My Blackness Deserves No Explanation

By: Elise R. Sampson

Hey America—
Do me a favor
Don’t ask me to explain my blackness.
Not my hair,
Not my skin,
Not my intelligence nor anything else that comes from within.
Within this skin.
Beautiful brown pecan with a kiss from the summer sun
Pale as the wood lining my kitchen cabinets when the summer’s gone
I love myself but you don’t want to see me happy
Much like that ex that I no longer miss
yet he still calls…
Each one after him reminds me that my decision making is still flawed,
maybe even more than it was before him
Or maybe it’s the beautiful black men on my timeline paired with foreign women and cars that makes me feel null
Despite the trickery that social media and propaganda might try to play on me
Maya Angelou’s “Still I rise”, gives me strength when I look at these thighs or my big, round, deep brown eyes. As beautiful as my Black is, has Black become synonymous with demise?
Is my Blackness something I should hide?

I’m living scared,
Fighting everyday not to piss off some emasculated, white fool with a gun and badge or a Becky who absolutely will not shop in the same establishments as a nigger gal.
I pray and tithe
I pay taxes
I vote in every election
I attend city council and school board meetings
I donate to Black Lives Matter
I paint murals til my hands bleed
I’ve educated peers and professors on why our hair is different
I make sure to use my white girl voice on the phone
I tell my nieces and nephews that they are beautiful in their Black skin
I post novels about injustice on my timeline til I’m blue in the face, and no matter how Black I project myself to be, everyday I wake up to nooses, gunshots, knees on necks, unlawful search and seizures, murderers maintaining their jobs and no charges being filed.
Where is the change Sam Cooke told us was coming?

I just knew that if I prayed a little harder, went to that rally, made myself a token Black girl in college and at my job then the murders would cease.
Surely there are millions of Black girls and boys just like me!
We don’t walk around causing trouble but we know who and whose we are, you know the type.
Is there no further contribution that I can make to ease this worldly pain?

Too many questions remain unanswered.

While there is no ETA on the true reparations of “America’s original sin”, I stand tall knowing that my Blackness is dope, she’s stunning, unparalleled, unforgettable, a vision crafted by God himself and she stands out where you would fit in.
So America, do me a favor…
Don’t ask me about my blackness or the black experience because the truth is that you don’t really want to hear it.

Pros and Cons

By: Slim da Reazon

I read the mind and heard the thoughts of a racist the other day.

Through the white noise

And distortion this is what I heard his mind say:

"Those good for nothing niggers are nothing but trouble.

Only good for dunking basketballs and being in football huddles."

I was befuddled.

Bemused and confused and mildly amused at how he had it misconstrued.

Although, you could argue that it was true. 

Because at that very time, I was engaged in criminal activity.

Trespassing on his private thoughts,

Eavesdropping on his bigotry.

Now clearly this caveman didn't know his history.

Because if you look at antiquity 

You can see these past couple of centuries don't mean sh*t to me.

But now, the malevolent benefactor of malice

Sits callously before me

Saying I can only be a pro athlete or a convict.

You know… a pro or con.

Ha! 

I flatly refuse to believe it.

I'm collegiately educated with such a high IQ

I can enlighten you or spite you with a haiku.

God as my witness, my sister's a forensic chemist,

I learned the music business, 

and the eldest of us three will be a Ph. D.

We're so much more than a minority

Consumed with THC and apathy.

See, I never doubled dribbled, I just double majored.

I never took the pitchers mound in the final round against a rival

Because the only thing I ever aced was my final.

I never pulled up with the game tied and drained a three.

But I am a source of family pride as the first male to attain a degree.

I never rushed for a first down or even kicked a field goal.

But whenever I wrote a verse down, yes indeed, I healed souls.

Yet you see me as only a pro athlete or stereotyped convict.

Or maybe a little bit of both, kind of like Mike Vick.

But my lineage denotes nobility, for I am royalty.

Like Tenkamenin upon the throne of Ghana before the Almoravids hit in 1076.

Like Mansa Musa of Mali making his hajj to Mecca in 1324, 

bestowing millions in gold to impoverished masses.

Like King Sonni Ali of the Songhay, recapturing Timbuktu in 1469,

preserving medicinal papyri at the University of Sankore.

