Please note this entry does not define me or my past in it's entirety. It is merely a glimpse of a very influential facet that has served as fertile ground for my being.
The Black woman. I imagine the first being a magical and brilliant Gold cauldron here on the physical plane of Earth. Decorated with symbols that conjured the laws of the Universe. A Conduit for love light energy to travel while giving birth to all of life. I draw blanks in her narrative that lead to her Daughters suffering from pain, fear & negativity. I question how her tool of Alchemy and it's use was lost between then and now for so many.
I was 9 when I contemplated suicide due to an unhappy family life. I was raised by a single Black woman who was scared, angry and unprepared. Her emotional and mental model of motherhood never claimed her or taught spells of loving touch. There was no one to discuss LOVE as a daily practice for Self. No one sung songs of her beauty and internal wisdom. She concluded herself to be Black and ugly from the scars of sores on her skin.
I knew her story before she had shared it. It had been transferred to me in some odd cold night aborted of fires and stars that twinkled in skies. There was a only a strong wind in a gray dessert where she stood and I a mirage of herself. Daughters are emotional, mental and physical mirrors of their Mothers. If she did not like or approve of her reflection, her strike of violence conveyed her conviction to remove the weakness, the refusal to obey and the disdain from me she blindly taught.
Here is where my journey begins in creating space for my mental health. I thank God for having a sounding board who was only 9 years old herself. She afforded me an opportunity to rethink my disposition and how I was going to navigate this outward space I had no control. I devised a plan. It was simple. I would earn excellent grades, go to college and never come back.
With this decision and my disciplined execution, gently I was graced with Teachers / Sensei that cultivated my natural gifts and intellect. It was California Cooper who taught me the power of written words. Gweroldyne Washington helped me to identify my wings via my love of dance. Edna Crutchfield taught the strength to be found in the candid truth. Ms. Linda Wetmore quietly proved I could not hide if someone really wanted to see me. She who I call Baba Yaya, taught the knowing I always have options and the possibility to change myself was pivotal in the definition of Self.
Outside of dance, writing in my jou