Whatever is going on now isn’t the end of your story or even the whole thing. It’s just a piece of the pie, a corner of your world that you’re building, creating.
Every story about your experiences, written, thought, or spoken should end with “More later….”
This memory flooded into my mind this morning in the shower seemingly out of nowhere. It must have laid dormant somewhere waiting for the right thought to release it.
I was in a place where I felt lost and alone, overflowing with my story that there was no one that understood me and no one near that I could comprehend — a place where those around me would see me fail before they would reach out or lend a hand — I walked away from all of them, every single one, ensuring that except for my young boys, I physically was actually alone… well, were it not for those neighbors.
Though her face and features have dimmed from my mind, and even her voice, I still remember these things about Ms. Patsy: her hands, the texture of her hair and the few white spots in it, her living room, and above all, the extreme kindness. That will live on in me forever. And when I close my eyes and transport myself, I remember vividly the warmth of her apartment below mine, and the smell of red beans and rice and cornbread from a particular night. I don’t believe I have ever had a pot of red beans and rice as good as the ones from that night.
Somewhere, I think I still have a borrowed Tom Clancy or John Grisham novel of hers with her name written in it. I borrowed it and never gave it back. I am disturbed that I cannot locate it. Right now, I cannot even remember her last name, but I feel compelled to find that book so that I can see it In her own handwriting on the inside front cover. I feel like I owe her at least that — to see her full name, run my fingers across it, and to say it out loud. If I find it, I will update!
The marvelous universe delivered us both to the same desert location. She was our new downstairs neighbor, and at the time I had no inkling how much I would need her later on. She was much older than I, older than my mother even at that time, in her early 70’s if I recall. I was somewhere around 27. She became a surrogate, a sort of mother/grandmother figure in the quadruplex inside of the apartment complex where I and other young parents lived. I was drawn to her. She was hip, modern, funny, brilliant, and a master at acceptance. We bonded over a love for Earl Klug, the Blues, a love of reading, and memories of the Bay Area in California where I had lived and from where she had recently retired and moved. Little did I know that at some later date she would be the one who may have saved our lives, mine at least, and for sure saved my heart and soul one evening.
We talked about so many delicious topics, and she was one of the first Black women that talked openly with me about race and social justice, and about her son who was living with AIDS. At that time there was a lot of stigma around it and it was pretty much a death sentence. I think she knew that I was open and wanting to learn about the world around me, shoes that I would never (could never) walk in, and that it would expand my perspective. She took a liking to my kids who are biracial, and I think felt it a compelling and important reason to share some of the things with me that she did. It seemed like she had lived many lives, and now that I am closer to her age at that time, I understand.
We would sit out on the stoop with neighbors between all of our apartments and chat for hours about all kinds of things. Our kids would run around out front in the little play area or sit in one of our living rooms watching TV and playing games. I found her fascinating, powerful, brave, funny, and loving. She was as outgoing as she was outspoken. I admired that.
When Ms. Patsy first came to us, I was married with two young boys, not realizing there was a series of heavy, life-altering events ahead. Not long after she moved in, I became pregnant with my third child, and shortly after he was born my husband and I separated. The boys and I stayed at the apartment.
At the time of the separation, I was a member of a religious organization that was extremely rigid and stifling. I received a lot of rhetoric for separating from my husband, and I was very unhappy at treatment that not only I was receiving from some of the women in my congregation, but also how they were treating another young sister after a family tragedy.
I was unemployed and chose to go to allied health school to make myself more marketable for employment. I needed a way to sustain my family. When I received strong criticism from the elders in the congregation and was ostracized and harrassed by some of the other wives for doing so, I felt it was just too much more to bear and I walked away from my entire community. To this day, I can’t imagine how they expected me to care for my family without finding a way to obtain a decent job. Except for my boys, I had absolutely no family near me, and no friends outside of the congregation… well, were it not for those neighbors.
