Remember the time when we were a little freer, our minds were more open to new ideas, and our hearts were more open to not judging others based on differences. Am I imagining a time that wasn’t, a time that only existed in my mind?
I think these might have been only fleeting moments when we all seemed to step closer to each other and to understanding. Then, as suddenly as it came, we were pulled back into the all too familiar grip of division, fear of others, and hate. I know it is human nature, the longing for connection, yet here we are, building barriers, shouting slogans, and tearing at the connective tissues of hope.
Unfortunately, some of the people I once believed I knew, who were part of my inner circle, have changed, and I no longer recognize them. It saddens me, as I have grown older and expanded my own understanding of the world, to realize what it means to be open to new ideas, people, and cultures, just how small some people’s minds truly are. My worldview changed as I traveled and saw the world, while others tightened the cocoon around themselves and demanded that nothing change, or worse, that things return to a time they do not even remember.
Even more importantly, my understanding of how we individually affect others expanded, and I became more self-aware of the impact that both acts of kindness and acts of cruelty can have. I walked the grounds of Buchenwald, Dachau, and Auschwitz-Birkenau. I was soul-sick for days; something in my spirit folded up. As a young person, I visited Southern plantations and warehouses where human beings were bought and sold, beaten and belittled simply for their higher melanin. Their humanity ignored in favor of a monstrous false layering of ‘not like us’, therefore inferior to justify the hundreds of years of brutality this nation imposed upon a people they stole from another land, beat, and bred into inhuman enslavement.
By the time I was old enough to understand there was something fundamentally wrong in the world, I had begun to question my place in it. I questioned everything. My place in my family, how I fit with my peers, and where I fit in the world around me. My conclusion? I didn’t fit anywhere; I always seemed oddly outside of those around me. I rebelled, and I paid dearly for my rebellion. I broke my own heart more times than I can count. I had my spirit and my body broken by those who wanted me to fit into boxes that made them comfortable. Yet even when I thought there was nothing left of me, something rose up and fought, demanded I survive.
There are days even now that I question my place in the world, and I wonder why I fought so hard to get this far. There are mornings when I wake up after a restless night of bad dreams, where my body aches, my heart hurts, and my spirit is lonely; I wonder out loud why I fought so hard? There are days when my solitude weighs heavily on me, and I wonder aloud, why am I so alone now when I poured so much into so many for so long?
There are times when my spirit feels weighted down, and my heart is cracking. Those are times when I remember there was another time when it wasn’t like this, and I wonder if maybe the reason some of us 
from that time are still here is as a reminder of those days when we were walking toward something better? I think maybe it is, and those of us who still remember are the quiet reminder that it is worth the fight, even as we break inside.
Yes, it’s terrible today, and it feels as if everything has gone sideways, but some of us remember a different time. We remember, and we know there is a better way, but we also know we failed when we turned our backs and became passive. We own this failure; we may not have voted for it, but we failed to stand up and demand better, so we own it. Now, we must own correcting fifty years of ongoing and persistent destruction of everything we fought for.
If we don’t stand up now, tomorrow is lost, and the promise of this nation, however imperfect, will disappear forever and for all of us.
You know that feeling? You know, the one when you think to yourself, ‘this is it, this might be that one I was looking for!” Yes, that feeling. It doesn’t matter if it is a person, a job, or even some inanimate object; you get that high when you think, “This is the one!”
our own money. Or even when we purchased our first home, and they handed us the keys. It could be anything; each of us has our own idea of what that ‘it’ moment was when all just seemed like it was, well, perfect.
the world around us. Was the shift in the world, or did we somehow lose that spark that made us dance in the rain, laugh at silly jokes, or want to cuddle with someone we loved. When did this happen to so many of us that now we live these terrible lives of isolation, fear, and ever-increasing aloneness?
make life easier. The generation that freed women like me to have careers, own homes, and choose different lives from our mothers. The generation that changed this nation in very real ways, at least for a while, is now the same generation that is miserable because of those changes.
