healing
How to heal fully and properly.
Letters from a Friend
The leather seats squeaked soundly against my weight shifting as the car rolled over the rough suburban pavement. Rain splattered full droplets racing down the side of the tinted dark window, shading the already gray gloomy sky a deep dark purple. The driver’s teeth clacked together, filling the silence with a dull chattering. Letters carefully stacked in my opened leather briefcase scattered across the floor, my head smashed against the passenger side backseat. Burning rubber filled my nose, with a few guttural words the black sedan lurched aggressively forward. I leaned down reaching for a green card resting atop the scrambled pile. Trembling fingers clumsily unfolded the thick card stock, thin scrawled letters surrounded a cartoon pine tree. Looking out over a sea of unfathomable blues, who may guess what lurks beneath the unwieldy surface. Rolling waves threatening to knock this weary traveler off his course, howling winds push and pull. I fear I’ve lost my way, stuck chasing a wake that was of my own making. Endlessly spiraling inwards chasing my own tail. Phantom ships pass in the night, their ghostly tendrils falling upon my empty vessel. I call out in desperation, but the spirits stare through my cries. As if I was naught but a moaning ghost, merely a haunting presence in my own life. The paper fell from my hands, I leaned against the door frame resting my head against the cold dark window. A long concrete walk bridge crossed over four steel train tracks traversing upon a gravel bed. I fought to keep the bridge in my eyeline as we circled around the block. Staring expectedly outside the other window for the large white supports connecting above the walkway. A small post-it clung to the side of the leather seat, its flapping edge waving in my peripheral vision. It is impossible to truly know our own mind and others. How can we be content with ourselves knowing full well the version we see as ourselves does not quite meet with reality. Spying but windows into the cavernous depths too vast to traverse. Just as true of our own minds as it is looking into the eyes of another. Never really knowing where we go, only where we are. The driver cleared his throat, his question swiftly answered with a wave of my hand. We passed the red fire hydrant in front of the footbridge I didn’t yet have the courage to approach. The driver’s brow furrowed in the rear view mirror. My eyes jumped from his gaze turning to my worn leather shoes. A torn out college ruled pag sat on the floor beside the black worn soles. I’m losing my mind, lost in tortuous thoughts of what could be rather than what is. Too much time spent appeasing the whims of those sat atop the pedestal I built. Regressing to a lifestyle wasted on frivolity and copious libations. I walk this lowly road, carved by the rut my mired feet tread. Life’s bloom is ever fleeting, rarely allowing the onlooker a glance at its full colored blossom. I find the season of white covered trees, blanketing all in a final silence. The driver pulled over, the car lurched as his front left wheel rolled onto the curb. He threw his thick hairy arms in the air, glaring at me then the door with mean green eyes. I opened the door, stumbling onto the sidewalk. The black door handle ripped from my grasping hands and the car sped off leaving a trail of papers. The door flapped in the wind until the car pulled a sharp left turn, finally slamming shut. A single pink note rested upon my knee,loopy handwriting filling the delicate note. We go through life with but one purpose. An everlasting search for reasons to perpetuate our fleeting existence. Life which has been filled with trial after trial fraught with pitfalls at every bend. I see now there is but one fascination our mind cannot be rid of. We accrue distraction after distraction hoping the promise of an unquiet peace can dam the endless tide drowning our thoughts. I am left in the middle of a black hole calling us for one final plunge. My tired feet had carried me over to the walkway. I stepped over the small wall blocking passersby from the fall. My thin red tie flew in the breeze as I cautiously shuffled closer to the alluring edge. My hands instinctively reached for my pockets, finding a final folded paper resting at the bottom of my sewn pocket. The breeze attempted to tear the note from my grasp, my balance was tested hanging over the edge with one foot desperately clinging to my life raft. My eyes squinted to read the fading penciled in lines, smudged from the rough handling it was forced to bear. What cycles do we choose to repeat, are we doomed to follow the same path we unwittingly take? Do people not change even if human nature might be everlasting? I know not if I’m a good person but rather how to be better than I was today. Purpose found with intention, deciding that constant improvement is the reason for this so-called life. I cling to my small truths with all my strength, although they are tested constantly by the perspectives of others I am tethered to these humble things. I love myself. Air wooshed past my ears, hair whipping behind as I fell forward with closed eyes. A smile played across my face, my arms stretched out wide as one final thought came over me. I love Myself. My hair changed direction, laying flat by my head as I swooped upwards, brushing the ground with the tips of my toes. My trajectory curved, flying towards the heavens and leaving the cold concrete walk bridge behind.
