Preciousness

February is a month of love, Black history and culture, remembrance.  This month of February I have been reminded of all of these things, especially how precious a day is, the preciousness of life itself.  I have reminded my children about the struggles we have dealt with as a race and culture and that we must do the very best that we can to walk into our purpose and passion.  Our ancestors didn’t do much complaining, with far less resources, and they simply did what they had to do to survive.

It appears that I am still in this season of lack.  Lacking the necessary resources to live comfortably and do some things that I haven’t been able to do the past few years.  Travel as I wish, family vacations, treating myself to a gift that’s slightly extravagant.  But I am reminded of the resources that I have within me, to write and encourage others.  This month I finally finished my first work, my anthology of poetry, and I finally have a work that I am proud of.  And in reading it, I truly realized how far I’ve come.  I also realized that people are simply who they are.  Most don’t mean to hurt you, offend you, beat you down, but they do.  Some people love to hate you, others hate to love you, and some love you unconditionally, without limitation or stipulation.

                I am finally coming into myself, having a better understanding of what my purpose is, and knowing the difference between my purpose and my passion, and it feels great.  During our precious journey through life we encounter many obstacles and road blocks, but we still muster this courage to do incredible things.  We somehow come to this place where we beat insurmountable odds with grace, dignity and faith, and during the days and times that I feel defeated, I think back to my ancestors, my grandmothers.  How they were able to do so much with so little.

                During this month I was reminded again of my hometown and the senseless inner city shootings and killings of innocent people.  Two individuals that I have known personally were shot, one has survived, and the other is a young woman, not even 25 years old and leaves two children behind.  Again, I am reminded of the preciousness of life, a day, my daughter’s smiles, touch and laughter and I am reminded that my life isn’t so bad at all. 

There are some men who are not men at all.  Some men who think that they are men because they have fathered children, some men who are not raising their children, who are not spending quality time with their children who make all types of excuses to not be men and fully involved, especially if they are outside of the home.  There are women who are settling for anything, not living by a standard for their lives and the lives of their children, not protecting themselves against allowing men they hardy know into their homes, giving of their bodies, finding themselves deceived, allowing themselves to be deceived just for the sake of having some man.  While I’m here, I will do, breathe, and love, through lack, hurt and pain, I will embrace the preciousness of my life and continue to set a standard for my children and knowing that I am flawed, but still precious.  We make time for the things that we want to make time for.  So today, I ask you to make time for a friend, a family member, your children and recognize the preciousness all around you.

Peace and blessings,
Shamina

Still I Rise

You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? 'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells Pumping in my living room. Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise. Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops. Weakened by my soulful cries. Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard 'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines Diggin' in my own back yard. You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I'll rise. Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I've got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs? Out of the huts of history's shame I rise Up from a past that's rooted in pain I rise I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise. Angelou, Maya  http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/still-i-rise/, Web. 28 Feb 2012.