We were poor — not broke, poor. I went from being a housewife and stay-at-home mother, and an active member of a full congregation, to a student and single mother of three boys (one of whom was an infant) without any friends or family around in the same month. We had no telephone. There were no cell phones in that day, no internet or email. In order to call my mother, I had to walk to another building in the apartment complex and call her collect on a payphone. I had no transportation. I had no money of my own. I had a neighbor drive the boys and me to the Department of Economic Security (DES) so that I could apply for food stamps and “welfare.” I was terrified, depressed, bewildered and overwhelmed, but determined.
My neighbors, and especially Ms. Patsy, leaned into me. It was EVERYTHING. They were encouraging, kept me company, and would even help me with the boys once in a while so that I could study for tests or finish homework.
In the morning, I would walk with all of the kids to take my oldest son to school about a half mile down the street. Some mornings, their father would pick up the younger two and take them to daycare a few miles away. Sometimes, I had to walk them. From there, I would go to school which was another half mile from our apartment in the opposite direction from my oldest son’s school. It was a lot of walking. But I was determined to finish this 9-month program that so many people worked hard to convince me was a ridiculous endeavor. At the end of my school day, I would walk back the mile to my oldest son’s school, and from there we would walk another two or three miles to the other side of the freeway to pick up his younger brothers from daycare and go home.
One morning in February 1993, our electricity was turned off for nonpayment. It felt like another hit, but I knew I had to get us to school so I put it out of my mind and told myself I would deal with it later that day. I left school a little bit early that day hoping to get a ride from a friend when I got home later to go pay the bill. It began to rain. I wasn’t expecting it and I was not properly prepared. It was very cold, and I had on my nursing whites, which consisted of white starched and creased pants and a white blouse, as well as my white nursing shoes and knee-highs, and a white lab coat. This is what was mandatory for us to wear to school back in that day. Thankfully, I had a decent winter coat left over from my days of living in California. So I hurried down the street to my son’s school, dragging a folded up umbrella stroller as fast as I could. It wasn’t raining super hard at this time, but it was cold and I was definitely getting wet. I picked up my son and we went on our way. He thankfully had a winter jacket that my mother had purchased for him, and put his hood on.
As we began our walk, it was still raining, mostly drizzling. By the time we had reached the daycare to pick up the two younger ones, it was pouring and we were pretty soaked. I bundled up my 4-year-old as best I could, and put my infant in the umbrella stroller. He had on a little sweater and sweatpants and had a blanket. As we began rushing as fast as we could towing a 4-year-old and pushing an infant, thunder and lightning began and it was raining so hard that I could barely see. When we left the daycare, I had draped my coat over my infant son to keep him warm and dry, but it was raining so hard that we were all wet. My lab coat and pants felt like a drape of ice. It was so cold. It was just SO cold! All I could think of was how cold I was, and how miserable this must be for all my babies. At one point, all four of us were crying. But we just kept walking. I don’t know what other choice we had! I was a mess. I could feel the mascara running into my eyes, and I was consumed with grief and fear.
It all just felt like too much that day. I had another six or seven months to go in school to finish my certification, and another month or more of cold weather. I didn’t feel like I could do it. I didn’t want to do it. I wanted to quit. I thought about dying. But even that felt like too much to think about, and like a betrayal to my kids, to my mom. I felt like I was failing and letting my kids and myself down. I was lonely. I was tired. I couldn’t see for the life of me how I was going to make this work.
I was just so damned cold, frozen to my core, it felt.
By the time we reached our apartment complex, my face, hands, legs and feet were numb and burning with the cold, and I knew it must be the same for the boys. Our clothes and shoes were completely soaked through. I was scared to death that my kids would get sick and I wouldn’t be able to afford to take them to the doctor or have to miss school.
As we approached our building, all I could think about was laying down and just sleeping forever. And then I remembered… the power was off! This meant that I had no heat and no way to cook what little food we had.
THIS
WAS
ALL
JUST
TOO
MUCH.
I had to walk past Ms. Patsy’s patio to get to the stairs to my apartment above. At the realization of the power and food situation, I burst into a wail. The kids were bawling. At that moment, Ms. Patsy came out onto her patio, hands to her mouth when she saw us. I just looked at her and could not stop crying. I was probably blubbering unintelligibly.
