Have you found that that strong desire to do something that is wrong, unwise, or contrary to principles you hold dear often comes dressed in urgency?
There’s a coaxing, it seems, to seize what gleams in the moment. A sense that pleasure can only be attained if grasped now. Or, that the satisfaction from acting on impulse is worth any cost. But in the heat of desire or quick choices we’re often not able to discern risks that will in the end leave us with scars. And, the old adage rings true—all that glitters is [indeed] not gold.
I once heard Levi Lusko say: “now yells louder, but later lasts longer.” This reminder urges patience over haste. To know that to reap a good harvest of “ripe choices” is a slow process, but the reward is sweet. Much like a forced-ripe mango is never as tasty as one allowed to mature in its fullness on the tree.
In moments when tempted to act in ways contrary to our principles—wait! Waiting is not weakness. Waiting is a quiet strength. It is the courage to pause long enough to discern, to seek light by looking beyond the immediacy to see around the shadows.
heart waits in silence — the way unfolds in stillness vision beyond night.
Beforeword: Appreciating the beauty of what a country offers while still acknowledging its history and the injustices carried in its soil.
I’ve written quite a bit about my trip and visit to Australia. If you’ve read these posts — Tasmania, Bruny Island, Perth, Sydney, Melbourne — you may have noticed I made no mention of encounters with Aboriginal people.
Silence.
Unseen.
That wasn’t deliberate. It was unavoidable — I couldn’t write what I did not see or know how to name.
In all my experiences, in all the places I visited, I was struck by how little visible Aboriginal presence I encountered. I intentionally looked — on the streets, in the stores, in the everyday movements of public life.
That absence felt palpable.
And yet, what was very present was the Welcome to Country or Acknowledgement of Country— a statement recognizing the Traditional Custodians of the land. No meeting or public event started without it. It echoed across media, institutions, performances, and gatherings.
For Bruny Island, someone might say:
“I acknowledge the Nuenonne people of the South East Nation, Traditional Custodians of Bruny Island (Lunawanna-alonnah).”
Or in Melbourne:
“I acknowledge the Traditional Custodians of the land on which we gather today, the Wurundjeri Woi-wurrung people of the Kulin Nation.”
I appreciated the practice. I still do.
But I also wrestled with the tension of it. The tension that made me ask:
What does it mean for a people to be acknowledged in words while their presence felt so unseen?
How do you admire a country while also recognizing histories of displacement, dispossession, and attempted erasure?
Because appreciating a place and acknowledging injustice are not contradictions.
Australia gave me breathtaking coastlines, museums, architecture, wildlife, gardens, art, and moments that genuinely moved me. I stood in awe at the Sydney Opera House. I wandered through Tasmania’s quiet beauty. I watched kangaroos casually occupying golf courses as if they paid membership dues. Australia did not disappoint.
And, nowhere did this sit more heavily with me than in the story of Truganini. It was relayed in pieces by the tour guide on my Bruny Island tour. My intrigue led me to research Truganini’s story.
Born around 1812, Truganini was a Nuenonne woman from Bruny Island, often remembered as one of the last survivors of her people after colonization devastated Aboriginal communities in Tasmania. She lived through profound violence and displacement. Family members were killed. Land was taken. Her people were pushed to the margins of the very place that had sustained them for generations.
Before her death in 1876, Truganini made a simple but profound request: that her body be treated with dignity and not exploited after death. She feared being displayed as a curiosity.
Yet her wishes were ignored.
Her remains were exhibited publicly for decades in a museum — a final indignity after a lifetime marked by dispossession. It would take many years before her ashes were finally returned to the sea near her ancestral homeland, fulfilling, belatedly, the dignity she had requested all along.
As part of my visit I took the 279-step climb to Truganini Lookout and for me, each step felt like a blow-by-blow walk into history.
At the top, there is an unobstructed view of the island stretching out in both directions — narrow, windswept, exposed, held together by a thin strip of land. Beautiful. But grounding too. Because the name, Truganini Lookout, carries the story of a woman who fought for the survival and dignity of her people — the Palawa, the Aboriginal people of Lutruwita (Tasmania).
I did not know her full story before arriving, but something about it tugged on my heartstrings because it did not feel distant to me.
I am the product of both Jamaica and Canada, and both carry their own version of this ache.
In Jamaica, it is the near disappearance of the Taino people and the enduring legacy of Nanny and the Maroons, who fought fiercely for freedom, dignity, and the right to exist on their own terms. (See my post about Accompong.)
In Canada, it is the story of First Nations, Inuit, and Métis peoples — communities who survived displacement, cultural suppression, residential schools, and generations of policies designed to erase Indigenous identity.
In both countries, the story is not one of complete disappearance, but of remarkable survival.
What remains are the fragments and the continuities: names, memory, ancestry, language, stories, traditions, and a growing effort to recover what was lost, restore what was taken, and call people and places by their rightful names.
Standing on Bruny Island, I recognized the familiar—Different histories. Different peoples. Different continents. Yet the same enduring struggle to remember, reclaim, and remain.
Travel Reveals Strange Mirrors
When I travel I almost always visit the museums or historical sites, looking out for what mirrors my own history and experiences. Sometimes travel reveals strange mirrors — like familiar names in unfamiliar places.
Kingston.
A name I know as home in Jamaica also exists in Tasmania. And, of course, there is Kingston, Ontario, in Canada — another place woven into my story.
It made me pause, first from the feeling of familiarity which made me reach for my phone to capture this sign post:
Three Kingstons. Three geographies. Three distinct histories shaped, in different ways, by the legacy of empire and colonization.
The connection is not in the name itself but in what it prompted me to consider: how places separated by oceans can carry stories that mimic one another. How histories of settlement, displacement, resistance, and survival often leave similar footprints on different shores.
As a Jamaican-Canadian standing on Australian soil, I found myself noticing these intersections everywhere. Not because the stories are identical, but because they ask similar questions about belonging, memory, identity, and whose stories get told.
Different continents. Different peoples. Yet familiar sentiments shaped by similar patterns.
Talawah & Palawa
The other mirror showed up in two words, not as a shared meaning but a shared feeling.
Palawa is the name for Aboriginal Tasmanians and it echoed a word deeply familiar to me as a Jamaican— talawah.
In Jamaica, talawah describes something small but fierce. Resilient. Tough. Quietly powerful. The kind of strength that survives.
And somehow, standing in a place shaped by dispossession and endurance, the echo between Palawa and talawah stayed with me. Different histories. Different peoples. Yet something familiar in the story of survival.
Maybe that is why Bruny Island tugged at my heart more than I expected.
Because beneath all its beauty sat something recognizable: the ache of what colonization took and continues to take, the endurance of those who survive it, and the reminder that history matters.
The beauty of Australia in flowers
Australia did not disappoint.
But neither was I oblivious.
I can appreciate the beauty of what a country offers while still acknowledging its history and the injustices carried in its soil.
Perhaps that, too, is a kind of acknowledgement of country.
Beforeword: the Oceania quest. I am on a personal quest to travel to all seven continents. With Australia and New Zealand now under my belt, only one continent remains: Antarctica. It also means I’ve had the privilege of living in or having spent significant time in 54 countries.
This Australian journey took me through Melbourne, Tasmania, and Sydney.
It was not on my radar at all for this trip. In talking with an Aussie friend before departure, she strongly suggested I add “Tas” to the itinerary. The good thing is that although the recommendation came only days before I left, I had not yet booked my internal flights. Soon the tickets were secured, days reshuffled, and Tasmania quietly inserted itself into the Oceania quest.
I am glad it did.
I already shared separately about Bruny Island because it deserved a post of its own. What follows is the rest of my Tasmanian experience.
Tasmania is south of mainland Australia, separated by the Bass Strait. It is Australia’s island state — rugged, windswept, and lush. Compared to the bustle of Sydney and Melbourne, Tasmania felt almost intimate.
And this is how it started.
Hobart & Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra
I arrived late evening in Hobart, the capital city, at the Hotel Grand Chancellor Hobart. As I checked in, a pianist was playing lovely instrumental music in the lobby and everyone seemed unusually dressed up. I noticed it but thought little of it beyond wanting to hear more of the music.
I quickly freshened up and returned downstairs finding a seat at the end of the bar. I settled onto a stool, opened the Notes app on my trusty iPhone, and started writing.
A few minutes later:
“Excuse me,” a gentleman said. “Are you waiting for someone?”
I looked up from my phone. Smiled.
“No, I’m not.”
“Are you going to the concert?”
“What concert? I don’t know, I only just arrived.”
“There’s a classical concert upstairs at the Federation Concert Hall.”
Sidebar
At this point the puzzle pieces finally started connecting.
I had booked the hotel simply because Google said it was conveniently located for the things I wanted to see in Hobart. I had absolutely no idea it was attached to the Federation Concert Hall, home of the Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra.
Suddenly the pianist made sense. The elegantly dressed guests made sense. The crowded lobby made sense.
Back to the conversation.
“Would you like to attend?” he asked casually. “It’s just upstairs.”
Sidebar again
Now, one thing about solo travel: I always leave room for the unexpected. I usually lock in a few must-do experiences, then deliberately leave space for whatever surprises the trip decides to hand me. I’ve come to know that some of the best moments in travel cannot be planned.
Back to the conversation.
“Sure,” I replied. “I love classical music. Where can I get a ticket?”
“Please allow me,” he said. “Let me see if I can get the seat beside me. Or any seat.”
Sidebar once again
I remember blinking in surprise and bringing my clasped hands up toward my mouth, as I often do when I’m filled with gratitude.
“That’s very kind of you. Thank you.”
I have learned not to interrogate every unexpected kindness life offers. I gauge the situations, always. Sometimes you simply receive the moment.
Off he went while I returned to my writing. He returned, sure enough pulling a ticket from his breast pocket to A Midsummer Night’s Dream. And yes — the seat beside him was available.
The concert was fabulous. The company was equally enjoyable.
And just like that, Tasmania opened itself to me through music, conversation, unexpected generosity and best of all—a new friend.
The kindness only continued from there. I found Tasmanians — or “Tassies,” as I kept hearing — warm, courteous, and deeply proud of their island. They also pack a remarkable amount into their tourism experience for such a relatively small place.
Salamanca
Salamanca Place quickly became one of my favourite areas in Hobart. Sandstone warehouses lining the street. Cafés spill onto sidewalks. Fish an’ chips and ice cream joints along the dock. Sailboats in the harbor. Art galleries sit tucked between restaurants and bookstores. And a grand market that takes place every weekend. There was a vendor for just about every thing—from wooden neckties, to clothing, trinkets, books, food. You name it, they had it. I was traveling with a backpack so having no extra space was the only reason I couldn’t shop.
Botanical Gardens
The Royal Tasmanian Botanical Gardens were another highlight. The grounds themselves are beautiful, but what stayed with me most was the Japanese garden.
There was a stillness there that was surreal and felt sacred. The curved bridges. The koi moving lazily through the water. The deliberate placement of stone and plant life. Everything invited pause.
Travel can sometimes become consumption — ticking off landmarks, rushing toward the next thing. The Japanese garden interrupted that instinct. It asked me simply to sit for a while. So I did.
MONA
Then there was Museum of Old and New Art — MONA, owned by David Walsh who often speaks of if it as his “peacock feathers.”
MONA is not the kind of museum you passively stroll through nodding politely at paintings. It invites you to pause with seatings arranged over plush carpets and sheepskin amongst the exhibits. It also provokes. Disturbs. Confuses. Amuses. Sometimes all at once.
Built partly underground and carved into sandstone along the River Derwent, the museum itself already feels unconventional before you even encounter the exhibits.
After the short ferry ride you walk up 99 stairs from the jetty, or through a tunnel, to enter. Once inside, the App is activated and every piece is described on it for you to read or listen to. You only need get close enough to a piece and it loads on the App. Really cool!
Some installations made me laugh outright. Others made me uncomfortable. A few left me standing there wondering, “What exactly am I looking at?” And, “Why is this in a museum.?” And at others I sit or stand for a while in amazement. Others were the muse to unleash my creativity.
And perhaps that is the point.
MONA does not ask visitors merely to observe art. It asks you to react to it.
There’s so much more to share about MONA but I’ll limit it to this final experience—the restaurant, Les Dîners de Faro.
I knew the restaurant existed but because I’m hopelesss at directions I only kind-o’-sort-o planned on finding it. I found myself walking down a white passage way backlit with subtle green lighting. I figured it was an exhibit of some weird sort but it was more. That was the runway to the restaurant with art in its decor, food offerings and entertainment including a dancer meandering between tables balancing a light fixture on her head. You just can’t make this stuff up.
