We Really Only Have Each Other

It has been months since I’ve written a blog post. Reflecting on my “writer’s block”,  I realized the winter months delivered much unexpected trauma no thanks to the former Commander-in-Chief. Further distracted by my anger over the mounting COVID cases and deaths due to the selfish travels of indifferent Americans and the swift onset of mass shootings as spring welcomed eased restrictions, these persistent upheavals gave rise to an ambivalence about my own purpose in the world.

It’s been difficult getting inspired to write as I’m plagued by the questions of “Why am I doing this?” , “What is it all for?” I can’t seem to remain grounded in my identity as a writer because I know it requires a certain focused resistance to the turbulence of the outside world, and an acute sensitivity to it at the same time. It calls for an internal discipline that pushes against the excuses I often narrate to myself on any given day–a commitment to a calling that tests and nags me all at once.

Then there is the looming expectation of success. To be a writer–an artist–is to constantly seek the external validation that gives our work legitimacy. Any attempt to be published catapults writers into this strange vicious circle of being told that we will be published when we have a a platform of readers, but then wondering how do we build a platform of readers if we are never published? The modern devices of social media force us to be “branded”–pushing our words into contrived notions of who we should be in order to make a pitch. Not very inspiring.

So, what brought me back to the page?

It was the simplest of statements from a cherished friend from my past.

“You never get up from writing and say, well that was a waste of time.”

In that instant, I felt both convicted and seen. His words took my breath away.


“. . I often worried that post-pandemic, we humans wouldn’t learn the lessons and would resume our blind pursuit of things, power, titles, and attention, with little to no reverence for what was lost this past year.”

This conversation with this particular friend, Andrew, was probably one of the great surprises of the Zoom call life that has become commonplace in our pandemic reality. I have had several reconnections with former colleagues, classmates, and members of other tribes over the past year. Commiserating over the weight and incredulity of the pandemic, many of those calls were borne from a subtle desperation in such trying times, grasping for a moment to step “outside” of the walls that were locking us all in.

The two hours I spent zooming with Andrew landed markedly different. While witnessing a year and a half of distance from those we love the most, I often worried that post-pandemic, we humans wouldn’t learn the lessons and would resume our blind pursuit of things, power, titles, and attention, with little to no reverence for what was lost this past year. I have yet to hand down a verdict on how we’re doing–the outlook is mixed–but I am grateful for those 120 minutes that were a beautiful reminder of the inspired nature and magic of human connection no matter distance or time.

Let me set the stage. Andrew and I first met in 7th grade at Frelinghuysen Middle School. Probably an unlikely pair to share a bond, we managed to suffer our way through years of French classes together into high school, although I think I abandoned him in AP French Lit our senior year. Why unlikely? If we were cast in a John Hughes flick of our era, Andrew would be the quintessential leading man–tall, good-looking, athletic, smart, and a ridiculously nice guy–a Molly Ringwald crush, for sure.

I, on the other hand, would be the goofy, theatre and chorus nerd with little to no lines, chatting in the background of some cafeteria scene. I was the girl who accidently caught her hair on fire in chemistry class. I was awkwardly all over the place before being awkward was a thing. I could have been Issa Rae’s role model.

Fast forward about 32 years since our last conversation and there we were face to face on Zoom. The details of how we arrived at that moment are probably less important–Facebook friends, career stuff, yada, yada, yada. As we peeled back the layers of our lives, we ended at a place of sincere vulnerability, both contemplating our identities as writers-mine, new and unformed, his, disciplined and yet a bit more measured.

But it wasn’t just the surprise of a common bond of writing that touched me. It was this unspoken agreement to hold space organically and authentically for whatever came up. Perhaps that could be credited to the crazy mix of our history as Morristown Gen Xers, our careers as consultant and coach, and the wear and tear of a global pandemic, social unrest, and an attempted coup. Certainly, our collective need for thoughtful and healing human connection cannot be understated. By whatever means it evolved, it was just refreshing to not have any airs, defenses, or postures that too often define human interactions in this day and age.

