I retrace the lines your absence left with longing fingertips
Your laughter—it echoes in the chambers of my heart
A bittersweet melody haunting my every thought
Alas, I am but a bystander in the theater of your love
The forgotten verse in the ballad of your life
Watching from the sidelines
Replaced in the story of someone else you’re loving
And though I long to be held
To whisper and hear secrets in the night
I am resigned to the truth that you now belong to another
Someone else’s someone
Afterword: I wrote this poem in 2024 and discovered, in 2026, this song of the same themeso republishing it as part of the theme—Poetry in Conversation with a Song.
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.
There’s a correspondence between heartbeats where words falter yet meanings are understood therein lies a love that transcends language it’s a dance of souls in quietness of whispers
It’s the brush of fingertips on skin the lingering gaze that speaks volumes the shared breath of two souls entwined in a symphony of emotions untamed
It’s the warmth of a sunrise in their touch the gentle caress of moonlight’s embrace a language of gestures, unspoken desires etched by the pressing hands of time
For what is love if not a melody played on the strings of the soul, a song without lyrics, yet understood in the silence that binds hearts as one
2024 All Rights Reserved Credit: Designed by Canva
Beforeword: This poem is a tribute to the beauty of lasting love. It celebrates the choice to keep discovering one another by creating new experiences within familiar spaces rather than searching for excitement elsewhere. Through everyday moments, shared places become landscapes of renewal, proving that love flourishes when we continually reimagine the ordinary together.
In the quiet space of renewal we find each other again, every day a canvas, every touch a brushstroke on the landscape of the history we share
This old place— with walls that echo laughter with windows that frame the seasons of our lives— it’s a testament to the love we’ve built, intention by intention moment by moment
We wander familiar paths, our footsteps guided by memories etched deep into the soil, we carve new trails, seek and hide in the weathered shadows cast by ancient trees
Your hand in mine steady and sure, we explore the forgotten rooms of this love—rediscovering the thrill of firsts—releasing the addiction of the routine
Here—in this sanctuary of us— we create new experiences, we rekindle the fires of wonder, holding steadfast against the temptations of new, finding renewal in the known, beauty in the familiar
Each day, is a promise kept each glance, is a vow renewed we stay, we hold, we grow forever weaving new threads into the tapestry of our endless love
2024 All Rights Reserved Designed by Canva Photo: Pexels
Beforeword: Love begins as something we seek, becomes something we practice, and ends by revealing it was shaping us all along. The journey comes full circle when we realize we have become the very love we were looking for.The poetic form, loop poetry—where the last word(s) of a line becomes the first word(s) of the next line—is fitting for this soulful full-circle piece.
Heart’s rhythm beats for love For love that protects, create safe space Safe space to be vulnerable, totally free Totally free to be just as you are, completely
Completely a love like poetry in motion In motion flow like ocean, muse creating Muse creating healing for you and I You and I enveloped in the wholeness of love
Love, you, me—broken in different ways, different places Different places synchronized in all the right spaces Right spaces to restore like ancient art Ancient art that restores broken hearts made whole
Whole, we move by love’s essence like Marley’s one love One love the synchronous beats of two hearts Two hearts as one, unexplainable connection Unexplainable connection this love that eclipses logic
Logic, no—
Heart’s rhythm beats for love For love that protects, create safe space Safe space to be vulnerable, totally free Totally free to be just as you are, completely
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Love rules our hearts, it gives us choice No chains to bind, no hurried voice In whispers soft its voice comes through Like a tender guide, pure and true
No iron laws, no harsh decree Love always reigns wild and free It carves no path, but shows the way Guiding heart-to-heart, come what may
In love’s domain, we find our art A masterpiece within the heart It rules with warmth, a glowing flame A guiding star we can’t explain
So let love lead with gentle hand In whispered words and actions grand Love teaches us, it guides the way Directing all we do and say
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This poem celebrates love as the source of both feeling and creativity—the rhythm at the center of the heart, where emotions reverberate like music.
—what can I say … LIFE! you’re a giver you’re a taker you tear-down you build-up you bring smiles you bring tears
—what is it about you … LIFE? you keep me guessing wondering what lies around your curves beyond your corners up your hills down your vales
—what makes you … LIFE: your beautiful mysteries your spiraling unpredictability your anxious uncertainties your known past your unknown future your unending surprises
Beforeword: Appreciating the beauty of what a country offers while still acknowledging its history and the injustices carried in its soil.
I’ve written quite a bit about my trip and visit to Australia. If you’ve read these posts — Tasmania, Bruny Island, Perth, Sydney, Melbourne — you may have noticed I made no mention of encounters with Aboriginal people.
Silence.
Unseen.
That wasn’t deliberate. It was unavoidable — I couldn’t write what I did not see or know how to name.
In all my experiences, in all the places I visited, I was struck by how little visible Aboriginal presence I encountered. I intentionally looked — on the streets, in the stores, in the everyday movements of public life.
That absence felt palpable.
And yet, what was very present was the Welcome to Country or Acknowledgement of Country— a statement recognizing the Traditional Custodians of the land. No meeting or public event started without it. It echoed across media, institutions, performances, and gatherings.
For Bruny Island, someone might say:
“I acknowledge the Nuenonne people of the South East Nation, Traditional Custodians of Bruny Island (Lunawanna-alonnah).”
Or in Melbourne:
“I acknowledge the Traditional Custodians of the land on which we gather today, the Wurundjeri Woi-wurrung people of the Kulin Nation.”
I appreciated the practice. I still do.
But I also wrestled with the tension of it. The tension that made me ask:
What does it mean for a people to be acknowledged in words while their presence felt so unseen?
How do you admire a country while also recognizing histories of displacement, dispossession, and attempted erasure?
Because appreciating a place and acknowledging injustice are not contradictions.
Australia gave me breathtaking coastlines, museums, architecture, wildlife, gardens, art, and moments that genuinely moved me. I stood in awe at the Sydney Opera House. I wandered through Tasmania’s quiet beauty. I watched kangaroos casually occupying golf courses as if they paid membership dues. Australia did not disappoint.
And, nowhere did this sit more heavily with me than in the story of Truganini. It was relayed in pieces by the tour guide on my Bruny Island tour. My intrigue led me to research Truganini’s story.
Born around 1812, Truganini was a Nuenonne woman from Bruny Island, often remembered as one of the last survivors of her people after colonization devastated Aboriginal communities in Tasmania. She lived through profound violence and displacement. Family members were killed. Land was taken. Her people were pushed to the margins of the very place that had sustained them for generations.
Before her death in 1876, Truganini made a simple but profound request: that her body be treated with dignity and not exploited after death. She feared being displayed as a curiosity.
Yet her wishes were ignored.
Her remains were exhibited publicly for decades in a museum — a final indignity after a lifetime marked by dispossession. It would take many years before her ashes were finally returned to the sea near her ancestral homeland, fulfilling, belatedly, the dignity she had requested all along.
As part of my visit I took the 279-step climb to Truganini Lookout and for me, each step felt like a blow-by-blow walk into history.
At the top, there is an unobstructed view of the island stretching out in both directions — narrow, windswept, exposed, held together by a thin strip of land. Beautiful. But grounding too. Because the name, Truganini Lookout, carries the story of a woman who fought for the survival and dignity of her people — the Palawa, the Aboriginal people of Lutruwita (Tasmania).
I did not know her full story before arriving, but something about it tugged on my heartstrings because it did not feel distant to me.
I am the product of both Jamaica and Canada, and both carry their own version of this ache.
In Jamaica, it is the near disappearance of the Taino people and the enduring legacy of Nanny and the Maroons, who fought fiercely for freedom, dignity, and the right to exist on their own terms. (See my post about Accompong.)
In Canada, it is the story of First Nations, Inuit, and Métis peoples — communities who survived displacement, cultural suppression, residential schools, and generations of policies designed to erase Indigenous identity.
In both countries, the story is not one of complete disappearance, but of remarkable survival.
What remains are the fragments and the continuities: names, memory, ancestry, language, stories, traditions, and a growing effort to recover what was lost, restore what was taken, and call people and places by their rightful names.
Standing on Bruny Island, I recognized the familiar—Different histories. Different peoples. Different continents. Yet the same enduring struggle to remember, reclaim, and remain.
