Letter to My Sister, a Soldier (or) Love is a Revolutionary Act

Love, Personal Narrative
Note: I wrote this a few months ago - late winter, early spring. I sat on it for weeks and worked it a bit in June. Not sure why I've not posted it until now... For the past several weeks, my flight has departed from or returned to the international terminal of the Atlanta airport. This, despite the fact that I was only traveling to and from Cleveland, of all places. Each week I have been struck - overcome really - by the abundance of soldiers in this terminal, dressed in their telltale camouflage. They’re men and sometimes women of all colors, sizes, ages. Sometimes on phones, sometimes on computers, sometimes deplaning from parts unknown, but oftentimes sitting. Waiting. Today, however, I was struck by you. Now for sure you…
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Wounding. A 20-year lesson.

Personal Narrative, Sexual Violence
A thief made off with a prized possession Me Snatched from sacred promises of love everlasting Held hostage Imprisoned A cage of my own hand Tortured by hurt invisible, choking out life, love Twenty years I spent Captive to that pain Yet blind Ignorant of my own walls Fences Wondering why you couldn’t reach me Wouldn’t reach out to me Feel me Know me None had eyes for well-hidden pain Buried And I with it Trapped Cowering behind a guarded heart Safe From you Wishes escaped on wings of prayers Floating beyond boundaries of consciousness Sneaking through cracks Disguised as discarded hopes Rising above barriers Taking flight A call A song in my key Imprisoned heart unlocked Responding Wishes as balm As pathway to freedom Story as star Illuminating the…
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I Am Love

Love, Personal Narrative
The official record states May 25, 2003 as the date of death, but I know the truth. My mother took her last breath on May 24th after a heart attack earlier in the day. They thought she would make a full recovery. Doctors admitted her for a couple of days, you know, just for observation. I sat by her bedside that evening as she was supposedly sleeping, but even then I believed she had already slipped into a coma. I chanted nam-myoho-renge-kyo softly. A nurse overheard me and peeped in the room to ask what I was doing. “I’ve heard of that,” she said. “Tell me more about it.” Just then, my mother sighed, her eyes opened, and the machine monitoring her vitals went haywire with falling digits. The nurse,…
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Goddess Awakening

Personal Narrative, Spirituality
[caption id="attachment_37" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="Nike, Goddess of Victory"][/caption] Although my mother didn't do this knowingly, I am named for the Goddess of Victory. And in fact, my name and my mother's name both mean Victory, or Victorious One, or Victory of the People.  The victory part, I always got. This goddess thing is new. And serious. A little background is in order...At the end of last year I found myself wanting to bring in the new year with some kind of serious spiritual reflection. I usually chant Nam-myoho-renge-kyo on New Year's Eve with the intention of empowering my goals for the new year, but this year I wanted to step it up. After much stalling mulling, I realized I wanted to do an extended program of sorts, kind of like…
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Memories of Stuff

Personal Narrative
My dad was easygoing. He was one of those people who always said, "Don't give me gifts! Just be a good girl!" or "Just be happy." And he actually meant that. Stuff was cool, but peace was better. My mom on the other hand? She wanted STUFF. Flowers, jewelry, gadgets, whatever. Just make sure you got her STUFF. Preferably, wrapped goodies she could shake and pinch and guess about, then unwrap, ooh and ahh about.  Me being the (sometimes) good daughter, I'd shop, and wrap and give her stuff for Mother's Day. We'd also go have brunch somewhere that required reservations and stockings. Such was our tradition leading up to 2003. But that year, I wasn't feeling it. I called her up and suggested a movie instead, fully prepared for her…
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