When I got off the call, not only did I finally feel a spark to write again, but I allowed myself a moment of playful nostalgia about my friendship with Andrew. The summer after our 8th grade year, we were both part of a motley crew of 13 middle school students on a whirlwind two-week tour around Europe. Hours spent on our own full-size charter bus, we galivanted through Spain, Switzerland, Germany, and France with just two chaperones, often left to our own devices between sightseeing and meals. It’s a wonder we all survived that adventure.

“. .there really is nothing more meaningful than being fully present to someone’s else’s humanity.”

In typical adolescent fashion, the girls on the trip tended to hang with the girls, the boys with the boys, simply maintaining the natural order of things. But, at one point, my inner tomboy grew weary of all that girl energy and I parked myself in a seat on the bus next to Andrew for a chat. I don’t recall whether it was by invitation or intrusion, but I do remember just being able to relax, bantering about whatever teenage concerns were on deck at the moment.

Melding my reflections about our middle-aged reconnection with the memories of the carefree leisure of our youth, it’s so easy to see that there really is nothing more meaningful than being fully present to someone else’s humanity.

And to do so is a choice.


Of course, my deduction is neither profound nor unique, but how many of us can honestly say that we live in this space, whether with long lost friends or our nearest and dearest? What does it mean and what does it take to consciously create safe spaces of vulnerability for and with others? I could certainly do better, especially with those who love me the most. It’s helpful to have this reminder as my reunion with my mother and son draws closer.

Collectively, we’re not well trained for this. If we were, it would be impossible to conceive of separating children from their families, refusing to comply to basic safety measures that would protect the health and lives of others, or constructing laws and systems that persistently deny the rights and humanity of others. We take something that should be so natural and gentle–our capacity to connect–and we distort it to what end?

The isolation and loss from the pandemic have been unmatched in their brutality on our psyches and I keep hoping that we will come back kinder and more conscious to our genuine need for each other. Setting aside the egoic tendencies to dominate or best one another so that we can be of service to the moment.

I never would have imagined that 30+ years of time and distance from a school friend would deliver one of the most fulfilling conversations of the year. But, there we were.

And here we all are, beckoned to the highest calling of merely being present to and for one another.

The Air of Representation

“In Soul, Pixar is asking to have it both ways–pat us on the back for this beautifully crafted, non-stereotypical depiction of a Black man, but forget that the character who serves as his antagonist is a white woman.”

The opening cacophony of instruments lured me in immediately as I was reminded of Emmanuel’s early middle school days learning to play the trombone. When the energetic and encouraging music teacher, Joe, took to his piano, I was further catapulted to the moments when I was enchanted by Emmanuel’s father, Raliegh, and his own extraordinary skills on keys. A lovesick girl in my twenties, I followed him around the New York music scene through late-night gigs and sleepy cab rides back to Brooklyn.

Soon after, Soul, transported me to the New York City streets that I hold near to my heart as a proud native–the impeccable detail given to the West Village jazz club, the awning of the Jamaican food restaurant, even one of the seamstresses resembled my own mother, bent over her sewing machine with a fierce bob and reading glasses delicately balanced on her nose. I was so immersed in the Blackness of it all that it came as such a shock when suddenly, Joe, our delightful protagonist, perished down a manhole.

“That felt like a clever manipulation to serve as a pre-emptive strike to both justify and diffuse the character’s identity.”

I don’t want to rehash every plot detail of the movie from this point. I was definitely all in, particularly excited by the introduction of a cat because I love a cat under any circumstance.

Following the story from climax to resolution, I enjoyed the film’s bold exploration of the thin veil that exists between our 3-dimensional world and the spiritual realm. It’s an enduring comfort as I still grieve the transition of my father. The life lessons Joe learned were noble and universal and the presentation of Black life without the typical tragedies and stereotypes was long overdue, but refreshing. And yet, emotionally, something didn’t feel right in the end for me.

