On Finding Purpose... #DaddieIsTheSource #Adultbirth

That scene in Scandal is so stunning.

I know what you’re thinking. First…What scene?!?! There are so many! Right? And next…Since when did I start watching Scandal?

Admittedly, I’m a fake Scandal watcher. Because, well…peer pressure. Peer pressure and wine. There. 
#ugh #YallBeMakingMeTellOnMyselfLikeAllTheTimeOnThisThing

Now that scene (pregnant) Olivia on a park bench, alone, tired, discouraged. With no other recourse than what?

Daddie.

Man. Olivia, honey chile, I know exactly how you feel. And though the father-daughter relationship scripted so smartly by Shonda is nothing like the daddie-daughter relationship in my life, it kind of felt like in that moment, things would have been similar.

As I watched it, it seemed to me that Dad was mad. Tell us why you mad though Dad? I am mad because that thing that I created (Olivia) forgot what it was. Forgot who it was (and whose it was). And because I made it perfectly, how can this moment of forgetfulness be?

Which is probably true of creators, like fathers. How can the thing, fashioned by the skilled craftsman, turn, face him, and question its existence. Wonder its reason why? But that’s biblical too. ²⁰Nay but, O man, who art thou that repliest against God? Shall the thing formed say to him that formed it, Why hast thou made me thus?

I imagine if I shared any of my moments like Olivia’s with my Daddie there would be a tinge more compassion. But he would in essence have the similar experience with me. We would get to that Am I done being your “Dad” now  moment. The world is so much bigger than this moment of feigned (not feigned) pity and self doubt, and your reason little GirlieGurl, for being here requires that you leave this place, this proverbial park bench, and go be it.

Go Gladiate Something. Go be your purpose. Daddie made you for a reason.

I got to Church late this one Sunday. Whilst the preacher began (without me #rude #notrude) the sermon. The first words written in my Sunday notes were out of pain, comes purpose.

And I suppose it is easy to forget or disconnect from one’s purpose because, well, life happens – and it happens to you really hard. You get happy (or sad), you fall in love (or something really like it, whatever it may be), love leaves you, you find yourself at the most amazing shoe sale, or you lose yourself on your way to that mythic sale, and maybe even discover races where you can run and drink at the same time! I mean, to hell with that purpose nonsense and pass the wine!

And all about you, the reason for you is making its case stronger and stronger. Your life security is growing and growing unbeknownst to you – you’re too busy searching for those amazing wine glasses (I NEED THEM). The definition of your purpose is happening, in real time. The reason you were made needs you.

That is a tough pill to swallow. And if your purpose, if the reason for you, is anything like Olivia’s then well, um…it ain’t pretty. #getyourwineglassesout

This is where I find myself. Looking around at what I have made of life and the mess that life has made of me. In this chair in Church (that proverbial park bench) waiting for my Daddie to come down from the pulpit and find me. I want to question the physical one that created me. I have so many questions. Nothing makes sense anymore. All I seem to get from this pile of pain is more pain #nopurposefound. An endless abyss of hurt, tragedy, and ache. Heartache. I see myself there. In a purple dress. And really pretty shoes #turquoisebeadedsandals. In pain.

While I’m waiting for him proverbially, I think back to a Happy Hour with friends. Someone asked me about my son that just got married this past January. Another friend asked (on behalf of someone interested in me, I think?) if I had a son. I said to my uterus, Um, is there something you want to tell me? And my uterus was like, Trick, tax season just passed. You already know I would have said something. #trueee

Then, my rational mind, informed us both about our time at Colgate. And the grown up already son we had. The one admonished by that rude fatherly figure, and nurtured by this loving-but-kinda-naggy motherly one. Me and Ernie’s pants-still-hanging-off-his-butt-but-he’s-such-a-great-young-man baby. And somehow, without genetics, he was able to become the best of the both of us. A wonderful young man and now loving husband. Whom we hugged and I kissed before he said I do…and I cried, just a little as, Ernie readjusted his tie, trying not to show the depths of his pride. And I remembered the pain in that process when I was asked that question at Happy Hour. The pain of a different kind of birth.