I went for the dessert because who wouldn’t want to eat: “Pearl Of the Unconscious Mind”.
Not to be outdone by the art in the museum, the dessert was surrealist art in its own right.
It was a mascarpone and morello cherry pearl, draped by blackberry caviar, chocolate cream, toasted almonds, and red velvet cake served in a decorative shell.
The server took his time in explaining its contents. It played with the senses with different textures and tastes. It was decadent.
What I appreciated most about MONA was: even when I did not fully “get” every exhibit, the experience remained memorable because it encouraged engagement, even touching, rather than passive viewing.
For places I couldn’t spend time exploring I learned a little from a distance on the hop-on-hop-off bus.
I left Tasmania deeply satisfied — grateful that an almost last-minute decision became one of the richest parts of this journey.
Some places impress you with spectacle—neon lights, high rises, massive theatres. Tasmania did something gentler. It welcomed me, steadily unfolding its beauty through music, landscapes, gardens, conversations, and unexpected kindness.
Not bad for a destination that almost never made the itinerary, uh?!
Beforeword: This Sabbath inspirational reflection highlights that living a life of faith is being comfortable in living in the space between what is and what could be.
Have you ever found yourself between a rock and a hard place? Feeling as if you’re trapped between two difficult circumstances with no obvious good option or feeling you must act under pressure and uncertainty?
There are moments in life that don’t come with certainty—only that questioning “maybe.”
He was there because an enemy nation had established a garrison blocking in Israel and holding them in fear. Jonathan took action unbeknownst to the King who had taken up a position of passivity under a pomegranate tree with his soldiers.
Because of the enemy’s blockade, the only options before Jonathan to break through were two cliffs. And as if that wasn’t challenging enough, one cliff face was thorny while the other was slippery.
On either side, there was a different kind of challenge. The path was not clear and there was no guaranteed outcome. Yet Jonathan took a decision to move forward anyway.
That’s the tension of a “maybe moment.”
Even when you’re walking in God’s will, it can still feel uncertain, unsteady and even sharp in some instances.
In the story of Jonathan there’s no record that God spoke beforehand to give reassurance or to lay out a roadmap. Yet Jonathan moved. Then God showed up.
Faith often lives in those “maybe” cliffs. Not the ones outside of us, but the ones within—fear, doubt, hesitation, the need for control.
Victory in those moments asks something uncomfortable of us: vulnerability. That is, the willingness to let go off of what hinders our faith so that we can step forward even without full clarity. To trust God when we have no proof or to move even when there are no guarantees.
It was after Jonathan moved that the way to victory was revealed.
That is where a life of faith is lived—in the space between what is and what could be.
Jonathan’s willingness to act, based on his trust in God, sparked the deliverance of his people.
So, if you find yourself in a “maybe”moment today—standing between slippery and thorny ground—don’t wait for certainty.
Trust God and step anyway.
Shabbat Shalom. May God’s peace be with you and guide you through thorny and slippery places.
I had taken him to Build-A-Bear, he dressed his bear—tiny comouflage jacket and pants, military dog tags, a little attitude. When I complemented his bear’s look, he stepped back, looked at me with swagger beyond his years and said, “Aunty, it’s drip.”
“Drip”?! I had never heard drip used in that context. In response to my naïveté he proceeded to school me on the word. Not to be completely outdone by this precocious little human, I later educated myself on not just what it meant, but where it came from. I learnt how it moved through music, through culture, through people who know how to turn what they have into something that speaks.
At the surface levelwhat “drip” actually means is fashionable, put-together, expensive-looking. But culturally, it goes deeper than what you wear. It’s how what you wear lands.
That moment with my nephew stayed with me.
Because long before “drip” trended on TikTok or echoed through tracks like “Drip Too Hard” by Gunna and Lil Baby, there was another kind of drip—ancient and deeply spiritual. I learned this from one of my favorite ministers of the Gospel, Pastor Furtick.
As the children of Israel prepared to leave Egypt, something unusual happened. After generations of bondage, they didn’t leave empty-handed. The very people who held them captive handed over silver, gold, and clothing. They didn’t fight for it. They didn’t negotiate for it. They asked and it was released—that’s provision.
After years of bondage and subjugation they not only came out free, they came out “dripping.”
Wrists that once labored now layered with jewelry. Bodies that once bore the weight of oppression now draped in gold. This provision was a visible sign that their story had shifted.
When God uses your enemy to bless you.
This part of the Exodus story is easy to skip over, but it shouldn’t be.
Notice, the blessing didn’t come from a new ally. It came from the same place as the struggle.
There may be something uncomfortable about that. We like clean narratives—good on one side, evil on the other. But this story flips the script. It reaffirms that God is not limited by who or what stands against you. He can reach into the very space of resistance and pull provision right out of it.
What opposed you can end up resourcing you.
And the resourcing may not always come in ways you expect. Nor in the ways that feel immediate. But there’s a pattern in this and similar biblical stories:
pressure that strengthens capacity;
delay that builds endurance;
closed doors that redirect purpose; and,
sometimes—blessing that comes from unlikely hands.
Are you in a hard season?
When you step out of it, don’t be surprised if you’re carrying more than you thought you would.
You didn’t just survive it. You gathered strength on the way out.
What does it mean to “come out dripping”?
In the same way that “drip” in hip-hop culture is more than what you wear but style as an expression with presence, “drip” in the spiritual sense—as manifested in the lives of the children of Israel in the exodus—was overflow, not excess.
In other words it’s the unassuming confidence of someone who knows their story didn’t end where it could or should have. It’s coming to terms that grace was layered over your struggle, provision over your lack, and dignity over what tried to shame you into the shadows. It’s peace where there used to be anxiety; clarity where there used to be confusion; and stability where there used to be constant disruption.
A Shabbat pause:
As the sun sets and Shabbat begins, consider this—
Where have you been brought out and what did you carry with you?
Think not of what you lost or what you escaped, but what you gained, what you grew into, how your life has shifted as a result. You may not have noticed it at the time. But look again.
You didn’t come out empty.
You came out dripping with provision—jewelry of grace, gold of strength and clothing that covers and protects you.
Globally, February is widely known for celebrating Black history, and in Jamaica and across the Caribbean, for celebrating reggae.
Theme: A Century of Black History CommemorationsTheme: Rhythms of Resilience
This year I’ll be writing about bothbecause2026 is a significant year. It marks one hundred years since Black history was formally named and recognized in the United States, and eighteen years of acknowledging reggae music’s impact on culture and global consciousness. It is also no coincidence that reggae legends Dennis Brown and Bob Marley were both born in February—on the 1st and 6th, respectively.
I’ll be writing about both together because they carry shared histories of Africans displaced from the Motherland. Both are rooted in demonstrations of African love, resilience, survival, and the demand for social justice. Both exist to remember out loud our story, struggle, creativity, and endurance. Both became global while remaining connected to their African roots.
And, writing of both side by side show that history is not just about books or dates, but that its a living force in rhythm, language, memory, and the ways we tell our stories across cultures and borders.
Timing really is everything. My trip to Jamaica aligned with one of the island’s longest and most enduring stories of freedom, resistance, self-determination, and cultural resilience—the story of the Maroons.
The original Maroons were a mix of indigenous Taínos and Africans brought to Jamaica in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries who resisted British enslavement and established independent communities deep in the rugged mountainous interior known as the Cockpit Country.
On January 6, 2026 I had the privilege of attending the 288th annual celebration of the Maroons of Accompong.
The story behind the Accompong celebration stretches back nearly three centuries to the end of the First Maroon War.
The day commemorates both the birth of the Maroon leader Kojo (Cudjoe) and his victory over the British, which led to the signing of the 1739 Peace Treaty. That treaty formally recognized Maroon freedom, granted land and self-governance, and laid the foundation for an autonomy that is still honored today.
The road to Accompong took us through small rural farming towns and villages, many shaped during the plantation era. Roads precariously carved into mountainsides—with deep precipices on one side—kept my foot planted on an imaginary brake on the passenger side, while the driver calmly assured us he knew these roads well enough to get us there safely.
Accompong is in St. Elizabeth Parish. The community sits approximately 1,400–1,500 feet above sea level, surrounded by steep limestone hills and dense forest—terrain that once provided natural protection for Maroon resistance fighters.
The Parish was severely impacted by Hurricane Melissa. The damage is still visible in both nature and infrastructure. Known as Jamaica’s breadbasket, St. Elizabeth contributes a significant share of domestic food output. The effects of Melissa’s destruction will be felt here and across the Island for years to come.
Still, the hurricane could not interrupt 288 years of commemoration. Even as rain fell, the Maroons, under the leadership of Chief Richard Currie, carried on.
As I arrived, the sound of the Abeng horn—a cow horn once used to signal danger and communicate across the mountains—rang out, calling the Maroons to assemble.
We made our way to the Kindah Tree—Kindah meaning “one family.”Once a massive mango tree that spread its canopy wide to shelter gatherings from the sun, it now stands reduced to less than half its size after Hurricane Melissa’s winds.
Chief Currie addressed the gathering with no script, speaking plainly about peace, autonomy, and the responsibility to keep Maroon culture alive, not simply remembered.
Drummers, singers, and dancers gathered for ritual. Attendees sat on rocks likely used by Maroon warriors centuries ago—places where strategies were planned against the British or victories quietly celebrated.
Though as visitors we looked on, this was no performance, no spectacle—only purpose. Sound and movement drawing people into a shared memory. And for me, standing there alongside two of Jamaica’s leading historians who offered history lessons in real time, the past felt close and conversational.
Later, the Maroons descended to the old town to honor their ancestors with offerings of freshly cooked food. This part of the observance is reserved for Maroons only, and the boundary is deeply respected.
Attendance was lighter this year due to the storm’s aftermath, but those of us who were present witnessed ancestral rituals, drumming, dance, and storytelling—core expressions of the Maroon legacy.
For a first-time witness, nothing about the day felt like reenactment. In the movement of bodies, the rhythm of drums, the blare of the Abeng, and the unfiltered words of the Chief, I saw pride, reflection, and remembrance moving together. I felt humbled to witness it.
The drums still beat. The Abeng still calls. The people still gather.
Ever wondered what it’s like at a Maroon celebration? It’s not history on display. It’s continuity. Accompong remains freedom practiced—resilient, rooted, and self-defined.
Monument close to entrance of the town reads: HOMAGE TO THE HERO Kojo or Cudjoe is regarded as one of the great resistance leaders against the military-plantation governments which followed the English conquest of 1655. This town of Accompong grew out of a fortified Maroon outpost established about the commencement of the 18th century during the First Maroon War. The town was established by Accompong at the direction of his brother Kojo. The war continued for nearly 50 years. Finally the English asked for peace. On March 1, 1739, a treaty was signed bringing the First Maroon War to an end. Kojo died at over 90. Jamaica National Trust Commission
There is one resolution that will be worth keeping
The gift to ourselves first then to others bestowing
Dedicate the new year to loving ourselves more
Seizing the 365 opportunities the New Year has in store
From my heart to yours sending joy and cheer
For a happy and love-filled New Year!
2025 All Rights Reserved
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There is a quiet, stubborn force that runs through the blood of Jamaicans.
It shows up in how we speak, move, and survive. It lives right there in the word JamaiCAN — a declaration, not a suggestion: we are a people wired for CAN.
1988, four Jamaican men — Dudley Stokes, Devon Harris, Michael White, and Freddy Powell — took on the Winter Olympics in Calgary, Canada. Temperatures hovered around 14 °F (–10 °C), far colder than their tropical bodies were built for. Their bobsleigh crashed. They did not medal. But they stood. They walked off that ice and in true JamaiCAN spirit, they finished.
That story became the 1993 film “Cool Runnings”. Its theme song, Jimmy Cliff’s cover of “I Can See Clearly Now”, became the anthem of saying “yes” when the world expected “no”.
Decades later, on November 25, 2025, one day after Jimmy Cliff’s passing (may his soul Rest In Peace), the Jamaican 4-man bobsleigh team — Shane Pitter, Junior Harris, Andrae Dacres, and Tyquendo Tracey — made history!! They captured gold at an international bobsleigh competition in Whistler, Canada — Jamaica’s first.
I wonder if, as they hurtled down that icy track, they thought of home — battered and bruised from Hurricane Melissa?
I wonder if they vowed — not by kissing an egg like depicted in “Cool Runnings” — but on the lives of every Jamaican that this would be the year, this must be the time?