And this has been where the great debate over this film resides.

After I finished the film and sat with this uncomfortable feeling, I was going to turn to my Facebook family to help me out as it’s always a ripe space for nerdy discourse about all things pop culture. But, I paused as I read several glowing, heartfelt testimonials about the film from my cherished Black connections. I genuinely questioned what I was feeling until a friend sent me an article that offered a more critical perspective of the film. With this author’s analysis, I thought perhaps I wasn’t so crazy after all.

The big question about Soul is whether or not Tina Fey’s character, 22, is a white woman. She is literally a blue blob waiting to be dispatched to Earth to incarnate in a physical body. The film’s writers even went so far as to have her claim she chose a white woman’s voice and persona because she knew it would be annoying. Hmm. . okay. That felt like a clever manipulation to serve as a pre-emptive strike to both justify and diffuse the character’s identity. And maybe this wouldn’t matter in any other film, but this is a film unapologetically about a Black man and Black life, so it’s unfair in the post-game analysis to ask Black people to suspend the notion that 22 is not white, especially since Tina Fey’s voice has such a prominent presence in the film.

“It is this visual reference point that made Matthew Broderick’s casting as Simba in The Lion King so incongruent to James Earl Jones’s Mufasa and Madge Sinclair’s Sarabi.”

There was a time when animated films did not call on the voice talents of Hollywood’s A-listers. Do any of you know the name of the voice of Ariel from The Little Mermaid or Belle from Beauty and the Beast? I would guess that Robin Williams changed the game in his star turn as the Genie in Aladdin and soon, our expectations changed and so did the animated film industry. Now, characters are created to evoke a visual reference for us as viewers.

Maui from Moana simply wouldn’t work if Dwayne Johnson was swapped out for Neil Patrick Harris. Kevin Hart is Snowball in The Secret Life of Pets, it’s undeniable. I know I’m looking at a little white bunny, but my mind sees little Kevin Hart and those faces he makes. It is this visual reference point that made Matthew Broderick’s casting as Simba in The Lion King so incongruent to James Earl Jones’s Mufasa and Madge Sinclair’s Sarabi. To ask viewers to deny Tina Fey’s personification of whiteness as this character is to ask us to do something counter to every other animated feature film we view.

In Soul, Pixar is asking to have it both ways–pat us on the back for this beautifully crafted, non-stereotypical depiction of a Black man, but forget that the character who serves as his antagonist is a white woman. Forget that fact as she not only inhabits his body, but then attempts to steal it. Forget that fact as he exposes her to the everyday beauty and joy that is his life and she expresses more entitlement to it than gratitude. Forget that fact as Joe is the one that must apologize to her, for what I still don’t know, so that she can be redeemed in the end. Nothing was required of her.


A few weeks ago, I penned the post, Ain’t I Still a Woman? in which I expressed my disappointment with The Queen’s Gambit and its stereotypical depiction of a Black girl who ultimately gives her life savings to the white woman protagonist who did nothing to deserve it. She took her cash, bought a bunch of fancy outfits to wear to Russia to play in her tournament, and is seen as the triumphant heroine. Some have called the show a “feminist romp.”

When I write these particular reflections/critiques, I do it against the backdrop of an almost 30-year career facilitating diversity, equity, and inclusion work–at least, that’s what we’re calling it now. Over the decades, my perspective on where our focus should be has changed a lot. Having grown up as an upper middle-class Black girl, I was lulled into believing that Black folks, like my family, just needed to work hard to surmount the prevailing perceptions of us as a people. Then, I started to understand the concept of white privilege and that white folks were free from the same negative perceptions simply because their experience and lives were normalized in society.