Adultbirth. I give birth to adults. And that is some painful –ish. Grow’d up high school graduates reborn into professional young adults is hard work. I get no awards and no raises. If anything, it increases my debt. Long unpaid hours. Late nights and later mornings – because we were up all damn night. Solving rubix-cubed life problems, financial aid woes, championship football games, special dates, family game nights, issues with parents at their actual home, hunger #theynevereverevastopeating, research papers, and hair. Doing all kinds and manner of hair styles. Because braids are popular, locks are cool, and a head full of curls is every single thing to a girl after a bad break up.

I didn’t always see it that way, until this past closing season on campus. I watched the exchange between a mother and her son. It was like strangers were talking different languages to each other. And this was going to end badly. I could see the frustration on his face, and the confused anger growing in her frown. I intervened, for both their sakes, translating the new him to the old mom. I’m also fluent in both dialects.

 

But therein I find my purpose. I have adult children.

…and when it gets hard, go to the park. Sit on a bench alone. And wait. Daddie will come to you. And remind you. And leave. Because he can’t spend all day being Daddie with you, because you have things you need to gladiate.

And something is telling me that my purpose is bigger than even this.

Your purpose…lived out…is painful.

Live it anyway.

Ohhhh Ladies First, Ladies First... #TheQueenSaidIt

Chivalry ain’t dead. It wasn’t even lost. Know where it was? San Diego…on racecation. It was quite clear to me once I stopped being so damn busy.

I have never believed that chivalry died. It like many virtues is learned at a young age, tested through the developmental years, then realized as truth when it arrives at maturation.

I rocked and rolled San Diego, remember? I joined some male colleagues in higher education in the city of sunshine on my quest to 14. And among the beaching, the laughing, the traveling, the getting ready(ing) and hugging, I saw it.

…and I know what you’re thinking. Well, you were the only female on the trip. Duh. Of course the men would act differently around you. Tis’ some truth to that. I have to use a different restroom. My walking around topless would go over differently than their shirtless mornings. But not every man on the trip, that I came in contact with, did chivalrous things.

Like #conferencehubby. He always checks in. Are you okay? Do you need anything? Can I get that for you? Or SPL. After running a full marathon quicker than I ran a half, he carried my belongings whilst at Coronado Beach. His exact words? My mother taught me better than that. He then reached for my stuff and we walked to the car. Awkwardly walked to the car together.

So, while I was in town I got to see my Southern California parents. My friend played football with my cousin. Athletes and housing folk are on campus all the time, so it made sense that through or respective work, familial connection, and well we lived in the same place, that we would see each other all the time. I came to know his mother very well. She wished me a happy 21^st birthday. She never actually said that. It was more like, …stay right here, don’t move. Then she left. 45 minutes later we were still in our footsteps. When I went looking for her to inform her that I was attempting to head out for my birthday plans, she said, …I thought I told yall not to move. I’ll be there in just one second. You’re thinking, …that’s not happy birthday but from her, it is that and so much more.

My Foster parents came to meet me post-13.1 miles as we haven’t seen each other in years. We smile, hug, greet…and then I listen to them argue about the location of the car keys. Foster Dad is introduced to my companions because well, they’re men…and he’s Daddie. Foster Mom meets them. They interrogate my friends briefly and then we’re off.

I respond to questions about my friends in their nicest parental Harpo who dem men? inspired tone. We eat, we laugh, we catch up…we pick up where a gap of years left off. They show me off to Foster Mom's friend…and my medal. Then we leave. It’s time for me to get to Coronado to meet up with my friends.

Once we arrive to Village Pizzeria, I am ready to hop out of the car. Sitting still for too long is painful after a hard run. Before I can latch my hand to the door Foster Dad looks back at me and says, Call your friend and tell him to come out here and get you. I’m thinking, …oh my friend that I can see from the window of the Pizzeria? Oh. Okay. Now I’m 16 years old again and embarrassed. I have to call one of my adult friends and have one of them come fetch me from the car. How am I going to explain this? I call SLP. I tell him to have Conference Hubby come out to meet me, as I have just arrived. And to my surprise, SLP comments, …did you specifically need him, or would you like for me to come outside?

That’s when I knew that everyone got it, but me. Chivalry. It’s such a complex thing. Multifaceted and multidimensional. Varying definitions and interpretations. And as such, it’s the easiest thing. It’s so simple. And because it is so simple, many of us will be perplexed by it – like I was in the back seat.