Travel Reveals Strange Mirrors
When I travel I almost always visit the museums or historical sites, looking out for what mirrors my own history and experiences. Sometimes travel reveals strange mirrors — like familiar names in unfamiliar places.
Kingston.
A name I know as home in Jamaica also exists in Tasmania. And, of course, there is Kingston, Ontario, in Canada — another place woven into my story.
It made me pause, first from the feeling of familiarity which made me reach for my phone to capture this sign post:
Three Kingstons. Three geographies. Three distinct histories shaped, in different ways, by the legacy of empire and colonization.
The connection is not in the name itself but in what it prompted me to consider: how places separated by oceans can carry stories that mimic one another. How histories of settlement, displacement, resistance, and survival often leave similar footprints on different shores.
As a Jamaican-Canadian standing on Australian soil, I found myself noticing these intersections everywhere. Not because the stories are identical, but because they ask similar questions about belonging, memory, identity, and whose stories get told.
Different continents. Different peoples. Yet familiar sentiments shaped by similar patterns.
Talawah & Palawa
The other mirror showed up in two words, not as a shared meaning but a shared feeling.
Palawa is the name for Aboriginal Tasmanians and it echoed a word deeply familiar to me as a Jamaican— talawah.
In Jamaica, talawah describes something small but fierce. Resilient. Tough. Quietly powerful. The kind of strength that survives.
And somehow, standing in a place shaped by dispossession and endurance, the echo between Palawa and talawah stayed with me. Different histories. Different peoples. Yet something familiar in the story of survival.
Maybe that is why Bruny Island tugged at my heart more than I expected.
Because beneath all its beauty sat something recognizable: the ache of what colonization took and continues to take, the endurance of those who survive it, and the reminder that history matters.
The beauty of Australia in flowers
Australia did not disappoint.
But neither was I oblivious.
I can appreciate the beauty of what a country offers while still acknowledging its history and the injustices carried in its soil.
Perhaps that, too, is a kind of acknowledgement of country.
Beforeword: The lesson of Juneteenth: hope may lay the foundation, but love is what opens the door to freedom and keeps it open.
Image Credit: Globe & Mail
As I watched the official opening of the Barack Obama Presidential Center from here in Nairobi, I found myself connecting threads. I was struck by how Juneteenth, Obama’s Kenyan ancestry, and June’s theme of love converged in one moment.
Story of freedom and hope
Juneteenth tells the story of freedom that arrived late. And is a reminder that hope can travel a long road before reaching its destination. And it is that hope that shaped Obama’s presidential journey and is now the bedrock of his Presidential Center.
The opening of this Center is on the surface the dedication of a building. But more than that it is a house built from hope—a hope nurtured by generations who believed that freedom could be broader, justice more accessible, and opportunity not reserved for only the few.
Yet hope alone does not build houses. Love also does.
Story of love
Love is woven through this story. Listening to Michelle love on her husband, retelling his myriad accomplishments with admiration and pride. The love of family that shapes character long before the world takes notice. The love of country manifested in selfless service. The love that believes a nation can become more faithful to its ideals than it was yesterday.
Juneteenth itself is a testament to that kind of love. It celebrates those who continued to believe in freedom even when freedom had not yet reached them. Those who held fast to dignity when circumstances denied it. Those who imagined a future larger than their present reality.
Stories rarely belong to one place
As a Jamaican-Canadian who’s lived in various countries and now living in Kenya, I am aware that stories rarely belong to one place. They cross oceans. They carry names, dreams, and unfinished aspirations.
The Presidential Center is one such story that stretches from the village of Nyang’oma Kogelo off the shores of Lake Victoria, Kenya to the South Side of Chicago. From a Kenyan father to an American President, from possibility to legacy.
The first American President of African ancestry meant the rules were different, the expectations were higher. It’s what led Ta-Nehesi Coates to say: “For eight years he walked on ice and never fell.” An imagery used to describe the extraordinary scrutiny and constraints that accompanied Obama’s presidency as the first Black president of the United States.
He had to strike the balance of carefulness and calm in navigating political, racial, and cultural expectations with an almost impossible degree of precision. And as Michelle highlighted, he did so guided by an unshakable moral compass. And what we saw at the opening of the Center is testament to not only President Obama successfully getting through two terms of service—eight years—but that he came through to the other side true to himself as a Black man, a faithful husband and a dependable father.
Standing here in Kenya, where part of that presidential story began, I am reminded that the hope that fuels the Obama’s is never built alone. Nor was it the work of one man alone. It was carried by those who crossed oceans before him, those who marched before him, and those who loved him enough to believe that history could bend toward a wider freedom.
And just as how it is installed on the wall within the Center, this hope is constructed—intention by intention, through sacrifice, courage, partnership, and love—and to be installed in each of us.
HOPE permanently etched on the wall inside the Presidential Center
I titled this reflection the “The House That Hope Built” drawing from Billy Brown’s song of the same title. The song questions whether hope is real while the Presidential Center shows what hope actually builds when it’s rooted in love, lineage, and legacy. A flip of the script, as it were.
To be clear: “This is the people’s house” is declared inside the Center
The Center is a library, a museum, and the people’s house.
It is the ongoing work and enduring partnership between Barack and Michelle Obama—two people who choose to widen the circle of freedom for those who come after them.
And perhaps that is the lesson of Juneteenth: hope may lay the foundation, but love is what opens the door to freedom and keeps it open.
Beforeword: Juneteenth, celebrated on June 19th, commemorates the emancipation of enslaved African Americans in the United States. It became a federal holiday in the United States in 2021.
Free, Not Free
The declaration rang out Crashing through Congress halls Reverberating across states Proclamation of liberation Breaking slavery’s stronghold Yet Liberation’s dawn was delayed Silenced for two and one-half years Freedom stalled at the horizon Massa’s grip tightened Freedom declared Yet freedom withheld Free, not free
In the shadows of deception As days turned to months Months turned to years The shackles lingered Around wrists and ankles Of those who toiled on Unaware of the broken chains A paradox etched in the soil Where news arrived late Lingering in untold tales Where some sang jubilant hymns While others knew not the lyrics had changed Free, not free
Juneteenth June 19, 1865 A second birth of Liberty, unobscured The undeterred crawl of truth toward justice Steady as dawn It came Free, not free
Marcus Garvey’s words a beacon: “Emancipate yourself from mental slavery” For chains unseen bind tightest Freedom must be claimed in heart, in mind, in spirit For liberty blooms not only in fields and on flags But in the fertile soil of awakened minds Where seeds of empathy and justice take root Where the harvest of equality awaits A reminder etched in the annals of time Of struggles waged Of victories won Of battles yet to come Free, not free
On this Juneteenth Let us pause to reflect and renew To honor the journey From bondage to liberation A pledge to self to the ongoing quest For a world where freedom rings true for all Free, truly free
For more about Juneteenth, you may like this post here!
2023 All Rights Reserved [republished] Imaged Designed by Canva
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Beforeword: This poem is a lover’s endearing question: In that other life will your love search for me, find me, love no other but me?
When life turns into eternity’s grasp Will memories of your love firmly clasp? In that ethereal realm, will you recall The love we shared, ‘twas the sweetest of all?
In realms beyond where time has no bounds Will your heart seek mine in whispers and sounds? Amidst cosmic wonders will you yearn for me Finding solace in my love’s celestial rhapsody?
Know, no other soul can ignite this flame It burns too deep, ‘twill forever be the same Through lifetimes and realms our love will endure A bond unbreakable forever and sure
And when life is interrupted by the call of death Will our souls reunite, drawn by each other’s breath? In that other life will your love still survive To search, find me, keep this love alive?
Will destiny guide our souls’ embrace? Across the abyss beyond infinity of space When life turns into eternity’s night I’ll find your love, it will be my light
2024 All Rights Reserved
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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.
As a Canadian I’ve long admired Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau’s leadership—especially his commitment to feminist foreign policy and the bold move to back it with a $300 million investment in the establishment of the Equality Fund—a long-term investment in women’s rights organizations around the world, especially those working at the grassroots level. The kind of work that often goes unseen, underfunded, but changes everything.
But admiration from afar is one thing.
Meeting him, standing in that moment, and sharing directly how those decisions have mattered… that was a whole other level of I-can’t-believe-I’m-in-this-conversation!!
