I have learned not to neglect the physical
because I live on the physical.
How can I ignore the earth when I was born from it?
Not the first womb.
Not the first place my human self called home.
And I have learned not to neglect the spiritual
because it is higher than the physical.
It will help me to transcend the works of my flesh.
Both important.
Both necessary.
Neither forsaken.
Oh nothing, just getting back to my poetry.
Sometimes, I look at my people and wonder, is there anything we hold sacred?
If not our bodies, then what?
If not our history, then what?
If not our truths, then what?
If not our art, then what?
If not our relationships, then what?
If not the words we speak, then what?
To what do we hold sacred?
That is the question.
I was twenty-two years old when I loc’d my hair. It is the only other time it has been this short (or a little shorter than this).
As a spiritual-minded person, I do not think of hair as just hair. I see it also as energy. (I believe the keratin protein in hair contains crystalline structures that act as energy amplifiers and antennas.) Thus, as the years have gone by, a lot of energy has been built into my locs. Some of it good, some of it not so good.
While there is the power of all I’ve accomplished, there is also the energy of losing loved ones. The energy of miscarriages. The energy of depression and sadness. As the years passed, my hair became more burdensome. They are thick and healthy but heavy. I saw this as much more than the weight of hair, but the weight of all I was still carrying after thirteen years of growth.
While I don’t think I will ever cut my locs off completely (I love my hair!), the symbolism of my cut is a cutting off of toxic emotions stored in my hair over the years and a separation from the past. It is a physical, mental, and spiritual cleansing through the release of the old and embracing the new. As I let go of those old branches, I await the beauty of the new ones to come in.
Just as pruning trees helps to remove portions that have a disease, fungi, and other types of decay, my trim represents the removal of those parts of my hair that can spread to the other “branches” and prevent them from healthier growth. It helps expose my scalp to more sunlight, air circulation makes it easier to wash and sleep, and it does not hurt my neck and back.
I feel this all on both a physical and spiritual level.
I love the overall freedom this new look gives me. I literally felt a weight lift when these heavy locs hit the floor.
This year, I intend to live more freely. I do not want to rush to do anything, conform to anyone’s ideas, or allow myself to be limited in any way. I am here for it all. This haircut is a symbol of this freedom.
I am excited about this new beginning.
PS. Exciting new update on the Black History book coming!!
My mom and aunts never forced us to go to church. Except for that one year we moved from the projects to a new apartment. My aunt seemed hell-bent on giving us the American dream. I suppose after the trauma of growing up in Robert Taylor, if she couldn’t give it to us in total, she’d try to provide us with the next best thing. To her, that meant bump beds, new clothes, our own rooms, going to church every Sunday, and choir rehearsal every Thursday like all the other “good Christian folk.”
We hated it.
The first time I got baptized, the church came to scoop the project kids up in these school buses, took us to some building, separated the girls from the boys, and made us undress and put on long, white t-shirts with no underwear.
Right.
So when the new church tried to baptize me, I was so terrified that my entire head didn’t go into the water.
Fortunately for us, that was the only time in our lives we were ever required to go. As we aged, going to church became one of those decisions we could make ourselves. We got to decide what or how we would believe. Later in life, my cousin decided to be a Jehovah’s Witness.
I think choosing our belief system and the freedom of being able to explore religion outside of Christianity was one of the healthiest things the surrounding adults could have done for us, which we totally overlooked growing up.
There was so much trauma I think we missed this critical sort of autonomy our parents afforded us. And I think they missed it too. With all the drugs and abandonment, there were still these glimmers of hope we didn’t realize were diamonds in the ruff.
To make a long story short, I’m an anomaly to most people because while I am obviously spiritual, I am not religious (and I believe there is a difference.) Because no one had ever forced religion on me, I’ve never been devout in the traditional sense. I can talk about the bible all day, but I’ve never been the “church lady,” nor do I live my life that way.
