For those of you who subscribed to The Grieving Room newsletter and have followed me throughout this journey for the past four months, thank you.
Grief is a lifelong process with many obstacles and various structures and forms and I doubt there will ever be an endpoint, but I feel as though the newsletter itself deserves an endpoint.
There will always be something creative flowing within me to work through grieving, whether it be poetry, creative non-fiction, or a memoir-like essay, but at this time, I have shared what I can and I will continue to learn what I can about grief and grieving and grow with every experience.
If you recently subscribed, you can find all entries in the links below via LinkedIn or Medium.
Thank you for coming along on this journey with me. It will not stop, but I am headed down a new path and this is my place to get off and possibly transfer.
if you were to tell me four months ago, I could be seeing clearer or my eyes would shift toward the light and not give me a headache later, I would have called your bluff.
it is amazing what insurance binds us to — how we have to cater our health to the possible noncoverage of something necessary for our mental growth and overall well-being.
a recommended optometrist, highly skilled in her field will takeover my care for keratoconus. she will now be a part of the team who will see me twice a year for an eye disease I didn’t know I had before two Februaries ago.
I hope she and my ophthalmologist can tag-team this life-invader and direct me onto new paths concerning my vision.
as I think about the possibilities coming my way — the mere fantasy of reading without blurred lines or double vision or constantly squinting may soon become my reality.
when a blockade positions itself in your path to try to deter you, a spirit higher and stronger than it can ever be, swoops right in to show you another way.
hopeful vision is something poking me alive daily, and with its looming presence sneaking up on me quicker than I assumed it would, I am overcome with relief.
maybe, I am one step closer to seeing what I need to see and being who I need to be while living visually impaired.
Monday, August 22, 2022, I will have my consultation with my new optometrist who is in-network with both my medical and vision insurance. My last optometrist (the doctor who first diagnosed me with keratoconus) had rescinded her connection with my insurances — making her an out-of-network provider. I can now proceed with getting the scleral contacts I need to help move me toward a more enhanced vision. I cannot tell you how happy I am about this. Thanks for reading and for listening too.
I am not a fan of America’s Got Talent. I do not watch the show, but I have a very close friend who shares videos of performances with me she believes I’ll love. She is always right. Thanks, Alexainie!
The following performance, which aired on July 19, 2022, led me to view the video not just once, but multiple times. The pure joy that shot through my body while watching these beautiful young ladies give their gift to the hosts and to the crowd is unmatched.
This had definitely been a Black Joy moment for me. And my heart was so full and happy — I nearly burst at the seams. To watch these young ladies live out their dream on stage, and tear the house down, too?! There are no words for it — it’s indescribable.
*Black Joy is … Black Joy possesses a range that is boundless and is not easily defined.
The most accurate definition is: Black Joy is anything that inspires, supports, and uplifts Black culture.
I can click on the video day-in and day-out and get the same results: a teary-eyed, moved, and emotionally charged Black woman who is incredibly excited and ecstatic for each of them. They knew what they wanted to do — they pursued it, and here they are — living out their dream, despite the hardships and closed doors in their paths.
Exploring the avenues that led to Chapel Hart
Naturally, I wanted to learn more about Chapel Hart, this all-Black woman’s group that leaned toward Country music instead of R&B, Neo-Soul, the Blues, Gospel, etc. All three ladies have amazing voices, but the frontwoman, Danica, belts out notes from the depths of her soul, and when you listen to her, one cannot help but be moved.
The trio is two sisters, Devynn and Danica Hart, and their first cousin, Trea Swindle. They hail from a small town outside of Poplarville, Mississippi, called Hart’s Chapel. According to the group, they are only 3 of 108 grandchildren. Their grandmother had 17 children, and they populated their small town.
Growing up in a family where music had always been present, it seems only fitting they would succumb to music as passionately as they have. Listening to them, I can hear the determination, the pursuit of their dreams, and their backgrounds too.
There is a distinguished tone and a three-part harmony that makes up their unique sound. It’s safe to say they are breaking down doors and stripping away barriers. They are clearly making history, and isn’t it about time?