Now, the most prominent lens I use to understand these issues and challenges is that of the pathology of white supremacy and how it is the air we all breathe. The pathology is defined by the behaviors and mindsets that are birthed out of a false perception of superiority that is reinforced by every societal institution from how clothes are designed to who gets to lead the government. Anyone who benefits from this construct will consciously or unconsciously engage in behaviors to maintain that sense of superiority, even if it requires hypocrisy, dishonesty, theft, or violence and never includes accountability.

Why does this matter to an animated feature film?

For too many Black people, these behaviors have been a persistent source of harm to us. From the board room to a hotel lobby–you’ve seen the latest video of a white woman who literally assaults a Black kid because she insists he stole her phone–the need to hold onto this position of superiority by any means necessary without accountability is dangerous and traumatizing. The inception of Soul was likely years ago before we were assaulted by “Karens”, Trump, and Amy Cooper, but our current context makes the visceral emotional reaction to this film about much more than trying to be “woke.”

So, for many of us who saw this blue blob claim she was embodying the annoying persona of a “white woman” and then proceeded to engage in the behaviors that reinforced that persona and was then redeemed without any accountability, it stopped being funny or even safe. The tenderness and humility with which Joe offered his apology to her just reinforced deep rooted sentiments that govern the way we interact with each other as consumers of this same toxic air.

And while I want to acknowledge that Pixar brought in consultants and a Black man to co-direct the story and character development, he is not Pixar and consulting is not decision-making. Kemp got Joe right, from top to bottom. Soul was brilliant in its Blackity-blackness and that felt completely undermined by the decision to submit this beautifully-flawed Black man to, as my friend put it, “a petulant child.”


“How might it have felt to see such compassion, humility, and love offered to the personification of a Black woman?”

In my opinion, Joe was absolutely right. 22’s discovery about life on Earth was because she was in his shoes. She appropriated the joy and honor and respect that comes with being in his skin and in that way, he redeemed her. An ironic reflection of our real life in the US, in which the contributions of Black people are what often give life and soul to our society. Our music, our vernacular, our style, our flavor, and even our vote.

I took some time to ponder what it would have felt like if 22 was voiced by a Black woman and I imagined that scene where Joe offers his hand and silences the angry, judgmental voices that surround 22. How might it have felt to see such compassion, humility, and love offered to the personification of a Black woman? The idea brought a tear to my eye because that isn’t something we ever really see or feel that often, if at all.

I watched the movie again looking through the eyes of its champions and I kept asking myself if I could separate this white woman persona from this blue blob and it was impossible. I probably oversimplified my first analysis that this was just a roundabout way to save a white woman, but I didn’t feel any better after the second viewing about 22’s resolution and that’s probably due to my own experiences with these pathological dynamics, some still very fresh.

At any rate, the debate about this film is extraordinary and that’s important and so in that regard, well done, Pixar. I still think there is a lot more work to be done in clearing the air that we breathe and letting Black people lead when our stories are told. More importantly, I would hope that white creators, whether animators or otherwise, choose to look through the lens other than the white gaze and consider what redemption should look like from multiple nuanced perspectives. Ironically, that’s the very thing that Joe learned to do.

Image courtesy of Disney Pixar

Ain’t I Still a Woman?

In 1981, bell hooks, renowned author, feminist, professor, and social activist, released her book, Ain’t I a Woman?, quoted above. The title is a nod to a speech given by Sojourner Truth at the Women’s Convention in 1851 in which Sojourner makes the case that enslaved Negro women are not regarded as women by men whether they are making the case for or against women’s equal rights.

“That man over there says that women need to be helped into carriages,
and lifted over ditches, and to have the best place everywhere. Nobody
ever helps me into carriages, or over mud-puddles, or gives me any best
–Sojourner Truth

130 years later, bell hooks took this idea and expanded on it in the wake of the modern Women’s Rights movement of the Sixties and Seventies in which she critically points out through personal accounts and deeper analysis that the white feminist movement did not regard race as relevant, often leaving Black women left out of the conversation in the fight for equality. It’s a phenomenal read, one that unfortunately, seems to still be relevant so many years later.

