Second Sokkai Gakkai president Josei Toda urged young people to read good books and to ponder things deeply. Even though Toda died in 1958, this advice is relevant today and is great encouragement for everyone. And, in fact, is a way to stay youthful despite your physical age.
What makes a book “good” to begin with? Is it informative? Inspirational? Energizing? Does it make you see things differently? Laugh? Perhaps good books do all of these things. Perhaps something else entirely.
A good book enriches me. It nourishes me in some way. A good books speaks to me, even if it’s a psychological thriller with a love story at its center.
A good book is not only worth reading, it is worth rereading. You come to it again to unlock new lessons, discover new images, uncover subtle nuances. It may touch you differently because of who you are this year, or what happened to you last season. Or because you’re finally ready to deal with that twenty-year old trauma. But sometimes you just want to check in on your favorite characters and reminisce about old times.
As for pondering deeply, many refuse ponder at all, much less deeply. Social media platforms are filled with incoherent ramblings from knee-jerk reactions to hearsay. Some who claim to have researched a hot-button issue have limited their reading to the title of click-bait, which is designed to be sensational rather than informative.
Pondering is slow. Much slower than the skim-swipe-share culture of today. It requires one to engage with one’s brain and with a variety of ideas.
Pondering is dialogue, not declaration.
It is inquiry rather than assumption.
It is research and reflection, not regurgitation.
I wonder if in 2015 we can slow down, read good books and ponder things deeply. Let’s engage each other in conversations (on social media and in real life) grounded in wisdom, thoughtfulness, and respect for diverse views.
“Why oh why must it be this way
Before you can read me you gotta
Learn how to see me, I said
Free your mind and the rest will follow”
This song is on repeat in my brain.
I can’t point to a reason why, but I’ve found myself thinking, saying and writing free your mind all this week. Maybe it’s because I’m reading Assata. Or because I’m being more intentional about nurturing my passion. Perhaps it’s a divine message requiring meditation and integration because I’ve spend too much time thinking inside the box.
Sometimes think boxes are okay. They’re predictable. Comfortable. You know the boundaries. You understand the rules. But I’ve always been a tad bit claustrophobic, and if we’re being honest, comfort doesn’t alway suit me. Thinking through new ideas, adopting new ways of being – these things are energizing and inspiring.
Freeing.
I’m releasing or refining habits and practices I’ve outgrown and adopting new ones. I’m continuing my daily writing through journals and morning pages, and trying out a new approach to storytelling. I abandoned plyometrics for the winter and tried a new combination of yoga and Pilates to challenge my body in new ways. These and other things I’m doing in an effort to truly build my temple, evolve, and be free.
My Whiskey, Wine & Moonshine co-hosts and I had an interesting conversation about self-checks and the power of habit. As we enter week 2 of 2015, what are some projects you’re embracing? What are you discarding? How do you know when it’s time to release and refresh?
Let me know in the comments. I’d love to hear from you.
Pele, a Hawaiian goddess of volcanoes, “shows us that fire can purify, release us from the old to make way for the new, and ignite our passions.” I pulled this goddess card just before the new year. It was divine timing as the cold days of winter are the perfect time to consider what warmth we can create and incorporate into our daily lives. Pele suggests a few things to get your life in alignment with your heart:
Make sure your career matches your true interests
Take a class or start a hobby that really excites you
Change jobs
Go on a wonderful trip
Invest time and money in manifesting your dreams
Give yourself permission to go for it
Start a new business
Make an honest assessment of how you spend your time
List your priorities
Every so often, I ask myself how I want to feel or what I want to accomplish. Those moments of clarity are sometimes breathtaking, pushing me to reassess the choices I make on a daily basis. Why would I make choices that hinder or even sabotage my desires. Is it fear? Disbelief in my ability? Perhaps I don’t really want to do/accomplish {fill in the blank}.
I allow myself a short while to consider, but not wallow in these ideas, and then I make a new set of decisions to break through the deadlock. As we begin the new year, I am embracing the vigor and enthusiasm that come with exploring and cultivating my passion. I’m excited.
Given your true desires, do you use your time wisely? Are you clear about what’s important to you? Is there something new you want to learn this year? How will you fire up your life in 2015?