And no, you don’t have to be a Christian to be a “church lady.” Ya’ll know what I’m talking about.
I have zero interest in being the embodiment of that fake piousness too often present in mainstream religions. This pretentiousness, in my opinion, causes many to lack the ability to be relatable.
Take my most recent Instagram post, for example. (If you read this later, it’s the reel with the God Did song by DJ Khaled featuring Rick Ross, Wayne, and Jay-Z…whose part was too long and not as great as everyone says, but I digress.)
In general, I don’t listen to a lot of mainstream rap. I think most of it is trash. Give me some throwback Common or Talib Kweli. I’ll even take College Dropout Kanye.
But pairing that song with the message I had for that day (and doing it on a Sunday when most people’s minds are religiously focused), I thought it would relate to people more deeply.
And it did.
I should point out that being relatable does not mean compromising your own beliefs. I see it more like being able to connect with something others might find familiar for a greater, more clear understanding.
My internal motto is: “You (your actions, how you carry yourself, think) will be the only bible some people will ever read.”
I hope one day more of us could consider this point of view in all its layers.
A lot is going on in the world, so I sit here bathed in solitude and fishing for a thought. Let the noisy silence of second hands and chirping birds lend me the inspiration needed to write. Let the calm of the rain suicide its face onto my windowsill, onto shingled rooftops, ripping puddles, or perhaps it will only melt itself into the concrete.
Have you ever sat back and listened to silence? It is hypocritically noisy. I can hear the laughter of locusts and the singing of birds as they intercourse themselves into the wind. This noisy wind. It whistles and shouts and spreads its hum across the troposphere, just silent enough for us not to notice amid the growling of car engines and groaning of electricity. If you listen closely enough, you’ll hear angels sing in the wind.
Give me not the physical right now. Not the booming lyric of music or the chatter of distraction. Give me focus so I may snag a thought from the roaring voices of spirit and memory hanging from the pictures on my wall. We are familiar with the sound of noise, but not the noise of silence. Not the tickle of an idea brushing past our thoughts or the seductive wooing of trees to wind. The giggling fabric against the windowsill. The peaceful lullabies of daylight.
Indeed, nature has its way of suckering us out of quiet, but what an incredible stillness.
About.
My Soul is a Witness, a collection of poems that reminds us that there is still hope in our darkest moments. Nothing we go through is without a purpose. No pain we suffer, and no trial we experience happens without reason. It all ministers to our education and the development of ourselves into the people we are ordained to become. It helps to cultivate in us a spirit of patience, faith, humility, and self-control.
Be safe and enjoy your week!!
Something about sorrow sounds spiritual. It sounds like awakenings and revelations. Sounds like pacts and promises. Sounds contradicting too, like hope and despair are twins. We want to shackle ourselves to change. Something about sorrow got us questioning our own mortality. But how permanent is this grief? Where are we two years from now? Is this feeling fleeting? Will we forget our own deaths could be just as close as Kobe’s? Right now is good. It’s all reflection-like. Our throats are full of emotion and saltwater. Only time will tell if this is real or just another ode to the people we worship as Gods. Today, forgiveness is an anthem we sing each morning. Kisses adorn the faces of our loved ones, and the heavens ain’t heard these many prayers since the last celebrity died. And yet I ask myself how permanent is this grief? What have we learned?
There are people we know and love that are close. We can reach out and touch them. Now. Today. Will we? Some of us will Tupac this young man’s legacy while forgetting the promises we made to ourselves to be better people outside of the internet. We will forget those feel-good words we concocted when the world was in mourning. The “every day ain’t promised,” and “hug the ones you love,” we spit into the air as if life has promised our names won’t be the next one carved into the next hashtag. Like our pictures won’t be the ones swarming the internet like the locust currently congregating in East Africa.
Yea, something about sorrow sounds spiritual. Got us thinking about life and truth and family and love. But will this last? How permanent is this grief? That is the question.
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