She instructed us to immediately come into her apartment. I didn’t even try to resist. We walked into her foyer, all of us dripping and frozen. She dumped towels over us, and went into her bedroom and retrieved a pair of sweatpants and large t-shirt and some socks. She handed them to me and told me to go into the bathroom and change. She said she would take care of the boys. I barely even recall what she put on them — I think it was just some T-shirts. I remember how relieved I was that they were dry and warm because of her. It was so warm in there, and it smelled so good! Something on the stove just smelled like love, warmth, and safety. And did I mention how deliciously warm it was in there?
Once dry, she sat me down on her couch and just hugged me and hugged me, ensuring me that this would be the worst of it all, and that everything was going to be alright. I wept and sobbed, and she just let me. She told me that she had grown worried about us when it started raining, and she had gotten in her car to come and get me from school, not knowing that I had left a little early that day. She didn’t know which way the daycare was and had driven around just guessing, knowing that it was somewhere on the other side of the freeway.
She had a small stackable washer and dryer unit in her apartment, and had thrown our clothes in the dryer. I sat there and told her how hard it had been, all the feelings and fears I had, about the power being turned off, about the woman at DES treating me so poorly once she eyeballed my biracial children, about leaving a whole community behind, about missing my mother, and she never once told me I was wrong or tried to convince me that there was something I needed to change or do. She just listened and let me hang out in my misery for a bit. She continued to listen until I had squeezed it all out of me.
She really took care of us that evening. She invited and insisted that we stay for dinner. She had made a big pot of red beans and rice and some cornbread. She had intended on bringing it up to us when we got home that day, but of course invited us to stay and eat with her. I have to tell you again — that was probably the very best pot of red beans and rice ever, and probably because it was made and served with unconditional love.
We were there for probably about three hours while I finished crying, while we ate and talked some more, and while we waited for our clothes to dry. She offered for us to stay the night there, but I was really wanting to get into my own space, and didn’t want to be any more of a burden to her. She told me she would bring up some red beans and rice leftovers the next day, and sent me upstairs with flashlights and $60 to pay for the light bill the next day, and an offer of a ride to get there. The boys and I all slept together in one bed that night under a pile of blankets with our bones and soles thoroughly warmed.
She saved us. She loved on us. Everything changed after that night. Well, maybe not everything, but something in my head clicked and felt better. It was a dark night of the soul for me, and she was the beacon that was right where and when we needed one.
I live with regret that I didn’t thank her thoroughly or say a proper goodbye when we left that apartment complex many months later — a decent farewell befit of such a gem. I only saw her once more after that when I returned to the complex to return a cradle that I had borrowed from a neighbor. I was in such a hurry all the time, living in this massive web of survival chaos and anxiety. I pray that from somewhere on the other side of the veil she knows the deep gratitude I have.
This memoir is the flowers and the grateful and loving words I wish I would have given her back then, our dear Ms. Patsy.
Love,
Debora
P.S. I finished school that August with a 3.90 gpa. I got my certification and completed an externship. I got a job. I bought a car. I missed my mother and moved back to my hometown 10 years later. My kids grew up. I have three grandchilden, three dogs, one cat, and one husband.
Loyalty can be a positive or a negative quality. It’s always worth taking a closer look when someone claims that attribute.
Loyalty is only as good as the person, group, or cause for which the loyalty is given.
Sometimes it’s completely worthy, but it can also be toxic.
Loyalty to an abusive individual because they haven’t done anything to you or because you’re family… TOXIC. You’re complicit in the perpetuation of abuse.
Loyalty to someone who did you that big favor but is actively destructive with others… TOXIC. Plato said: Silence is consent.
Examine the loyalty. Examine YOUR loyalty.
You are up to the challenge. You have it in you to take the charge. Someone will receive a blessing because of you. You are making a difference just by showing up. You have just the right story for this moment. There is no one but you for this space.
🌠 YOU are THE right person for this time. 🎇
We will claim to have outgrown something, someone, a situation, when really what has happened is that we are not able to grow into it or unwilling to do so.
Maybe it’s just two sides of the same coin.