It’s the right thing, to make sure that a person you love like a child you birth is safe. So you look the person who’s joining her in this adventure in the eye. I watched their eyes have a conversation.

This is our child who we love.

   I care for her as well. She is my friend.

I am entrusting her to you.

   I will make sure she is safe.

Thank you.

   It is my pleasure, Sir.

In the days and times of equality on all fronts, especially gender, one might not see the novelty in this. They might recall days of old when women were the property of their husbands (some still are), couldn’t freely walk around without the accompaniment of a male family member, and be seen as too fragile and weak to care for herself. And one could contend that chivalry was born of this. The expectations of men and their responsibility for the “fairer” sex.

But beyond gender, there is something bigger. Responsibility. My Foster parents had me under their care. And though it was only for a few hours, the fact remains that once they picked me up, they were responsible for me. And we live in a crazy world, where bad things happen to people. Things they can’t protect their children from. So at the very least, they can look the man in the eye traversing the streets of downtown San Diego with their child, before parting ways. And in order for it to work, I have to comply. I have to submit.

It got me to thinking. There are people in my life who obviously feel a sense of responsibility to me. The feel invested in my health, my strength, my smile, in my life really. And when I am around these people I observe, I witness these effortless acts of chivalry. And I have to admit that sometimes it makes me uncomfortable because I’m not used to it – those feelings on a regular and consistent basis.

Chivalry isn’t dead at all.

I just spend time with the wrong people. That’ll desensitize you.

#4in2014 = #14in2014 ...it's like the same thing.

More like #44in2014

I bet you wonder, just where I’ve been, huh? #thisisalateblogpost #readitlikeit’sMarch2014

Sure you have. I’ve been working. Working hard for the money. But…not too hard to keep at this running thing. #14in2014 is a serious matter. So serious.

Amidst a crazy work week, I got a facebook post from the one, the only, Angelica Rollerskates. You know, that sister from another Mama and Mister. We grew up in the house of the Father, the Son & Holy Spirit together! Easter speeches, Vacation Bible School, Church picnics and Christmas plays – we have seen it all…from the choir stand! Anyway, she shared a link to a race she wanted to do in Fremont. You know me – I went through the standard #14in2014 litmus test:

  

1.    Does it include a medal?

2.    Is it already on my list of “14” races?

My First Race Calendar #withmorepostitnotes

3.  Do I have another race that weekend? 
......#IdTotallyDoMoreThan1inAWeekend #DoTheDouble

4. What about that tech tee? *you know #BBP don’t like running in cotton, especially since they also do bikram yoga now… #BrandNew #YeaIFiredShotsAtYouEBoogie*

What were Angelica Rollerkates’ answers?

1.    Yup.

2.    Nope – just found it. It’s not on the pdf list of “14” races you email to me.

3.    Naw, don’t think so.

4.    Huh?

So I was soooooo down to do it, right? I agreed in that post. Of course I’ll run. Then I realized the date of the race. Saturday. As in the Saturday following the Friday, which was after the Thursday, which happened to be next to the Wednesday neighboring the Tuesday night we had this conversation. As in the same week.

We registered for Zoom! Quarry Lakes on Wednesday.

On Thursday a post with some of the prettiest sunflowers (reminding me of that field I blogged about) appeared on my page. A thank you from another someone finding her way running. I sent her compression socks as a way for me to be part of her first race experience this upcoming May since I am not sure if I will be able to make it to Florida to run it with her. She needs me there. However I can get there. If I can.

We made our race day plans Friday. Which include picking up our “packets” an hour before the race because, well, some races don’t come with expo’s… *insert A Runner's Face When*

In an earlier reflection, I thought about having a first-time race expo experience with that hot chocolate guy. It was only a fleeting thought about doing a race with someone; a race that did not include a medal. A race that would not get me any closer to my #14in2014, but somehow closer to something else. Something unknown. But, something totally awesome and worth it. And that somehow made that race count. It made that race part of #14in2014 – and part of the mileage of my #14in2014.

So I knew that going in to this, I would have a few more than 14 races. What I did not realize was that I would have people really buying into to what this means for me. And them finding a way for it to mean something for them. On Wednesday, after Angelica registered for the race, she tagged me in a post, proclaiming her year. Her 2014.

Her 4 in 2014.