Whatever drove them, they delivered a victory when our country most needed a boost.
More than skill, dedication and precision was that indomitable yes we CAN spirit that took men from a tropical warm island onto an ice-cold track. And it is that same yes we CAN spirit that will rebuild Jamaica—one house, one school, one road at a time and keep hope alive.
Jimmy Cliff’s song, now part of our history, remains with us to remind us:
I can see clearly now the rain is gone. It’s gonna be a bright sunshiny day.
This is who we are. This is what we do. We CAN rise again! We are JamaiCAN!
SUPPORT JAMAICA REBUILD
If you’re able to support Jamaica’s recovery, the government has set up a site to coordinate all support coming to our beautiful island. We are grateful for all the countries, organizations, individuals, charities etc. that have come to our aid. We’re eternally grateful.
Dawn nature serenades chirping birds, morning breezes eyes flutter open
David whiskers quiver in the air fangs clack toward windowpane
Dawn sunbeam on the sill paw lifts, curiosity stirs, reaching for light
David hands unclench bedside machines hum lashes twitch
Dawn curtains billowing softly like a prayer on the wind
David radio crackles Bon Jovi drifts through static song becomes the sky
Afterword: My first rengay!!! Thanks David for this beautiful collaboration! The co-creating process was flawless and flowed seamlessly—two minds working in synchronicity to create a single piece of art!!!!
When you’re standing on the edge of a major life change, it’s natural to feel a mix of excitement and anxiety. And when that change involves relocating to a new country? The stakes feel even higher.
I’ve learned that the best way to meet these moments is to pause, breathe, and deliberately make space for wellness. For me, that space opened up at La Quinta Resort & Club in Palm Springs (California)—a desert oasis that has been welcoming guests for nearly 100 years.
Palm Springs is already renowned as a wellness destination, with spas that rank among the best in the nation. But when a friend raved about her time at La Quinta, I knew I had to experience it for myself. It felt serendipitous, almost like a nudge from the universe saying: go, restore, and prepare for what’s ahead. And, I’m so glad I obliged.
From the moment I checked in, the service was impeccable. I was greeted by the assistant front office manager—who, to my delight, is Jamaican. (It’s true what they say: wherever in the world you go, you’re bound to find a Jamaican!) That warm welcome set the tone for the days to come.
I began my retreat with a symbolic act of release.
Taking the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway up more than 8,500 feet to the top of Mount San Jacinto, I carried with me the issues I wanted to let go of before stepping into a new chapter of life. With intentionality as my aim, I wrote them down on paper, tore it up at the mountaintop, whispered a prayer, and left it all behind—physically, mentally, spiritually.
There, at one of California’s highest points, I felt lighter, freer, ready for the days ahead.
Before my trip, I had been reading “Self-Compassion: The Proven Power of Being Kind to Yourself” by Kristin Neff. Her words reminded me that true wellness begins not just with external rest, but with the practice of inner kindness. I worked through her exercises, learning how to soften the harsh self-talk and extend to myself the same grace I so easily give others. I carried those lessons with me into La Quinta, approaching the retreat with intentionality—choosing to treat myself gently, to honor this pause as a gift rather than a luxury.
Each morning at La Quinta started the same way: quiet contemplation on the private patio of my casita, under the shade of swaying palms, with mountains rising in the distance and desert stillness all around. In that sacred quiet, I re-centered myself, tuning in to the Creator, finding oneness before the day unfolded.
The days were a perfect blend of indulgence and restoration. Spa La Quinta more than lived up to its reputation—no wonder it ranks among America’s Top 100 Spas. I treated myself to facial, massages, and the rejuvenating Vichy shower and CBD oils that left me glowing inside and out.
Meals were another highlight of my stay. Each day began with a hearty breakfast at La Quinta, but the most unforgettable dining experience was watching the sun sink behind the mountains while dining at the Peak Restaurant. Perched high above the desert and accessible only by the aerial tram, the restaurant offers amazing views of the valley miles below. It’s no surprise that Architectural Digest recently named it #8 on its list of the World’s Best Cliffside Restaurants. Dinners at the Cliff House and at Morgan’s in the Desert, were equally memorable.
And then there was the casita itself—a private sanctuary, complete with its own pool. Of course, the property also boasts an array of larger pools scattered across the grounds, so you’re spoiled for choice whether you seek solitude or a more social swim.
La Quinta is preparing to celebrate its centennial in 2026, when a time capsule buried a century ago will finally be opened. I couldn’t help but wonder what treasures will be unearthed—what messages from the past will speak to a future generation!?
My own time there felt like uncovering a treasure, too: a reminder that rest,reflection, and renewal are the most valuable gifts we can give ourselves.
When I left La Quinta, I carried more than memories of sun-soaked days and spa bliss. I carried a sense of restoration, of readiness. The desert had done its work. I was prepared to face the new challenges of living and working in yet another country—grounded, lighter, and whole.
Some think I’m distant or aloof, others say I’m intimidating
Nothing is further from the truth
It’s likely that I’m deep in thought
Or that I’m observing the environment around me
My life compass—it’s a never ending 3-60-degree focus
Always listening, always planning, envisioning or writing
The endless balancing of mind’s up-down climb on the decision tree of “what ifs”
Shy, I’m not, reticent though—that would be quite fitting
I’m likely not the first to speak, or may not speak at all
When I speak it’s a decisive choice, a point most necessary for the making
Adding value, adding integrity, moving the needle on what’s being discussed
By the time I’ve made a decision there’s been a hundred thoughts ahead
Give me quiet spaces, time alone to just be
This is how I gather energy
Don’t mistake, then, my reservation for lackluster
I’m introverted and that’s just that
Sincerely, an Introvert
2023 All Rights Reserved
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Came across this wall message and it got me thinking — the rescue plan for our lives start with a determination, a decision to change, now!
Not the perfect version of you. Not the future-you with all the answers. But the present-you who’s had enough. The you who feels the discomfort, who’s no longer okay with “just getting by.” That version of you is your own rescue plan.
The only person coming to save you is the version of yourself that’s tired of your current situation.
The week is long. The weekend is short. Midweek is a good point to recharge to get over the hump.
Laughter is the only emotion that cannot be forced or faked for long.
It bursts forth unbidden, a pure expression of delight, surprise, or shared humanity.
It cuts through tension, lightens heavy hearts, and connects us in ways words alone cannot.
So … take a moment today to laugh. Laugh out loud. Laugh without hesitation. And, let laughter carry you through the rest of the week with a lighter heart.
The week is long. The weekend is short. Midweek is a good point to recharge to get over the hump.
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Sitting here thinking how amazing it is that there is a community that follows and responds to what I write.
It was the early part of the COVID pandemic. Y’all remember that?! Seems so long ago now. The world had gone still—streets emptied, doors closed, and I joined many others in working from home. But inside, my spirit stirred.
With everything stripped back to essentials, I turned inward and found an urge to share—words, thoughts, reflections. All I had was a menu of words—too many to keep locked inside—and with social distancing strictly enforced, there was nowhere to express them out loud.
So I laid a virtual table, set it with truth, care and sincerity and set out to curate a diverse menu of expressed options. Each post was a plate, each sentence a spoonful of something honest. I knew no one in this new digital landscape. But I prepared it anyway. I didn’t know if anyone would come.
And then, slowly, you arrived—readers I’d never met, drawn not by name or face, but by the invitation of something true. You sat, you dined, you stayed. Strangers became companions through comment threads and quiet visits. I had offered my words. You received them. I am grateful.
To be read, a gift. To be known through one’s own words is to be affirmed.
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The number 7 in the Bible—it’s replete through and through This ode is the coming together of 5 and of 2 5 and 2 when placed in the hands of the Divine Gifts thought to be too small, with big destiny realign
It occurred after the disciples toiled in ministry all the long day Wearily returned to the Master, so much they wanted to say Excited to tell of bodies healed, of minds they saw set free The excitement trumped the weariness, but their loving Master sees
Compassion swelled His heart, seeing their full depletion All He wanted do was improve their weary disposition “Come away with me”, He invited, then turned and bid them follow They had no clue His invite would change their every tomorrow
Enthralled with the thought of together time with their Master It was enough to buoy their bewildered spirits higher Incessant talking, stories exchanging, changed their frame of mind Oblivious to the growing multitude gathering far behind
Everywhere the Master went, the crowds were known to come after This time they followed Him to a desolate place, there was no food, no water The Master taught, while all the time diseases He was healing Before too long, the day wore on, the masses needed feeding
Five thousand men plus women plus children, equalled ‘bout 15 thousand That’s a lot to feed, especially if you’re out on a deserted mountain “Send them away”, the disciples advised, “there’s nothing we can do” “Oh no”, said Christ, “they will be fed and it will certainly be through you”
“If you won’t send the crowd away, then would you bid us leave To the nearby towns so we can supplement the little we’ve received” “What’s that you have in hand”, the Master then inquired “Just 5 and 2, hardly enough for what this multitude required”
“Place your 5, place your 2 in my hands”, dear friends “Watch God multiply beyond what you will comprehend” Turning toward His Father, eyes cast up t’ward heaven Blessings He pronounced, multiplied their five and two—seven
What is the 5, what is the 2 you have in gifts and talents? It’s not too small when entrusted to the God who is so gallant Your 5 plus 2 will be multiplied for the purpose you were chosen For God has more than enough ways, He can multiply your 7
***
Afterword: Oftentimes we appraise ourselves as less-than the tasks at hand and look to others to sure-up what we think is too small. But you are enough, and you have more than enough. God has equipped you for the purpose for which you were born. This story in the gospels (which can be read here: Matthew 14:13-22) is to remind us—on our own, our gifts may seem small, but when entrusted to God we can do all things for in Him our 5 and 2 is more than enough for what we’ve been called to do!
2023 All Rights Reserved Republished 2025
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There was no map, only the certainty that what God placed in me was not random. I didn’t always know how to offer it—sometimes I held back, unsure if it was enough, unsure if I was enough. But the gift has a way of speaking even when we are silent. It opens paths that credentials cannot. It creates space in crowded rooms and summons unexpected invitations. I have learned that when you steward the gift with faithfulness and gratitude, not ambition, it will go ahead of you like a forerunner—making introductions, preparing tables, unlocking destiny.
So, now I show up with what I’ve been given—wholeheartedly. The gift does the rest. And, the gift is about to do it again because as the wisest man said:“A man’s gift makes room for him and brings him before great men.” — Proverbs 18:16 (NKJV)
Not by privilege Doors opened I knew not how The gift leads the way
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Shalom isn’t just a greeting—it’s a name that points us to who God is. Shalom means peace, wholeness, and completeness, and our God is the God of Shalom—the God of peace.
But what happens when our lives feel shattered, when everything around us seems to be breaking apart, and peace feels out of reach?
In those moments, remember: the God of peace is also the God of piece. Piece by piece, He gathers the scattered, broken parts of our lives. Piece by piece, He heals our wounds, restores our hope, and puts us back together. Piece by piece, He makes us whole.
God’s peace is not a fragile stillness that fades when storms come. His peace is a powerful, steady presence that guards our minds and hearts, even when the world shakes.
“And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” —Philippians 4:7 (NIV)
This Sabbath, may you turn to the God of Shalom. Trust Him to take every broken piece of your story and restore it, until His perfect peace fills your life.
Shabbat shalom.
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She scrolled through her feed, surrounded by messages but feeling unseen.
Loneliness had crept in quietly, even in a world buzzing with connection. Life hadn’t given her a choice in what she was facing, but she realized she could choose who she faced it with.
Fighters have a corner; she needed one too.
She reached out—to a friend from her sorority, a mom from her kid’s class. They weren’t perfect. Conversations were awkward at first. But slowly, honesty grew. They showed up. They listened. They prayed.
A support system isn’t built in crisis—it’s built before, on shared ground. Yes, it’s risky. You might get hurt. But “to hurt is to steal” only when you let it keep you hidden.
She stepped into the light. And there, she found fellowship—not weakness. Just real, messy love from people who chose to go through life with her.
Afterword: We all need a support system—a circle of trust-worthy friends who can see us through the seasons of life.
This piece of prosery (prose story), limited to 144 words by Li over at d’Verse, is based on the line “to hurt is to steal” by U2, from “Mysterious Ways”.