Maybe it doesn’t matter which one it is. Maybe what’s important is how we handle it. But what if the underlying issue is that we often dig into things but we have a habit of being onto the next brighter, bigger, shinier thing before we have completed the one we are immersed in.
I think the real problem is when we pretend we want to continue with something and we stand by while it crumbles and refuse to admit that we just aren’t into it anymore, that maybe it just isn’t working or feeding us as well as it used to. Sometimes you just have to pick up the pieces that still feel right and move them somewhere else, risking what it might look like to others, but avoiding further damage or harm.
Sometimes… no, always, being honest, not assuming that you are fooling everyone who is on the boat with you, is the best way.
But I still don’t know which side of the coin this is….
Personally, I find it difficult to activate that mantra when I am dealing with people who think it’s optional that people different from them, or those they don’t dare to understand, should be allowed to live their lives the same as the “rest of us” (OMG, that’s such a HUGE othering phrase!). I mean, what WOULD Jesus do with the folks that think it is their right to abuse, oppress, or ridicule someone else? Shouldn’t they be punished in some way? But then, I don’t believe in a God that punishes. So I find myself repeatedly examining what IS mine to do about people who stick to their guns (figuratively and literally) when it comes to their prejudices knowing that the backbone of prejudice is generally a lack of knowledge or experience.
Maybe there’s nothing for me to do… maybe there’s nothing that can be done. Maybe doing nothing and pretending this doesn’t happen is the thing to do. Right? It doesn’t affect me, so I’m just going to be positive, not talk about the hard things, and it will eventually, magically fix itself. I mean, I definitely don’t want to rock the boat or make the bigots and crazy Uncle __________ uncomfortable!
Buuuuut… WWJD?
Sidebar: In the parable of the Good Samaritan as a story-lesson told by Jesus as told by Luke who was taught by Paul in answer to the question, “Who is my neighbor,” this Good Samaritan stopped and helped a stripped and beaten Jewish guy even though back in the day these two groups hated each other. No one stopped to help him — not even another Jew! They didn’t want to get involved. But this Samaritan could have passed him by because he was “different” and they didn’t agree theologically, politically or socially speaking. And yet, he showed mercy. The Samaritan didn’t stop and ask him about his sexual orientation, or if he had a criminal past, didn’t care if he had piercings, didn’t know if he had a home or not, knew nothing of the presence of any addictions, didn’t ask if he was identified as a female at birth, had no clue if he had a side gig dressing in women’s clothing and partying like it’s 1999… he only moved on “love (the greatest commandment or law of all) thy neighbor.” WWJD? That.
It’s not hard to guess how Jesus would have treated trans folks, brown, black, or white folks (In case you missed the geography and ancestry lessons, Jesus wasn’t white.), gay and queer folks, drag queens, people without homes, immigrants (especially the brown ones, because lordy y’all are so welcoming to immigrants from European and other Caucasian-hegemonized countries — but I digress….), prisoners, addicts, etc. I don’t think he would have found them to be of such little value at all. I also don’t believe he would have felt his existence threatened in any way by any of them, nor do I believe that he would have felt that his own existence was somehow subtracted from or made less-than by their existence, AND I don’t believe he would have felt he was in any way superior to any of them. (Taking a breath….) YES, all that can exist in the same space at the same time… much like people. <side-eye>
In fact, I believe Jesus was not only a healer, a Rabbi (hopefully if you’re a follower, this is not news to you), and prophet, but a social worker and an activist as well. And dare I say it? A socialist. <gasp> But somehow so many of us hide behind fair-skinned, blue-eyed, light brown-haired Jesus when we want to protect our prejudiced, bigoted behaviors. I wonder what Jesus would have said about that. Some of us even go to churches and other places of worship that encourage that behavior which is not like what Jesus taught at all.
In my best Jesus voice (because I do have one in my head): Oh, never mind. I’m saving that for another post. You’ll have to wait a minute.