By William Francis4 years ago in Motivation
The Storm
It’s a Friday night, and I’m home alone sitting at my father's large maple wood desk. Rain is beating angrily against the double windows, and thunder rumbles overhead, making the house tremble. That’s not really what I hear though as my social media pings like a gong in my ears, but I sit frozen, staring at the last text from Jake. It reads: “You’re a disgusting FREAK! “girlfriend” what a joke!!!!! Just kill yourself already!!!!!!!!” He’s right, I think to myself while rubbing my thumb against the cool rigid steel. I exhale deeply with resolve, sit up straight, and press the muzzle against my temple. Unexpectedly the doorbell rings and I jump with shock, sending adrenaline rushing through my veins. I quickly stash the gun back into its drawer, but why? My parents don’t ring their own doorbell. It rings again, and I tell myself to just sit quietly for a moment and surely they’ll go away. It rings a third time and I start to get irritated. Who keeps ringing a doorbell to a house that’s pitch-black inside? I stand up abruptly, pushing the chair out from under me so I can go take a peek at this mystery person. Mystery person indeed, I’ve never seen him before. He’s probably in his thirties, average height, slender build, coconut brown skin with coal-black hair that’s cut to the skin's surface. He rings the bell a fourth time causing me to jump once again. What is this guy's problem!? I think to myself. He can’t know I’m here, right? Maybe he wants to break in, and I’ll be collateral damage if he finds me? Then maybe I should just let him in, save me the trouble of doing it myself, I postulate while finding myself swinging the door open with outrage. “Well!?” I shout in his face. He looks at me with kind brown eyes and says, “I was hoping I could ride out this storm with you.” I flick on the light switch as he casually walks past me into the living room. He stops at the stone fireplace and takes note of some old photographs on the mantle. “Competition swimming. Not a bad metaphor for life, don’t you think?” he says as he slowly turns to look at me. What is this guy on I wonder? Barging in here and then wanting to discuss the meaning of life. I wrinkle my forehead with disdain, but he turns back to the pictures while answering his own question. “By outward appearances, one must stay in their own lane and navigate the waters alone. Now if we were to look at the whole picture, we’d see you didn’t learn to navigate on your own, and although many were there against you, you never entered that water without someone in your corner.” A chill runs down my spine. He knows me. How? I’ve never seen him before, and with my long bleach blonde hair and hourglass figure, I no longer bear any resemblance to that dark-haired boy in those pictures. My mind gives me a reasonable explanation, Jake! Jake must have sent him here to humiliate me or better yet, beat me to death. I close my eyes with acceptance and whisper under my breath, “I’m done with this race anyway.” “Good, because the race is already finished. Don’t you see? You’re part of the symphony. Every moment, every note, that’s what you need to focus on,” he says cheerfully. I’m confused, but find myself a little irritated that he thinks I need a life lesson instead of that beating. I blurt out, “Well, I HATE this moment!” Untroubled, he gently replies, “Then tell yourself, notes aren’t held forever. Each builds upon the one before it, which then flawlessly flows into the next. You just have to keep playing.” This is ridiculous. I don’t need his advice, and even if he was right, then I’m sick of the life I’ve been given. In defiance to his suggestion, I say, “I’m tired of it all. I’d rather it just be over.” “No, you don’t,” he retorts. “You want what is to be replaced with what if. There is no what if that will have value without more high and low notes. Keep playing, but step back and see the bigger picture. Witness that there are those around you playing in concert with you. You’re not alone.” Before I can speak, the doorbell rings again, and it’s followed by pounding on the door. I close my mouth with a grimace and turn to walk towards the front door. It’s my best friend, Alice, from college. Imagine a young Audrey Hepburn and that perfectly describes my friend Alice. I open the door to find her breathless, but she somehow manages to talk ninety miles per hour, “Jeeze Christy, why didn’t you answer my calls or texts. I had to drive here in that god awful storm, I’m lucky I made it in one piece. And go figure, I get here and THEN it decides to stop. I just couldn’t wait any longer though, so here I am. I heard about Jake and what he did. You know I’ll always be here for you, right?” Before I answer her, I twist around to look for the stranger, intending to point out to Alice who I’d been occupying my time with. To my bewilderment, the house is pitch black, with no indication that I’d played host to anyone. Tears begin to breach the corner of my eyes as I turn around to Alice. She takes notice and pulls me in for a giant hug and attests, “You’re not alone.”
By Kimberly Bilton4 years ago in Motivation
Double-Sided Curse of Healing
The double-sided curse of healing, the double-sided curse of healing from past pain, past trauma, from past events that you thought will simply go away if you just squeeze your eyes real tight. The double-sided curse of healing when you thought the horrid events, and decision-making you made as a child will simply fade because you are no longer nine-years-old but now is twenty-nine years old. Oops, they forgot to mention, that your current adult decisions, life events, entanglements, side-flings, and sneaky-links will reopen these wounds, and got you asking yourself “Do a bish need therapy, I thought I was over this?!” Black people don’t need therapy, I must keep this reopen wound locked on the inside so I must stay socially acceptable because this is what the mass media is programming us, and telling us that is how I can finally get my white picket fence, a quarter-acre, and a mule.
