so bright From sleep awakens me in fright Unsure I look around to see God’s holy angel standing by With a solemn mission I could not deny
Me? You want me to be the mother of the Messiah? It would be my heart’s desire To play a role in redemption’s plan? A plan to save the soul of everyone?
And so the Holy Spirit gently came My life has not been the same For within my womb was placed God’s only Son Almighty Nine months to protect and keep in safety
But, how do I tell my husband-to-be There’s already a child growing inside of me?
I know—I’ll say:
Honey, He will be called the Prince of Peace His name to all a sweet release God, becoming a child like no other To Him we’ll be father and mother To nurture, protect and to teach the way To hear His first word and to watch Him play I’ll cradle Him safe upon my breast To Him I’ll be a mother best After Him my womb will bear none other So awesome, like Christ, to call me mother
Donkeys, horses in a barn All beheld God’s miracle being born Pharisees and Scribes too blind to see That the prophecy of the Messiah had come to be Wise men traveled from afar And shepherds followed a distant star Bowed down their heads to worship Him But Herod tried to have Him killed From Bethlehem’s manger we had to flee Our child, indeed, would be a Nazarene
And Jesus increased in wisdom and stature Spending many days alone with God in nature An understanding of scriptures beyond His years He challenged the doctrine of even those who weren’t His peers
I remember—I lost Him once among a worshiping throng Three days I worried and I searched—where did I go wrong? When I found Him, He was carrying out His Father’s affair Speaking with an authority, learnt men revere
Returning home, I held tightly to His hand My heart is heavy, now I truly understand Today, it’s three days lost in a crowd Tomorrow, it will be three days in a grave enshroud
Part II: Life In Ministry
No longer a child, but a man of thirty years With a hug and a kiss, He left me in tears He traveled near and far from home Without a place to call His own
I remember His first miracle—turning water into wine So proud was I, for once upon a child He was mine
And the stories—they came from every corner So many miracles and yet they wondered If He was the promised King, their Messiah No! Too lowly, they said, to be their Deliverer
And so, my child they nailed up, upon a tree But before He died He looked out to me For He could always see deep within my heart And He knew just then it was broken in every part
Even in death my baby thought of me Knowing without Him I could not be In what sounded like His final breath He entrusted me to John upon His death I knew His Father’s heart was also broken For the heavens cried and the earth was shaken
That night I laid sleepless upon my bed For when I close my eyes, I saw my baby—dead! Blood flowing freely from His hands and feet From nine-inches spikes, driven down deep
I buried my child in a borrowed tomb And with these hands, I anointed His wounds Then I remembered what the olden prophets foretold That this child would bring both joy and sorrow to my soul
Joy upon the night when I laid Him in the manger And angels proclaimed that my baby was the Savior Sorrow upon that day when they spat on His face You know, the chosen ones, the special race His disciples scattered far and wide When once upon a time, they were all by His side
Part III: Life Everlasting
But, on the third day the Father cried: Jesus! My Son! Arise! And the earth quaked And the stone rolled away And Jesus stepped forth the resurrection and the way
Surely, you see why He’s my awesome child My lowly Jesus, meek and mild The King of kings, once my baby It takes faith to believe it really
And now He’s in heaven to reign as King An advocate if you or I sin And though He sits upon His throne He’s yearning to come and take me home
As I reminisce on that night, O holy night I smile for I bore the King who is the light Jesus, the Redeemer, it’s all quite sublime That He’s God’s Son, and that He’s also mine
I loved you long before I met you the sound of your laughter like the wind whispering through trees
Love is the rain we chase in summer the sound of bicycles rolling on cobbled streets a rhythm steady, like breathing
You are my confession my memories pressed in the pages of time
We are the poem that never ends the spark to light the night
There is no yesterday without you no tomorrow without us
Rest In Power Nikki Giovanni
Afterword: Prolific autor and poet Nikki Giovanni passed away today (December 10, 2024). She’s been a voice of change in the black power and black art movements. This tribute poem is based on her New York Times best seller “Bicycles: Love Poems”. It’s not quite a cento (I needed more time to write that) but it borrows from her work mainly on love—my favorite muse! Though she’s gone, love rolls on.
In a world we all know too well Women’s bodies bear violence—scarred A contested space, a battleground Where autonomy is a forlorn wish Where choice, stripped away and silenced, becomes A ghost of it’s once true self Where home is where the harm is How can love unfurl its wings? How can dreams find light when darkness lingers Where safety should sing?