This was a reminder that the work we do travels farther than we see—and sometimes, it brings us face to face with the very people who inspired it.
And with that, I close out birthMONTH 2026—grounded in alignment, walking in fulfillment, and anchored in the knowing that honing what has been entrusted to me—my skills, my talents, my gift—creates access. It opens doors, makes room, and carries me into the spaces I’m meant to occupy.
World unfolds Seven continents Six complete Travel log Australia, birthmonth’s quest Antarctica waits
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Afterword: The world is a globe of borders and of bridges. This birthMONTH I crossed into Australia—and with that step, another continent claimed! Six down, one to go—Antartica is next!
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
In my article Holding Change & Loss I promised to return with more writing and on-the-ground updates from being in Jamaica.
You’ll recall, on October 28, 2025, Hurricane Melissa — a catastrophic Category 5 hurricane with sustained winds around 185 mph (295 km/h) — made historic landfall near Jamaica’s southwest coast. At the time, every major news outlet carried images and stories of devastation; now the world has moved on, but the work of recovery is just beginning and sustained attention, accountability, and action are essential.
With that in mind, I made it to Jamaica. I wanted to be here sooner, but the reality is this: the country will be in recovery for a long time. So arriving now still feels right — not too late.
If you’ve read my other posts about Jamaica, you know how heightened the anticipation of returning home always is for me. I’m always on the lookout for that first stretch of green and coastline which always settles something in me. This time I started filming earlier than usual — not just the landing, but the first sight of land itself.
When the wheels touched down, the usual clapping broke out — the applause of gratitude. Then the flight attendant invited a louder one. We obliged. It felt earned. My lips spoke the sentiments of my heart: “Me reach home!”
But this trip wasn’t just about returning home. It was about the work on the ground, and seeing what’s real beyond the headlines.
In Kingston it’s possible to feel like all is well. That illusion didn’t last long. On the drives west the story changed. There were more than 170 communities severely impacted in the 6 parishes that felt the brunt of the storm. I went to three of them: St. Elizabeth, Trelawny and Hanover.
From a distance, you’d miss the damage.
But, the reminders came fast. Downed light poles. Roofless houses, churches, schools, hospitals, infirmaries. Roads riddled with potholes that are now more like craters. The storm’s imprint cuts clearly through the green — twisted sheets of zincs wrapped around tress so tightly as if that was their natural home and trees precariously leaned to one side, an indication of the effects of sustained winds — all a physical reminder of what western Jamaica endured.
As hills and mountains passed by, what was most evident is that nature was already healing itself.
People tell me that the fresh greenery masks the havoc that stripped trees of bark and leaves and left slopes bare and brown.
What stood out just as much was the response.
People are already helping themselves and each other. Schools shifted to tents. Makeshift repairs are everywhere — zincs repurposed, tarpaulin stretched taut across roofs so that the landscape is dotted with blue. I said it out loud, and the CEO of the foundation I’m volunteering with agreed: she said soon after the hurricane, people were snatching zincs from wherever the wind had blown them to use to protect their homes.
In talking with people, amid the horror of having lived through Hurricane Melissa, what consistently emerged were stories of neighbors rallying around one another. In one case, someone gave a building to a shopkeeper who lost her entire business so she could start again. No waiting. No dramatics. Just movement. That’s the JamaiCAN spirit in action.
Hanover took us further into the hinterland. The drive was painstakingly slow. The hurricane had worsened the roads so severely and one shorter route was still submerged, appearing more like a dam from our view above. Our driver navigated potholes like a minefield as we followed a minivan bobbing and weaving its way through, carrying the more than 200 care packages we were to distribute to families as well as supplies for several small enterprises.
The needs are wide — from safe roofing materials and school supplies to infrastructure support, equipment for small businesses, and psychosocial care.
I chose to focus on schools and female-headed small enterprises, supporting both education and livelihoods while investing in people’s capacity and dignity. Based on advocacy efforts I was able to assist schools with books and, in one case, a tent mobilized through UNICEF that now serves as a gathering space after the school’s roof was completely ripped off. With electricity still not restored, the solar-powered lanterns and power banks were well received.
I was grateful to also be able to speak with people, offering a listening ear and psychological support. One that stood out was a single mother of three children in school who lost her home and everything in it. The only structure still standing is her small shop. Her shop served as a community meeting point—aptly called the “Hilltop Chill Spot”.
In fact, while World Central Kitchen was operating in the area, her shop served as the site where more than 250 meals were prepared and distributed each day. Now that WCK has moved on, the shop has the potential to continue as a community support hub with the right backing. Being part of the shift that allowed her — and another female shop owner — to look forward rather than backward was a privilege. Watching a flicker of hope brighten as practical support came into view is why getting here mattered. Seeing it firsthand matters.
But this isn’t just about Jamaica.
Hurricane Melissa joins a litany of climate-intensified storms that hit Small Island Developing States like ours with disproportionate force. These nations contribute the least to global emissions, yet face more frequent and severe hurricanes, rising seas, and shifting weather patterns that threaten agriculture, infrastructure, culture, and heritage—from livelihoods to historic sites and community roots. SIDS like Jamaica are on the front lines of this global challenge.
Cultural loss, heritage destruction, and community displacement are climate impacts that demand global responsibility. This isn’t a local issue — it’s an issue of climate justice.
Recovery will be long-term, and preparedness alone isn’t enough.
Infrastructural change is needed to build back not just what was lost, but what’s stronger, more resilient, and more equitable. This means supporting micro- and small enterprises — including those owned by women — to rebuild better and more sustainably. It also includes reskilling people in modern farming technologies, AI-driven resilience tools, construction practices that anticipate future climate realities, and ensuring meaningful community engagement at all stages.
Moving around the country, seeing firsthand and speaking with fellow Jamaicans, the national pledge kept coming back to mind and it stopped being just words. The pledge begins with the words “Before God and all mankind,” followed by lines expressing dedication of heart, mind, and body to the service of fellow citizens. Specifically:
Raised on this pledge, Jamaicans embody it. I saw it in action — a people committed to helping one another, rebuilding together.
This article is not to imply that Jamaica isn’t carrying damage, but to show that it also carries resolve.
Jamaicans are resilient, yes, but resilience should not be mistaken for self-sufficiency. They are already rebuilding, but doing so with the same materials and methods risks repeating destruction. Resilience should be met with resources, systems, and sustained commitment — supporting communities, schools, churches and micro- and small enterprises, especially those led by women, to rebuild stronger and more sustainably. Small shops are often run by women and are the heartbeat of their communities: they provide income, social support, and gathering spaces, and their recovery is central to restoring both livelihoods and local life.
I’m here. I listened. I watched. I learned.
Being here allowed me to hold space for what was lost, to learn from what’s being rebuilt, and to bear witness to a country that refuses to yield — a people whose strength is matched only by their resolve to rise again.
If you’re able to support Jamaica’s recovery, the government has set up a site to coordinate all support coming to our beautiful island. We are grateful for all the countries, organizations, individuals, charities etc. that have come to our aid. We’re eternally grateful.
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.
🇯🇲 Now the storm has passed, leaving behind a trail of devastation unlike anything Jamaica has seen in decades.
🇯🇲 Over the past three days, I’ve ridden waves of emotion watching the destruction of my homeland unfold in real time.
🇯🇲 There’s something about Jamaica—something magnetic—that makes even those not born there feel an unexplainable pull to it, a sense of home. Many have reached out to check in, and that solidarity has meant a great deal.
🇯🇲 What we’re experiencing is a collective trauma—felt both on the island and across the diaspora. Yet amid the heartbreak, what stands out most is the indomitable spirit of Jamaicans: people with machetes and chainsaws clearing fallen trees so aid can reach cut-off communities; others pushing ambulances through mud where roads no longer exist, determined that care be delivered.
🇯🇲 As I witness these acts of courage and compassion, I hear the first part of our National Pledge echoing:
🇯🇲 That is Jamaica—tallawah*, unbreakable, with grit and grace in equal measure. We are moving through grief and loss, we are doing so together, yet even the strongest hearts need lifting. Strength without support is not sustainable. And, the burden of recovery cannot rest solely on the shoulders of those who are suffering.