Wrote Zora Neale Hurston, “There are years that ask questions and years that answer.” There are also years that break your heart and years that fill them. And some years are simply a rollercoaster of questions, answers, exclamations, proclamations, numbness, anger, heartache and love.
The kiddos, Blue and me. #blendedfamily
2014 was one of those years.
It bore witness the passing of beloved icons, the reclamation of beauty, horrific brutality and engaging art. Just everything. In the midst of the collective tragedies and celebrations, I enjoyed my own milestones and joy-filled events.
This year flew by. They say the older you get, the more quickly time seems to pass. I’m not sure when or if the trend reverses, but I do know I’m finding it difficult to grasp the end of this calendar year and the beginning of the next.
Compared to the recent past, I’ve probably spent the least amount of time on social media this year. I’ve blogged a little less, tweeted a lot less, and at various intervals, I removed Facebook from my phone entirely. That said, for my 40th birthday, I merged my old domain name and my blog into a new virtual space. A few folks stopped by and took a look around. Some posts resonated:
In one, I weave my wedding story with my daddy’s memorial.
In another, I challenge critics to be more discerning – more critical, in fact – of artifacts presented on the Internet.
In the third most popular post of the year, Tayari invited me to share a little bit about my writing process.
As we go into the new year I’m re-imagining this space and the stories I want to tell here. In truth, I’ll always do that. What is living, really, if it doesn’t include evolution, revolution, growth, change?
In many respects, 2014 was a foundational year for me. But current events have me in feisty, fiery mood. Not angry, but more awake. Spirited. Inspired. Quite honestly, I’m looking forward to the fireworks.
I’m wishing you a year of evolution, righteous victory and overwhelming joy.
For years I went to bed early. As an elementary school teacher, I had an extensive morning routine involving exercise, prayer, and a 30-minute commute. I arrived at work by 7 a.m. – well before the kiddos who often wanted to share household news as soon as they said good morning. Because I require 7-8 hours of sleep to function well, I observed a strict bedtime of 9 p.m. My friends knew this and generally avoided calling past 8 or 8:30. From time to time an acquaintance would call too late, so I turned off my ringer at night just to play it safe.
That is, until Daddy admitted his health was fading.
It was shortly after Mama died. His prostate cancer wasn’t a secret, yet he seemed to be doing well. But y’all know how (some) men like to hide shit. Reality didn’t exactly align with appearances. I told him in no uncertain terms, he wasn’t allowed to die any time soon. His reaction, some mixture of exasperation and acquiescence, was disconcerting. He said okay because that’s what I wanted, but he hinted there were no guarantees.
I began leaving my ringer on at night.
Daddy and me. Wasn’t he sharp?
My parents eloped when they were 23. As a little girl my mother offered me several thousand dollars if I eloped, too. I can’t remember what prompted her to mention it at that moment. The only possibility that comes to mind is Princess Diana’s wedding, grand affair that it was. I was too young to have heard about the bride’s family footing the bill for weddings or other such traditions. I’m serious, she said. I shrugged. I tucked it away for later.
As a teenager I thought I’d get married shortly after college. My 20s came and went and I remained single throughout. I was grateful, honestly. I hadn’t met “Mr. Right,” and by the time I hit 30, I’d evolved into a completely different woman.
My dad did his best, as much as one can wield control over such things. He held on another three years. My phone rang just before dawn. I sighed awake, already shaking my head. No good news comes at this time of day. The voice on the other end was Daddy’s but softer in tenor. I instantly recognized my uncle, Daddy’s identical twin. Did I call at a bad time? he asked. I pressed him to spill the news. Daddy was en route to the hospital. He wasn’t breathing on his own.
Daddy reading aloud The Night Before Christmas circa 1976.
I arrived at Grady Hospital eight years ago today. I didn’t see Daddy that morning. Nor any other since. Following my uncle’s lead, we both left without seeing his lifeless body. I wanted to say goodbye, but I did not want the image of death burned into my memory. I had made that mistake with Mama.