For one in three women—intimacy’s touch turns violent Every 10 minutes—for one woman—intimacy’s touch turns turbulent As love’s promise becomes the cold hand of death With no right to say no, no right to say yes— When to bear life or when to hold it close Their own bodies betrayed by laws and customs, imposed Written by hands that will never know The weight of their words, death sentence proposed
Rape—A Weapon of War
In conflicts that rage beyond borders Male invasion, rape—a weapon of war—a tool, a tactic Conquering women’s flesh like spoils While in the hollow halls of the United Nations Resolutions inked by men with pens, spill Like blood, staining sheets Emptying hearts of life’s own source Yet, still, governments choose steel and flame Investing in war machines, no peace to gain Conflicts on women’s bodies play out, the ultimate price paid
Uprooted!
Uprooted! from their soil Women and girls drift like leaves falling from withering trees Their homes lost to gunfire, to flood, to flame Their world, quaking, shifting beneath their feet Displaced by war, exiled by climate’s rage They wander borderless, unanchored Carrying memories of lands once called home Searching for safety in a world, fractured No longer their own
New Dawn, Reborn
But now, imagine a dawn Reborn
A world rebuilt from root to sky Where hands that hold are only gentle Where bodies, once haunted, are fully free Imagine a world where choice is sacred Where every woman’s voice rings clear Her body is her sovereign land A place of power, of life, of joy
Imagine girls, unafraid to play With futures bright as the skies above And women, unbroken, now as rooted as trees No longer the spoils of collateral damage No longer bent beneath a burdened silence No longer survivors, but whole Free to choose, to create— They thrive
A World Beyond Fear
A world beyond fear, a world that is just Where equality stands as tall as the sequoia And equity flows as long as the river of the Nile Here, love needs no pen to promise, no ink to spill Every woman, every girl In freedom walks, unbounded— Potential fulfilled, a force unchained in change
Afterword: This poem commemorates the 16 Days of Activism Against Gender-Based Violence (November 25–December 10). In it I reflect on the injustices faced by women and girls globally, from violence in their homes to the denial of autonomy. It envisions a future of safety, equality, and justice, calling for action to uphold their rights and dignity. This is my life’s work!!
Like what you see? 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 this season of uncertainty—caught between staying in my current home or relocating to another country for work—after much distress, I find myself surrendering my plans to God’s will.
This home I’ve created, it’s the fulfillment of a long-held desire: to be settled. To own a space where I could pour my heart, plant deep roots, and foster a sense of belonging. It has been my sanctuary, a reflection of connectedness and stability. The place where I feel settled after years of living in different countries and spaces.
As I stand on the brink of yet another move—an inevitable part of life as an international civil servant—God’s gentle reminder reaches me:
“Your foundation isn’t in where you live or what you own—it’s in Me.”
The absence of my father during my upbringing left a void in my heart, one I’ve often tried to fill through the ownership of things that evoked a sense of home. Surrounding myself with homey objects became a source of comfort, a way to create belonging where it felt missing. Owning my own home, especially, provided a sense of security and grounding that helped anchor me.
But the truth is this, nothing I have ever possessed has been truly mine. Everything belongs to God, for:
“The earth is the Lord’s, and everything in it.”
Psalm 24:1
This impending move feels different, however.
This time, it isn’t stirring the usual pull to chase the next country, own or set up a new house, or envision fresh decor.
Instead, I am drawn into a stillness—a deep, unshakable peace within the uncertainty of this in-between season. I’ve let go of the need to control the outcome. While I remain intentional about taking the necessary steps, my heart rests in the assurance that the ultimate outcome is held by a God I trust completely.
What God asks of me now is not to prepare another home, but to prepare my heart.
To pause and examine the shelves of my soul. To tend to the decor of my spirit.
This is the work He is calling me to, a work far deeper and more lasting than the spaces I adorn.
“Own what I have adorned you with,” He whispers. “Use it for the purpose I have planned for you.”
Own your choices. Own your attitudes. Own the faith I am shaping within you. And, hone your creativity. This is a season of refinement, not in bricks and mortar, but in heart and spirit.
Lord, everything I have and everything I am is Yours—my home, my plans, my future, my very life.
Wherever I go, You are my home. In You, I am always secure.
My home is in You Not in bricks or what I own— Roots in faith grow deep
Shelves of my soul hold Treasures You’ve adorned. I trust! Lord, I am secure
And so through this tumultuous journey, wherever it ends, my unshakable truth is this and will forever be:
Home is not a place; it’s a person. And for me, that person is Jesus.