By Breionna Myles4 years ago in Motivation
Impossibly Broken
I remember the moment I broke. There were a thousand little cuts beforehand. All of them hurt. Some felt like breaking, but that was just practice pain. I expected the moment to be grandiose, to be incredibly significant. Instead, it was just an overwhelming array of horrible timing, placement, and a statement of truth from a man I adored to the depths of my entire being, who could never love me more than whatever distraction was available to him in any given moment.
By Beth Ogle4 years ago in Motivation
We are all flowers
Written by Knightshade Leone Dad passed on in the fall of 2002’. He was a good guy, liked by all. He wasn’t shy about speaking his mind but he always made sure that he did it in a way that was respectful and tolerant. He was a lifelong Republican, a lot of people his age were but he would always be the first to break party lines to stand up and be counted on the right side of history. Civil rights marches, granting women the right to vote and smaller fights like unionizing the old rubber factory. He’d say “ which right is right!” “ Don’t matter where you come from, what club you belong to or how much money you make, what’s right is right!” He loved dishing out advice and he was good at it. That’s what I remember most fondly about him. Those one or two sentence tutorials on how life should be. Back in the 80s I got myself mixed up in a bad crowd in a bad scene and I was just cooked, emotionally lost, had nothing left. I called of the old man and spilled my guts to One and without 1 ounce of judgment or criticism he says “ Son, your heart is your Thomas Guide and you WILL find your way home.” And do you know that that was all I needed to hear? He knew how to simplify things. He could take a world of hurt and whittle it down to the tip of a pencil for you.
By Knightshade Leone 4 years ago in Motivation
Drop the Ball
Dimmed lights from my grandmother’s small Christmas tree. The crunch of Snyder’s pretzel sticks between my teeth. Muted screams emitting from the voices of pedestrians packed into Times Square through the television, juxtaposed by our family’s quiet round of Apples to Apples on the large floral rug. These were the sensory indicators of New Year’s Eve growing up, when my three-generation trio—my mother, grandmother, and me—would come together, forgo dinner for snacks, and spend the night splitting our attention between board games and the four stations broadcasting live from New York City. After the ball drop signaled the East Coast New Year and my family went to bed, I would spend the last two hours until Arizona’s New Year alone in my room, dreaming up the possibilities of new beginnings from underneath the silk comforter in my grandmother’s guest bedroom.
By Jacqueline Shea4 years ago in Motivation
Meet Coach Christina Lynn
Coach Christina Lynn is one of the most recognized luminaries on the Clubhouse platform. Growing up on the North East Side of Detroit, wasn’t the most ideal childhood upbringing, but it was the one she had to experience in order to learn how to develop thick skin and a tough exterior. Warmly and affectionately known as “Coach”, Christina turned her tribulations into triumphs by learning her own mental blueprint and mastering self-awareness through finding the Most High and learning Biblical principles and the fundamentals of Natural and Universal Law. With this knowledge, she developed tools that have helped her to overcome the lows that can come through the contrast of life.
By Coach Christina Lynn4 years ago in Motivation
Kirill, the Squirrel
Here begins the story of Kirill the squirrel. Kirill lived in a tree amongst the banks of a stream that trickled down a hill beside the house where Boris lived. Boris was the boy who lived in the cottage in a small village amidst a myriad of villages. Green were the rolling hills, on the banks of the stream where the trees sang when the wind played their tunes and music filled the air. Kirill although small, had the power to see beyond the village and into the lives and loves of families outside his realm. I say realm as Kirill felt like he was King and, in a way, he was as he lived a king’s life, free and powerful with a view to the world before him. The tree was his home, his food, and his luxury.
By Suzie M4 years ago in Motivation
And Then I Tasted Two Waters
I filled my colored pouches with tobacco, black to purple, carefully placing the tobacco in the center of the cloth. I then pinched the cloths sides until the tobacco was cradled inside. Most importantly were the prayers that would be offered, offered through this tobacco. Inside the lodge we would tie our prayer bags to the ceiling and let the prayers hang around us like stars suspended in the night. It was night in the lodge. Blankets covered the wooden frame like an animals pelt or how our skin ties to our bones. Once the blankets were tied off and the doors were closed, we all sat inside the lodge. Inside grandmothers womb.
By Forrest Wilkinson4 years ago in Motivation
SoundWaves
Standing out in the rain recover from all the pain being pushed in the lane trying to maintain This life in which I leed be fatal into Existing I’m ready to re-approve the reason why I’ll be living My mind is telling me money heart is telling me dream Walkin not on the edge of life ain’t what it seen to saver in every moment to move along in the future Battling Temptations leaving the ones I’m used to never wanted opinion I keep my thoughts and myself Watch reign of my own image I take it all off the shelf a vision of being major and make it into the city my thoughts is running over the bridge into the gritty I fight it be like a double sword swinging in my lecture the freedom and the ability to never run out on pressure Its making my mind cloudy to focus on what I’m doing They drowning me from the start it’s funny they never knew me-
By Andre Cooper4 years ago in Motivation