Toward the end of my 30s, I met my future husband. When we spoke of marriage, I told him I didn’t favor a big wedding, and, in fact, eloping was fine with me. I was down for a courthouse ceremony, or a small gathering on the beach. I don’t think he believed me the first few times we discussed it, but the seed Mama planted nearly three decades earlier bore fruit. I had never planned or even considered a “fairy tale” wedding.
A few months after my 40th birthday, Blue proposed.
I remembered the brides who cried in the days leading up to their weddings. I vowed not to be one of them. As spring melted into summer, we played around with wedding dates, sizes and locations. Nearly every Friday from June through August, we considered jumping in the car and heading to the courthouse. In September we settled on an intimate October affair.
If we had eloped, we would’ve escorted each other during the ceremony. But the venue we selected encouraged something a little more traditional. I decided Daddy’s twin, my “DNA Daddy,” might be the perfect choice.
He later told me it was one of his greatest joys.
During our ceremony, we invoked ancestors and loved ones who were not present, and that, of course, included my parents. Although neither were present in body, it was a loving comfort to hear Daddy’s voice and witness his smile through his brother.
I’m still waiting for the latest to sink in. Awareness comes in flashes, but it hasn’t quite settled in.
Maybe in a month? A season? I dunno. But seven days hasn’t been enough.
A week ago today Blue and I were married! I told him every day of our honeymoon it feels so surreal. I’m a wife now. And a stepmom. Wow.
Perhaps I’ll spend a few posts digging into these as I try these labels and responsibilities on for size.
The ceremony was short, sweet and intimate, and remains quite hazy in my memory. I was in a fog most of the proceedings, despite the clear, sunshiny day. Dina, our photographer, offered suggestions for poses and she had to repeat them all. I could hear her, but somehow she was talking to… someone else.
I didn’t feel nervous beforehand, despite the group of teenagers who walked by just before the bridesmaids went down the aisle. “Are you going to trip?” one asked. I’m sure I gave her my infamous side eye, but I responded with a shrug and something like, “who knows? I don’t plan to.”
When my uncle escorted me out the double doors, I found Blue and gave him the biggest smile. He matched it with his, waiting. I’d never experienced tunnel vision before that moment, but aside from the blur of guests standing, I didn’t see anything else. I wanted to get down the stairs safely and stand next to him, so I concentrated on that. Even the music – an upbeat tune from Earth, Wind and Fire – is hard to hear in my memories.
Friends and family posted a few snaps of us on social media, or emailed and texted us their faves. I’m floored to see them. That was US! We’re THEM! Each picture helps me recapture the moments I lost to the fog.
As a little girl, when I was about to do something fun, I wouldn’t feel any excitement. Like we’d be preparing to go to Six Flags. SIX FLAGS of all places, where the roller coasters were great and your stomach did all the flips. And I was like, cool, with the shoulder shrug and everything.
And it wouldn’t be a fake cool. I’d seriously have no emotion attached. It was an event that would take place at some point. And I was glad to go, but just slow to warm. Like the idea needed to marinate or something.
But suddenly, something would click. Usually the night before said event or even the morning of, it would finally sink in:
I’M GOING TO SIX FLAGS!!!!
And I’d be excited and smiley and all the things you often associate with excitement. And it would be just as much fun as I knew it would be, and I’d be just as overjoyed as anyone else might be.
I’ve always been that way. I can’t pull up a single memory that contradicts this. It’s like the darkness before the dawn and suddenly it’s daybreak and you can see the beautiful morning.
So we’ve been wedding planning off and on the past couple of months, and it’s been like that. It’s been cool, and some parts have been fun and others stressful, but all of them busy. And I’d see wedding this, or bridal that and it was always just words. Words talking about someone else. And because I know me (and all my close friends know me), no one bothered to ask if I was excited yet. It was simply too early.
Lately I’ve been trying on wedding gowns and some of the consultants are gushy and intrusive and I have to Heisman them: Hey, I’m not a gusher. I’m reserved. I’m not going to faint and scream and fan girl at this dress and I’d love it if you didn’t either.
But now, it’s sinking in. When I read something that says the bride or bridal, it’s referring to ME!
I’M GETING MARRIED!!!!