George Floyd your life mattered. Your death sparked a movement. We will not forget. (Your sunset: 25 May 2020)
I CAN’T BREATHE His voice reached back over 400 years to the belly of slave ships Summoning the plight of fore-mamas and -papas Black bodies snatched from homeland stacked up for export Crammed in places too cramped for air Constrained. Pressed. Till urine leaked, undignified Shackled and restrained from neck to feet Black bodies stretched out beneath deck, unseen
Too dark to see Too constrained to touch Too dense to be heard Too putrid to breathe in
I CAN’T BREATHE His voice reached back 46 years to the belly of his mamma To summon the space he’s always felt protected, safer Invoking relief from the indignity of shackled wrists Pinned under the knee-weight embodiment of bigotry and racist hatred 8 minutes:46 seconds Breath. Of. Life … deliberately snuffed out, stolen Black body stretched out for the world to view
Too riotous not to see Too palpable not to touch Too loud not to be heard Too blatant not to breathe in
I CAN’T BREATHE Ricocheted off sidewalks from cities and towns around the globe Escaped the lips of mamas, papas, sistas, brothas of every age, color and creed Galvanizing protests undaunted by a pandemic Bodies of all races stretched out, collective voices shout Demanding revolution, transformation, radical alteration
Too multi-ethnic not to see Too seismic not to touch Too forceful not to be heard Too copious not to breathe in
I CAN’T BREATHE Ignite change … too enormous not to see Ignite change … too radical not to touch Ignite change … too disruptive not to be heard Ignite change … too transforming not to breathe-in
Change.
So.
I.
Can.
BREATHE.
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Beforeword: When a church invited me to give the welcome for their 70th anniversary celebration of Ladies’ Day, I knew this couldn’t be just any ordinary greeting. Seventy years of legacy, faith, and sisterhood? That calls for something memorable, creative — and a little unexpected.
So buckle up, sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride as I deliver a welcome with a twist — flight-attendant style! ✈️
Good morning, brothers and sisters, saints and seekers! I am your flight attendant.
Welcome aboard Flight 777, non-stop service to Higher Ground, operated by Kingdom Airlines, under the divine command of Captain Jesus Christ and navigated by the Holy Spirit.
If this is your first flight with us, we are thrilled to welcome you aboard. If you’re a frequent flyer, welcome back — your seat in heavenly places awaits!
At this time, we ask that you turn off all cellular devices and put aside distractions — including scrolling, swiping, and texting — as they may interfere with our direct connection to God.
As we prepare for takeoff, please ensure that your heart is tuned, your attitude is in the upright position, and your faith is fastened securely. All carry-on burdens should be stowed away — they’ve already been checked in and covered by the blood of Jesus.
Our more seasoned saints are invited to assist those newer to the flight path. You are our in-flight guides, pointing others to the throne of God, using clear instructions from the Bible — our spiritual safety manual.
Our flight pattern today will take us through clouds of “Hallelujahs”, winds of “Amen”, and occasional turbulence of “Praise the Lord!” Should things get loud or louder, simply lean into His everlasting arms and whisper, “Thank you, Jesus.”
In compliance with Federal Spirituality Regulations, we kindly remind all passengers to worship with reverence and joy throughout this heaven-bound flight.
If there’s anything we can do to make your worship experience more spiritual or more blessed, please don’t hesitate to let a member of our crew — ministers, deacons, or ushers — know.
On behalf of the entire Kingdom Airlines crew, thank you for choosing to worship with us today.
We’re honored to journey with you — now let’s lift off in spirit and in truth!
Afterword: Ladies’ Day began as a way to recognize and uplift the contributions of women in the church during a time when they were largely excluded from leadership roles and decision-making. In many congregations, women were expected to serve quietly in the background — organizing events, teaching children, and supporting male leadership. But over the past 70 years, we’ve witnessed powerful change and undeniable progress.
Women are now standing in pulpits, being ordained as pastors, and leading ministries with vision, strength, and spiritual authority.
Ladies’ Day is not just a celebration — it’s a testament to resilience, faith, and the evolving role of women in the body of Christ.
2025 All Rights Reserved Photo Credit & Set Design: Nephrattiti
She disembarked the express train at Grand Central Station, fresh from one appointment and with exactly ten minutes to get to the next — a ten-minute walk away. Which meant she’d be either perfectly on time or inevitably late.
Photo provided by Pexel
She puts on her “don’t talk to me” face — the commuter’s shield — and dove into the current of bodies, weaving through crowds, dodging subway detours, blinders on, purpose clear.
At the top of the stairs, just before the turnstile, she saw him.
Tall. Sharp. Walking with intention. Right toward her.
But with her game face on and a schedule to keep, she didn’t slow down — until his voice cut through the noise.
“I need help—”
She froze.
Her mind spun into its usual fast math: Help him? Keep moving? Hmm… he’s kinda cute…
She turned. Met his eyes.
Oh. He IS cute.
He repeated, “I need help finding an organic…”
Organic what? Store? Juice bar? Directions? Oh God, I’m terrible with directions…
“…growing smile.”
Wait—what?
Oh no, he didn’t. Oh but, he did!
Her mouth rebelled first. A corner twitched. Then lifted. First the smile, then came the laugh — full-bodied, gut-deep, unstoppable — bursting out amid the rhythm and rush of Grand Central.
He’d found what he was looking for.
When her laughter ebbed, she tilted her head, amused. “Good one. Organic.”
Turned out, he was selling something.
Of course he was.
Still — what a pitch, uh?!
She walked on, whispering, “You gotta give a brother credit.”
Late to her appointment. But with an organically grown smile.
First published 3 May 2021 Republished 2025 All Rights Reserved
“Are Easter bunny and Jesus best pals?” And what about the eggs and chocolate and Easter characters?! The queries of this 3-year old girl is eye opening. See her questionings here:
It is true, Easter often brings images of pastel eggs, chocolate bunnies, and playful hunts across green lawns. Fun? Absolutely.
But the heart of Easter runs deeper than sugar and spring décor.
For Christians, Easter is the cornerstone of faith—the celebration of Jesus Christ’s resurrection from the dead.
It’s not about candy-coated traditions, but about conquering sin, defeating death, and offering new life.
Jamaica is approximately 4,411 square miles. It is the third-largest island in the Caribbean, after Cuba and Hispaniola, and boasts three international airports located in Kingston, Montego Bay, and Ocho Rios.
On this return trip, I arrived through Kingston’s Norman Manley International Airport and departed from Sangster International in Montego Bay, bookending my journey with two of Jamaica’s vibrant gateways.
Join me on a reflective journey across the island, as I retrace the steps of my birthMONTH adventure—a soulful reconnection with places that have shaped my story. From the cultural heartbeat of Kingston (Jamaica’s capital), the scenic charm of St. Andrew (Bull Bay and Gordon Town), the coastal delights of St. Ann (Ocho Rios), to the resort elegance of St. James (Montego Bay), this was more than travel—it was a homecoming.
There is just something about flying into Jamaica.
The moment the plane touches down, that unmistakable wave of nostalgia and warmth that only comes with landing back in Jamaica washes over you!
It’s a unique kind of homecoming that stirs in the heart. A reconnection with history, with food, with friends, with wellness, and with memories tucked away awaiting that moment to be rekindled.
First stop on this journey? The beloved Devon House—a Kingston gem that merges elegance with island flavor.
Built in 1881 by George Stiebel, Jamaica’s first Black millionaire, the estate is a proud symbol of Black excellence and ambition. Today, it’s a lush escape where the city comes to exhale. Under the canopy of mango trees you’ll often see families sprawled on picnic blankets, couples sharing ice cream cones, and children running free across the lawn.
Of course, I had to pay homage to their famous ice cream.
Their slogan, “I scream for Devon House Ice Cream,” is no lie—I was screaming for more after one scoop of Gingerific. Creamy, cool, and spiced just right, it was the perfect treat in the tropical heat. You’ll also enjoy the Devon House Bakery—the curry goat patty? Pure perfection.
The estate also features a number of charming eateries and local boutiques, making it a must-see whether you’re a first-time visitor or lifelong islander.
There are a number of exquisite hotels to choose from across the island. In Kingston, I chose an old favorite! You can’t go wrong with the refined comforts of Terra Nova All-Suite Hotel, a colonial-style mansion turned boutique hotel tucked away in the heart of the city.
For over 20 years, their head chef has lovingly curated a breakfast buffet that’s nothing short of a culinary celebration. From ackee and saltfish to fried plantain, callaloo, and yam, every bite took me deeper into the soul of Jamaican cuisine.
Their Sunday brunch is also mouth-watering good!
The hotel’s ambiance is old-world elegance with a distinctly Jamaican twist—perfect for slow mornings and full plates.
To balance indulgence with self-care, there is Jencare Skin Farm, one of Kingston’s most revered spas. Jencare has been a sanctuary of beauty and wellness for decades.
From the moment you walk in, you will be enveloped in calm. Whether a soothing facial or therapeutic massage, your tension will melt away. Their signature skincare line and warm, professional staff are just part of what makes Jencare a beloved local treasure—a place where beauty rituals are both luxurious and healing.
I also carved out time for a reflective visit to the now refurbished Hope Gardens and Zoo. Established in 1873, this 230 acres stand as the largest public green oasis in Kingston.
As a child, I ran through its paths with wide-eyed and carefree wonder, and walking them again brought a wave of sweet remembrance. The towering palms, vibrant flowers, and playful chatter of children made the gardens feel timeless. On the day I visited a group of school girls, who were winners in their school’s beauty contest, were visiting.
Among its many treasures is Poets’ Corner, a tranquil nook that honors the words and legacy of Jamaica’s renowned poets and literary minds.
A Bull Bay Sunset
Bull Bay is nestled along the southeastern coast of Jamaica, just a short drive east of Kingston. The area is known for its surfing spots, laid-back vibe and rugged natural beauty.
I had the pleasure of soaking in the beauty of the simultaneous setting of the sun and the rising of moon from a rustic Airbnb perched above the coastline. With life-long and new friends, we let the afternoon melt into evening—music playing softly, laughter echoing, and a competitive yet light-hearted game of Ludo unfolding on the table.
As the sky flamed orange and gold, the sea mirrored every hue, creating a view that felt both surreal and grounding. There, in the golden hush of sunset, surrounded by love, joy, and the lull of waves, I was reminded of the simple moments that make life truly unforgettable.
For more on the drama of Jamaica sunsets, click here!
Traversing From Kingston to Montego Bay
Traveling from one end of the island to the other is made easier with the new North-South Highway (a.k.a. Highway 2000).
If you want the most scenic travel across the island, climb aboard the Knutsford Express. This coach double decker bus service offers WiFi, AC, and spotless rest stops. The ride from Kingston to Montego Bay was scenic and smooth and only about three hours long. As the bus driver “tek time roll” (drove carefully) through winding roads, coastal views, and mountain backdrops, I watched the island shift and unfold.
Montego Bay greeted me with glittering waters and slower rhythms balanced with water sports and oceanfront lounging at the luxurious Jewel Grande Resort and Spa.
There I met fellow birthday celebrants and a great majority of visitors who were returning for up to as many as five times.
Jamaica is truly a vibe!
A Foodie’s Delight.
Jamaica’s fruit scene? Unmatched! Among those I feasted on were: otaheite apples, custard apples, mangoes, naseberries, papayas, pineapples, and juicy watermelon. And nothing cooled me off better than fresh coconut water, straight from the shell.
When it wasn’t coconut water in hand, it was a Ziggy Marley (similar in look to the Bob Marley, but without the spirited zing of alcohol).
Jamaica is a gastronomy mecca! For some of the culinary delights that tantalized my palate, see these posts—click on links to Miss T’s Kitchen and Pretty Close.
Reconnecting With Friends
And perhaps the most soul-nourishing part of all—meeting up with childhood and long-time friends. This brought to life the Jamaican proverb: “Good friends better than pocket money.”
We caught up as if no time had passed, sharing laughter, stories, and reminders of who we’ve always been. Each meet up held the past and present side by side.
This trip reminded me that Jamaica is a land of beautiful contrasts.
It’s both rustic riverbanks and regal resorts; childhood nostalgia and grown-up indulgence; street-side sweetness and five-star finesse. It has a bit of everything for everyone.
I bid farewell to this beautiful island from Sangster International Airport, with a full heart.
No flight from Jamaica is truly complete without spotting at least one box of the legendary Wray & Nephew White Overproof Rum tucked securely under a seat. On my flight, it was just across the aisle. I waited patiently for its devoted owner to rise, just so I could snap a clear shot of this cultural icon.
More than just a drink, this overproof rum carries the spirit of home—a staple in Jamaican households, not only for celebrations but for its traditional “remedies” too: dabbed on foreheads to ease headaches, or used in ancestral rituals and medicinal blends passed down through generations. It’s not just rum—it’s a ritual, a memory, a piece of home.