I am sitting here in the quiet of my own space wondering what in all the world I should do with all the spare time I have. You know, the time that stretches in front of me into the horizon of the unknown. I hadn’t thought there would be this narrow and dark void I would be walking along, not now when things should be settled, peaceful, and maybe a bit brighter than they are. But here I am, staring down a future that feels uncertain and frequently terrifying.
journey during the remainder of our lives.
Unfortunately, things don’t always go as planned. Twice in this decade, I thought I had found that person who would stay, walk beside me, and partner with me as an equal. I was wrong; in the end, they were there for what they could get for themselves. At the end of the day, I was always wrong. Ultimately, I learned that broken trust breaks something inside of us that isn’t easily repaired.
Loss is something we all face across the years of our life. The circle of life includes the end stage, Death, and we can do nothing to avoid it. We all face Death; it is profound and life-changing for many of us. Death forces us to examine our own lives every single time someone we know dies, whether that person is a casual acquaintance or dearly beloved. Whoever the dead is, we are touched somehow; we look inward despite ourselves.
We all have those days when we simply want to stay in bed, pull the covers up and hope that the world will pass by quickly. Everyone has those days. Most of us don’t give in; we put our feet on the floor and get on with it, whatever it is. We know better than to give in to the inclination to hide from the world, no matter how much we wish for a day without the noise. We roll out from our cocoon of safety and plaster on an acceptable look of interest, even a smile, at the appropriate times throughout the day. We hide behind our walls of social acceptability and apologize to others for our moments of snappishness while inside, we howl and wail.
doesn’t do a damned thing for me, and your demand is just another powerplay that I no longer give a damn about.
It would be best if you minded your business. All these people with thoughts on how others should ‘look’ really do try my patience. It is no wonder I have retreated further and further into my introversion over the years. Yes, my hair is nearly all gray now. I stopped coloring it almost three years ago during COVID. I am sixty-five years old and have earned that silver for the love of all that is holy. I am not trying to fool anyone into believing I am ten years younger. As for the rest, why? That is an honest question, why should I wake in the morning to don make-up that does not make me feel better about myself, so others are comfortable with my public face? My one concession, I have tattooed eyeliner; it saves me time. As for the rest of my tattoos, why does anyone need to express an opinion? First, I love my art; second, some of my art covers scars that I found far more offensive; finally, all of my art tells the story of my life. I have tattoos to help me heal, but it is, frankly, no one’s business. Why do people believe they can judge and speak their judgment? All I can say is mind your business, walk in my shoes, spend even a week in my life and then talk to me or just shut the fuck right up.
him, I think he cares that we speak to him at all, that we have a relationship and come with our hearts open, even when we are afraid, or angry, or hurt. I speak to God, I also pray. These are separate things and possibly misunderstood by many. When I pray, I do so in private; I pray for those I love, I pray for those who need prayer, who need healing, who need to be lifted up. I pray for patience and grace for myself because I do not have much of these things. I greatly resent those who would tell me how to speak to God or pray; you do it your way, and I will do it mine. Thus far, God has not sent a lightning bolt to smite me for my irreverence.
My silence is indicative of my battle with the blues and my aversion to making it public. Isn’t it odd, I have known for years I battle this insidious and all-encompassing emotional sea. This time, I let the waves take me further out, nearly sinking me. This time, I gave free rein to my nature and thus failed to notice as the blues silenced me and built my walls higher and stronger than they had been in years. This time, I looked out of my already well-built bubble of introspection and introversion, shrugged my shoulders and said, ‘fuck it, I am fine, I am good; I can’t care’.
on the world stage when we aren’t a diplomatic nightmare. Our politics and our politicians belittle the dream of America and turn us into a Reality TV show for the amusement of the world. We have lost our way, our demons are on the stage and we must select which one will lead us into perdition.
My silence is indicative of the blues. I understand it is easy when you combine a natural introvert with the blues it is easy to do what I have done. So now, I will try to knock the wall back down. So much of the time I feel so very much alone, so very much as if I have to do this on my own. This I think, this reluctance to open the door and let others in, let others help me, let myself be disappointed again; this is another part of the blues.
QBG_Tilted Tiara 