I’m getting excited! And right on time, today my aunt asked, “are you getting excited yet?” And I had to giggle because now I can say YES!
The name gazelle comes from the Arabic word Ghazal which means “elegant and quick.” ~Wikipedia
Natalie is a gazelle.
I see her occasionally during my greenway runs and I always smile. She’s beautiful. She’s powerful. Elegant and quick. On the greenway, her long dark hair is always pulled back, revealing her serene yet happy face. And by the way, she runs marathons. Can you imagine?
Whenever I see her it’s the same… she smiles and waves and shows not a whisper of being winded. Yet she’s running, not jogging. Cheerful just the same.
That’s beauty. That’s inspiration.
I imagine I’m that way from time to time: graceful, cheerful, powerful. Not as often as I’d like, however, and certainly not while running. That’s one of my goals – to be a gazelle when I run. I’m grateful for Natalie’s presence on the greenway.
Fall Renewal
So tomorrow is the first day of autumn and I love beginnings. Mornings, Mondays, new moons, new years, you name it. So a new season fits nicely into the mix, and the first day of autumn it’s the perfect time for purposeful renewal.
Lately I’ve been thinking about (and encountering) the Four Agreements and I’ve been journaling a bit about gratitude. So rather than allowing this to be happenstance, I’d like to spend the next month or so focusing on both of these, and incorporating them as a daily practice.
When I say a daily practice, I mean mindfully choosing thoughts, words and deeds that align with the agreements and with gratitude.
Says Don Miguel Ruiz, author of The Four Agreements:
Every letter, every word in each language is an agreement…. As children, we didn’t have the opportunity to choose our beliefs, but we agreed with the information that was passed to us from the dream of the planet via other humans. The outside dream may hook our attention, but if we don’t agree, we don’t store that information. As soon as we agree, we believe it, and this is called faith. To have faith is to believe unconditionally.
Too much of the time, we go through life allowing it to happen to us, while we mindlessly react. But the Four Agreements reminds us to take responsibility and be a co-creator in our experience of the world. Rather than accepting every word or thought you hear, take some time to reflect. Do you agree? Do you accept? How does this fit with the life you’d like to lead?
You don’t have to agree with every opinion you encounter. You don’t have to accept someone else’s reality as your own. You can create new agreements, moment by moment. Word by word.
As a refresher, the Four Agreements are:
Be impeccable with your word
Don’t take anything personally
Don’t make assumptions
Always do your best.
This week, I’m planning to reread the beginning of The Four Agreements, and perhaps write about what I’m reading. I will also continue journaling about gratitude.
What, if anything did you do to mark the beginning of fall? What are your intentions for the season and the rest of the year?
She caught my eye and I couldn’t leave without her.
My flute.
She’s not seen much daylight in recent years – perhaps none at all in the past three, even though I’ve had her since high school. My love affair with flute began after I was scheduled into band around 7th grade. I had been in chorus from elementary school and I did not appreciate the sudden switch. But we needed to be well-rounded, or so the school counselor said. And so band was my new elective. My protests fell on deaf ears as momma asked which instrument I planned to learn. When it became apparent that rolling my eyes nor begging would change her mind, I grumpily opted for flute.
Eighth grade me in our band uniform. Go Chargers!
I took to it quickly, spending hours learning the fingering and appropriate embouchure, practicing all the songs one could play once she knew three notes.
The band director was impressed simply because it is notoriously difficult for beginning flautists to produce sound at all. But his simple suggestion – kiss the center of the mouthpiece and roll it down the bottom lip – was all I needed to hear.
So I played in our middle school band and loved it. We performed at assembly programs and at festival. Perhaps my favorite song at that time was Carol of the Bells.
There was something immensely satisfying in the way music resonated in the body when everyone played in tune. Simple chords made me smile. So much so, I recorded myself playing one part of a piece of music just so I could play another part and enjoy the harmony.
At some point tragedy struck when my flute was stolen. I cried and cried, grateful that my mother was able to replace it. “I thought you didn’t want to be in the band,” she said, eyebrow raised at the outpouring of emotion. No one, not even me, expected that bond.
My mother honored it and invested in it. Within a few days, a brand new, shiny Gemeinhardt took the place of the used, dented flute we’d all assumed would have a short life in our house.