Written for W3 Poetry Prompt. Sarah Whiley, Poet of the Week, challenges us to write a poem inspired by the theme—free using the Dectina Refrain form. When I think of FREE-dom, one speech comes to mind: MLK’s “I Have a Dream”. This iconic speech was delivered on August 28, 1963, during the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom, at the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C.
This poem is in tribute to FREEdom—that it’s not just a dream but the reality for every person, everywhere.
Like what you see? 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👈
Heart’s rhythm beats steady for love For a love that shields, creating a safe space— Unafraid to be vulnerable, wholly free To exist just as we are, completely
You and I—broken in different ways Fragmented pieces from separate days Yet together, we synchronize in all the right places Restoring like ancient art, our brokenness erases
A love created like poetry in motion Like rivers conjoined, flowing to the ocean A journey crafting healing for you, for me Reconciled in the embrace of love’s harmony
We move by love’s essence, a force so pure— Healing in its touch, a bond that will endure Endure through time, a rhythm unexplained A love that eclipses logic, heart over brain
Beforeword: A colleague with whom my friend co-chaired an internship program for students for over 25 years suddenly passed away. Now, standing before her students, their sad eyes looking back at her, she finds herself comforting them, holding back her own tears because, as she told me, she needed to be the adult in the room.Unable to be there to console her in person, I wrote and read this poem for her, hoping it offers some comfort from afar.
Read along and listen to: “Even The Adult In The Room Cries”:
How long will you stay caged in the could-have-been the should-have-done the moments you let slip through your hands?
How long will you wear the past like a collar like a weight that pulls you back like a shackle that stifles breath makes you small makes you stay?
The past is nothing but a paper tiger— it has no growl, it has no bite If you but move t’ward the light feel the warmth on your skin each step a defiance each breath a reclaiming
Regret may whisper but you are louder, still You are the breaking of chains the choosing of joy the walking away You are bound only to the future— where you run free where you rise where you live life, Unleashed
As autumn deepens— night stretches its long fingers pulling darkness over daylight ushering in longer, colder spells inviting leaves’ hidden hues once veiled to blaze forth in defiant, spectacular display they reveal splendors previously cloaked by summer’s green grasp a kaleidoscopic spectrum of colors unmasked as if they had swallowed sunsets waiting for their moment to exhale fire
Afterword: I’m a big fan of David Attenborough. This poem is influenced by one of his recent posts and associated photograph.
Like what you see? 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👈
Heart beats fast, room leans in, strangers drawn close
Afterword: This poem (a dectina refrain), is inspired by my first public reading outside my usual circle. It reflects the nervous anticipation and vulnerability of sharing deeply personal work with strangers. It was at the iconic Bowery Poetry Club (NYC) known for its vibrant and welcoming atmosphere. That night was no exception—there was an electric energy in the room as my voice found its place among an audience that leaned in and affirmed a moment of connection through words.
2024 All Rights Reserved Designed with Canva Images by Pexels
Help me, Most High, to live each day, so I can truly, humbly say:
I loved You with my whole heart And followed the path You set apart I chased my dreams with fearless stride Rising each time I stumbled or cried I won some battles, lost a few Never settled for less than what was true
I was kind to all I met Gave my best, without regret I was loved, and I loved well Laughed in joy, in gratitude dwelled May my joys outlast my sorrows And my triumphs light tomorrows
If I closed my eyes, then woke to find Life had slipped, like sand, through time
I pray I’d lived a life rich and deep No regrets, my soul in peace will sleep
Even though we’re well into fall the roses keep giving beautiful blooms in spite of losing most of their leaves. These yellow beauties cut from the garden for a minimalist bouquet hanging from a mirror
Like what you see? 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👈
I don’t know the end, the path ahead, unclear, but I will trust You, God, for You are always near. In the silence, or the storm, when shadows seem to press, I’ll walk in faith, not by sight, and trust You—nevertheless.
When doubt whispers lies, and fear clouds my view, I’ll cling to all You’ve promised, for I know Your word is true. When the world around me shifts, and I’m tempted to digress, I’ll anchor in Your love, oh God, and hold firm—nevertheless.
For You are the beginning, the faithful, guiding light, Though now I see through glass, darkly I know You’ll make it all, right. In victories and trials, in joy and deep distress, I’ll lift my eyes to heaven, and praise You—nevertheless.