She will not pay nearly as much for her races as I will probably pay in the gas alone, getting from expo, to start, from finish to home. There will not be a slew of Medal Mondays in her year. She could even finish this all before I reach the halfway point. No collection of race shirts, and pretty much everything she collects, could fit rather nicely on a wall, in a hallway separating rooms next door to each other. It is just 4 races, remember?

And yet her endeavor feels as though it has exactly the same energy, intensity, sentiment and impact. Maybe even more…or better. I started out doing this for myself. Yes, I came up with this idea with Eboogie and Dr. Splits On Trees, but it meant something very singular, very different to each one of us. Something that we never said in any of those conversations. Mostly because we did not know at that time that we would have to run each race to figure it out. We agreed to this, but we did not know why. And you really do have to run them to understand it.

There are those who would take seeing her #4in2014 post as an insult. How dare she take my thing and try to make it her thing? … The nerve of her! … Well, I never! *dramatic storm off* :::that’s how #BBP talk:::

But I don’t see it that way at all. I had a kool-aid smile so big, I wondered if the walls were about to cave in with a large red pitcher shouting, Heeeeey! I was overjoyed to see her smiling face as I finished the #408k. I really enjoyed being able to debrief my #Race4Medal3 experience over her free pizza and $4.08 mimosas. I appreciated her fawning over me in the background, so that she could get the perfect picture of my success in the foreground. In awe that she would walk a mile each way, just to be part of my thing, my day.

And I am honored. Honored that she is joining me in this exploit, by making it one of her own. We even have other friends with their own versions of #14in2014 happening this year! I am sooo excited for them!

I imagine that she is going to become something different than she could have ever imagined after #4in2014. I also am certain that now that she has agreed to do 4 races, that she will see more than 4 start and finish lines before 2014 is over #SheGotTheJuiceNow. And when she regales those around her of the pavements she’s pounded on her way to that new found self, that one amongst them will be inspired to do something great – because of her.

And that is what makes this an honor. Somebody I do not know, is going to refashion themselves into something they cannot even imagine because she and I agreed on a Tuesday, to register for a race on a Wednesday, that I forgot about on Thursday, but we still planned our race day on a Friday, so that we could find out way to a Start Line on a Saturday.

Denzel's Redemption #2GunsRevisited

…and with that Denzel, you’re redeemed. #ItsWasHerAllAlong #iapologize #InMyAnitaBakerVoice #rememberhersittinginthatchairtho

Remember when I told the internets about that time that I had a really dumb idea which included staying up hella late and watching 2 Guns? The night before the Double Road Race? Yea, that night.

A particular line in the movie stuck with me. Stung me. And it just so happened to be about that thing, that always seems to get me. Love. And all the feelings like it, right. Whatever they mean.

It's never what is seems, hunh?

She asked a simple question to a man who in kind honestly replied. With his intentions. Of everything he was, and was not, he really did mean to love her. How about that, right? He gets partial credit. #justlikeIwroteitmyself #ikindadid #royalties

I kinda sorta, actually stopped watching the movie at that moment. I mean, once you say a thing like that, there really isn’t anything else left to say. Or watch. Right?

Fast forward months later to me flipping the channels to what movie? 2 Mutha F’n Guns Yo! Right around the same place I stopped watching it. And it seems that time has reconciled my feelings for Denzel and the person responsible for writing that line long enough for curiosity to capture my attention.

And I saw the movie to the end. But before we got to the happy ending, Denzel and Paula are together once again. Well on the phone with each other. He finally knows the truth of it. How she deceived him. Set him up. Intentionally intended on HIS demise. She really meant to love him. But didn’t. #thedarkconofwoman

Lots of things happened to me in that moment. Did I really love him? Or did I just mean to? Was I the one masterminding the charade? The Puppeteer?  These are real questions, right? I mean, if we are going to objectively figure this thing :::::that has absolutely NO closure::::: out, we must consider more than one possibility. How else could have Dag & Mia’s murder beensolved? #thegirlthatplayedwithfire #OhLisbeth

But we know the answer. We know what the investigation will turn up. And there’s one piece of evidence missing that confirms that answer for you.

I was left with nothing. I had no back-up plan. I didn’t prepare for what I got. What I did prepare for never happened. Which is actually a proverb, or a quote or something I read in a Keep Calm book. What we worry about never happens. It’s always what we didn’t expect.