I am master of the Egyptian Mystery School and Teacher to the Greeks.

I am Balance in the West; The Tao in the East.

I am more than an orange jumpsuit or a jumpshot in a sports jersey.

I am the Alpha and the Omega,

The Black Beginning.

The Ebony Eternity.

What I Know For Sure: A Cierra M. Robinson Story

“What I know for sure…small wins lead to great rewards.” —Cierra M. Robinson

GIRL, YOU GOT TIME!

By: Cara M. Irving

First off, let me start-off by letting out a deep breath....

THE PRESSURE.

As a woman of color, I feel so much pressure.

At 33, I feel like a late bloomer.

Up until this point I’ve felt pretty confident about my life and the decisions that I’ve made:

I’ve had the same type of job forever.

I have friends that I’ve known my entire life.

I like to think of myself as a pretty cool person (definitely THE funniest for sure).

But lately I’ve been feeling this pressure; I’m feeling rushed.

I have friends on their third and fourth degrees, second kid, fifth wedding anniversary and second home.

And then there’s me: a single, unwed mother on her second degree, in an apartment, starting a new diet for the third time since the new year (is it still only February??), tons of debt and still wondering if I even know how to date.

I mean clearly if I don’t know how to date, I need to hurry up right? I have to be married by at least 36 and I’m running out of time. I’ll just X-out more kids because by the time I get married at 36, it’s a wrap for kids.

THE PRESSURE!

Wait, how am I gonna find a man if I can’t even stick to this damn diet?

It must be the way I look.

WAIT! WAIT! WAIT! WAIT!

I’ve spent so much time comparing myself—my life and my accomplishments—that I discounted how truly amazing I am. I’ve spent so much time focused on loving others that I didn’t allow the time to properly love myself.

So I began loving myself differently at 33.

At 33, I realize who I am instead of who I am not. And I love me. I mean, I really LOVE myself!

At 33, I am a wonderful mother to THE smartest 5-year-old beautiful black boy.

At 33, I am an amazing sister and friend.

At 33, I am weeks away from receiving my second degree, and at 33 I am BEAUTIFUL!

I think we put so much emphasis on time because we focus on where we think we should be instead of acknowledging where we are.

I like where I am and I love who I am.

Relax, girl. You got time.

Love you.

(Mis)Step & Repeat: The Imbalance of the Work-Life Balance

I don’t know if I love time or hate it. I believe I must honor it, but I can’t say I revere it. It’s a complex relationship—one in which I feel simultaneously in control and out of control. Can I get a witness?

The concept of borrowing time is weird to me. I get it...but at the same time I don’t. Borrowing time means it must be repaid. The phrase itself gives the ominous realization that something outside of our control will inevitably occur; even if you have a few stolen moments to yourself, your impending fate was only delayed. Handle your business. Get your house in order. It’s about to go down.

Ultimately, I see time as a resource. Each day I live I have endless access to time, however, it is only in that moment.

I can’t keep it.

I can’t hold it. 

I can’t store it in a mason jar and save it for later. 

I must use it right then and there otherwise I lose it. The idea of losing time sucks. It sucks big.

I’m always aware of time. I’m aware of the clock ticks even when I don’t hear them. I’m aware that use of time in one area often negates its use in others. That shit makes me anxious. 

In fact, it keeps me up some nights.

It disrupts my zzzzz’s.

And that’s just downright disrespectful.

“I’m right on time.”

“God has me.”

“Everything works together for my good.” 

These and other go-to phrases become my lullaby in those moments when I must corral my thoughts and soothe myself back to a place of slumber.

Then the alarm sounds.

I set the coffee pot, brush my teeth...

Wash, rinse, and repeat.

Time frustrates me most when I’m trying to achieve a work-life balance. 

Ah...the dreaded work-life balance convo.

We speak of this phenomenon in a way that capitalizes on ideas of making more time through schedule reconfigurations and prioritization lists. 

We place demands on supposed free time and slate bubble baths in between practices and other obligations.

We demand paused thoughts and actions for centering, regrouping, and brunch.

We’re supposed to take time, regaining some semblance of control in what we do, where we do it and with whom.