In high school I continued practicing hours a day and eventually played as well as flautists who began lessons years before me. I became a firstchair flute, out seating senior musicians as a freshman. Lest you think I was a prodigy of some sort, let me explain. Some of my fellow flautists played because they liked it or their parents wanted them to play, but not because they seriously enjoyed it. I loved it, so I happily invested the time. I never became expert at reading music, but I was decent. A good ear and muscle memory from repeated practices made it easy for me to the perform pieces Mr. Moody sometimes singled us out to play.
All in all it was one year in high school marching band, and four years in concert band. More assemblies, some community events, a few parades and annual band festivals. More joy.
For our high school graduation I played a short solo. I watched that video a few months ago. I can affirm, I was not a brilliant player by any stretch. But I loved it.
I had some time to myself so I broke out the sheet music.
The Gemeinhardt traveled with me in college. I almost joined the FAMU flute choir, but I was a little intimidated to be honest, and more than a little busy with other extracurriculars. I played in my dorm room from time to time so I wouldn’t forget my favorite songs. And on it went that way for years. I moved here and there and my flute came with. I tried to break it out at least once a year, just for fun. But at some point in the past couple of years, I’ve stopped doing even that.
So I was surprised when here we were picking up books, and all the while I eyed my flute case and the attendant sheets of music. She wanted to come along this trip as much as she wanted to come along on the previous one.
She’s been here a few days, and Saturday I had a few hours alone. I couldn’t shake the feeling to open the case and play a note. Even though I felt ridiculous, I did exactly that. Could I do it? Could I make a sound? Could I play a single note? A whole song?
Verdict: not quite like riding a bike but close.— nicole denise (@ndcollier) September 13, 2014
In other words, the going was a little wobbly, but it went. I tweeted my experience of rifling through my sheet music and trying my hand at some of the pieces with varying degrees of success. First Bernadette, and then Amanda chimed in. It was Amanda who proclaimed our group the Union of Rusty Flautists:
Rusty, yes. A few of those notes landed sans grace. Mostly because I was “remembering” how to read music, but also because something just sounded a little off. When I played two of the major scales that’s when I could really tell – one of my keys wouldn’t close properly. Poor B♭sounded sad and confused.
And that brings us to today…
Found a place to take my flute!
I’m still not sure what’s pulling me to this flute, but there’s no enjoying it if I can’t play a basic note well. I found a music shop nearby and took it in.
“You have good timing,” the young man behind the counter smiled. “All of our instruments get serviced at a central location and the truck only comes on Tuesdays and Fridays. It’ll be here in about an hour.”
SGI Buddhists call this being in rhythm. Ha!
I’m hopeful it’ll an easy, quick and inexpensive fix. I bounced out of the store with a smile, excited for my flute. I have no idea how often (or how well) I’ll play it, but it’s nice to revisit and old joy.
Today is connection day! That’s what I’m calling it this year, as Blue and I mark our second anniversary.
On this day two years ago, we acknowledged our mutual interest in getting to know each other better. We had been acquaintances on social media for a couple of years by then, with no more than a handful of tweets and a couple of happy birthday FaceBook statuses between us.
During those couple of years we’d both experienced our share of dramatic life changes. But even now, neither of us can pinpoint the reason or timing of the shift from “that guy/woman I never met in person although we have 50 mutual FB friends,” to “that guy/woman I might need to pay more attention to.”
Yet one day out of the blue, a tentative message turned into the beginning of a romance. And here we are, two years later.
Happy anniversary, Blue.
Me and Blue picking up the kiddos and heading to see The Nutcracker.
A good book enriches me. It nourishes me in some way. A good books speaks to me, even if it’s a psychological thriller with a love story at its center.
Make sure your career matches your true interests
As we go into the new year I’m re-imagining this space and the stories I want to tell here. In truth, I’ll always do that. What is living, really, if it doesn’t include evolution, revolution, growth, change?
If we had eloped, we would’ve escorted each other during the ceremony. But the venue we selected encouraged something a little more traditional. I decided Daddy’s twin, my “DNA Daddy,” might be the perfect choice.