Now don’t go feeling all sorrowful for me. It’s actually terribly stupid to not plan for it – especially in these days and times. Geez, in days when the tenure of a marriage is documented in HOURS, you gotta believe that people will invoke their inner Keyshia Cole and change their mind.

This is where I mess up with heart affairs...and the things like them. I’m too unwilling to deceive (not in a bad way, more like a heart preservation kind of thing) and very willing to forgive, to let it go, to be Denzel on the other line.

Crazy part? When it comes to love, and the affairs like it, I never easily believe – I’m always a skeptic in the beginning. Once I’m convinced, I am persuaded like none other. I believe it. I believe you mean it. And that settles it. Of the things that have changed and/or evolved over time concerning me, this particular thing has not. And I am not sure that it will.

I am never going to figure chess out, but I like guns.

*face palm*

Strength, Mirrors, & Forgiveness #InsideOfMeAllAlong

The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong. #Gandhi

If you would have inquired of me, a list of words to describe myself, that list would have included the word “strong”. Somewhat physically. Very strong mentally. I think that many people who know me, feel the exact same way. I am strength.

Gandhi feels differently. An attribute of the strong, is their ability to forgive. So while I might look like a duck and waddle like one, I’m not quacking up to Gandhi’s standards.

I would have even told you that I know forgiveness. That I have the ability and capacity to forgive. And that I do forgive. Liberally. Then I went to church. Online. To Central Christian Church for the third installment of “Breaking Bad.”

The message was amazing. Honestly, there are more lessons in it than I could keep track of. I am sure that I will watch it again, and it will speak differently to me, and meet me in the new season of my life. But in this one, I am warring with forgiveness. I know that I need to forgive. I understand, as Smedes did, that on the other side of my forgiving (and fear) I will do nothing more (or less) than free myself.

And that is why it is so difficult. It is the most precious, the most important, the most expensive gift you can give yourself. I have always had a problem with giving, to myself. It’s easier to just be still. That’s option #2. The first is revenge. And many of us live life believing that we have to choose one or the other. We wrestle back and forth between the two, right? We seek revenge, and it satisfies nothing. We retreat the silence of our mind and it leaves us vulnerable for it to happen again. Oscillating between retaliation and reservation.

But those among us. Those who know. Those who understand forgiveness, get it. Like my cousin KMG. For her, it’s closure…something else I avoid. They get free, because they forgive, and with that, they break their chains. They choose option #3.

Forgiveness is recognition and release. I recognize my hurt through tears, journals, lonely nights, colorless clothing… Describing my pain to my best friend with unintelligible words from my brokenness. He listens to them, translates them and mends them together with his compassion for me. And I release it. At least I think I do. I don’t wish anyone harm, though I’m not interceding on their behalf in my prayers. Should we end up in the same place at the same time, I do my best to keep my distance, and not look as if I am purposely avoiding proximity. I won’t cause a scene – to the point that I will just leave.

In the example the Minister used in his message, he stated that he was called by God to reach out to a man that wronged him – severely. He fought that feeling. That urging. That compassionately violent tug by the Father to do this thing. That same feeling I felt this one day, all throughout the Church service, and after, and in the car, and on my way to the Mall. I picked up the phone and I called him. Not just any him. …him… And he didn’t answer.

I left the oddest message an ex-whatever-you-were could have left on the voicemail, because well, it’s not like we talk anymore. Because it was a divine urging, he was moved to return the missed call. Whatever his reasons were, mostly shock I’d presume, he did it. And we spoke, awkwardly. Well, I was awkward. He was just his post-whatever-we-were self. It was so hard to speak in my calm, authentic, I’m out shopping voice because literally every axon, dendrite and electrolyte in my body was at Defcon 1. The whole time I was thinking, What in the HELL are you doing?!

We ended the conversation as some version of friends. As we share a pretty awesome group of friends, our ending still makes us friends by mathematical transitive properties…that and facebook message groups #BaconAndPrayerRequests. He said that it was good talking, and that I should keep in touch. I stuttered, paused, and awkwardly silence’dly suggested he do the same. All whilst tearing up at the Old Navy register. I told the clerk that amazing deals sometimes bring tears to my eyes, paid $0.10 for my shopping bag and rushed out.

