be•lov•ed

be•lov•ed: [bih-luhv-id, -luhvd]

adjective: greatly loved; dear to the heart.

noun: a person who is greatly loved.

synonyms: cherished, precious; sweet, darling.

Beloved.

“…let us love one another. For love is of God, and everyone that loveth, is born of God, and knoweth God. He that loveth not, knoweth not God, for God is love [God is love]. Beloved [beloved] let us love one another, 1^st John, 4, 7 and 8.”

That was my first recollection of Beloved. Singing in the youth choir at Faith Missionary Baptist Church. I have not sung those words in years. I never knew, that I actually knew what those words meant. I have always known God. Therefore, I know love. And I, I am His Beloved.

That was common sense as a little girl.

Read it! NOW!

My second recollection of Beloved was the novel. Beloved, the character. And if you have read the novel, sparknotes, or seen the movie (Thanks Oprah), then you know the corresponding soundtrack is nothing like our youth choir’s recitation of I John 4: 7 – 8. Each character in the novel had their own narrative of Beloved, and they, in very different ways discovered who they were through that narrative; they confronted who they were and were transformed – made different. I wept for Beloved as I wrote that paper at Menlo-Atherton High School. Mostly, because I was weeping for myself. Her unknown past was my present then. And people seemed to become something else around me. So, I was Beloved.

That was book sense as a teen.

Before I went away to UCLA, my mama said, “Now don’t go get a bunch of book sense and no common sense.” Mama knew, better than I ever will the importance of balance. She did not have to get on ice skates to realize it. She’s kinda smart, and kinda kind, and a whole’lotta impo’ant. And she knew her child better than everyone. Mama knew I would do exactly what she warned against. She knew I was going to take off for Los Angeles and get a bunch of book sense. #NoCommonSenseAsideFromTheRapper

And so I have been living life as the Beloved I came to know in my teenage years. Sadness. Depression. Loneliness. Self Doubt. Mystery. Worry. Anxiety. Tears. Really lonely tears. Only nobody knew. She was just a character written in my books. Her narrative became the words I would daily write. And I was always a different version of her. Of Beloved.

Then, there was this guy (…again with the “guy” stuff…I know, I know…). And he said to me, “You are beloved. By everyone.” And I thought to myself, “How can everyone see my pain?” #EyesNeverLie. “How have I done this horrid thing?” … “How can they see my spots?”

But he was not looking at my eyes. Or the tear that fell. He was looking past my sadness, through my pain, beyond my depression, above my self-doubt and around my worry to the beautifully broken parts. The heart. #thatswhereitstarts #RainingJane. And there, he found Beloved. She was singing verses 7 and 8. He watched her pressed Sunday morning curls bounce up and down as she declared she was Love; not knowing, she knew exactly who she was. She is the same person he knows. It is absolutely who I am.

But, am I really B/beloved?

I asked him (that guy) what that meant. beloved? I had a common meaning. I had a book meaning. But those meanings did not quite capture what he was meaning:

See, in our world (his and my shared world) everyone who knows me, loves me. Completely. There is an energy and enthusiasm about it. I am real. I am giving. I am not liked – at all. I. Am. (be)Loved. I am beheld, very carefully, in high regard. Like, if everyone found out that some one, did something really awful to me #IdNeverTellThem they would collectively hate that person on my behalf so I would not have to carry around the residual bad karma from said hate. I attempted to interrupt him, to make an excuse for who I was. Like apologize for being all of this. Doing nice things is the right thing to do, right? He is a great friend – a really great one, so the very least I could do is find ways to #BeGood to him. But everyone is not that way. And, I am not like everyone. Not everyone feels the way they feel about me, about other people. And more importantly, how could I not know that? How could I not know who I was?

I have spent quite a bit of time, energy and money on shoes wanting so desperately to be loved. And not feeling it at all. Loved. Or feeling what I thought it was, only for it to stop feeling me. I am too book smart to see that just about everything around me loves me.

I am be(ing)love(d).