Tag: pbs

Our Deepest Fear

…is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be?

Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightening about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

-Marianne Williamson, A Return to Love

This is just an excerpt of the entire quote and its so deep to me. It’s not our failures or inabilities that stop us from going that extra mile. For many of us, its what we can do, our strengths, our gifts, and that light deep down inside of us that frighten us most.

Throwback Thursday Jam – For You, Kenny Latimore

“Music was my refuge. I could crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness.” – Maya Angelou

Music is powerful energy. I cannot remember growing up without holding on to some kind of tune. Lyrically swinging from one place to the next, music always moves me. When I’m music I am ocean. I am sea. I am one racing body of water. I am tucked between the words and feeling every psalm with my soul.

Enjoy this throwback by Kenny Latimore, “For You”.

Give Me Some Space

I’m afraid this blog is transforming into something I do not want it to be. That there’s a cloud here that visits every time I publish a book. It lingers over the tops of our heads like an annoying conversation that will not end. How did we get here? I don’t want to write about writing today. Don’t want to hear explanations of grammatical correctness, and book cover design. I don’t want to hear anything about Self-Publishing and ISBN Numbers. And yet, here I am, talking about writing! Why does this cloud of a niche insist on trying to find its way to this blog? I’ve always enjoyed the variety of subject matter here and Dear Writing, I love you, but I cannot let you sneak up on us like this. We need some space. Yes, you are starting to get on my nerves. I don’t want to hear about books and why I should be reading them. I want to hear about life and why I should be living it. I want to talk more about what’s going on inside these walls called the four corners of the Earth. Want to talk about how well my husband’s surgery went and how much I’m enjoying his break from the job. Want to whisper sweet poetic somethings into this post just because I feel like it. No prompts. No tips. Just poetic somethings. Want to sit back and tell you why Lean on Me is the best movie ever and I challenge anyone to tell me I’m wrong. Want to explain why I’m probably wrong. Dear Writing, let me laugh my way into this post without thoughts of you. Time for us to take a break. Give me some space.

Dear Chandelier,

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Some of us are just too close to the ground to see what the sky looks like and yet you, in your own way, have become the hanging crystal of inspiration. You stand unaffected among grand halls and ballrooms; of corporate offices and living rooms. I watch at the coming and going of guests. Some of them important, some not. They wrap themselves in fruitless conversation and rest their bottoms in chairs that hug the table beneath you. They shout with laughter and hold their noses in the air and yet they live on the ground. They have to look up to you and gasp in awe. So modest and rooted is this simple fixture in a room. I watch as your radiance pulls their mouths to the floor. Watch your occasional swing shift their eyes; watch your gracefulness stop their breaths. Softly and delicately, your crystals spark reflection like the conviction of a mirror, in which we are all forced to see ourselves. We try to move to a less luminous part of the room, but we are powerless to scorch your light. Voices rise to distract from your daintiness. The people scream and yell, come and go, but they are incapable of stealing your glory, let alone catch its shadow bouncing off the walls and chipping at the faces of guests. It is you oh Chandelier. You who remains steadfast and immovable, yet moving. Silent, and yet you sing. Fragile, and yet strong. Beautiful, and yet delicate. Modest, and yet shinning.

She was not a poet

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No one told her she was supposed to taste the lyrics first
That her brain was supposed to decipher the intent of melody
before it escaped her mouth
That her taste buds were supposed to burst forth
before she spit them out
She had no aspiration that we should admire
Never attended a poet’s university
Or danced between the poetic techniques they said would enhance the skill
Did not feel the irony of brilliantly untalented brush upon her skin
Did not notice the personification walk away with simile and metaphor
Did not know what all these terms were for
For
She was not
A
Poet.
Did not understand Dickinson’s Train
Why it lapped the miles,
And licked the valleys up,
And stopped to feed itself at tanks
Or why frost stood still and stopped the sound of feet
No one warned her that imagination was supposed to pass on information
about the sweet, sour, salty and bitter substances of alliterations
and internal rhyme schemes
but she fell head first in love with the way the words moved around in her mouth
with the way her emotions tickled against the backdrop of her heart
with the filled something that racked against the torn cells of her tongue
with the calm that sprayed peace into the air
with the poetry that took her there
so she sang
sang poetry with all of the ignorance stomping around in her stomach
but she sang
did not care about its government name
did not worry about its image
did not care that her words were not professional enough
for she
was not
a
poet…