So even in the tarrying, when answers seem delayed, I’ll rest within Your timing— I’ll no longer be afraid. I surrender all my striving, and leave behind the guess, I’ll follow where You lead me, Lord, trusting—nevertheless.
In the quiet park, I sit and breathe A goose glides by, casting its shadow beneath The river flows with high tide’s rise Reflecting the blue of endless skies
A wedding unfolds near the evergreen trees Laughter and vows carried by the breeze Sun rays dance on faces aglow Warming the scene with a golden show
Parents and babes, love tenderly shown In their own worlds where dreams have grown I watch it all in quiet delight The park turns tranquil as day turns to night
I don’t know the name of this flower but I chose this bouquet above all the others because of this spiked beauty. Mama nature sure does replicate herself like only she can—this looks like the land version of the sea urchin, doesn’t it? So I’m naming her the urchin flower 😀
Like what you see? 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👈
the kind passed down like heirlooms, a quilt of belonging, a patchwork of sacrifice stitched with hands that remember
Hope is laughter—
the sound of breaking cycles, the release of generational restraints off children who grow strong under the instructions of those who came before
Hope is political—
a movement, a pulse the fight for more than survival it’s claiming the right to thrive, for equality in power where power means change
Hope is social—
woven through our communities a collective will to lift each other to build bridges across time and dismantle the walls of what was once thought impossible
Hope is me, you—
vessels of dreams untold a reflection of ancestors’ prayers carrying their strength in our bones we are the bridge, the builder, the keeper of this flame that lights the way for those yet to come
Hope is the affirmative action of generational wealth—
more than money, it’s memory, it’s possibility, it’s dreaming in color, releasing hands that will build futures far beyond the limits of the past
Like what you see? 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👈
Like what you see? 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👈
Not going somewhere to happen, not chasing the next … For purpose, on purpose, in the now to invest Not bound by tomorrow, nor haunted by past But rooted in moments that matter and last
Each breath is a choice, stepping into your own The journey unfolds, though the path stays unknown No waiting for destiny to knock at your door Live in the fullness of now, nothing more
The future will come, but today is your stage To live without worry, unchained by the age For purpose, on purpose, each second a gift Stand in the present, poised for the shift
So here in this moment, rise and shine Live with purpose, embrace the Divine Tomorrow’s not promised, there’s no guarantee This moment is all to be all you must be
In the ceasing of movement by the unintentional pause
In the pulse between heart-break and the intention of soul-care
In all the spaces of the in-between
That’s where you’ll find God
Transforming. Emerging. In the in-between.
Republished 2024 All Rights Reserved
Like what you see? 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 stillness and surrender, I find my way Where numbness wraps me, there God will stay In moments weak, when shadows fall His presence lifts, embracing all
Perfection is Not My Aim
Not a chase for perfect, not a polished being But in my flaws, my truth is seen To manage imperfection, to embrace it all Owning my flawsome, without a flaw
Transformation is Selfish and Hard
The path to change is hard and steep To let old selves die, to lose and weep For the woman I’m becoming, I will strive In selfish toil, I keep alive
The Author
God holds the pen, He writes this tale of mine He scripts and re-scripts, line upon line With bravery bold, my truth I will carry A vision, though delayed, know it will not tarry
For the vision is yet for an appointed time; But at the end it will speak, and it will not lie. Though it tarries, wait for it; Because it will surely come, It will not tarry.