🇯🇲 For those asking how to help—every possible humanitarian need exists right now. Follow your heart in giving, but give responsibly. Make sure your support flows through credible channels that truly reach those most in need (the government of Jamaica established a site to ensure coordination of support: https://supportjamaica.gov.jm).
🇯🇲 Through it all, we will rise and rebuild—Jamaica strong.
🇯🇲 To my fellow Jamaicans and friends of Jamaica—may we keep showing up for each other, wherever we are in the world.
Credit: Jamaica Observer
*Tallawah is a Jamaican Patois word that means strong, fearless, or strong-willed, and it’s often used to describe someone who is not to be underestimated. It captures a sense of resilience and power, especially when used in the proverb “Wi likkle but wi tallawah”, which means “We are small, but we are strong.”
SUPPORT JAMAICA REBUILD
If you’re able to support Jamaica’s recovery, the government has set up a site to coordinate all support coming to our beautiful island. We are grateful for all the countries, organizations, individuals, charities etc. that have come to our aid. We’re eternally grateful.
Beforeword: You may be familiar with the Bible story of a young shepherd boy, David, who defeated a mighty giant, Goliath, with nothing more than a sling and a stone. I chose that story as the inspiration for a children’s lesson I was asked to teach at church about bullying. To bring it to life, I wrote a poem—a playful riff on one of my earlier pieces, “That’s It, I’m Telling Jesus”. The kids all joined in by shouting the refrain: “That’s it, I’m telling Jesus”.
He towered over me that day, Stomping so loud the earth did sway. He mocked my God, he mocked my song— That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
He shouted and laughed, then turned away, Like bullies do when they have their way. I felt so small, for I was just a boy, But I knew God had a plan, oh joy! That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
He scared the people all around, Even the king went and hid his crown. But God gives courage to see things through— That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
I gathered my stones, smooth and bright, They’d be my shield today, that’s right! Pray and trust, then seize the day That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
I swung my sling round and round, It made a swishy, twirly sound. But just before I let it fly, He called me a shepherd boy—oh my! It made me mad, so very, very mad— That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
I twirled my sling again and again, Then let it go with all my strength. The stone flew fast, straight through the air, AND GUESS WHAT? It hit him here!
Right between his beady eyes it land He fell with a thud by God’s mighty hand! The victory was not mine, I must give thanks— That’s it. I’m telling Jesus.
Afterword: David chose smooth stones for the task at hand. We can choose smooth stone words filled with peace, love, joy, hopewhen we come up against our giants (whatever forms they may be).
Beforeword: I came across this young poet—Cherry Paul Ede’s—powerful rendition of Fragile Dogubo’s poem: “Gucci Cross” which I first posted in 2022. Reposting it now with the lyrics:
“I don’t know who needs to hear this, but Jesus was not crucified on a Gucci cross. He didn’t have on a crown of Versace thorns or Nike shoes on his feet when the nails pierced through. There was nothing bougie about Calvary. That old raggedy wooden cross wasn’t even befitting to hold the carpenter’s son, but there our God hung, held on by His love for us, by His love for all.
It wasn’t the red carpet affair for your favorite celebs. Matter of fact, the only paparazzi was an angry mob as a crowd of witnesses. Once upon a time, I thought the crucifixion was like the Grammys, an award show only for a self-righteous view. But the Bible didn’t mention an ovation – only wrongful accusation, hate speech and boos from fools. The King of Glory came through.
Jesus “felt every nail, felt every whiplash, every rib crack. It was for you that He embraced the pain.
Jesus was placed in the tomb, but then He showed up on the third day like, ‘I’m good, and you are, too’ — one with the Father, my blood makes you brand new. So what other proof do you need that God loves you?
So when the serpent comes to the ring – hissing, whispering deceitful accusations speaking in passive tongues. This is clapback season. Declare: fully my sins are forgiven.
I do not know who needs to hear this, but Jesus was not crucified on the Gucci cross. It doesn’t matter your age, gender, race or net worth – only that you have been made holy.”
I’m grateful for the old rugged cross and the blood that saves!
And Hezekiah prayed to the Lord: ‘Lord, the God of Israel … open your eyes, Lord, and see; listen to the words Sennacherib has sent to ridicule the living God…. Now, Lord our God, deliver us from his hand, so that all the kingdoms of the earth may know that you alone, Lord, are God.’”
When King Hezekiah received a threatening letter from the Assyrian king, he didn’t let fear dictate his next step—he took the letter straight into the temple and laid it before God.
His prayer teaches us to bring our threats—whether words, circumstances, or fears—directly into God’s presence. It’s a reminder that deliverance isn’t just about removing danger; it’s about making God’s name known in the process.
It’s the kind of prayer that moves from the page into our own mouths.
Prayer For Today: Deliverance
Lord— You are God over all kingdoms, all powers, all voices that rise against me.
You made the heavens and the earth; there is nothing beyond Your reach.
Hear me now. See the weight I carry, the threats that echo in my mind, the situations that mock my faith.
I lay them before You— not to tell You what You don’t already know, but to remind my own heart that You are still in control.
Deliver me, Lord. Not just so I can breathe easier, but so the watching world will know— You alone are God.
For those with personality traits which can be classified as “introverted”, give them quiet chilled events, few people and less stimulating environments and they’re in their element.
I’m drawn to nature. I can spend hours by myself in a park, by a river, in a garden because the quiet and stillness that I find underneath trees and on river banks never fail to invoke wonder and contentedness within me.
For people with my personality traits, it means that we focus on internal feelings rather than seeking out external sources of stimulation. It doesn’t mean we’re shy, but more reticent.
With my quiet, reserved, and introspective way of being, the mask has been like my superpower. Not as a disguise but as a buffer. Behind the mask I can process some of the information I so readily take in from the environment and doing so discretely.
Suffice it to say, in 2025 I’m still wearing my mask —a.k.a. my superpower—in crowded enclosed spaces though it’s now okay not to mask up.
All Rights Reserved Published 2022 Republished 2025 Images by me
Some think I’m distant or aloof, others say I’m intimidating
Nothing is further from the truth
It’s likely that I’m deep in thought
Or that I’m observing the environment around me
My life compass—it’s a never ending 3-60-degree focus
Always listening, always planning, envisioning or writing
The endless balancing of mind’s up-down climb on the decision tree of “what ifs”
Shy, I’m not, reticent though—that would be quite fitting
I’m likely not the first to speak, or may not speak at all
When I speak it’s a decisive choice, a point most necessary for the making
Adding value, adding integrity, moving the needle on what’s being discussed
By the time I’ve made a decision there’s been a hundred thoughts ahead
Give me quiet spaces, time alone to just be
This is how I gather energy
Don’t mistake, then, my reservation for lackluster
I’m introverted and that’s just that
Sincerely, an Introvert
2023 All Rights Reserved
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Hiraeth: “A deep homesickness; an intense form of longing or nostalgia; an unaccountable homesickness for a place you have never visited”.
Hiraeth!
Hiraeth! Something irretrievably lost, beckons
Beckons my soul from deep
Deep within, this unexplainable, unattainable longing
Longing—intense yearning, reminiscing for a place
A place I’ve never been but somehow
Somehow I know
I know it’s home
Home before I was born
Born into this displaced world
World of sickness and suffering and death
Death that’s foreign to my soul
Soul born to live
To live for forever
Forever, now irretrievably lost, so
So deep—it echoes, ricochets off the walls of my soul
My soul yearning for home, calling
Calling deep unto deep, the roar of Your waterfalls sweep
Sweep over me, the depth of my soul opens
Opens up and drinks, for I thirst
I thirst for Your presence Oh …
Oh God, like a deer panting
Panting for streams of waters I thirst
I thirst for You
You, Oh God, You are my home
After-word: How can you be homesick and nostalgic for a place you’ve never been? Because God built a desire for Himself in our souls—our very DNA yearns for Him. And the deep of our need inherently calls unto the deep of His fullness; and vice-a-versa, the deep of His fullness calls unto the deep of our need. Between our emptiness and God’s all-sufficiency there is a great divide and so deep calleth unto deep—our souls cry: hiraeth (Psalm 42:7).
Shabbat Shalom. May you find completeness in the deep mercy of God’s fullness.
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.
2025 All Rights Reserved
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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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National Crown Day commemorates the inaugural signing of the first CROWN Act legislation, which passed in California on July 3, 2019. The CROWN Act stands for “Create a Respectful and Open World for Natural Hair.”