We aim for more robust, fruitful, and well-rounded schedules, seizing opportunities for what’s important.

But if we’re being honest, it’s all important. Right?

Sweeping is a mindless chore until one steps on something, piercing the skin.

Laundry is mundane until one’s out of clean skivvies or clean towels.

The drive-thru is only so appropriate for scoring dinner during the week until those favorite pants no longer fit.

So how do I determine where and how to spend my time when it all matters?

I regard updating my resume as highly as I do my sumo squats.

I feel the internal pressure to write a new blog post as deeply as I do to submit a poem.

When it all matters most (in its own respective category, of course) how am I to relinquish parts of it so I am not relinquishing myself?  My goals? My dreams?

How Sway?!

Since I’ve had this exchange with several people, I propose that work-life balance as we know it is bull. Not one person has been able to achieve the never-falling cosmic orbit in which everything suspends overhead in perfect harmony, freeing the phalanges to hold close only those things held dearest.

The pursuit is exhausting and if you’re whooped trying to relax it’s time to dismantle the machine.

Seriously, how am I to succeed when my professional life systematically creates—sometimes necessitates—a dominant space of imbalance?

Think about it: many of us spend 5 out of 7 days at work or performing some work-based activity: night-before prep, next day alarm, the dressing, the commute/breakfast run, the day, the commute home, the decompressing. Stuff in there a workout, a social outing, counseling, a class or homework and before you know it the alarm has sounded. Here we are again with the wash, rinse and repeat!

5/7… that’s over 70% of our week (hold your tongues math people and ride this thought wave with me for a bit).

This leaves 2 out of 7 days of the week for non-work based activities; what am I doing with my less than 30%? 

• Sleeping in (rarely).

• Getting an oil change.

• Powering through an untimed workout where I can get all my sets in.

• Scratching my scalp.

• Finally replying to the Marco Polo my homegirl left the week prior.

• Attending TLWM (I love this church). 

• Scouting the city for new fun spots.

• Having a dinner with my boo that’s not infringed upon by our curfew (“we have to work in the morning” will shut a good time down, won’t it?)

My attempts to do the “it” that matters to me in the moment have created a practice in which I stuff bits of my personal and creative life into the unclaimed hours of my professional life:

• I grocery shop, edit my post or wash a load of clothes during my lunch hour.

• I use my car rides to schedule doctor appointments, pay bills, or make catch-up calls to framily.

• I peruse JoAnn’s website for inspiration during my breaks.

Did I mention I’m growing a business? (that calls for early AM late PM stuffing)

I’m active within my tribe. (more stuffing)

Long story short I’ve allowed my strategic self to organize my creative self and schedule my hours like prescription dosages.

Sometimes, I’m exhausted just by the planning phase alone. By nightfall I’m ready to power down although I’m pressured to complete “it” before bed.  But I don’t feel like doing the “it” I’m supposed to do in order to move the needle along. 

Trying to balance this work-life road is less like a pathway and more like a beam. I’m knock-kneed; balance beams and I have our own relationship and you mean to tell me this obstacle is timed??

What would happen if I let go? What if I released myself from the pressure of trying to do it all by the deadline?  How will I ensure I’ll fall safely onto the padded mat below?

Is there a mat?  There is a mat, isn’t there?

Of course, there is. It’s called Grace.

Now let’s be clear: I don’t have the answers.

I cannot instruct you on how to carry your load in a way that won’t break your back. What I can share is what I’m learning...

I’m learning that I can only do up to (and not exceeding) two things good at the same time. Everything else must wait.

I’m accepting that as strong as I am, God is stronger and is the only one between the two of us that can be omnipresent.

I’m respecting that I must focus my attention on my one or--up to but not exceeding—two things and leave everything else in “pending” status.

I’m relinquishing control of time as I am not its author or finisher.

I’m determined to enjoy my time at whatever I’m doing cause that’s all the time I have guaranteed. 

What about you? Where are you with this work-life thing? Share below.

Love always.

Broken white picket fences

By: Brittany Lee-Wright

As the world sits in mourning over the tragic loss of Kobe Bryant, and the even more arguably devastating loss of his daughter Gianna at 13, I sit to reflect on my emotions in this ongoing cultural shift: global connection.