Like what you see? 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👈
Give God your today and tomorrows, in Him your plans will last
***
Be encouraged through your struggles
Let go of what you cannot change
New possibilities are abounding
Reset your target-range
***
When you can’t see beyond the pain, and tears your path obscure
Focus on the Almighty’s promises, know His words are sure
Know your steps are ordered, lined-up by His design
Though weapons formed they will not prosper, they’ll be realigned
***
Be encouraged through your losses
Wave sorrow and hurt good-bye
Take pleasure in life’s journey
Through valleys-deep and mountains-high
***
When the enemy comes against you, overwhelming as a flood
Know a banner has been raised, you’re covered by the blood
Lean not on your own understanding, trust God with all your heart
Welcome each new day’s dawning, as your chance to restart
***
Be encouraged through each downfall
The good will outweigh the bad
Count the blessings, not the shortfalls
Then there’ll be no room for sad
2024 [republished] All Rights Reserved
Like what you see? 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👈
Sometimes being strong is just surrendering beneath the weight of it all letting go of the armor we’ve worn for too long allowing the tides to carry us unresisting, into the unknown
Strength isn’t in clenched fists but in open hands palms upward, accepting the rain that falls the winds that howl without warning
Surrendering to the fragility of flesh the vulnerability of hearts to whisper yes to the darkness trusting in the stars hidden behind clouds
It’s in the moments of release that we find our authentic selves unencumbered by the need to control to dominate to stand unyielding
Strength is the breath we exhale when the storm presses close the quiet embrace in acceptance of what we cannot change the silent nod in surrender to the mysteries of life
Sometimes being strong is just surrendering to the passing of time to the ebb and flow of emotions to the gentle acceptance of our place in this vast, uncharted thing called “life”
Four Years strong Words I’ve sown Shared what I’ve known Watched each word blossom Garden of thoughts spoken Of stories, of roots, of growth Each post, a bloom from heart to hand Tending this space where passions expand Four years strong, words I’ve sown, shared what I’ve known
Mental health encompasses our emotional, psychological, and social wellness, impacting our thoughts, emotions, behaviors, and influencing our stress management, relationships, and decision-making.
Threads of thought convene
Labyrinth of mind and soul
Inner world whispers
Afterword: A haibun is composed of two stanzas. The first stanza is a prose paragraph, and the second stanza is a haiku.
Afterword: Monday often gets a bad rap, like the “Monday blues”. This limerick gives Monday a new vibe. Let’s transform Monday into a day of heart-leaping joy and possibility—even a romance. Happy Monday!!!
2024 All Rights Reserved Credit: Designed with Canva
Beforeword: What/who is your muse, your inspiration? What do you do when muse is in a state of absentia? Well, if you’re a poet , you write a poem about it. So, here’s ode to muse!!
In the silence of your absence, my muse My pen, once ablaze, now stands unused Emotions wither, wander, alight Without your presence, inspiration takes flight
Lines once profound now falter, without a trace In your departure, creativity’s lost embrace No stories bloom, no vivid tales unfurl Without your spark, words twist and swirl
No melody in my heart, no words to find No rhyme or rhythm to soothe my mind No chords to weave through verses align In your absence, my heART voice decline
No structure holds these scattered thoughts in place No hooks to captivate, no bridge to chase No heart to pour into these empty lines Oh, my muse, your absence’s sublime
You, who sparked passion like a goddess divine In your absence, this poet’s soul shall pine For without you, my words, they weep and moan Oh, muse, come back and make my heART your home
Afterword: Written for W3 prompt. Thanks to David for hosting and Sarah Whiley for the direction: the word is soar, the form is Elfje.
An ‘Elfje’ counts as five sentences in only 11 words. This is how you do it:
Line 1: One word. This word symbolizes a colour or feature. The word symbolizes the atmosphere.
Line 2: Two words. These are something or someone with this colour or feature.
Line 3: Three words. Giving more information about the person or the object. You describe where the person or the object is, who the person or what the object is, or what the person or object is doing. This sentence usually starts with the word ‘he’, ‘she’ or ‘it.’
Line 4: Four words. Here you are writing something about yourself in relation to the person or the object. This sentence is your conclusion.
Line 5: One word. This word is called the ‘Bomb.’ It is the essence of the poem.
A Dectina Refrain is a poetic form written with your syllables going: 1/2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9/10. The 10th line is comprised of the first four lines all together as one stand alone line which may/may not be in quotation marks.
Wait—time stills, shadows fade, hope takes its place.
A Dectina Refrain is a poetic form written with your syllables going: 1/2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9/10. Your 10th line is comprised of your first four lines all together as one stand alone line which may/may not be in quotation marks.
Time. Frozen, Shared wonder— Child meets duckling Exuberance joins Golden-hue spectacle Feathered curiosity Post-rain puddles playtime joy found Memories created for the first Time. Frozen, shared wonder—child meets duckling
A Dectina Refrain is a poetic form written with your syllables going: 1/2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9/10. Your 10th line is comprised of your first four lines all together as one stand alone line which may/may not be in quotation marks.
Remember the Star Trek intro: “Space: the final frontier…. To boldly go where no man has gone before!”?
With the explosion of the fourth industrial revolution and advances in technology, space is no longer the final frontier, it has been explored and so has the depth of the oceans and the core of the earth.
The Pervasive Nature of Technology
Technology has become extraordinarily invasive. It permeates every sphere and facet of our lives. Unless you make a concerted effort to live ‘off the grid’, you leave a digital footprint just about every minute of the day. And now with AI and generative AI, the intrusion is even more intense.