Shortly after the death of RBG and the rushed nomination of Amy Coney Barrett, there was buzz to revive the pink pussy hat demonstrations in protest of the nomination. In a Facebook group of which I am a part, a woman posted a caution to white women to be mindful of inclusivity as many women of color did not feel that the pink pussy hat was representative of their participation.

Now, there is some debate about what part of our anatomy we are referring to with the hat–vagina? vulva? I thought the hat was a symbol of protest to Trump’s ascension to the presidency because of his declaration that he, in fact, grabs women by the pussy. That being the case, I can assure you that on a Black or brown woman, nothing that he would be able to see and grab down there is pink.

One respondent to the post, while claiming she didn’t care what color the hats were, felt that we should not be distracted by “small battles” between us. I felt compelled to point out that Black women’s fight for inclusivity is no small battle. Sojourner Truth took up the mantle 170 years ago! Unfortunately, instead of acknowledging that it was a mistake to belittle such an important issue, the respondent stuck to the fragility playbook. First, she accused me of suggesting that we don’t protest at all which I did not do. Then, she said that snotty words were being used. No idea what that was about. Yet, there was zero acknowledgement that her calling the fight for inclusivity a “small battle” was problematic.

I just sighed and kept it moving.


And that’s usually what we do, sigh and move on. Believe me when I say that most Black folks are trying to live life with some semblance of joy and satisfaction. We know racial bias is out there, but it would be debilitating to one’s sanity to expect it with every interaction. So when it shows up, sometimes all we can do to preserve our peace is to sigh, keep it moving, and search for the next moment of joy.

My own pivot was to turn my sights towards The Queen’s Gambit, a new Netflix show about which everyone was raving. I generally trust my peeps and their entertainment choices so I was all in. I nestled into my bed with my computer poised for the long haul and the cat snoozing at my feet. As the opening minutes rolled out on the screen, I was intrigued and even sympathetic to the little girl whose life had changed so tragically with the death of her mother. Vulnerable and alone, Beth, our protagonist, was swallowed up by the high walls, stern wooden staircases, and towering adults welcoming her into the orphanage.

“Meanwhile, Black women are out here saving the Republic, one vote at a time, and still forced to see ourselves in the same old tropes.”

Drawn into this tiny child’s plight, I was jarred to attention by the voice in the distance. We, the viewers, are assaulted by a stream of obscenities and screams from a character hidden among the rooms and corridors of the orphanage. To my ear, the voice was adult-like, spewing words like “cocksucker”. The shocked curiosity on Beth’s face was matched by the frustrated glance between the headmistress and the orderly as in unison, they utter the name of the culprit, Jolene.

In true storytelling form, the screenwriter and director had done their job. They signaled to us that eventually we would meet this mystery troublemaker, Jolene, and she would likely serve as a contrast to Beth, our innocent, strawberry-blond heroine whose face graces all of the series’ promotional materials. Another signal as to for whose gaze this content was made.

As the minutes ticked by, I had forgotten all about Jolene, distracted by Beth’s slow, detailed orientation into her new home. The headmistress’s subdued sense of control suggested a sinister nature that had yet to be unveiled. And then we meet Jolene, a sassy Black girl who is revealed as the resident expert on the good drugs. Everything in me sunk as I was face-to-face with the age-old archetype of a Black female character. Jolene had already made her debut off-screen. She was loud, aggressive, hypersexual. Perhaps I let my guard down, but I really did not expect that this offering in 2020 would present this lazy, unimaginative, and played-out characterization of a Black girl.

I tried to push through, to sigh and keep it moving but I couldn’t continue my viewing. I was hurt so I turned it off and took to Facebook to express my dismay. Most felt my frustration, others felt a bit of shame that they had been numb to what I had noticed. My fourth grade teacher–yes, my fourth-grade teacher found me on Facebook–said she understood my feelings, but wishes that I had watched it through to the end.