Flashback to Sunday afternoon--

I’m leaving a lunch meeting with the young adults at my church, and I see the news on Baller Alert's Instagram. I’m sitting there thinking "This has got to be a TMZ hoax; Kobe make sure you sue the mess out of them!" As the news and speculation began to pour in, TMZ once again added more to the insanity by reporting on the death of Kobe and Vanessa’s baby Gigi. I once again kept hoping for “the real news stations” to provide hope. My emotions were further upheaved by the ultimate report of 9 people perishing—more daughters, mothers, and fathers. 

Sitting back as an everyday person and fan, I watched the emotions of other athletes, sports commentators, news casters, social media moguls, and everyday social media users pour out their emotions, shock, and disbelief on the evolution of this the tragedy. 

I continued watching NBA tributes and social media tributes, and I found myself taking breaks from social media for my own mental health. Every other post was a reminder of the lifelong holes that will be present in the hearts of Kobe's family.   

I wondered, “What makes us connect so much to someone we’ve never truly known?”

Surely, those who have expressed so much irritation towards the public grief made a valid point: “yeah, it’s sad, but you didn’t even know him!”

But what does it mean to know someone?

Days since the tragedy I can only help to think there are others like me who wished this whole ordeal wasn’t true. We went to bed Sunday night hoping that this would be a distant nightmare once the morning came. But the “joy in the morning” didn't come.  

So, let’s fast-forward to this moment where I decided to put my thoughts down on paper.  I’m not claiming to have all the answers, but I did come to brain dump as I process my own emotions. 

I’m a high school teacher of 11th and 12th grade students, and I make it my goal to bring real world situations into the classroom to provide safe spaces for critical conversations and learning. But I’ll be honest, I didn’t even bring this up with my students. I just didn’t want to talk about this. I wanted to keep going with my planned curriculum and allow that moment with my kids to be my safe mental reprieve against all the bad things the world had offered with these untimely deaths. 

I'm still processing my thoughts on our global connection to Kobe Bryant and won't address this phenomenon in its entirety. I do want to address one lingering thought I’ve had on why so many people have not been just saddened by this story but shaken to the very core of their foundations. In turn, many are questioning the presence of God. 

When I think of the great, capitalistic machine, which is America, I think of the "American Dream" concept. This all-consuming narrative pushed onto children and adults (locally and abroad) about the opportunities for and images of SUCCESS.  *Sidebar--this narrative is never complicated with conversations on institutional oppressions. * And so, the American child especially is molded into believing that hard work will open doors to a multitude of successes. We grow up working hard and “chasing the bag.” We view the come-up stories of many professional athletes as the embodiment of this dream; the "work hard, become successful" mantra manifested.

If this is the case, Kobe Bryant epitomized the great American dream story. To many of us his life was viewed as “goals” and was a mirror of what we decided success looked like. His unmatched work ethic brought him a multimillion-dollar basketball legacy, a gorgeous family, and opened doors for him beyond the Staples Center Arena as an Oscar winner. Even when past indiscretions tried to bring him down, he was able to "shake the snakes" and move forward to an even stronger family life. 

If we are honest with ourselves, we strive for that great American success story to play out similarly. We believe, "If I work hard, God will make sure I’m rewarded." So, we work, chase the bag, and wait impatiently for God to open the doors of financial, social, and familial success. We think we don’t need God to do much for us; just ensure our hard work brings those tangible goods into fruition. 

But what if our goals won’t be defined by tangible success? If that is the case, is it possible that while we claim to trust God’s plan for our lives, we just want to rest in our own plans for our lives?

I think what makes the tragedy of Kobe’s story so life-altering for many of us is---we think of celebrities as having immunity. We think money and success afford a particular protection or shield that everyday people aren’t privy to.  

But, if God would allow something like that to happen to Kobe and his young daughter, what sense of protection do I have in my own life? 

For many people, fulfillment through our accomplishments is the ultimate destination. When we reach that point (whatever "that" is) everything else in life will ultimately be better. But what happens when our accomplishments can’t guarantee safety or even longevity of life? Is it possible for some that Kobe’s helicopter crash was symbolic to lost dreams, or trust in human control? 