From Kingston’s heartbeat to Montego Bay’s glow, this island never stops revealing new ways to be enchanting.
Whether it’s your first visit or your fifteenth, Jamaica meets you where you are—and leaves you better than it found you.
So, as the Jamaica Tourist Board implores: “come to Jamaica and feel alright”.
Walk Good!
[This is Jamaica’s way of saying: Take care / Stay safe!]
2025 All Rights Reserved All videos and images by me
There are the 5 love languages, then there’s Jamaican food—the 6th love language!
I’ve been to Ocho Rios many times, but somehow, I had missed this gastronomic gem—and trust me, you don’t want to make the same mistake.
Whether you’re planning your next trip to Jamaica or you’re lucky enough to live on this island paradise, Miss T’s Kitchen deserves a spot at the top of your must-visit list.
With one long-time and one new-found friend, we drove in from Montego Bay, winding our way along Jamaica’s north coast. The road was mostly single-lane, curving through lush greenery and glimpses of the Caribbean Sea.
Ocho Rios is probably best known for Dunn’s River Falls, one of the wonders of Jamaica and one of the very few travertine waterfalls in the world that empties directly into the sea.
Ocho Rios is a vibrant town in St. Ann Parish, often called the “Garden Parish” of Jamaica. Now I know that it’s not only home to iconic attractions, but also this hidden culinary treasure—Miss T’s.
Tucked into a tropical courtyard just off the bustling streets of Ocho Rios, Miss T’s Kitchen welcomes you in a warm gastronomic embrace.
The restaurant’s eclectic, vibrant interior is a joyful explosion of color, culture, and character—mismatched chairs, painted tables, and murals that each tell a story of island life. Even the toilets—Miss Jane and Mas Joe—were brought into the artistic cultural expression complete with a dutchie for the face basin!
Miss T’s Kitchen is where love is the main ingredient.
The most endearing theme woven throughout the space is love. Love for food. Love for heritage. Love for community. Love in every nook and cranny of its decor—from the handwritten quotes on the wall to the lush plants hugging each corner, Miss T’s feels less like a restaurant and more like a home.
And then there’s the food!
There are meals you eat, and then there are meals you experience.
Let’s talk about the oxtail.
It was presented (not just served) in a miniature dutch pot (dutchie), tucked into a traditional coal stove, instantly transporting me back to the days when my mom cooked over one just like it. Instantly the meal turned into a nostalgic nod to home, to heritage, and the soulful simplicity of island life.
This dish alone is worth the journey—tender, slow-cooked, and seasoned with a depth of flavor that speaks to generations of culinary wisdom. It was testimony to the award hanging on the wall.
But Miss T’s doesn’t stop at oxtail. Every dish we ordered—whether, curry goat or salmon—was comfort food on a whole new level.
Locally sourced ingredients, and locally made dinnerware, and a focus on authentic preparation made the experience vibrant celebration of Jamaican flavors, art and culture. Each plate was garnished with a piece of leaf from the banana tree a nod to its versatility and intricate role in Jamaican cuisine. Even the drinks and desserts carry that same thoughtful, soulful touch. Of course I bypassed the long list of drinks offers for coconut water straight from the shell.
The best meals are shared, and I was lucky to enjoy this one with friends—one of whom was also celebrating his birthday.
Dinner at Miss T’s Kitchen was more than a stop on my itinerary—it was a reminder.
A reminder that the journey matters.
That simple spaces can hold profound beauty.
That when love is the foundation—whether in food, friendship, or life—it always leaves a lasting impression.
So if you ever find yourself on Jamaica’s north coast, make the drive to Ocho Rios. Follow the scent of seasoning, the sound of laughter, and the feeling of home. At Miss T’s, you’ll find them all in one place.
It’s that time again—when I quench my wanderlust with my annual birthMONTH explorations. And this year, I chose to celebrate with a soulful return to the island of rhythm, roots, and radiance—Jamaica—a.k.a. Jah-mek-yah!
First, a hidden gem nestled in the cool hills of Gordon Town, in St. Andrew Parish—Pretty Close.
If you’re looking for a slice of authentic Jamaican magic—off the beaten path but full of soul—then welcome to the @prettyclose1876 experience.
With my sister and a dear friend, we made our way from Kingston, navigating the winding roads to Gordon Town—the birthplace of the legendary Miss Lou. It would take an entire post to do her justice, but suffice it to say she is the matriarch of Jamaican folklore, the cultural icon who lovingly gave voice and dignity to patois, Jamaica’s local language, and shared it with the world.
In the heart of the town square stands a statue in her honor, which is not only a powerful reminder of her legacy but used as a landmark in the directions given to find this hidden gem.
Directions are shared via WhatsApp—part of the rustic feel of this evolving Jamaican tourism product.
So this is the blue face truck!
This isn’t just a place to eat. It’s a full-on experience that feeds your body, your spirit, and your sense of adventure.
Imagine this: seated on tree trunks in the middle of a gently flowing river, your feet dipped in the cool water, a plate of steaming, home-cooked Jamaican food in front of you. That’s exactly how the day started—surrounded by nature, eating meals prepared right there by the river.
We started with a savory soup, sipped fresh coconut water—cooled in the river, laughed freely, and allowed the rhythm of the water and the food to set the pace.
Then came a short, scenic hike to Orchid Falls, a tucked-away treasure that felt like stepping into a postcard.
After getting drenched by this cascading beauty and snapping a few pics, we headed back down the river and along it’s banks for round two: more laughter, more food, and more of that soul-deep feeling of contentment.
The real star of the show? Omar, the chef behind the flavors, who cooks like your favorite auntie or grandma—with love, depth, and serious skill.
The cooking is done over an open wood fire, just like my grandma used to do back in the day. The pots are skillfully balanced on stones atop the wood fire. You can see the smoke wafting gently from the makeshift kitchen beside the river, carrying the earthy aroma of something special in the works. The smell of ital cooking is distinct—no salt, no butter—just the pure, unprocessed goodness of Mother Nature where the flavor is drawn from the land, the wood fire, and the love poured in.
Every bite was a reminder of why Jamaican cuisine is world-renowned: bold, fresh, and absolutely unforgettable. Served in calabash bowls in keeping with the natural experience—it was good to the last bite.
Roasted breadfruitRice and peas The menu: fried fish, fried plantain, roasted breadfruit, rice and peas, ital stew
What I loved most is that it’s pretty close to / not far from Papine, a bustling metropolis, but it feels like a world away from the hustle and bustle of Kingston.
Pretty Close is a peaceful escape, rich with local charm and natural beauty.
If you ever find yourself in Jamaica, do yourself a favor and add Pretty Close to your itinerary. This spot is a must-visit. Period.
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.
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.
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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
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
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.
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.
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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
The experience of flying into Jamaica never gets old. There’s an indescribable feeling that washes over me between the pilot’s announcement of descent and the first glimpse of land.
My flight into Jamaica is always meticulously planned, starting with securing a window seat over the wing because where I sit on the plane matters, as you’ll soon see.
For most of the flight, I remain calm, occupying myself with a movie, a book, or some writing. However, once the pilot announces the descent, everything is set aside. My focus sharpens, ready to capture the moments leading up to our landing.
Pilot: “…we’ve just begun our initial descent….”
That’s my cue. iPhone in hand, eyes peeled, searching for the first sight of land.
There it is …
… Home sweet home.
By now, a myriad of emotions flood in, with excitement at the forefront. This is the feeling I experience every time I return home to Jamaica.
As the pilot continues the descent, I take more pictures.
However, I’m always ready to switch to video mode. And this is the moment: as the plane’s engine aligns with the sea, it feels as if we might land in the water …
… but then as if out of nowhere, land appears, and we glide in for the touch down.
As soon as the wheels hit the tarmac there’s a sound. It’s the vibration of clapping hands ricocheting throughout the cabin as we all burst into what seems like orchestrated applause and engage in exuberant chatter. That spontaneous ritual never gets old.
One other picture I always take is this one:
This is taken at the top of the ramp as I make my way to the arrival hall.
And in that moment my heart finds its rest at home.
Grateful for another safe landing and the time spent in beautiful Jamaica—Jah-mek-yah!
2024 All Rights Reserved Created with Canva Image Credit: Me
Beforeword: Because God love us some much, His unconditional love was manifested in this way:
The Word (God the Son) becoming flesh (human) took up residence (tabernacled or pitched His tent) among us. Those who saw Him observed His glory and saw that He was the one and only God the Son, full of grace and truth. Yet He was man. John 1:14 (Holy Bible)
He was so human He could touch people
So mighty He could heal them
So human He spoke with an accent
Yet so heavenly He spoke with authority
***
He was so human He could blend in unnoticed for thirty years
So mighty He could change history and remains unforgotten for over 2,000 years
So human He was wounded, bruised, chastised
Yet so mighty He could heal from those stripes
***
He was so human He thirst and hungered
So mighty He is living water and bread of life giver
So human He humbled Himself to a sacrificial cross
Yet so mighty He gives salvation to all at no cost
***
He was so human He became sin
So mighty He could forgive sin
So human He’s like a brother
Yet so mighty He is the Savior
***
He was so human He was given a name—Jesus
So mighty His name is above all names, it saves
So human He was all-man
Yet so mighty He was and is and for always will be all-God
2023 All Rights Reserved
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Exploring Greece brought me face-to-face with the mesmerizing beauty of peacocks, both vibrant and ethereal.
From a zoo in Cyprus to the ancient grounds of Knossos in Crete, these encounters left a lasting impression, blending natural wonder with historical splendor. And for the first time I saw these elegant creatures outside the confines of the “box” of a TV screen.
My first encounter was at the zoo in Cyprus (well, I guess that’s a different kind of “box”).
I waited what seemed like forever for the peacock to display its stunning, iridescent plumage.
When it finally did, the unfolding of its long, colorful tail feathers fanned out into an array of eye-catching patterns—a vibrant mix of blues, greens, and golds. The distinctive “eyes” on the feathers were mesmerizing, and I understood then why the peahen couldn’t resist its allure.
But not all peacocks are colorful. I saw a peacock with pure white feathers, like a bleached version of the typical vibrant aesthetic. Its ethereal beauty left me spellbound.
According to Treehugger, this is not albinism but rather a color mutation of the Indian blue peafowl caused by a genetic mutation called leucism.
As if a Greek god wanted to gift me with a peacock sighting outside the “box,” I encountered an elegant peacock roaming freely on the grounds of the monumental Palace of Minos in Knossos (Heraklion, Crete). It appeared just as I entered the palace, adding to the magic of the moment.
This peacock seemed to flirt with me, shaking his tail feathers a couple of times, but never fanning them out completely.
I could hear peafowl distinctive loud calls off in the distance, a signal he was not alone. The call seemed to beckon him. He walked away, leaving me wondering if there was soon to be an elaborate courtship display that I’d miss seeing.
These captivating moments with one of nature’s most elegant creatures, their stunning displays and the unexpected surprises along the way added to making my trip to Greece magical.
A couple of years ago, I was flipping through a travel magazine when I stumbled upon pictures of pristine white buildings crowned with startling blue domes, set against an azure sky.
Yes, like this building, except I took this picture!
At first, I wondered if it was a painting. It looked too beautiful to be real—more like a work of art suspended somewhere between dream and imagination.
But if it was real, I needed to know: Where is this place?
Sure enough, the magazine revealed the location: Santorini. Oia, to be exact.
And just like that, a seed of wanderlust was planted.
Being a hodophile with an insatiable case of wanderlust, I immediately began planning my trip to Greece, with Oia on the must-visit list.
And let me tell you—it did not disappoint.
Photo taken by me in Oia!
I decided to visit in April—my birth month. The weather was just right: warm but not scorching, and the crowds far thinner than during the peak summer season.
Because it was just before tourist season, I got a firsthand glimpse into why Santorini always looks so impossibly pristine in photos. Everywhere I went, hoteliers and homeowners were busy painting, whitewashing walls and steps, and polishing windows to perfection.
I stayed in a charming boutique Airbnb—Seven Suites—complete with a whirlpool and infinity pool just outside my bedroom.
Whether under a canopy of stars at night or in the quiet hush of dawn as sunlight pierced the horizon, I took advantage of the pool, gazing into the distance, lost in wonder.
Relaxed start to the day— watching the sun rise (one of my fav nature phenomenon to witness)
My exploration began in the village of Imerovigli, where whitewashed homes cling dramatically to the edge of a 400-meter (1,312-foot) caldera on the western side of this semi-circular volcanic island.