From the very beginning of Jesus, and even the beginning of the thought of Jesus, we have resisted changing our thoughts and mindset while claiming to be a follower, a student, a worshipper. We have continually tried so hard to make Jesus wrong without saying that he was wrong out loud. We have manipulated scriptures since even before Jesus; we seek out places of worship and groups that identify and align with our behaviors that are based outside of love, and then turn around and call ourselves “saved,” as if that elevates us somehow. Declaring it doesn’t make it so, but daily behavior and thinking does — or doesn’t. Choices, right?
I mostly think we just need to be saved from ourselves. It’s not like we don’t have the instructions. We have them, but we’re satisfied letting someone else tell us what they say. And I still don’t know what is mine to do about people who can’t figure out how hypocritical they are as Christians who think they can justify limiting someone else’s existence. WWJD? I’m honestly not sure, but I’ll keep asking.
Jesus wasn’t sent here to make you comfortable and complacent. You can get your ears tickled at home. Go to church to stretch your mind and heart. If you’re in a church where your pastor won’t speak on the harsh things about humanity (or inhumanity) as well as the ones that make you feel good, tell me, who is up in there actually following Jesus then? Jesus called out ALL the nonsense! Put your grown person pants on and stop listening to the Church of Mainstream Media and Politicians who politicize pain. We’re here to expose and learn from the pain, not run from it.
I have been watching this Gerbera Daisy grow for at least a couple of weeks now. I first noticed it opening up on December 26th, and today is January 16th. This probably doesn’t seem unusual, except that we are in the dead of winter. All of my Gerberas die out in the winter and most of them come back in the spring if I have some kind of cover for them, or they are covered somewhat and protected by another plant nearby. This year, I didn’t cover it at all. I just ran out of time, and then figured whatever survived this winter in the garden was icing on the cake of life!
For context, so far this particular flower has survived freezing temperatures, hail, winds above gale force, and the most ridiculous deluge of downpours for days on end. It also normally blooms a red-orange, but is showing up yellow at this time.
For context about myself, I love gardening. It is one of my very most favorite things to do. When I am in the dirt so to speak, I have some of the most profound personal discoveries and gain insight for solving all of the world’s ills. I am at home in the garden and yard, and it is a balm for my soul and mind. It turns my often-chaotic thoughts into a peace garden. It transforms my rushing river of emotions and stinky thinking into a constructive and placid pond in a meadow. I gain so much calm and peace and clarity in the fog and storms of life when I spend time in nature. So, I’ve been learning from this beauty.
We usually think of daisies as being delicate. But this one is showing us something different. This one is showing us that there is strength in what appears to be delicate, and apparently longevity as well! Below are 35 of the many thoughts that have come up as I have observed this flower for the last few weeks.
What would you add to this list?
I was thinking about someone dear that passed away recently. I found myself gravitating to his Facebook page, and there were many comments about how we have “lost” him. Later, I was looking at gifts for someone, and a particular item could be given as a gift of remembrance of someone special who had passed away. The reviews were typically, “When we lost our brother…,” and “When I lost my husband…,” or “My neighbor lost her dog last week…,” which really could have been confusing in another context about what really happened.
Saying “I lost ___________,” when referring to someone who died always seemed peculiar to me, though I totally get how it’s more comfortable than saying “died” or “dead.” It just seems less final than the latter. Even when we are afraid someone might perish in the future, we sometimes say, “If I lose you…,” or “The thought of losing you….” “Lost” feels less permanent, a little less real, and lands a bit softer, too.
For me “lost” always sounded in my brain like, “I disappeared my grandmother,” like an action item carried out by me, vs. descriptive about the person who is now gone and where they might have last been seen or been placed. It’s a hard one for me to say because that’s what I hear when I say it, and I know I didn’t actually misplace someone, or have anything to do with where they went. But of course I use the phrase out of respect for others’ ears and hearts.
Personally, I take little solace in someone going to Heaven and still being labeled as “lost.” If there is really a literal place that is Heaven, then they most certainly are not lost, and are definitely, literally in a better place. And if there is no literal Heaven, they’re just gone, not lost. Hopefully they are not wandering around looking for a gas station where they can ask for directions or trying to get better service to view an online map. I picture a man walking in circles, refusing to ask for directions, and ending up back on Earth in another dimension. (Welcome to my brain.)