That got me thinking about what of myself I can keep private, protected from scrutiny and judgment.
It’s not my words for once I’ve spoken/written them they are in the public domain and therefore at the whim of others’ opinions, thoughts and feelings to be scrutinized, dissected and even misconstrued.
It’s not my sense of style either because once I step out into the public domain, my style, my fashion choices (or lack thereof🙃), my hair, even my makeup are all open to be criticized or affirmed.
But my thoughts—the ideas or opinions produced in my mind—those are safe as long as they remain protected.
My mind, the protector and incubator of my thought, is its safest place.
Thoughts should be allowed to germinate, to come to maturity before they are birthed into words. For once they are expressed, they are no longer solely mine.
Thoughts Are Powerful
Everything that constitute the universe started with thought. From the beginning, where there was void and nothing had form and darkness abounded, God thought.
God thought: I’m going to make Me a universe—space, time, matter and energy, the cosmos, galaxies, planets, and stars arranged in constellations. And everything God thought of that was to make up the universe, once He spoke them, they existed.
In other words, God spoke what He thought, and what He thought is what it became.
As an example—before there was light in the physical realm, light was undefined. It was a thought incubated in the womb of God’s mind of what it would be and how it would function. When the thought matured and was ready to be birthed for its intended purpose, God spoke:
“Let there be light and there was light” (Genesis 1:3).
And what He thought light to be, that’s what light became. Traveling at 186,000 miles per second, light separated the darkness.
As it is with God’s thoughts, so it is with ours.
Our thoughts are also powerful enough to create.
For, it is what we think in our minds that we become in our lives.
The mind is the breeding ground for our consciousness, perception, imagination, intelligence, judgment, emotion, instinct and thinking.
Because our thoughts become a reflection of who we really are, why then would we not allow our thoughts to ‘hang out’ with these other faculties of the mind and germinate before they are released?!
Imagine a thought saturated and infused with imagination, judgement, emotions and instinct and only then is it given wings on words to soar.
Would there be less conflict, less war, more love? I think so.
When contemplated in this way, I surmised that thoughts in their purest form—devoid of technological intrusion—are the final frontier of our personhood. That, if allowed to germinate fully/complete/whole would serve us well at the individual, familial, community, societal, national, regional, and global levels.
Like what you see? 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 an era where we have access to more knowledge than ever before, why do we find ourselves so short on true understanding? The answer lies in the lost art of listening.
The Importance of Listening
Amidst the overwhelming noise of information, the essence of true understanding is often overlooked. Listening is becoming a lost art, yet it is the key to comprehension. The discerning ear of wisdom can gather understanding beyond the mere accumulation of facts and data.
Why Listening Matters More Than Ever
If we would but listen more and listen better, there’d be no violence in our homes, there’d be no violence in our societies, there’d be no wars.
The ability to listen, absorb, and distill the essence from the relentless stream of knowledge is the hallmark of a wise mind.
Wisdom in the Words of Legends
Jimi Hendricks said it best — knowledge speaks, but it is indeed wisdom that listens.
However, “knowledge isn’t free, you have to pay attention.” (Richard P. Feynman)
Conclusion: Embrace the Art of Listening
In today’s fast-paced world, let’s not lose sight of the importance of listening. By embracing the art of listening, we can foster understanding, reduce conflict, and build a more peaceful society.
Let’s pay attention, for it is in listening that we truly learn and grow.
2023 All Rights Reserved Designed with Canva Image from The Minds Journal
Beforeword: I took the picture of a sign I saw alongside a highway because its profundity struck me. It reads: “A society that gives up freedom for safety will lose both”.
It inspired this Tanka:
Safety or freedom Choosing one we lose them both— In chains of our choice Urgent call of liberty Silenced in our hollow hearts
Afterword: Tanka is a Japanese form of five lines with 5, 7, 5, 7, and 7 syllables—31 in all.
This blog, titled "Empowering Leadership: Building a Harmonious Partnership Between School Management and Principals," explores the essential factors that foster a strong and effective relationship between school management and principals. Drawing on historical context, philosophical principles, Indian legal frameworks, and mythological analogies, the blog offers insights into creating a balanced dynamic where principals are empowered yet accountable. It provides practical strategies for ensuring the administrative, academic, and financial health of educational institutions through clear communication, shared vision, and mutual respect.
Poems & More 