Photo credit—me!
From Imeroglivi I trekked to Fira (or Thira), the capital, winding my way through narrow, zigzagging footpaths, passing those iconic spots that many an ecstatic tourist, like myself, captured in photos and posted with hashtags galore.
But there was one photo I wanted above all else:
A flying dress photo.
Clad in a glamorous dress with a feather-light train made for the perfect windblown effect, I climbed stairs, scaled rooftops, and challenged my fear of heights in pursuit of the shot.
Every step upward came with a little self-talk:
“It’s okay.”
“You’re okay.”
“Don’t look down.”
“Think of how stunning these pictures will be!”
And somehow—miraculously—I made it to the rooftop and got a few shots I absolutely loved.
After conquering a rooftop, though, you just gotta get a blue dome shot:
Thank you to Santorini Dress for helping a dream come true!http://www.santorinidress.com!Not our ship but this scene was too idyllic not to photograph. This beauty was docked in Fira.
With only three days on the island before my Greek Isles cruise began, I finally made my way to Oia—the place that had lived in my imagination for so long.
And she did not disappoint.
Oia, Santorini’s postcard-perfect village, is often considered the island’s most picturesque destination, known for its whitewashed beauty, iconic blue domes, and breathtaking sunsets.
The windmills.
The remains of an old Venetian castle.
The sweeping caldera views.
This is what wanderlust fulfilled looks like.
The windmills of OiaRemains of an old Venetian castle
From the village, beginning near the Venetian castle, I trekked down nearly 300 steps—278 to be exact—to Ammoudi Bay.
1st of 278 steps toward Ammoudi BayLooking up from Ammoudi Bay! See the remains of the old castle all the way up?
I descended on foot, but you could rent donkeys. Already challenging my fear of heights by just looking down from the castle to the bay, I decided against going down on the back of an ass (pun intended).
Ammoudi Bay is stunning—a tiny cove with crystalline waters and fishing boats bobbing gently in the sea. Undeniably one of the most picturesque corners of Santorini.
Along the waterfront, fish taverns line the shore, offering fresh seafood and front-row seats to the rhythmic soundtrack of waves meeting the Aegean Sea.
And yes, I fully leaned into the experience at Sunset Ammoudi, a restaurant renowned for its exceptional seafood and unforgettable setting.
There may not be beaches at Ammoudi Bay, but that certainly did not stop me from getting into the water. Well… not fully.
At the very least, I had to dip my feet into the cool, crystal-clear waters of the Aegean Sea.
And of course, what’s a trip to Santorini without fully embracing those iconic white buildings and blue domes?
Not painted white but this is the John the Baptist Catholic Cathedral so it had to make the list
And last, but by no means least—Greek cuisine.
As someone who loves good food, Santorini fed both my appetite and my soul.
Creative seating outside a souvlaki eatery!
In a heartbeat!!
That is my resounding response to: Would you go back to Santorini?
Voice uttering words that assure Assure it’s gonna be okay, you’re loved, secured—connecting
I miss the look in your eyes
The intensity of your stare seeing Seeing beyond what eyes see, to know—connecting
I miss the way you listen
The way you listen to hear without Without words, to attend to what needs not be spoken—connecting
I miss the beat of your heart
The way your heart beat mimics Mimics the beat of mine—connecting
I miss the whisper of your breath on my cheeks
The depth of your exhale release Release your life force to my inhale—connecting
I miss the feel of your arms
The intentionality of togetherness encasing Encasing the distance o’er the time-space continuum—connecting
***
When I say I miss you
I mean
I miss connecting with the part of me that you are
First published 25 April 2023 2024 All Rights Reserved Designed by Canva Photo by Pinterest
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“I wish that I’d have noticed all those cracks in your smile. I wish you told me how you felt that night. But you’re conditioned to believe it only makes you weaker. ‘Til it chokes you and you’re barely breathing. But you’ll always be part of me.”
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The elements of political, educative, spiritual ceremonies
It was the source of entertainment
The lyrics of love songs and dance of chants
It was the conveyor of prayers
The receptacle of stories and historical recall
It was the instructions for everyday living
From the Nile to the Volta River valleys
From Pyramid to Griot court writings
Long before colonial conquest
Poetry was
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Afterword: Up until the end of the Civil War, more than 200,000 ads to recapture enslaved people who walked away from slavery were published in American newspapers.
I said walked away and not run away.
Why?
It’s about the state of mind.
Running away from a situation is not having the courage or resolve to address it. Walking away from a situation is to think through and coming to an informed conclusion that you cannot change someone’s thought, opinions or beliefs and you choose to walk away.
I chose this ad because the slave owner’s name is Burke. My family name is Burke.
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This marks the anniversary of Africans in America 400 plus 5 years Let the story be told in full of ancestral lineage—Kings and Queens till slavery interferes
August of 1619 the record declares: “20 and odd” Africans kidnapped, sold, stripped of their rights Forced-exile, from African land, so began resistance fight
Let this be clear—1619, that is America’s true founding The greatest story, never told, its truth is now unfolding
The treatment of enslaved Africans divided this nation North versus South, civil war gained only partial emancipation
Enslaved people “shall then, thenceforward, and forever be free” But, this long awaited proclamation didn’t free all from slavery
Freedom road paved with hard-won gains broke Galveston’s stronghold “Jubilee Day” birthed Juneteenth—African American holiday to nationally behold
Decades of slavery’s brutality bred a racist legacy The reconstruction period fueled white supremacy
First there were 13 then 15 constitutional amendments made Slavery’s official end and partial voting rights were gained
As African Americans won elections to ascend to seats of power So did terrorism to intimidate, to suppress, and disempower
Jim-crow, segregation, separate but equal under law Pursuit of education was self-improvement path foresaw
Or should they return to Africa build a country of their own? Garvey’s Black Star Line ideas eventually overthrown
No—Stay! Fight! Determined! Resolute resistance! Writers wield pen’s might to stir cultural renaissance
Freedom rides, sit ins, marches all demonstrating “If we must die let it not be like hogs”, Claude McKay’s mantra resonating
From Tubman’s Underground Railway created to be free To Malcom’s inspired Black Power movement for justice and equality
LISTEN … Say their names together: Rodney. Ahmaud. Breonna. George. And so many others
The clarion call; Black Lives Matter— Time to end violence against our sisters and our brothers
Starting the marathon for a political seat at the table too Shirley Chisholm runs for President in 1972
Jesse Jackson, he picked up the mantle in 1984 The power of the black vote galvanized and opened wide the door
In comes Barack Obama, first Black President elected in 20-0-9 Next Kamala Harris, Black and woman Vice President—for the very first time
It’s been centuries after centuries fighting always to restore Our rightful place as Kings, Queens, Prince, Princesses like ancestors before
No tide of racism is high enough to impede rights-based education Black history now a critical theory in schools’ curriculum foundation
Martin Luther the King of nonviolent civil action Let it be known—our collective strength emerged to shape the identity of this nation
“Surely been rebuked, surely been scorned But still my soul is-a heaven-born
If you don’t know that I been redeemed Just follow me down to Jordan’s stream”
This is what it’s all about — Echoes of liberation we will shout:
Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!
2024 All Rights Reserved
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Gifts carefully selected, wrapped, topped off with bows
Placed under trees anticipating the glee they’ll bestow
Menu of your favorites selected, guest list in tow
It will be a celebration, fingers crossed—there’ll even be snow
***
You left without a warning, there were no clues
You checked out of life, broke my heart in a million twos
Every year will be a blue Christmas without you too
No hugs or kisses lavished, forever gone the YOUnique you
***
Gifts wrapped in love, left unopened under the tree
Like the sorrows that plagued your heart, too deep, I couldn’t see
You smiled and laughed, you danced with me
All the while masking the darkest parts of thee
***
Those on the outside looking in, contemplative wonder
You seemed to have it all, what could have been the matter?
All is incomplete when it’s devoid of the Master
Empty longings run deep, gifts are but a temporary plaster
***
In the shopping, the decorating we’ve nearly forgotten too
He’s the reason for this season, like at His birth, too little ado
The meaning of life lost outside of the One who created you
It will always be a blue Christmas—Jesus—without You
Afterword: On the eve of Christmas, this tribute poem was influenced by the reality that the holidays are the hardest when you’ve lost loved ones.
2022, Republished 2023 All Rights Reserved
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Before-word: With the advent and dominance of social media has been the rise in social posts or STATUS updates which we use to let our friends know what we’re doing or to say what’s on our minds. Whether a tweet or a pin and way beyond catchy one liners on time-elapsed stories, your status is and forever will be:
CHILD OF GOD!
From A to Z you are:
Accepted just as you are
Beautiful in every way
Child of God
Destined for greatness
Exquisite
Fearfully-wonderfully-made—perfect in every way
Good-good creation
Harmoniously aligned
Image of God bearer
Joyful
Kaleidoscopic
Loved to the width and depth of God’s heart
More than a conqueror — that’s who you are
Never defeated — that’s what you are
Overcomer
Purposefully ordered
Quintessential, the God-image bearer
Redeemed—no shame, no guilt, no fear
Sufficiently sufficient
Temple-of-God-abiding
Unequivocally—YOU ARE, child of God
Victorious
Worthy
eXalted-cannot-be-duplicated masterpiece
YOUnique
Zany—amusingly-unconventional, distinctively—YOU!
From A to Z
You are a child of God
Luxuriate in this truth
2023 (republished) All Rights Reserved
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When you’re throwing a house party and you wanna get guests up and on to the dance floor, line dancing is a sure winner. Put a few on your playlist like “Cha-Cha Slide”, “Electric Slide”, “YMCA” or “Macarena”, but no beat gets the party popping like “Wobble baby, wobble baby, wobble baby, wobble”. Get in there, yeah, yeah!
Written for Sammi Cox Weekend Prompt #340 — in 58 words — based on the word Wobble.
In the quiet cradle of Advent, time folds upon itself, weaving the delicate fabric of the now and the not-yet.
It’s a balance of anticipation, where our faith finds its rhythm, seeking balance in the tension that defines this sacred season against the heart wrenching upheavals of the world.
We live life within this delicate equilibrium—a pilgrimage through the sacred corridors of waiting and hoping while serving others.
As we go about our days leading up to what the Christian world celebrate as the birthday of Jesus, the Messiah, let’s cast aside the cloak of denial and indifference.
Our world is in big trouble. There’s no denying this.
The season’s call is not to escape but to show up and do what we can to make a difference in the lives around us. No good deed is too small.
So, let Advent be our guide, teaching us the live in relevance in the present, and the courage to embrace the unknown that awaits in the not-yet.
In this sacred tension, we discover the beauty of our faith.
Afterword: Advent, derived from the Latin word adventus meaning “coming,” refers to the Christian church calendar’s preparatory phase for both commemorating the birth of Jesus Christ at Christmas and anticipating His Second Coming. In Western churches, Advent initiates on the Sunday closest to November 3rd—that’s today, December 3.
Before-word: Reflecting in gratitude on life under and after the Covid-19 pandemic.
‘Twas the eve before the world changed, when the warmth of classrooms and offices still echoed in our hearts.
Before the embrace of sofas embraced us as makeshift desks.
Before teachers and colleagues transformed into pixels on screens, and lessons and meetings began with a click on the Zoom sign-in.
‘Twas the day before students yearned for traditional classrooms, as homeschooling unfolded as the norm in transferring knowledge.
Before the melody of keyboard taps replaced the hurried footsteps to hallways, and the mute icon held newfound authority in the symphony of virtual meetings.
Before “social distancing” became the norm, and live-streaming replaced the camaraderie of mall rendezvous.
‘Twas the day before time merged into a tapestry of jobs, school, play, and church—all woven within the sanctum of home.
Parents and guardians prayed for a reservoir of teacher-like patience, as Math and Science entered homes like uninvited guests.
The buzzword “new normal” meant no early wake-ups, no school commutes, no office travels—just the embrace of home-bound work.
Before the predictable rhythm of the curriculum was disrupted, and monotony replaced the rollercoaster of daily school life.
‘Twas the day before the novel coronavirus reshaped our world, and yet, in the midst of change, we find gratitude for the resilience that blooms, like a garden of thanks, leading us to the doorstep of Thanksgiving.
Don’t allow life to slip away dwelling on the past or worrying about the future. Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed, yesterday is gone, so seize every opportunity and make the most of today.
Beforeword: Hello reader!!! So if you’ve visited the “About” page of this blog, you’d have seen my profile.
Well, I’ve now transformed the “About” page into this poem. I hope you enjoy it!!!