I have to agree that when someone we love dies, it sure does feel like a loss, a void, having something ripped away without our consent. I think if I were to say it exactly how it feels for me, it would be more like, “I feel lost without ___________.” The loss is definitely more on my end rather than the person or pet who died having gone somewhere where we now can’t find them, or forgot where we last left them.
When someone dies and I say that I lost them, it sounds like there is hope that I will find them again, recover the relationship somehow at some point. Some philosophies say that I might, but even with that I am not guaranteed. What this all means to me, really-really, is that I am in fact the one who feels lost. I am the one who is now wandering through the valley of grief and uncertainty, juggling life between the facts, the must-do’s of day to day life, and calling it whatever it needs to be called in order to tolerate it and accept the void of a missing piece never to be returned to where I think it belongs, to where I want them the most.
I often wonder if we truly came to realize how much our apathy, our overt and covert racism, homophobia, genderism (or pick an ism/phobia) hurts us on a personal level — would we finally do something about it? If we found out it was making us sick, if we felt it in our own lives, on our own bodies, in our own homes, in our own minds, would we finally be compelled to do something? Or would we still just be stuck on “right” to save face and suffer silently, or blame it on “them?” I think we put a lot of energy into saving face, and a lot of running from the truth… or even mangling it, covering it up. We think, “I’m not the one; surely it’s not me,” and even get mad when confronted.
We put a LOT of energy into this, and yet we think we remain unaffected by the covering up, the pretending, the avoidance to look at ourselves squarely and honestly. We put on a mask when we go about our daily business outside of the home, but when we return the mask is put away and we discuss all about “those people,” and we have strong opinions on people we can’t even see honestly. We pretend (or do we really believe this) that if we don’t talk about it, refuse to give it attention, that we somehow are not contributing to the racism, the homophobia, Islamic hatred, etc. We tell ourselves and others that we just won’t participate in the discussions because that would be contributing to the problem. But…
WHEN HAS IGNORING SOMETHING EVER MADE IT BETTER?
If you let it, this might set you free from the invisible box you have created for yourself and probably the children you might be influencing…. Do you know that you don’t even have to understand how or why people are who they are to just let them live, and even to love them? And here’s the REAL personal freedom…. Once you are able to embrace that, it’s no effort to embrace them just as they are. That’s where love lives, and that’s what it looks like.
We like to say that we love all people, don’t we? It sounds right, and feels good to say — even seems logical. For added theatrics or emphasis, we even wave our hand when we say it as if we’re brushing off how ridiculous it is to even have to say it out loud.
I’m sure you’re onto me by now, and may have already begun making excuses before you reached the end of the list or stopped reading the list altogether. Hopefully none of that’s true and you get the point. But if it is true, I hope you ask yourself why that is, and I hope you go even further and begin really thinking about this. One thing that can happen is that you will start showing up as the person you’ve been saying you are. You remember — the one that loves all people!
I get it. (I don’t, actually, but I do know something about this personally.) You’re secretly afraid of what other people in your circles might think. You don’t want to admit it, but it’s true. You’re afraid of what you will lose, and this is a driving force for so many of us that causes us sometimes to double down on the excuses, and why so many of us turn to apathy, ignoring, or defending all the “good people on both sides.” We are more afraid of how we might look, what we might lose, or even who we might have to talk to in a new way.
Freedom. That’s what you get. You get freedom from the excuses, freedom from toxic ideas and people. You get new vision, and you get to do the work of self-repair, self-reflection, and self-love instead of the arduous work of covering up, the laziness of apathy and tolerating, and the sweat-work of defending terrible people, systems and ideations. You get freedom from the pain of giving and being an assist to systems that hurt other people. You will lose some; you will. And then you will be free from people who won’t operate on a higher level of humanity.
Operating from this is also work, but it isn’t the kind that hurts us on a soul level or the level of hurting humanity. In fact, it’s actually restorative on a cellular level. And the best part of all… you will be on your way to telling the truth when you say, “I LOVE ALL PEOPLE.”
Debora Lynn: 