Hmm, the end. Spoiler alert. You mean when an adult Jolene magically reappears after being absent for all of the episodes since the beginning, declares she’s a paralegal having an affair with a white lawyer at her law firm and decides to give her life savings to Beth for her to play in a chess tournament? The end–where I get to see this lone Black female character portrayed as a Jezebel and a Mammy in one shot? I passed. My friend, Kate, offered the most interesting critique when she said that Jolene gave Beth her life savings and she did nothing to even deserve it. Mind. Blown.

This is how white feminism continues to fail Black women. We’re supposed to sit through our discomfort for the cause of elevating white women’s presence and power in the world. Now, there’s all this talk about girls having a renewed interest in chess. People far and wide are heaping praise on this miniseries for its “legacy.” Are you kidding me? In this day and age, white mothers would never let their daughters tolerate being portrayed as nothing less than empowered and strong. Your girls are superheroes now, saving themselves and each other. Meanwhile, Black women are out here saving the Republic, one vote at a time, and still forced to see ourselves in the same old tropes.


Back in October, Trevor Noah interviewed Chris Rock about a few key issues, including the BLM movement. I highly recommend watching this interview. In it, Chris poses the question, “What is the ask?” He’s down with the movement, but he believes that Black folks need to have clarity and think big about what are we really asking for from White America.? Asking cops not to murder us does seem like a pretty low bar.

“The pats on the back to Black folks who use their voices and stand up simply are not enough because this is not our work to do. You are not the allies. You own the frontlines.”

In the wake of the pandemic, the glaring disparities in healthcare, economics, education, etc. have been laid bare before us, making a compelling case for reparations. Pulitzer prize-winning journalist Nikole Hannah-Jones details a comprehensive argument in The New York Times article, What Is Owed, articulating the vast array of opportunities and assets that have been systematically denied the very people who built this country. The facts are simple–the collective wealth and power of the United States is a direct result of four hundred years of free slave labor. While individual prosperity can be attributed to a long-standing system of advantages from policies intended to exclude and discriminate.

But, the repair that must be made does not just involve these larger issues, like obliterating police brutality or creating pathways to building generational wealth. The fight against the mindset and behaviors that come with the scourge of white supremacy is a daily discipline that usually requires white people to step into discomfort again and again. The pats on the back to Black folks who use their voices and stand up simply are not enough because this is not our work to do. You are not the allies. You own the frontlines.

I don’t begrudge anyone who watched The Queen’s Gambit beginning to end. Locked in, we’re all in search of really good storytelling. But, imagine how powerful it would be if those same women who are raving about this movie would flood the film’s social media platforms with words about the representation of this Black character in equal measure? If you accept whatever is given to you to validate your white gaze, then you are not making repairs, you are complicit in doing more damage.

We often hear the complaint that Black people make everything about race. Most things are about race, but not in the way people might think. When a society is constructed on the unjustified elevation of a race and establishes its institutions and power structures on this premise, to challenge that society is to fine tune one’s awareness to every facet of that premise–media, language, behavior, relationships–everything. So, if you are truly invested in righting the many wrongs resulting from this construct, you are committing to the nonstop work that it requires.

And that is the ask.

Top image courtesy of http://www.goodreads.com

To learn more about bell hooks, see this article penned in 2019 by Min Jin Lee about the impact of her legacy.

A Nation in Trauma

“Will we immerse ourselves in love, joy, and gratitude? Will we shift our focus from power and possessions to collective action and the creation and appreciation of beauty in the world?”

It has been nearly impossible to get words on the screen these days. The energy in the air is both stagnant and buzzing with stress and anticipation. Coronavirus fatigue is palpable as cases surge around the globe and the stakes of the US election have nerves frayed.

My current emotional state brought me back to the days of the Deepwater Horizon oil spill in 2010. Still considered one of the biggest environmental disasters in US history, it lasted from April 20 to September 19. I can still feel the stress from watching the “spill cam” with the knowledge that animal and plant life in the Gulf were being destroyed and would likely never be the same. Watching gallons of oil pour into that vital ecosystem was traumatic. I just wanted it to stop.