“A Creative Soul’s Embrace”
In creative spaces I find my solace and delight Words—a poet’s heart, a blogger’s guiding light A speaker’s voice, in stories unfold My pen, a vessel, for tales yet untold
In “Moments: A Poetic Autobiography”I share My thoughts, my verses, my joys, my care Unapologetically, a lover of the Divine My adoration of God, evident in every line
Love’s tender embrace—my muse, my song In verses, I’ll celebrate it all the day long Nature’s beauty, a treasure trove to explore In each flower, in each leaf, a story I’ll implore
A logophile, yes, words are my kin In dictionary’s depths, I always begin Epigrammatic style—concise and clear My poetic soul is forever sincere
Creativity flows, an endless tide In art and words, my heart doth glide Artsy to the core, in colors and rhyme I paint my world, one verse at a time
So here I stand, a creative soul’s embrace Of poetry, of prose, of words, interlace Whether as a poet, a blogger, a speaker, or more My love for words, I will forever explore
Step into the heartwarming world of my Jamaican childhood, where Sundays meant simple joys, sumptuous feasts, and the sweet allure of “Fudgie” and his magical ice cream.
As a child growing up in my beautiful homeland, Jamaica, one of the cherished highlights of my week was indulging in the sweet delight of ice cream on Sundays.
In those bygone days, life was uncomplicated, and our Sunday rituals were set in stone. The day would kick off with my mother’s early-morning culinary expedition, as fragrant spices swirled on the gentle morning breezes, teasing our senses with the promise of a delightful feast ahead.
After a hearty breakfast, it was time to tackle the obligatory household chores — everything from tidying up the house, sweeping the yard, and laboriously hand-washing laundry. However, one task I dreaded above all was when my mother had to wash my hair. My thick, coiled locks had a knack for coiling even tighter when wet, and the process of combing through them left me grimacing all the way through. But when mommy was through, my hair was neatly plaited and ready for the school week ahead.
Once all the chores were behind us and I had been bathed and dressed in my “Sunday clothes,” it was time to gather around the table for what we Jamaicans refer to as “Sunday dinner.”
“Sunday dinner” was no ordinary meal; it was the pinnacle of the week in every Jamaican household.
The traditional spread included a principal meat (typically chicken as the crowd favorite); a carbohydrate staple (rice and peas being an absolute must); a salad comprising crisp cabbage and grated carrots, adorned with cucumber and tomato wedges, drizzled with black pepper; a refreshing beverage (often freshly squeezed from carrots, soursop, or beets); and, last but certainly not least, dessert.
And oh, the dessert!
While savoring the flavors of our sumptuous meal, my ears were tuned to a singular sound and an unmistakable voice – the distant chime of the “ice cream man’s” motorbike horn. This unique sound carried for miles across our tranquil town, giving us just enough time to secure the coins from our parents and gather at our designated meeting spot.
Then came the voice, a melodic, resounding and repeated call: “Fudge! Ice cream! Nutty-buddy!”
This was the unmistakable voice of the “ice cream man,” affectionately known as “Fudgie,” pedaling his bike, vocally advertising the frozen treasures nestled within the insulated box on the back of his two-wheeler.
Fudge was essentially ice cream on a stick, while nutty-buddy was a delightful ice cream cone adorned with a generous sprinkling of nuts, and ice cream, usually grape nut, piled atop the iconic beacon cone.
By this point, my friends had also gathered their coins, dashing over from their homes across the neighborhood, all of us adorned in our Sunday clothes – the girls with meticulously plaited hair and the boys making sure they were equally well-groomed. We would encircle Fudgie, simultaneously clamoring for our chosen treats.
To this day, ice cream holds a special place in my heart as my all-time favorite dessert. Why? Because it transports me back to an era when life was uncomplicated, Sundays were enchanting, and I’m eternally nostalgic for the home that lives on vividly in my heart, just as it was when I was a child growing up in Jamaica.
Question: How does one identify someone who is a Christian or Christ-like?
Answer: By their “fruit”/action.
Yes, just as you can identify a tree by its fruit, so you can identify people by their actions.
Saint Matthew 7:20, New Living Translation
A Christian is one whose life is governed by the Spirit of God.
In Galatians 5:22-23, the Bible talks about the “fruit of the Spirit,” which is inclusive of: love, joy, peace, patience, gentleness, faith, meekness, and self-control. Think of this “fruit” like an orange—it’s one fruit with many different parts.
Just like the pegs on an orange aren’t all the same size, our character traits, or “pegs,” can also vary.
As a believer in God, I’m given the “fruit” of the Holy Spirit to shape my character, but sometimes certain traits might be smaller. I might struggle with impatience, lack of self-control, or unkindness. However, I’m still a child of God—a Christian.
What this means is that I need help to strengthen these smaller “pegs.” I can’t do it alone; I need the Divine Gardner, God, to build me up. He reminds me that becoming more like Him is a daily journey, and it requires complete dependence on Him.
Yes, there will be times when I stumble, but God acknowledges this too. He says that a righteous person may fall seven times, but the key is that they rise again (Proverbs 24:16).
God is always there to pick us up and help us strengthen the underdeveloped traits of our character, just like a caring gardener tending to a tree.
Shabbat Shalom! May you find peace in knowing that falling short does not mean you’re no longer a child of God, it means He’s still working on your character to be like His. The Christian journey is a process, one that is guided by the Word of God as laid out in the Bible.
You’re a woman of faith, said he Refusing to join the party of “woe is me” Standing at the crossroads of hyphenated identity Straddling the fine line of conjoined affinity The shortest distance connecting divergent words Yet the greatest distance between colliding worlds
Wrestling within with identities, two Pondering which is the true you Is it the half that doubts and frets Filled with sadness and regrets? Is it the other that’s thrilled with hope and wonder Scavenging life’s downs—a fortune hunter?
What comes in the hyphen is the interval Whether left or right it’s a fight for survival Too deep under there’s no indicator light No redirection to the surface, a frightening plight Release air, bubbles of self-assurance forming Follow bubbles—rise always toward surface soaring
Identity is who you are despite the circumstances Who you are is not a game of luck or chances Whether in the good times or in the bad Whether the situation makes you happy or makes you sad You are betwixt and between the hyphenated you Grab ahold of the purpose of what you’re born to do
Child-of-God/child-of-human—interconnected being One you—living duality inward refereeing You—the image of God, a god-given soul Yet you—locked in a body of skin and bone The paradoxical self—looking out through eyes Visions of living hyphenated—the you to harmonize
2023 All Rights Reserved
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It is with heavy hearts that we mourn the passing of Peace, a cherished companion of humanity for countless generations.
Peace, born in the hopes and dreams of every individual, breathed its last breath on a world that yearned for its eternal presence.
Peace was known for its gentle touch, its ability to unite nations, its power to mend broken hearts, its inability to impose. It honored choice. It provided solace in times of turmoil, offering a refuge from the storms of discord. Throughout history, Peace stood as a beacon of hope, guiding us toward a brighter future.
However, in recent years, Peace had been under duress, with conflict and division threatening its very existence. The forces of discord, prejudice, injustice, and inequality cast shadows that dimmed its light, making it increasingly elusive.
Though Peace may no longer grace our world as we once knew it, we must remember that its spirit lives on within us.
It is up to each of us to honor its memory by working tirelessly to resurrect it from the ashes of strife. We must strive to bridge divides; promote understanding, tolerance, acceptance, inclusion; honor diversity, difference, equity; and sow seeds of unity not discord.
In the memory of Peace, let us pledge to be the architects of a world where its presence is not a fleeting dream but a lasting reality. Only through our collective efforts can we ensure that Peace’s legacy endures and thrives in the hearts of future generations.
Rest in peace, Peace, for you shall forever inspire our pursuit of harmony and tranquility.
Afterword: traditional Senryu is 3 lines with 5 syllables in the first line, 7 syllables in the second line, and 5 syllables in the last line (5/7/5) for a total of seventeen syllables written in the present tense with no rhyme, metaphors or similes.
2023 All Rights Reserved
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Transformation—a thorough or dramatic change in form or appearance.
One of the most difficult things to transform is the way we think and especially what we think of ourselves. Coming to this realization is the moment I understood self-transformation to be self–sacrificing in that it’s totally dependent on my choice to surrender any form of myself that stands in the way of my transformation.
Self-transformation is hard work that requires a reset of the mind and a regulation of self-speaking language. And, even as we’re growing in this transformation, old labels will stick around. There are times we’ll straddle the fence of who we are transforming to be and the “who” that was. Unintentionally we’ll hold on to the labels.
Many of us have incorrectly taken on labels as our names. Maybe we have been labeled “loser” or “dropout” or a “nobody.” Maybe we’ve labeled ourselves “unattractive” or “overweight.” However, when we adhere to a selfish-determination of transformation, this will silence every voice that aims to divert us from living out of something new.
Embracing this process requires a determined surrender to completely die to any form of you that would prevent you from transforming to the woman or man you’re becoming.
There are simple pleasures that dot the “i” of LiFE Making it enjoyable, compensating for the strife These are my simple i-dotting treasures, it’s true What are yours? I’d love to hear from you
Watching the sun break through night’s dark Disappear behind horizons, while I sit in a park Jumping in puddles midst the down pour of rain Snowflakes on my tongue, kid-like joy gain
Making snow-angels on snow filled days Hot chocolate, whipped-cream on my lip stay Frolicking in autumn’s vibrant leafy pile Swimming in crystal-clear waters for a while
Watching the countryside as train’s whiz by Enjoying colored-leaves scenes, autumn beautify Singing my heart out on a car ride so long With my favorite guy driving and singing along
Eating ice cream, savoring chocolate’s delight The “just because” call that puts my heart in flight A gift “just because” so thoughtful and sweet Or the gift of flowers, a gesture hard to beat
Tucked in in woolen onesies on a cold winter’s night Binge-watching my favorite show feels oh so right Hugging my special guy under starry skies Eating sweet potato and curly fries
These are simple pleasures for which my heart beats Making life enjoyable, sadness defeats Dotting the “i” in LiFE, moments so dear Simple joys that make life a delightful cheer
Frolicking in autumn’s vibrant leafy pile
So tell me, what are the simple pleasures that dot your LiFE with cheer?
Beforeword: “Words of wisdom from Barbie the movie” is a follow on from my post, “Independent Woman”. If as women we govern our lives by the dictates of society, it would truly be impossible to be a woman. Ladies do you and be the best version of you.
—in the words of America Ferrera as Gloria:
(2023)
“It is literally impossible to be a woman.
You are very beautiful and very smart… and it breaks my soul that you think you’re not good enough, like we’re always supposed to be extraordinary, but somehow we’re always doing it wrong.
We have to be skinny, but not too much and you must not say you want to be skinny. You must say you want a healthy weight, but also… YES you have to be skinny.
You must have money, but you can’t ask for money because that would be rude.
You gotta be a boss, but you can’t be tough. You must lead, but you cannot crush other people’s ideas.
You’re supposed to love being a mom, but you don’t talk about your kids all the time.
You have to be a professional, but also always take care of everyone else.
You are responsible for men’s misbehavior, WHICH IS CRAZY, but if you notice that, you’re accused of being a whine.
You’re expected to keep yourself pretty for men, but not so pretty you ‘try them too much’ or threaten other women… because you’re supposed to be part of the sorority.
You must always stand out and always be very grateful… but never forget the system is fixed, so find how to acknowledge it but remember to be grateful.
You must never grow old, never be rude, never show off, never be selfish, never stumble, never fail or show fear and, of course, you must never be sassy.
It’s very hard, it’s too contradictory and nobody gives you a medal or says thank you.
And it turns out, in fact, that not only are you doing everything WRONG, but also, everything that happens is YOUR FAULT.
I’m tired of seeing myself and every woman doing the impossible for others to love us.”
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For over 5000 years, the art of henna—also called mehndi in Hindi and Urdu—has been practiced in various parts of the world including Africa.
This temporary decorative art is used on hands and feet and usually reserved for the celebration of special occasions such as weddings and birthdays.
As this is my birthMONTH (April) celebration and as it’s being commemorated in the land of my ancestors, Africa, getting the henna art seemed fitting.
On the day I got this design drawn on my hand I was walking through the craft market in Stone Town, Zanzibar, when a sistah called out to me. First with the request that I buy clothing then with the offer of drawing me a henna. And so I paused my walk long enough to speak with her while she skillfully, in 3 minutes, created this artistic expression to visibly show my intentional celebration of my birthday/birthMONTH.