No matter your reasoning, as we connect from afar to grieve publicly, remember to pray for those families. Also, take a moment to reassess your own lives; is it time for you to reevaluate where your trust lies?

Down With OPF?! Sharing Spaces with Other People's Friends

Image Provided by Black Twitter

My God-Sister Nici sent this meme to our friend-group chat in jest. Her added caption read:

“[I’m} in the middle and Dave is both Ye and Jay when I bring her around new folks.”

Yes. I, Davia, am known as “Dave” with these peeps. One day I’ll share the tale of how “Dave” (née “Big Dave”) was birthed.

Anywho! The meme was funny CAUSE IT’S TRUE! Sis has an uncanny ability to quickly find a friend in many people.

I, however, am more reserved.

I’m not standoffish, rude, or unpleasant.

I’m reserved.

And as much as the meme was a joke, it reminded me of how consistent I am as this reserved person. I’ve always had difficulty acclimating to shared-group spaces, especially ones where cliques are practiced at the nucleus. I’ve never been a clique-type lady. It was always difficult for me to operate in shared-group spaces without second-guessing whether or not I represented myself well.

Miscommunication and misrepresentation are the banes of my professional and personal existences.

In fact, shared group encounters (from networking events to extended familial gatherings) made me so uncomfortable afterwards I often had to decompress and recharge my batteries. The decompression recipe usually involved prayer, a whiskey neat, and a call to My Ma’am. My gifts, however, required that I showed up in shared spaces regularly. One day I’ll also share how God has guided me through various exercises to become not only more confident in my skin, but also using my voice.

But back to OPF and why we’re all here today. Sharing spaces with OPF (Other People’s Friends) is unavoidable especially when you have a desire (*insert calling, inclination, need) to participate in social settings. I’ve found that sharing spaces with OPF is more maneuverable (and even enjoyable) if I remember these 5 things:

1. SHOW UP AS MY WHOLE SELF. This means I operate as Davia; I do not “put on Davia” or “perform as Davia.”

2. OWN MY SPACE IN THE ROOM. This means I I give myself permission to take up space—with each step, smile, word and stop. I do not shrink into a corner or run from conversations.

3. SHARE SPACE AS APPLICABLE. This means I do not seek to be the center of attention. I honor where I am and why I’m there.

4. BE OPEN-MINDED. This means I create opportunities to learn from others and connect with others on a personal level. I’m present and available.

5. LEAVE WHEN I’M GOOD & READY. My Sir taught me early: always have your own way home. Amen.

How do you navigate shared spaces with OPF? Leave your thoughts below.

Thanks for reading!

Love,

Davia

MOUNTAINTOP MARCHES

...because part of the mountaintop experience is the climb back down.

IMAGE PROVDIDED BY DAVIA CRUTCHFIELD

“If a tree falls in the woods does it make a sound?”

I said: “I think this is the dumbest question in the world. The existence of something isn’t predicated on one’s personal experience of it.” My Ma’am agreed. She said: “that’s the arrogance of humanity”; I nodded. 

Day 1: THE TIME

This past March My Ma’am and I travelled to Sevierville, TN to celebrate My Aunt Carolyn’s birthday. Every year she hosts this huge birthday blowout in the mountains. Divided by 3 cabins are floods of family/framily operating with the same goal in mind: to enjoy themselves, one another, and the mountains. 

This year I climbed my first mountain as an adult. I suppose as a kid in the backseat, the experience of coming up a mountainside was a bit more tamed. I recall it being a shocking experience--but one curbed by the fact that My Sir was driving and we would be safe. As the woman behind the wheel, however, I was less assured (*insert “ah ha!” moment).

The shock I felt was...intense.  I just knew my car would slide backwards upon every steep slope and that would be the end of Dav & Crystal. To my surprise and satisfaction there was a plot twist: we survived. Not once did my vehicle give in to the Law of Gravity and take us clean out.  In retrospect I suppose that’s how I responded to many new (and somewhat daring) experiences...I associated them with my physical, emotional, or social demise when, in fact, that was never my lot.

Day 2: MY DIME

My Ma’am is fly. Shorty’s the epitome of a “Perfect 10” and has a phenomenal smile to match. She’s beautiful, and as if that wasn’t enough, her hair is white. 