It’s my style It’s the epitome of the expression of self
It’s rooted in my history It’s the connector with my ancestry
It speaks for me It’s the tenet of my collective story
It defines who I am It’s the liberation of my identity
It classifies me It’s the evolving of my destiny
It changes with me It’s the expression of my ideology
It identifies my lineage It’s the preservation of my hair-a-tage
I am my hair My hair is undisputedly, ME
After-word:The Crown Act is a law that prohibits discrimination based on hairstyle and hair texture. Currently 7 states have passed it (including California, New York, New Jersey, Washington). Cincinnati and Montgomery County in Maryland have adopted the law. Nine states are currently considering it (they include Georgia, Kansas, Connecticut, Louisiana). This means it’s legal in most states to discriminate against someone simply because they wear their hair in an Afro, locs, braids, or any other traditionally Black hairstyles.
To act in solidarity against hair discrimination you can use the hashtag #PassTheCrown on social media. And, you can sign the petition—click HERE—to encourage all states to pass the Crown Act and make hair discrimination illegal everywhere.
2022 All rights reserved [Republished]
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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”.
Short answer:To provide a space for my voice to be heard.
Why I write declaration: I will be brave, my voice will not die within me unexpressed and unheard.
This is therefore a brave and intentional space for creative self-expression.
There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you. Maya Angelou
I am motivated to write from observing what I believe God created-by-design like nature, family, love, and relationship.
The title, “createdbyDEEsign”, therefore signifies the co-creation of the works here by my DaddyGod and me.
THE BLOG CONTAINS a collection of poems about love, life, relationships and nature; inspirational reflections in prose, poetry and images; and travelstories where I share less about the places I visit and more about what these places reveal about people, history and identity.
Whether you landed in this space by choice or curiosity, I hope being here inspires you to be brave and to use your voice and your mode of creative expressions to show up fully and influence the spaces you occupy.
I appreciate your choosing to meet me here and to interact with my thoughts, words and creative expressions.
To never miss a post click HERE👈 to subscribe & follow the blog. I love hearing from you, so remember to “like” & comment. For more content start HERE👈
In creative solidarity, Dawn
PLEASE NOTE: Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without the express and written permission from me as this site’s author/owner is strictly prohibited. Permission may be requested through a comment to which I will reply granting or denying permission. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Dawn Minott @ http://www.createdbyDEEsign.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
Yesterday I reposted the poem I wrote in the immediate aftermath of George Floyd’s murder—I Can’t Breathe.
In the harrowing moment when George Floyd was pinned to the ground—where racial oppression and systemic injustice converged in plain sight—a long-ignored truth was undeniable: racial justice is still the unfinished business of our time.
Five years later I reflect on the reality that true justice cannot stand alone.
Racial justice is inseparable from climate justice, reproductive justice, economic justice — because the same systems that exploit the Earth, police Black bodies, and restrict bodily autonomy are rooted in histories of extraction, enslavement, and colonization.
These struggles are not parallel—they are intertwined. And so must be our response.
We need courageous allyship — not performative, but principled. Allyship that listens more than it speaks, that risks comfort for conscience, that shows up when it’s hard.
We also need the radical empathy to call people in (as Professor Loretta Ross guides us to) rather than merely calling them out, to make room for growth, accountability, and transformation. This is not about softening the demand for justice — it’s about deepening the path to get there.
Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion [DEI] efforts matter, but they are only a beginning.
To honor George Floyd — and Breonna Taylor, Trayvon Martin, Sandra Bland, and so many others — we must go further. We must embrace a fundamental rethinking and dismantling of power structures, norms, and narratives that uphold racial and other hierarchies that lead to injustices.
From individual introspection to institutional reform, from boardrooms to classrooms, from policy to protest — the work must be as deep as the wound.
George Floyd should still be alive. So should countless others. Let their deaths not be in vain. Let them be the reason we build a world where justice is not a demand but a lived reality — shared, sustained, and centered in humanity.
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
it showed up on a Wednesday after dark—knocked knocked with determination on the entrance entrance of her mind awakened awakened from stupor gathering gathering her wits about her down down the stairs across the hall meandering meandering through the passage way she she peers through the peep hole of the door door to her mind and she sees—it it—is sinister sinister a force forces its way in uninvited uninvited into the deepest recesses recesses of her mind cobwebbed cobwebbed like a closet blacker blacker than the darkest night night formed from childhood hurts grown grown-up disappointments her mind now mildew mildew-stained of if-only-could-o’-been-not-enough-what-if if her mind now molded-grief from loss loss from betrayal from rejection in those those dusty crevices resides a familiar familiar stranger her thoughts redirecting redirecting her emotions orchestrating there there staring right back at her—it it showed up on a Wednesday after dark—knocked knock knock
Afterword: Darkness can be from issues that you dare not let anyone see or know about, the issues you struggle with alone and silently … it’s time to open the door, let in the light, you’re not alone!
First published 2022 All Rights Reserved GIF powered by Tenor
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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.
Beautiful black skin we age with grace Testament to the strength of melanin flowing through our race A positive stereotype about physical appearance While all the time oppression wearing down mental perseverance
Erasure of oppressions in subtle superficial narrative: “black don’t crack” Historical misconceptions, lay weight on black women’s back Superwoman schema, generations of history—a heavy load Cape-like shield, deflect society’s discriminating code
Obliged to show strength, while hiding tears Suppressing emotions, internalizing fears Vulnerability, misconstrued, like foe to resist Success pursued, while resources run amiss
Juggling roles, carrying burdens not her own Strength for all, unrealistic seeds are sown Grounded in racist history, archetype cast The Mammy’s devotion, dangerous legacies that last
At the intersection of expectations, unrealistic Femininity and strength, a delicate balance characteristic The scales tipped her resilient stride “Strong black woman” trope, stereotypes collide
That’s what they say: “black don’t crack” Racist expectation of strength, attack Express no emotion, hide fear, hold back tear “Superwoman” schema, worn as protective gear
Yeah! That part … we dismantling that
For what won’t crack will surely break Unravel, put a whole race at stake So take your label, and take your trope Being black is … well, yeah, it’s dope
I’m a black woman, see this face Beautiful melanin, skin age with grace I’m Educated. I’m Empowered. I’m Motivated. For my strength, for my resilience—loved? Nah, that’s hated
But that’s what haters do Prejudice won’t let love come through You won’t bring me down though, make me feel blue Your hate is your own poison, I ain’t gonna chew
The “strong black woman”, sexist-racist construction We taking back our power, reset the foundation Resilient women of African descent Across the diaspora, beyond the continent
We come in all shades of choc-lit Like fire, we blaze legit, won’t quit Hear us roar, our beautiful is black, back We define our strength, yeah, that won’t crack
Mirror, mirror—what do you see? No masks, no tales, the truth of me. Full lips, proud nose, skin sun-kissed like earth at dusk. Wearing hair-itage like a crown, a symphony of strength and soul.
Let them look— The questioning gaze. You were never made for their approval. You were made to radiate. To take up space. To shift rooms.
No need to chase what already lives within. No need to mold what was meant to be free. You are the art, the standard, the source. Unapologetically the quintessential you.
“There’s no way your flight will take off in this weather. You’ll be back soon.”
With those parting words from my other-mom on February 16th, I headed to Pearson International Airport, bracing myself against one of Toronto’s worst snowstorms in recent history.
Toronto digs out from biggest winter storm in more than three years Credit: The Weather Network
As the Uber driver cautiously navigated through snow-laden side streets and treacherous highways, I gripped my seatbelt tightly, my foot pressing an imaginary brake, eyes fixed on the road ahead.
All day, I had been refreshing my flight status, fully expecting a cancellation.
At the airport, a complete whiteout swallowed the tarmac; not a single plane was visible. Yet, somehow, our flight remained scheduled. Trusting that the weather forecasting service deemed it safe, I boarded.
After an extended de-icing process, I willed myself to sleep, hoping to escape the turbulence I was certain awaited us.
But no intensity of sleep could have prevented me from this experience.