2023 All Rights Reserved
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On this the anniversary of my birth I pronounce this affirmation: I’m not too much, I’m enough!
2023 All Rights Reserved
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It’s early Sunday morning. “Hell” and “Death” are pacing back and forth, restlessly monitoring the tomb that previously belonged to Joseph of Arimathea, but now entombs the body of Jesus Christ. Nervously, they had watched for signs throughout Friday night—nothing happened. Then the Sabbath drew on and … nothing. As the Sabbath wore on, their confidence grew, for still nothing happened. All throughout Saturday night they watched and listened … nothing happened. Saturday was silent. But, early Sunday morning, just at the dawning of the day, a sound was heard. It was only audible to someone on the watch—“someone” like Hell and “someone” like Death.
What is that I hear? Death, I thought you said you had Him?
Well, of course I have Him, I even have the key!
Don’t you mean “our key”, the key of hell and death?
Listen! It’s faint now, but with each beat it’s steadily rising I’m absolutely sure, I can hear it now, His heartbeat is returning Whatever we do, He must not leave that tomb For if He does, forever our fate will be doomed
That can’t be, I was there last Friday eve I waited ‘til He hung His head surrendering to me I didn’t leave His side till the guarantee that He was mine I saw His Father’s confirmation in the earth and in the sky
I thought He would have fought me, like so many others before But, it’s as if He took His life and laid it at my door I wanted Him to struggle against my stranglehold on Him But, He acted more like a victor, accepting the ultimate penalty for humanity’s sin
Oh yes, it was magnificent that moment when I heard his farewell cry: Father … my Father … Your only Son You will deny?” Finally, after waiting and plotting this sweet life-wrenching revenge Lifeless—suspended between heaven and my hell—hung the One who was my challenge
Be silent Death! No more time to reminisce This man … the Christ … He is our nemesis! No time to think of what could be or what we didn’t do His life is returning, heartbeats reverberating from the tomb
Hurry your “evilness”, back to the tomb of the Nazarene! He must not resurrect for He will take away our key Together we rule this earth, this is our domain Who is this man to think we’d allow Him to live again?
As if on cue, Gabriel—heaven’s Archangel—stands before Hell and Death, garbed in the majesty of heaven. Staring them squarely in the eyes and with the adoration of the heavenly hosts embodied within him, exclaimed as like a song:
Who is this man?! He is the only Son of God, begotten from the world’s foundation He is the Rock of Ages on which will be your eternal destruction He is the Conquering Lion, Jesus Christ, humanity’s redemption He is the Good Shepherd, in Him there is no consternation He is the First the Last, the Last the First, in Him there is continuation He is the Beginning and the End, the Way and the Resurrection He is Elohim. Shalom. Jireh. Rapha. Raah. He is El-Shaddai. Adonai. Nissi. Rohi. Jah.
And with a voice penetrating the hollow of the tomb, Gabriel shouts the Father’s command:
Jesus! Arise! Stand up! Come forth! Your Father calls You home!
But Hell was not ready to concede. He positioned himself before the tomb and beckoned Death to join him.
This cannot be, only I have the key The key to hell and death and I will not concede to thee Death, bind Him closer, hold Him, don’t you dare let Him leave He, and all humanity, must surrender and worship the god in me
While Hell and Death held on to the last shreds of their short-lived victory, Jesus adhered to His Father’s call—He unwrapped the shroud and stepped out the tomb as the Conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah. And in a voice clear, majestic and triumphant proclaimed:
Oh Death, where is your sting, and Hell your victory? Did you really think My Father would allow you to conquer Me? Now recognize I am He—He who has the master key Through my life, you’re both condemned for all eternity
Did you not hear, when it was declared—I am the Way, the Life? My life I gave to save the world from sin’s dreadful strife? Did you not hear when Gabriel proclaimed My Father called me home? I’m heaven-bound to rule with Him, at the right hand of His throne
And looking down through the portals of time to you and I, Jesus exclaimed:
Dear children of mine, don’t despair even in the darkest night At the break of dawn I’ll come again, take you on a cosmic flight For I am He who was dead and now I’m alive forevermore Hell and Death will be devoured in the fire I have in store
So, Death where is your sting and Hell your victory? I’m on my way to Heaven and I AM the MASTER KEY!
2023 All rights reserved
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The place, Mount Moriah The time, the darkest of night The request was made The decision has been taken Separated, alone, he wrestled At dawn the journey began One heartbreaking step before the other Only begotten son in tow Three days he trods a beaten path up the mountain
The place, Mount Moriah The time, the darkest of night In the sheepfold, huddled together Except for one lamb Separated, alone, he wandered At dawn the journey began One unsure-footed step before the other Blindly he trods an unknown path, through thickets, up the mountain
Part II
The stones of the altar have been stacked The sticks and brambles have been laid The stony place of sacrifice cushioned, made ready to receive The sacrificial instrument has been sharpened The binding cords have been secured The fire stones have been selected The sacrifice has surrendered, submitted, bounded, mounted The knife raised in shaking hands in space suspended …
The thickets have grown thicker Sticks and brambles blurred his path Directed by a force unknown He stumbled forward up the backside of Moriah mountain To a place where the stones of an altar have been stacked Where a sacrifice has surrendered, submitted, bounded, mounted Where the sacrificial instrument raised in shaking hands, in space suspended Caught in the thicket, he’s suspended …
In that moment of dual suspension A voice thundered: “Touch not your only begotten son Look over yonder, there, see A sacrificial lamb caught in the thicket for thee”
Part III
The place, Mount Golgatha The time, the darkest of days The decision has been taken Separated, forsaken, alone He wrestled At dawn the journey began One back-breaking step before the other Sacrificial instrument in tow Dutifully he stumbled forward up Calvary’s mountain Where a cross has been stacked Where the sacrificial tools have been sharpened Where the sacrifice has surrendered, submitted, bounded, mounted To be nailed-up upon a cross, in space, He too, suspended …
When the voice of heaven thundered: “It is finished” And a terrified voice confessed: “Truly He was the only begotten Son of God” To be placed in a grave, three days enshroud
Part IV
Two only begotten sons But only One begotten Son of God
Two went up the mountain But only One went up Calvary’s Mountain
Two lambs But only One Lamb slain from the world’s foundation
Jesus—the Son of God, the Sacrificial Lamb
After-word: This epic poem is a parallelism of the Abrahamic and the Messianic sacrifice experiences. Abraham’s would-be sacrifice of Isaac was a foreshadow of the crucifixion of Christ. The sacrifice of Christ was a symbolism of high sabbaths (John 19:31)as the complete story of salvation—that is, the work of Christ beginning with His death on the cross as the Passover Lamb and to end at His second coming.
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The week is long. The weekend is short. Midweek is a good point to recharge to get over the hump. Keep moving. Happy hump day!
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“Ark of Return”—a sculpture commissioned by the United Nations to commemorate the end of slave trade (UN NY Headquarters) to coincide with the International Day of remembrance for the victims of slavery
Slavery Transatlantic Trade Families … torn away Millions deprived, trauma … generations span
Prejudice Harmful norms live on Impact then … continues … today, racist legacy … reverberating
See the world … through ethical lens Status quo … transforming Education needed, to … end injustice now
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Afterword: The gwawdodyn byr is a sestet (or six-line stanza) form with 9 syllables in the first 4 lines; 10 syllables in the final 2 lines; lines 1-4 and 6 end rhyme; the end of line 5 rhymes with a syllable in line 6.
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As the world’s attention is focused on this day of love—Valentine’s Day—sending out a prayer that we outdo each other in/with LOVE.
Happy Valentine’s Day!!!!
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Ships arrived Fourteen-ninety-two Conquest of Paradise A place can’t be “discovered” Where people were found
Afterword: Shadorma is a Spanish 6-line syllabic poem of 3/5/3/3/7/5 syllable lines respectively. Simple as that.
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When I first moved to NYC I was told NY’s fashion color—its unofficial uniform—is head-to-toe black!
I love the color black (in fact it’s one of my favorite colors). But, like my wardrobe, sometimes you gotta add splashes of color to brighten up the dark patches in life.
The week is long. The weekend is short. Midweek is a good point to recharge to get over the hump. Happy hump day!
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Black History Month poetic tribute to Shirley Chisholm
Create space
Never hesitate
You have voice
There’s a choice
Seat not offered at the table?
Carry your own chair
Afterword: Shadorma is a Spanish 6-line syllabic poem of 3/5/3/3/7/5 syllable lines respectively. Simple as that.
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Some kings rule from iron thrones Disconnected from community reality You’re the King who served from humanity’s throne Who dreamed not in black or white Who envisioned instead a world inclusive Your voice, your vision a great void filling Speaking the language of the unheard Inspiration to persevere, to never stop dreaming Summoning collective longings and eternal hopes For a nation by its noblest ideals is truly living Fighting back against injustice Rallying the call — equality for all Your dream though deferred lives on In a people, like you, souled out for change
In exactly 94 words in honor of Dr King’s 94th birthday—born January 15, 1929
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… also referred to as ‘Dark and Handsome’ or ‘Black swan’. Mother Nature totally rocks with flowers in the full range of the color spectrum including black!!!
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Before-word: Life is line upon line of experiences grouped together like stanzas, arranged like verses in a script // expressed with voice, diction, sound, rhythm, meter // understood through figures of speech, symbolism, allegory, imagery // structured in syntax and scheme // with strong, accurate, interesting words deliberately chosen to give meaning to life — LIFE LIVED IN POETRY.
From the source of spiritual cosmology Conceived in rhythmic movements Birthed through pulsing, pushing Punctuated by intermittent pain and joy Life
Life Giving meaning to the ineffable Obscured in allusions Developed in plots Composed in stanzas Live
Live In fragmented syntax of challenges and victories Linguistic coding lyrics of uninhibited joy with unimaginable sorrow Alliteration of life’s idioms of transformation Reciting poignant epigrams of wondrous elocution Live life
Live life In metres to know and be known Evolving through spiritual healing Resolutely declaimed: live in the everlasting now Climaxing in all that was created
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There’s a cute little bunny that drops by the garden each spring
He’s an elusive frisky little fella
Ears always at attention, pointed straight up to sky like soldier resolute to flight, not fight
At best I’ve managed only to stare longingly at “His Royal Cuteness”
Face pressed up against the window pane, I stare intently
In fear, that even a flutter of my eyelashes and he’ll bow out
This is the year
Armed and ready I am
I’ll not concede or give in on this relentless pursuit
This is the spring where he’ll surrender to the will of my intent
Suspending his whim of flight for a moment long enough for—
Aim . . .
Shoot . . .
Got it!
The shot I’ve been pursuing in spring times past
My spring time bunny visitor
Forever captured, frozen for a moment-in-time, behind bars
Photographed
Caveat: It’s not 99 words or less as Charli asked for this story challenge in 99 words prompt but I couldn’t resist resurrecting this piece from Spring 2021.
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Afterword: Ubuntu” is part of the Zulu phrase “Umuntu ngumuntu ngabantu”, which literally means that a person is a person through other people.
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As I’m on the final-final days of leave and the NY weather has been unseasonably mild, I decided to take my reading to the outside.
I strolled to my favorite park, just across the street from home, and chose a bench facing the river to perch. I perched because much of the bench remains wet from the recent rain and the driest part of the seat is wide enough for just perching. So I’m precariously perched with book in hand.
I’m reading. Every now and again I look up to smile or mouth “hi” to neighborhood folks walking by. Some taking health break strolls like the healthcare workers who work at the nearby hospital. Others pushing baby strollers. Couples strolling hand-in-hand. And others walking with or being dragged by their dogs. So I’m looking up from my book a few times but still getting a good bit of consistent reading in.
There’s a dog approaching. His master has him on a long leash so I turn my smile to him before his master arrives. She talks first:
“What’s that in your hand,” she asks.
“This?” Closing the book and extending it for her to see I continue, “a book.”
“We don’t see too many of those these days,” she responded.
“So true. And this one is about “Small Talk”, go figure”, I smiled with a lift of my brow.
We chatted for a little bit. Small talk in practice.
“Have a great day,” she semi-shouted, turning her head back in my direction as her dog had tire of our conversation and was now dragging her away.
And just like that I got the chance to practice, “The Fine Art of Small Talk” in my favorite park, perched on a bench, across from the river, alongside the hospital on a beautiful weather day in winter.
Ciao beautiful WP people 👋🏾 rain drops are spattering on my phone. Running home.
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A collection of writing by Dominic Riccitello — intimate conversations, personal essays, and poetic reflections on relationships, loss, and self-discovery.
Poems & More 