Since Inauguration Day, maybe even before, Americans far and wide, have been experiencing a daily trauma at the hands of a narcissistic sociopath, enabled by a group of power-hungry, soulless bastards who do not give a damn about the citizens of the country. I scroll through my Facebook feed, checking in on friends and family and I bear witness to the impact of daily trauma–fatigue, overeating, grief, drinking, rage.

“The slow ticking of days until January 20th is haunting and urgent.”

We watched as 2020 took Chadwick, Ruth, and Eddie, meanwhile the Monster-in-Chief, pumped up on steroids, is essentially blackmailing the American public, takes zero responsibility as a COVID-19 super-spreader and has callously poised himself to take health insurance away from millions of Americans with the hypocritical ramming through of a Supreme Court nominee. The abuse is unrelenting, blow after blow.

The imperative to rid ourselves of this disaster of a president is beyond the soul of the nation. Our mental and physical well-being are at stake. My 74 year-old mother’s sanity and my son’s future and hope in the world are at stake. The slow ticking of days until January 20th is haunting and urgent. We simply cannot endure another four years of Donald Trump. I just want it to stop.


Living with the reality of Trump atop the largest platform in the world has been trying for all of us. We cannot deny this fact. For many the impact has been acute with the loss of a loved one, business or a home–the grief and repairs will be enduring. But for most of us, it’s unclear what healing will be required to recover from this national nightmare. I live at a distance from the United States and yet I still bear the weight of this national tragedy.

Recently, I was moved by a Demi Lovato song titled “Commander in Chief” that the Lincoln Project used in a powerful political ad. The images and lyrics were undeniable in their conviction, not just of the president, but of all of us. One line, in particular, should inspire us to examine deeply the state of our character.

If I did the things you do, I couldn’t sleep. Seriously.”

How do we emerge from this moment committed to being better every day? Trump will not become better. He’s emotionally incapable of it. But, what about the rest of us? Will we immerse ourselves in love, joy and gratitude? Will we shift our focus from power and possessions to collective action and the creation and appreciation of beauty in the world?

My son, Emmanuel, is a self-proclaimed and unapologetic introvert. Since he was little, he has lived contently in his internal world not inclined to demand too much attention. Unfortunately for him, he was born to two outrageously extroverted parents who can be hyper-obsessed with his well-being. We exhaust him with probative questions about his emotional state. Perhaps we’re projecting our own stress and mild depression onto him. But during these difficult times, it is really hard to tell if he’s okay because no one is okay.

During my latest bombardment about school, potential thoughts about college, and a 3-point plan of ways for him to stay active while virtual learning, Emmanuel interrupted me and said he took a picture the other day that he meant to send to me. I took a pause from my motherly lecture and opened the photo on my phone and just like that, Emmanuel disarmed me with this:

A bunny. In an instant, this teenage boy who had graciously listened to me go on for about 30 minutes about whether or not he was depressed and if he wanted to take a gap year and that he should start weightlifting brought me back to our days of our long hikes in the Bay when he was little and would spot the most obscure bug on a leaf in the brush.

Emmanuel came upon the bunny while walking in his neighborhood and he said the bunny didn’t run off afraid, but let him approach and then continue on his way. And for the couple of days that followed, I can’t tell you how many times I have thought about this bunny and how my 16-year old kid knew that seeing a picture of it would bring me a little peace and joy during these insane times.


I know staring at a bunny picture will not motivate real change. I’ve been disappointed to hear all the news stories about how online holiday shopping should start earlier and could be on the rise. Really? Who gives a shit? Has the fact that our planet is completely falling apart because of our excessive consumption and waste not sunk in at all? How many fires will it take? How many storms and floods? No matter as long as Target, Amazon, and Walmart are making the big bucks. . .