I had all these grand, crazy thoughts about what would happen next. That he would know what that moment was for me, and that he would call. Or text. Or reach out. Or do something in the way of reconciliation. Of working through the wreckage we left a long distance ago. I told myself once that life would be on the other side of accepting the apologies I am never going to get. That word spoke to me. And honestly, in the other areas of my life it makes a lot of sense. Professionally, it’s part of my core principles. I’ve had to sit across the conference room table from colleagues who preach diversity in one breath, but in the next are so astonished that I am so articulate and not connect how that might impact me as a professional of color. And the meeting continues…

We have seen each other a few times since that phone call, because well, friends have birthdays and people like to celebrate stuff on ice skates. And I am just as awkward in real life as I am via #notsmartphone. Every conversation is cordial. Each exchange of words is free of hate. The salutations returned in kind.

I thought that meant…him…was forgiven. That I forgave whatever it was that happened to me. I spent so much of the end apologizing for whatever it was I did to him, I didn’t consider for a moment what it was doing to me. Until I was left and alone and that was the only thing left on the to-do list.

Option #3 is forgiveness through another method. It’s taking the mirror that has been watching me brush my teeth and wipe my tears and turning it around. So that…him…can see what became of me when I was asked to walk that mile with all that baggage[i]. So that he could see what it was for me to walk that second one.

I never do that. Not with …him… or that other whatever-it-was. They never see me carry that pack through mile 2. They have not seen what I have become. What I turned into. How I eventually came back changed. How I believed a little less in the things I used to say to them. How my smile is a little harder to produce. What they do see is my fawning over little kids on ice skates. Happy to be reunited with friends I haven’t seen in a while. Deeply embroiled in a game of trivia. And accompanied to cookout with new friends. Red solo cup and all. I stare down the inside of that cup and drink the Ender’s Game like devastation. With just one coordinated attack, my civilization ceases to exist. He actually thought it was okay to touch me. After the end. After the silent assault leading to the finality of it all, he actually thought it was okay to put his hands on me. He thinks it’s okay to touch me. He thinks that because he hasn’t looked in the mirror; the view from the front row still looks the same.

Not an easy thing to do...

Option #3 means showing the person who broke you all the brokenness. This isn’t a war tactic either. It is the first step in making peace. Revealing all your cards. Forfeiting the game. Realizing the game isn’t all that fun in the first place. Carrying the burden of forgiveness, like God did for us, was not about God shielding us from the hurt, but revealing it plainly through the greatest sacrifice.

We were undeserving of such an act then, these whatever-they-were’s are undeserving now. It’s not about giving them something they may or may not deserve, it’s about doing something for yourself that you deserve – liberation.

Here’s the thing…you bear a burden either option you choose. Retaliation will ruin you. Someone will run out of eyes. And I have never been one for emotional warfare. Reservation will drive you to madness. Just trust me on that one, I’ve done the research. But if you reverse the view of the mirror, you might really be able to forgive.

You might get Gandhi-strong.

Pass me a mirror. But careful. Once you see this, there is no going back. You will always know.

Always, Always,

---

[i] ³⁹But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also. ⁴⁰And if any man will sue thee at the law, and take away thy coat, let him have thy cloak also. 41 And whosoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with him twain. ⁴²Give to him that asketh thee, and from him that would borrow of thee turn not thou away. ⁴³Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour, and hate thine enemy. ⁴⁴But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you; ⁴⁵That ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust. ⁴⁶For if ye love them which love you, what reward have ye? do not even the publicans the same? ⁴⁷And if ye salute your brethren only, what do ye more than others? do not even the publicans so? ⁴⁸Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.

Always Order Tacos On Tuesday #ItMightEndBadly

Tuesday was not a good day. No Ma'am. No Sir. Not at all.

I woke up late. Missed a morning meeting. Was moving slowly through my entire commute. But, before I crossed the next city limit, I got a message from one of my work colleagues. See, he had been waiting, probably impatiently, for me to get to work so that we could dish. Well, I call it dishing he’d probably just say, catching up or talking. He has just returned from the northeast. RMF left California single, but came back with someone with the same last name. And he just had to tell me all the deets, right?

Right. So… Lunch.