I woke up as we began our descent into LaGuardia—a route I had flown countless times. But this time it felt different. The plane trembled violently, the wing I had my eyes fixated on was swaying against the wind. My body tensed, pressing into the seat for stability. I could see the landmark buildings and high rises. Then, suddenly, we lurched into a steep climb—our landing aborted. The city lights below faded rapidly as we climbed back into the dense darkness.
The intercom chimed, and the pilot’s voice cut through the uneasy silence:
“Due to heavy winds near the surface, we were unable to land. We will circle and attempt another approach.”
Attempt two: The turbulence was worse. I watched the wing shake as the cityscape came into view, again. And again—another sudden ascent.
Attempt three: Even more violent. Passengers were now visibly ill; flight attendants hurriedly distributed motion sickness bags when we leveled off.
Attempt four: The same gut-wrenching pattern. The aircraft shook violently. My eyes were fixed on the wing. It was flapping as if it might snap.
The fourth attempt felt closest. We approached over water, the familiar low urban approach into LaGuardia. I prayed intensely as water gave way to land. I thought, this is it—we’re landing. But then—another abrupt climb.
A collective gasp of terror and despair filled the cabin. Followed by a deafening silence.
No passengers spoke.
Even the pilots remained silent, undoubtedly giving this relentless battle against the wind their undivided attention.
In the absence of information, I turned to the flight map. It now displayed an estimated arrival time back to Toronto. My heart sank. If conditions here were this treacherous, what awaited us at Pearson?
The intercom chimed again, the pilot’s voice calm but firm:
“We will not attempt a fifth landing due to fuel constraints. We are heading back.”
A wave of confusion spread through the cabin. Passengers exchanged panicked glances. Then, the collective question, I also joined in:
“Heading back, where?”
The intercom beeped once more.
“Back to Toronto.”
The flight map was indeed correct. We are heading back to Toronto!
Minutes passed. Then another chime.
“We are diverting to Hamilton—we do not have enough fuel to reach Toronto.”
Every plane crash story and movie I had ever watched flashed through my mind. This was the moment for faith and self-talk. I whispered reassurances to myself, willing my body to remain calm as I prayed.
We landed in Hamilton with a jarring thud. Passengers, desperate for solid ground, rose from their seats before we even stopped moving. The pilot’s voice returned:
“We will refuel and return to Toronto. Please remain seated.”
Tensions rose. The flight attendants did their best to soothe frayed nerves. The line for the bathrooms stretched the length of the small plane.
My legs up against the seat in this small plane. I can endure this for 1.5 hours, 14 hours was hellish
Our only sustenance? Pretzels and water.
Four hours later, after refueling and de-icing, we were airborne again. By this point, exhaustion had dulled my fear.
At almost 4 a.m., nearly 12 hours after our journey began, we arrived back at Pearson—right where we started. The baggage claim area was packed with hundreds of stranded passengers. My suitcase, like so many others, was nowhere to be found.
Descending the escalator from immigration into the baggage claim area at 3:53 AMlooking in one direction
By the time the ordeal ended—including the scramble to secure another flight—it was nearly 4 p.m. I had been in travel mode for 24 hours for a trip that should have taken 1.5.
Trying to find a ticket online for the day after 😵💫🫣🤯🙄😲The phone number we were given rang with no answer so we stood in a long line to rebook tickets at the airport
No sooner had I settled at home than the news broke:
A Delta Air Lines regional jet had crash-landed at Pearson. The plane flipped upon landing due to strong crosswinds and heavy snow. Miraculously, all passengers survived, though some were injured.
I stared at the TV screen, my body still buzzing from adrenaline.
My straddling that thin line between routine travel and catastrophe had never been closer.
And in that moment I’m reminded of how the convergence of severe weather and aviation underscores that delicate balance between safety and the unpredictability of nature.
Reflecting on my own harrowing experience, I couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude.
I still have a flight ahead of me to get back to my second home. Praying for safe travel has never had such profound meaning.
The Sabbath rises with the setting sun Whispering rest into the restless Calling the hurried world to stillness Never a burden, but a breath— A pause written into creation’s rhythm A covenant carved in time A gift wrapped in intention, divine
Before nations had borders Before laws were chiseled in stone Before toil bent the backs of laborers— Sabbath was God blessed the seventh day Not for one people Not for one tribe But for all who bear His image For all all who crave intimacy with the Divine
It is the hush after the storm It is the table set with bread and wine It is the gathering of hearts around sacred space It is a call to cease, a call to worship, a call to remember— We are not the sum of our labor not the weight of our worries not bound to endless striving
The Sabbath is mercy unfolding Healing hands extending— the hungry fed, the weary restored, the broken made whole It was never meant for idleness— but for goodness, for justice, for love
God, the Author of time wove rest into its fabric A holy refrain between the days A reminder that He is the source, that we are His, that the world turns not by our hands, but by His will
So, let the thirsty drink deeply of its blessings The weary find rest in its embrace The seeking surrender to its sacred peace Come O Sabbath day of rest Be a healing balm for every soul
Shabbat Shalom.
I pray you find the divine gift, the covenant of peace, and the sacred rhythm of Sabbath calling you to restoration, justice, and peace.
In shades of blackness, three black women stood By the ocean’s lapping waves, because they could Their skin adorned in shades of black A tapestry of edenic beauty, flashback
In shades of blackness, colors bright They wear a tapestry of strength and light Their hearts yearning thoughts soaring free To Africa, their homeland, across the sea
The water’s shimmer a bittersweet sight A reminder of forlorn journeys in the night When shackles and chains bore heavy weight Yet like their spirit, resilient colors celebrate
In shades of blackness, a tapestry unfolds Stories of strength and courage retold Thinking of Africa their hearts united A land torn from them yet home ignited
In shades of blackness, they stand so tall A triumphant spirit proudly enthrall Their roots deep-seated a heritage divine In their souls, the echoes of ancient rhyme
With every sunset and every dawn They honor the heritage that’s drawn From a distant land, a sacred place Woven in a collective memory space
In shades of blackness they’ve faced stormy days Challenged bias in countless ways Their voices rose above the strife Championing one for all, a better life
In the shades of blackness they’ve come to find The strength and love of humankind Three black women united—a living art In love for community to heal each heart
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
Beforeword: Like an old house, the past year holds cracks, scars, and beauty—reminding us to embrace resilience, cherish love, and build hope in the year ahead. My word for 2025 is HOPE!
Happy New Year WPers!
The old year stands like an aged house, its frame leaning from the weight of time, its walls etched with the marks of joy and struggle. The floorboards groan with the memory of steps— some hesitant, some bold, each one carving its place in the story.
The roof, patched, imperfect, shielded through storms, even as the rain seeped in through cracks. Shingles rusted, paint stripped away, layers of who you were laid bare, revealing not ruin, but resilience.
Yet, inside, beauty remains. The faint warmth of a fire long extinguished, the soft hum of voices carried by the breeze. Here is where love lingered, where family gathered, where arguments burned hot but always cooled into peace.
The old year reminds you: every crack tells a story, every scar a survival. What wore you down also built you up.
As the new year rises, like a fresh foundation waiting to be laid, remember this: Mend the broken places, but don’t erase their history. Invite the light in, even if it exposes your flaws. Forgive the storms, for they shaped you. Celebrate the strength in what still stands.
Fill this new year with love so fierce it becomes the shelter you need. Open your doors to joy, your windows to hope. And when this year, too, becomes weathered, may it stand proud—like this old house, a testament to how well you lived it.
2025 All Rights Reserved Designed with Canva Image credit: Facebook
‘Twas the days after Christmas, and all through the towns Hearts turning grey, like winter, cast down
Stockings stuffed heavy, now dangling bare All they contained distributed with care
Gifts quickly losing their “must have” splendor Owners eyeing the next “thing” to give ‘em pleasure
Twinkling lights and all their shimmer Turned off, unplugged, leaving spaces dimmer
Trees stripped down, discarded on curbs Christmas packed away, leave undisturbed
‘Till next year’s frenzy, forgetting the reason Is Jesus left behind, till next Christmas season?