“He never acted entitled to it, he merely observed it. And from it, he learned enduring lessons about life, in particular, how to seek and experience joy.”

In another attempt to escape the insanity, I watched a beautiful documentary the other evening. A well-timed recommendation from a friend. My Octopus Teacher is an extraordinary story about a man who meets an octopus and examines her world and the brilliance with which she navigates it. Both longing for connection, they manage to build a relationship, animal to man, as equals. The beauty of the film is that the man never imposed on her world. He never acted entitled to it, he merely observed it. And from it, he learned enduring lessons about life, in particular, how to seek and experience joy.

As a nation, we have been subjected to a joyless, empty shell of a man in Donald Trump. There is no joy in his presidency, nor in his presence and I realize now that this is the trauma. In the Obamas, we saw a family who smiled, loved, and laughed. They were playful and elegant and even if the policies of the administration did not match one’s political leanings, we still felt good seeing their light shine.

I hope we are able to reclaim our joy when Trump loses this election. But, it’s not just about Trump. I believe we will all have to redefine and rediscover joy. It has to be more than something we wish for during a season. It has to permeate our daily lives in order for true healing to occur. Perhaps that will mean resetting our values and reimagining our institutions. Or turning to the most humble creatures among us to teach us the lessons that we need to learn.

She said, “Breathe into your Vagina.”

“I know that whatever short term gains these men think they have achieved will eventually wither in comparison to the rot and deterioration that is happening inside of them.”

So, just to clarify, this wasn’t some strange contortionist directive nor an experiment in self-pleasure, but I did get your attention, didn’t I? Actually, this imperative came from an energy healer, Gina Heatley, in a Reiki course, as I explained my anxiety over the looming uncertainty that was hanging over my life in the midst of the lockdown. She was calling my attention to the sacral chakra, our energy center for personal power and creativity. It is the energy center that encompasses our reproductive organs–powerful stuff.

As I let her guidance settle in, I contemplated the many blocks to accessing pure creative feminine power–self doubt, misogyny, trauma, inner child wounds, shame–it’s all there for many of us. Clearing away those issues with breath and attention was profoundly powerful and it awakened me to the undeniable strength and wisdom that reside in women. Of course, men have a sacral chakra and ironically, many are not shy about calling attention to their reproductive organs, often with distortion and aggression and to their own demise. But it is women who must begin to fully understand the power of that energy, especially during such turbulent times.

Internalizing this understanding, I curated my own conversations with women and was inspired every week by the insights, vulnerabilities, and perspectives offered from all over the world. Voices came in from California to the Czech Republic, from New Hampshire to Berlin on topics ranging from intention to synchronicities to love. I was honored to be in the presence of these women and at the same time, wishing for their voices to be heard farther and wider.

Some drops of wisdom were:

“Stop trying to fit into spaces that aren’t meant for me to hold.”

“Your champions will meet you where you make the choice to be.”

“Don’t take more space than you need.”

“Don’t be afraid to be in your own silence.”

“Who would you be if no one told you who you are?”

At a time when we are mourning the loss of a true heroine, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, I hope all women remember the strength of their own power. Ruth battled against an unrelenting patriarchy and fought with such power and force against illness without excuses. She deserves to rest now, but what a shining legacy of the power of being a woman. Ruth was all sacral energy!

It’s hard not to be discouraged during these times. I find the blatant hypocrisy and lack of accountability of the white men in power traumatizing to the soul. I know that whatever short term gains these men think they have achieved will eventually wither in comparison to the rot and soul deterioration that is happening inside of them.

In the meantime, I will continue to celebrate all women and the power that lies within us. We have great work ahead so get to breathing into those vaginas, ladies!

Check out all ten conversations in the Mombbatical Mindset series here!

For more information about Gina’s healing services, go to https://www.healing-with-gina.com/

For a deeper exploration of the 7 Chakras or energy centers, check out Caroline Myss’s work at https://www.myss.com/chakras/

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