Not grey.

Not sliver. 

Not platinum. 

White.

From her scalp.

In fact, that’s one of her 2 go-to replies when folks inquire “did you dye your hair that color?” She smiles and answers “this is all me, grown from my scalp.”

It’s eye-catching and completely unavoidable.

It didn’t help that at this point in time she wore it in an afro. I once recall how an elder in the store rebutted “you’re not old enough for hair that white.” I smiled inside--not because her offense was lost on me but because she still subscribed to that archaic notion that “matured” hair was divinely reserved for the oldest (and assumed wisest) in the community only. Little did she know--when you have an encounter with God you never return down the mountain the same way you went up. Just ask Moses.

And I wanted one. 

I hoped that I’d have one that weekend. 

I hoped a more evolved version of myself--emptied of all laughter, good times, prayer, reflection, and rest--would descend from the mountain ready to engage with the world once again. I had no intention of returning to Cincinnati as the exact same Davia. 

On day 2, this extraordinary woman and I walked to the fitness center. It wasn’t much of a “center“ as it was a room with a handful of low-resistance machines. Nevertheless, it was located near the main office at the bottom of the mountain. We were unprepared for the intensity of the voyage and were pooped by the time we made it up our first two inclines. 

We pressed on though cause we’re G’s. 

We learned how to gauge the terrain, how to work with the mountain to ascend and descend with each turn. It was one of those lessons which only comes by experience.

Day 3: THE MESSAGE

Day 3: My Ma’am awoke me (easily might I add) to watch the sunrise from our window. It was glorious and when I say “glorious” I mean...glorious. The streaks of red, yellow, some weird magenta-like color I never saw before peaking, breaking, and shining over the mountains in the distance was...surreal. I’ve witnessed sunrises before; each one respectfully different from the other. This one, however, left me full...and in awe. The only words I could muster were “this is beautiful.” It was so beautiful that I became anxious and my anxiety grew with each passing moment. I thought about how much fun my mom and I had the night before learning line dances at midnight, drunk off moonshine margaritas. I thought about how much we bonded just kicking it and enjoying each other’s company. I thought about how we would reconvene in our room to decompress or catch one another up on our daily activities. I thought about how I treasured our ever-growing friendship within our mother-daughter relationship. And all of that wonderment, all of that appreciation, all of that revelation made me think of time. Thinking about time scared the shit out of me. I’ve heard stories of people who’ve had their entire worlds rocked by the passing of a loved one and I did not want this to be our last shared memory. I had to breathe through it to keep from crying as I sat on the table behind her staring out of the window. 

I realized during my self-reflection how days 2 and 3 reminded me of the mountain-climb trek to the fitness center. You see, when you climb a mountain it requires specific exertions at certain times. Day 2 I had to lean in to the experience just as I leaned into the mountain on the upward climb. 

When you lean in, you must position your body forward and press into the mountain with each step. This helps to keep your balance and help you power through the incline. The steeper the incline the more you lean and press in. The morning of day 3 was the downslope;  I had to tilt backwards to control my speed. I had to take smaller, more careful steps so I did not lose my footing. If I didn’t take control of my fears in that moment I could have tumbled down my mental mountainside. 

I learned that with each direction--whether climbing up or down the slope--I had to learn to make gravity my ally instead of my nemesis.

In retrospect I think a lot of my trials were exercises to learn how to see the element--time, romance, conflict, disappointment, heartache--as an ally rather than a nemesis. I did not fear the mountain at that point. I respected it as the training ground it was. I knew from that point on I would make it down the mountain safely; I knew I would be called to climb another again.

"The Anchor": CORE WORK PT. 2

Image via Heavenly Treasures

I’m jealous. 

...not every day, but on more occasions than I care to count. The “of whom” or “of what” is irrelevant because the root of my issue is the mentality of the woman in the mirror. That’s right, it’s my personal perception. When I see myself as “less than,” I regard everything I produce--including gifts, contributions, and even my presence--as insufficient. I then consider any acknowledgement of my greatness as a nicety, or pity-filled concession. You see, if an external truth doesn’t abide by an internal one, it’s ineffective.