2022, republished 2025, All rights reserved
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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
Heart’s rhythm beats steady for love For a love that shields, creating a safe space— Unafraid to be vulnerable, wholly free To exist just as we are, completely
You and I—broken in different ways Fragmented pieces from separate days Yet together, we synchronize in all the right places Restoring like ancient art, our brokenness erases
A love created like poetry in motion Like rivers conjoined, flowing to the ocean A journey crafting healing for you, for me Reconciled in the embrace of love’s harmony
We move by love’s essence, a force so pure— Healing in its touch, a bond that will endure Endure through time, a rhythm unexplained A love that eclipses logic, heart over brain
Give God your today and tomorrows, in Him your plans will last
***
Be encouraged through your struggles
Let go of what you cannot change
New possibilities are abounding
Reset your target-range
***
When you can’t see beyond the pain, and tears your path obscure
Focus on the Almighty’s promises, know His words are sure
Know your steps are ordered, lined-up by His design
Though weapons formed they will not prosper, they’ll be realigned
***
Be encouraged through your losses
Wave sorrow and hurt good-bye
Take pleasure in life’s journey
Through valleys-deep and mountains-high
***
When the enemy comes against you, overwhelming as a flood
Know a banner has been raised, you’re covered by the blood
Lean not on your own understanding, trust God with all your heart
Welcome each new day’s dawning, as your chance to restart
***
Be encouraged through each downfall
The good will outweigh the bad
Count the blessings, not the shortfalls
Then there’ll be no room for sad
2024 [republished] All Rights Reserved
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Sometimes being strong is just surrendering beneath the weight of it all letting go of the armor we’ve worn for too long allowing the tides to carry us unresisting, into the unknown
Strength isn’t in clenched fists but in open hands palms upward, accepting the rain that falls the winds that howl without warning
Surrendering to the fragility of flesh the vulnerability of hearts to whisper yes to the darkness trusting in the stars hidden behind clouds
It’s in the moments of release that we find our authentic selves unencumbered by the need to control to dominate to stand unyielding
Strength is the breath we exhale when the storm presses close the quiet embrace in acceptance of what we cannot change the silent nod in surrender to the mysteries of life
Sometimes being strong is just surrendering to the passing of time to the ebb and flow of emotions to the gentle acceptance of our place in this vast, uncharted thing called “life”
Four Years strong Words I’ve sown Shared what I’ve known Watched each word blossom Garden of thoughts spoken Of stories, of roots, of growth Each post, a bloom from heart to hand Tending this space where passions expand Four years strong, words I’ve sown, shared what I’ve known
Mental health encompasses our emotional, psychological, and social wellness, impacting our thoughts, emotions, behaviors, and influencing our stress management, relationships, and decision-making.
Threads of thought convene
Labyrinth of mind and soul
Inner world whispers
Afterword: A haibun is composed of two stanzas. The first stanza is a prose paragraph, and the second stanza is a haiku.
Beforeword: What/who is your muse, your inspiration? What do you do when muse is in a state of absentia? Well, if you’re a poet , you write a poem about it. So, here’s ode to muse!!
In the silence of your absence, my muse My pen, once ablaze, now stands unused Emotions wither, wander, alight Without your presence, inspiration takes flight
Lines once profound now falter, without a trace In your departure, creativity’s lost embrace No stories bloom, no vivid tales unfurl Without your spark, words twist and swirl
No melody in my heart, no words to find No rhyme or rhythm to soothe my mind No chords to weave through verses align In your absence, my heART voice decline
No structure holds these scattered thoughts in place No hooks to captivate, no bridge to chase No heart to pour into these empty lines Oh, my muse, your absence’s sublime
You, who sparked passion like a goddess divine In your absence, this poet’s soul shall pine For without you, my words, they weep and moan Oh, muse, come back and make my heART your home
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
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Hello Everyone! I haven’t had the time to post over the past few days or to engage with your posts as I’d like to. I had a lot to say but not a lot of time to spare to say it, so bringing back this piece to quickly say: “Time Won” yet AGAIN!
What a week! What a work week
There was no time for the solace I seek Not even a wee bit of time with friends to speak
Deadlines on deadlines piled up to a peak Each day the prospects of blogging grew bleak
It’s like time was playing hide and go sneak I lost every round, it was on a winning streak
Crept up from behind, smacked me dead on the cheek
I won! I won! Like time did speak
You’re the loser again this week
2022 All rights reserved [republished 2024] Photo by Pexels
If I closed my eyes, then opened them and life had passed by I hope my joys exceeded the sorrows My laughs superseded the tears My successes outshined the failures I hope I’d lived a life so full, there’d be no cause for regrets
I loved God with all my heart Followed in His prescribed path I pursued my dreams Got up when I fell And tried and tried again
I won some and I lost some Settled for nothing but the best I was good to my fellowmen I gave fully of myself I was loved and I loved
If I closed my eyes, then opened them and life had passed by I hope I’d lived a life so full, there’d be no cause for regrets
2024 All rights reserved
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Us— Me, you Paradise Basking in love Hearts as one connecting Standstill in moments cherished As setting sun frozen in time Strolling on the edge of paradise Holding hands the way lovers often do
Holding hands the way lovers often do Strolling on the edge of paradise As setting sun frozen in time Standstill in moments cherished Hearts as one connecting Basking in love Paradise Me, you— Us
Afterword: The poetry form, Etheree, consists of 10 lines of 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 syllables.
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: Over a decade ago, I embarked on what I considered my ancestral return journey to Africa, specifically Ghana. The instant my feet touched the Ghanaian soil, I instinctively knew I was home. This poem captures that profound body-to-heart alignment. A similar alignment occurred when I later lived in Nigeria, where I was given the name Omowale, meaning “the child has returned home.”
There is no feeling like this: your body finally arrives in a place your heart already knows.
A distant land, a hidden corner, a whisper in the air, a fragrance remembered from dreams, all suddenly real, palpable.
Feet touch ground, soft and firm, hands reach out, trembling, steady. The air tastes familiar, each breath a reunion with memory.
Eyes meet landscapes once seen through the lens of longing, now sharp, clear, alive with presence.
Your heart’s echo calls, a song long unsung, now resounding in the rhythm of footsteps, of heartbeats.
Here, the soul unwinds its threads, each fiber of your being intertwines with the essence of this longed-for place.
No longer split between longing and being, you stand whole, every part of you here, now, settled into the embrace of arrival.
There is no feeling like this: a homecoming, a soul’s return, where the body follows the heart into the heart’s true domain.
The “Door of No Return” is so named because once Africans passed through it, they never returned. At this door, they were led into boats that transported them to larger ships for the arduous journey to the Americas and a life of slavery.
I first shared this as a poetic collaboration with David from The Skeptics Kaddish, who responded with a Sijoavailable at this link.
To the woman I’m becoming, I commit To shed the past, each dark forgotten bit In every shadow where old fears might hide I rise anew—embracing joy and pride
I vow to leave behind what’s dim and worn To blossom forth, like roses from the thorn No remnants of the past will hold me back For I am bound for light, no shade, no lack
I affirm to let go of what’s untrue To craft my soul in colors bold and new No longer will I wear the cloak of doubt Instead, I’ll dance with faith and sing and shout
From ashes of the old I will arise Like phoenix soaring to the open skies With self-love as my guide my heart will shine Evolving into the woman being transformed by the Divine
To the woman I’m becoming, here’s my vow: I honor who she was, and who she is now In every step—with courage, and cheer I love myself in all stages, holding God’s vision dear
Beforeword: Whether societal pressures, unrealistic standards to past traumas or internalized self-doubt, there are many obstacles that can hinder our ability to truly appreciate and accept ourselves. In this poem, I explore the challenges one can face on the journey to self-acceptance.
What are you doing here Hiding in this place, this space, displaced Behind an image projected, true self protected, disconnected Blinding the world to see
See the true you The you who is tender-hearted, loving without abandon The you who is a little bit nutty The you who sings to every song and dances right along
The you who hurts
The you who laughs at silly jokes Who dreams in colors The you who finds beauty in the mundane Who sees the world through curious eyes
The you who feels deeply, unafraid of emotion Who stumbles but rises, every single time The you who longs for connection, authentic and true Who hides in shadows, yearning to break through
The you who writes stories in the quiet of night Who whispers secrets to the stars The you who dances with abandon under the moonlight Who finds solace in the symphony of rain
What are you doing here Hiding in this place, this space, displaced It’s time to step into the light To let the world see the true you
The you who is a kaleidoscope of contradictions Strong yet vulnerable, lost yet found The you who is beautifully human The you you love in your imperfect perfection
In the quiet of dawn where shadows stretch and fade, I find myself, whole, a canvas painted with imperfections, a symphony of scars and stories.