We met at a Mexican restaurant at the border of campus. Literally across the street, but still in downtown, right? And what had the makings of a terrible day, got exponentially better with a hug! His smile. Flash of the ring. Married man glow. It was all there. He even refused to let me treat him…and I wanted to!

As we were talking about all the love and laughter us west coast friends missed out on, a sound was heard. A sound. A noise. A shock so shocking, that instantly, happiness ended. We had to attend to that matter at hand. A second noise, to the window enacted our active shooter training and in a millisecond, we were hiding underneath the table.

I am underneath a table in a Mexican restaurant. I am afraid for my life. A third sound is heard. RMF had made his way behind the counter. I got stuck between the stool and table bolted into the floor. But I wiggled my way, still on the ground, about to shelter behind the counter.

See, the restaurant front is all glass – floor to ceiling.

RMF made sure that I was okay. He grabbed my hand. He drug me near him. He looked me square in my eye, and with a certainty almost like my Daddie’s, tells me that I am alright and that we are going to be alright. And his embrace ensures me that at this point, nothing else (bad) is going to happen to me. Though I am literally afraid, I know that I only fear what had already happened to me. He has me covered.

Eventually law enforcement arrived sans sirens and purposeful movements. We leave because, well, danger. From what we can see, it does not appear that there was a gunman. It looks as if someone threw things at the window. But we don’t know for sure. We are only certain about moving expeditiously to a safer place.

Afraid. It’s loneliness, you know, being afraid. And I have the lion’s share of loneliness (in my heart, at least). I know it well. It’s devoid of sound #thesilenceofmymind. Of feeling. Of progress. It stops me from moving in any direction – even backwards. I don’t understand things. I over understand things. I can’t find the words to say…or write.

Why would someone attempt such an assault on a Mexican restaurant? Was there someone or something inside they were after? Did they know there were mothers with their infant babies inside? Did they desire to strike fear in our hearts? Was something wrong with them mentally? Perhaps a random act of violence? Could this have been an accident? Misunderstanding? Should I have ordered tacos instead of nachos? #ItWasTuesday

Too many things to ponder as I attempted to verbalize my erratic feelings. Then RMF said it…I totally thunk it though. He just got married. What a tragic thing to happen literally day after being married. His wife. His beautiful wife. He is thankful that his wife was not there.

That comment had nothing to do with me. He didn’t say that to hurt me. Or to push me further into my despair. But to think that I didn’t go there would be false. To say that there isn’t some of that residual feeling left would be a more heinous lie. It’s not that people in my life aren’t worried about me, or wouldn’t worry about me had they known, in the moment what was happening, it’s just that my I haven’t met yet-somebody's son isn’t here to care. To make me leave my office like RMF did. To make me open up and say something about my feelings before they turned to complete madness. To do all the things he could to fix it, though he was sitting right across from me, there to experience it.

My conference hubby described it as a bout of loneliness…and I suppose I’ll have to do a couple of  a few many rounds with it for a while. He told me that I needed to let it go. Right? Let God have his way... That I was amazing. And that there was good stuff ahead of me. That’s hard to see from the floor of a Mexican restaurant. At least hard to see if you were me. If you were RMF, you saw all of that…which was why you (he) took command of that situation, made sure that I was okay, and made sure we were safe.

I couldn’t bring myself to go out in public the next day because, well…fear (among a host of other feelings). While doing nothing about my current situation, I checked my email. I forwarded an email from one email client to the other. As I did that, I stopped and stared at the automated signature which populated in the message:

Life is short, live it. Love it rare, grab it. Anger is bad, dump it. Fear is awful, face it.  Memory is sweet, cherish it.

...like in an email signature.

Fear is awful honey…you just have to face it though. That means you have to go outside. You have to live. And it will be hard, but TR has been telling you since forever and a day to do it afraid…and this is real fear. And this is what it sometimes means to do it afraid.

It’s funny. I’ve talked numerous times about provisions. How our parents make provisions for us. I came to this realization in a Ball Pit. Who knew though, that I would be making provisions for myself? That I would find a collection of words that would motivate me to move through my hesitation, through my doubt, through my fear.

Fear is not real. The only place fear can exist is in our thoughts of the future. It is a product of our imagination causing us to fear things that do not, at present and may not ever, exist. That is near insanity. Do not misunderstand me, Danger is very real. But fear is a choice. #WillSmith #AfterEarth