I worked through a year-long therapy stint during my time in DC to uncover the origin of this problematic root. Back then, I recognized it’s fruit as chronic fear especially when it came to writing my dissertation.  That’s right, the same root issue can produce fruit in different forms. Nevertheless, I identified various occurrences in which I or others said or did something to reinforce this ideology of insufficiency. The origin of it, however, was unfounded. What caused my belief system? It was plaguing because no matter how far I delved into the past of “who said or did what when,” countless others spoke life into me or countered this ideology in other ways. So why was this falsity imbedded in my psyche as the truth, the rule, the law? Because I believed it. Me. No more, no less. I’m accountable for it.

When I decided to make my spiritual core my 2019 focus, my purpose was to fortify a SOP (standard operational procedure) within that would hold me steady. When answering the dreaded “who am I” question, my run-down was a list of applicable nouns mainly steeped in relationships with other people.  It was also connected to my ministerial gifts. When the “who” is connected to the “what” it became a bit tricky because it became performance-based behavior. 

I knew I needed an anchor. 

By definition, an anchor prevents drifting due to wind or currents. When the circumstances of life changed, or I no longer performed to my (or others’) expectations, what then would I hold on to as my immovable anchor? What would I believe about myself that would keep me from shifting and swaying when life did what life does?

I knew I needed to get to the root of my issues, eff the origin. In order to deal with it I needed to employ the tools in my arsenal and get to work.  Rather than turn my attention to the outside world, however, I needed to look inward and own myself.  I needed to accept my whole self (likes and dislikes). Those things I did not enjoy, I needed to know I had the power to change. Those things I loved, I needed to swim ocean-wide into them. I required a privatized self-acceptance that would supersede any public condemnation or adoration.

Addressing the root issue of this “less than” personal perception would extinguish the fruit of performance-based anxiety. It would extinguish the fruit of comparison. It would extinguish the fruit of jealousy.  The work is ongoing, and (at times) it’s painful. The pain, however, is a necessary one...like applying isopropyl alcohol to a wound. There’s no shame or condemnation in dealing with your root issues. Go ahead! Get your whole self together so you can thrive as your most optimal self. This kind of work is not mathematical; its spiritual, it’s mental and it’s physical. Give yourself the grace and encouragement to transform any ramshackle mindset to one of redemption.

“The Arsenal: CORE WORK PT. 1

Image via Google

I DEDICATED 2019 TO STRENGTHENING MY CORE…MY SPIRITUAL CORE."

I’ve practiced Pilates consistently since July 2018. There’s an ongoing beef between planks and me, but nevertheless through this practice I’ve realized how essential my core is to everything. This includes my posture, my stride, my balance, etc. No matter how difficult a session is, our instructor Suzanne The Great reminds us: “you’re getting stronger.” Although I don’t feel it in the moment, it’s realized later as I attempt other exercises. I’ve noticed, too, my spiritual life is the same way—though I may not feel it sometimes, I know I am growing spiritually.

Just as I’ve committed to strengthening my physical core, I’ve recognized the importance of strengthening other parts me as well. Part of my holistic development includes strengthening my emotional intelligence, and with that, my spiritual life. I learned years ago the value of building a spiritual arsenal. Therefore, I dedicated 2019 to strengthening my core—my spiritual core—through building my spiritual arsenal. Like a physical arsenal, the spiritual arsenal contains ammunition for defense. Unlike a physical arsenal, the spiritual arsenal is also used to edify, rebuild, and uplift. It gives you the tools to encourage yourself when motivation flees, and purpose isn’t as memorable.

Below are a list of resources I’m using to build my arsenal in this season:

• Prayer (talking to God)

• Confessions to my close, intimate circle

• Devotionals

• Yoga

• Online sermons

• Meditation (Exercising Mindfulness)

• Disconnecting from Social Media

• Journaling

• Breathing Exercises

• Minding my words—speaking negatively only enhances negativity

• Reading my go-to Scriptures aloud

• Quality time—whether it’s with myself or with someone else I love

How do you build yourself up? Share your tools and tactics in the comments section!

This post was written by Davia Crutchfield (@Dr.DaviaJnl on Instagram). Visit her page and share your thoughts on this post using #CoreWork.