Eyes that have seen, hands that have held, a heart that has been bruised, yet beats, stronger with each day, in rhythm with the whispering winds.
I am the dawn, rising after the longest night, the first breath of spring, breaking through the frost, a testament to resilience, to the beauty of becoming.
In every line etched by time, in every fold and curve, I see not flaws, but the poetry of existence, a map of journeys taken, a chronicle of survival.
I am enough, in this moment, in this skin, with these dreams and doubts, a constellation of desires, a universe unfolding.
In the mirror’s reflection, I meet my own gaze, and see the truth, clear as the dawning sky— I am worthy, I am whole, I am love.
Beforeword: This week I continue with posts about love. I started with Eros (romantic love), then Agape (unconditional love attributable to God). This week I will focus on Philautia which is the love of oneself.
Self-love can be healthy, promoting self-care and self-respect (or unhealthy, manifesting as narcissism).
This week I’ll focus on healthy self-love characteristic of self-acceptance, self-compassion, and a balanced sense of self-worth. This healthy love of one’s self also comes from God for God IS love, and we love because He first loved us.
I’ve written a lot about self-love. I’ll bring back some oldies and add some newbies for your poetic enjoyment. I hope you’ll enjoy this leg of the love journey!
I don’t know who needs to hear this: but, God has a “SO love” heart for you, A heart that loves far beyond A Significant-Other kind o’ love.
God’s SO— To-such-a-great-extent— LOVE, is a die-for kind o’ love.
In the garden, He prayed, Sweating drops of anguish, Knowing the pain to come, Yet still, He chose the path for you.
And He didn’t just die, God bled for us.
He endured a crown of thorns, Piercing His brow—spilling His blood. He endured hammering nails, Tearing through His skin, breaking His bones—spilling His blood. He endured a piercing sword, Slitting His side—spilling His blood mingled with water, to save
His love, vast as the ocean, Deep as the darkest sea, Poured out in every drop by drop Of crimson sacrifice.
On the cross, He hung, Bearing the weight of the world, Each labored breath, a testament To His boundless, unconditional love.
And when death came, the earth trembled, the skies darkened, The temple veil tore in two, A symbol of the barrier broken, Our return to Him made new.
God’s “SO love” heart, A love that transcends all understanding, A love that ached and died and rose, To bring us home, eternally.
I don’t know who needs to hear this: God bled, God died, To redeem you back to Himself.
For God SO love, you, unconditionally.
Afterword: This poem is drawn from an earlier post in the Shabbat Shalom series: “God’s Art to heART”
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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Love is an action, never simply a feeling, As if we were made of thin air. I know why the caged bird sings, Love as a practice, a discipline,
Costs all we are and will ever be, We grow despite the dirt in our veins, In the flush of love’s light. Love is a combination of care, commitment,
A brave and startling truth, Love heals. Heals and liberates. It’s in the reach of my arms, An act of will, both an intention and an action.
We are each other’s harvest. It’s the fire in my eyes, Love is an infinite grace, In the certainty of our love, we speak,
Bringing the gift that my ancestors gave, Love is an enchanted, Endless mystery.
bell hooks & Maya Angelou, my inspiration
Afterword: Cento is a poem formed from lines of poems written by other poets. Cento is Latin for “patchwork,” and is composed like a collage or quilt, and honors others’ poems while presenting your unique work.
I stooped down to the ground Fingers spread across the soil Skillfully coiling, releasing Gathering piles of earth Heaping it to just the right weight Molding it into just the right shape Into the right depth Into the right height
I rounded the upper part Working meticulously Methodically, mapping out complexity Connecting over 100 billion nerves Building pathways through trillions of connections: The seat of your intelligence The interpreter of your senses The initiator of your movements The controller of your behavior
I created a finely-tuned pump Beating 100,000 times a day To serve your whole structure My crown jewel complete You, the only creation made by My own hands In my own image I declared you: “Very good!”
My declaration thundered Ricocheted off trees and mountains Echoed in vales and under waves Forever carried on the wings of winds:
“You are My masterpiece My living canvas on display My one-of-a-kind Unique work of heART I am devoted to My artistry in you Simply because I love you Unconditionally”
Forever yours, God!
Afterword: This poem is generated from a previous post in the Shabbat Shalom series, “You’re A Masterpiece”.
if I took off the mask fully unveiled me opened up my heart revealed the real me the me no one else sees could You really love me? love me just as I am unconditionally?
if I let go of the hurt frailty from the brokenness within trusted you with all of me loosened my grasp letting go and letting you would You really love me? love me just as I am unconditionally?
i’m scared, afraid, unsure but I want no more of this pain if I surrendered gave up what sustained me turned my heart over to You could You really accept me? accept me just as I am unconditionally?
the fear of being rejected that You too would refuse me constrained me kept me from receiving Your love now that I’m reaching for Your embrace would You really accept me? accept me just as I am unconditionally?
now I know how it feels when You console me like being cradled against Your heart each heartbeat reverberates— “I love you, you’re my girl” it feels like strong yet gentle arms encircling all my doubts and fears are erasing confident am I in knowing I am loved by You unconditionally
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Afterword: an Epistolary poem is written in the form of a letter.
Beforeword: For last month’s posts I focused on Eros/romantic/erotic love mostly because June is that kind o’ love month. But because I’m so in love with love I have a lot more to say about other forms of love.The love saga continues.
This week I will focus on Agape—the love that is unconditional, sacrificial and enduring.
The Bible says this form of love is:
… patient, …kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. [This] love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. [This] love never fails.
Agape is selfless, transcending circumstances and personal gain. It is considered the highest form of love characteristic by compassion, empathy, and a willingness to sacrifice for the well-being of others. This is the best that human language can do to describe God, for God is Love. Love, in all its forms, emanates from God.
This is my poetic rendition:
Love Unconditionally
Human language falters stumbling at the edge of a love so vast beyond description
God SO loved— love in its purest form a force so powerful it demanded action not mere utterance
God gave not just anything but everything the essence of self poured out, in ultimate sacrifice
Love that bends time spanning the breadth of existence unconditional immeasurable
Under the banner of this love we stand humbled by the gift immeasurable grace the forever gift, God’s love unconditional
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.
Last year, my hydrangeas didn’t bloom. That was disheartening for a new gardener—wondering what I did or didn’t do. I shared this with you and received suggestions on what to do differently. I followed your advice and made the necessary changes.
As spring began unfolding this year, I watched the hydrangeas like a hawk. When the first flower heads appeared, relief washed over me—affirmation that my attention to their care at the start of the season was worthwhile.
And now, for your viewing pleasure, here are the first set of hydrangeas that skipped blooming last season. Enjoy!
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Beforeword: Rio Nuevo lends its name to the small village on Jamaica’s north coastline where the river enters the sea. This idyllic place was the historical ground for the largest battle which shifted Jamaica from Spanish to English control in 1658 during the horrid days of colonial rule. This poem is to the beauty of Rio Nuevo’s continuous flow into the sea like Jamaica’s continuous quest to fully shed colonial legacy.
Rio Nuevo where river and sea entwine in liquid whispers a lullaby sung cascade down trickles of longing from ancient hills in the quiet a liquid journey the river dreams endless yearning for the sea the current’s ebb and flow rhythmic dreams set sail finding solace in sea’s embrace
Rio Nuevo, where destinies lie in 1658, battles fought and won the English, the Spanish did defy Jamaica captured like pawn in colonial quest a hamlet of heritage, memories set sail today a village, quiet and quaint
Rio Nuevo, where the river dreams of the vast, open sea a liquid reverie each ripple tells a tale a journey traced in water’s embrace whispers to the waves of the vast, open sea from source to mouth, a liquid symphony played in nature’s stream dreams take flight the river yearns for the sea’s embrace river and sea, a gentle collide
Afterword: . Linking history to water’s ebb and flow and the reminder of river’s yearning to give herself to the sea as a kind of letting go—that we humans must also do. A letting go of painful past, not so as to forget but so that it lives on in us free of hate or negativity like the freedom in the vast open sea.
A collection of writing by Dominic Riccitello — intimate conversations, personal essays, and poetic reflections on relationships, loss, and self-discovery.
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