I am not a fan of country music — not really. I like some country music singers, but I can count them on one hand. Chapel Hart entered my world at the right time. I needed something to stir me — lift me from some dark spaces — keep me on my highest points for more than two days in a row. I think I may have found what I had been seeking in their soulful voices.
Catching the eye of Dolly Parton and some other legends
If you took the time to watch the Golden Buzzer video courtesy of America’s Got Talent, you know the ladies are big fans of Dolly Parton. They even say jokingly (but maybe not?) “Dolly Parton for President” in the clip as well.
With their spin on “Jolene,” their original song “You Can Have Him, Jolene (which is #1 on iTunes for Country music),” attracted the ears and eyes of … you guessed it, Dolly Parton.
And it did not end there. Loretta Lynn chimed in and wondered (out loud) what the group could do with one of her songs. And it just keeps getting better for Chapel Hart, as Darius Rucker announced they will be on his new album, too.
When you have been given shout-outs and acknowledgments from some of the heaviest hitters in the genre of music you have fought to be a part of for so long, the feeling has got to be an unbelievable one. I imagine Chapel Hart constantly pinching themselves to make sure they’re awake.
If the above doesn’t send your heart soaring for this group, maybe the following will:
In 2021, Chapel Hart was inducted into CMT’s Next Women of Country, the institution that has been known to help up and coming female country artists such as Kelsea Ballerini, Ashley McBride, & Gabby Barrett… to name a few. This Mississippi trio’s music has reached fans around the globe earning them the title of “International Group of the Year” as well as “International Song of the Year” for the single “You Can Have Him Jolene” in Scotland. — Chapel Hart, Bio
I said I would follow them from the first moment I watched their performance video on America’s Got Talent that catapulted them into the spotlight (where they belong), and I have been.
Their story is an intriguing one, and it gives me hope for various twists and modifications to the expected traditional sound of country music.
We needed a high point, and here it is
After everything we have been through over the past few years, Black people needed a high point — a marked moment of excellence and joy. Here it is.
Chapel Hart may be a country music group, but you can hear Funk, Gospel, Rock & Roll, and Pop. They even put their stamp on the Star-Spangled Banner in 2019 for an Orlando Magic basketball game.
Prior to learning about them, I had said to myself, “How much more bad news can we take? How much more is there?” When all your nation has subjected you to is bad news that leaves a sour taste in your mouth, a little good news is welcome.
I may turn on the TV tomorrow and find another Black man or Person of Color dead by a senseless act of violence committed by someone of authority, children slain within the very walls that were once deemed safe, a baby or pet left in a hot car for ten to thirty minutes while their parent or the owner simply “forgot about them” in the backseat, and the list goes on.
But today, at this very moment, I will leave tomorrow where it is and embrace the excellence that is Chapel Hart.
The group skipped down their very own yellow brick road, locked hands with country music, and created Black Joy.
I used to date a boy from the West Side who went to our school on the East Side — we were both young and dumb, unattached to anything, still searching for our own scents and places to belong.
I hadn’t yet found the courage to tell young men, I also fell for — wanted — young women, but he knew. He saw me on the court, often — against girls, against boys, against anyone who thought they could cross me over and land a bucket.
My father taught me how to dribble. My cousin forced me to use my left hand — I’m right-handed. My uncle and grandfather dared the boys in their neighborhood to give me one shady look or it would be their ass … They had better let me on the court, and they did.
But back to the days of me tucking long shirts into Cross Colours shorts and lacing up Karl Kani boots while carrying a gym bag full of basketball gear — sweaty from a hustle on the court until streetlight o’clock.
He wanted me. I wanted him.
And so we were, for five years — off and on. He was the only one who could score multiple points on me; taller by a whole foot and two inches, my plan would be … relax in 3-point country and let it rain. Shooting was my saving grace.
We were the real Love and Basketball couple, scheming on and off the court. I’d lost a lot of things with him — a lot of firsts were torn down, spat on, and stunted.
I hadn’t learned that it only took 30 seconds to pierce his heart. It took 2 days for him to settle in mine.
Were we too young to be that much in love?
That was the question my parents asked us. But my father loved this boy — plotted on him marrying me, and was crushed when this did not happen. I had ruined it — that was inevitable.
He found someone else when we were in our 30s — kept in touch over the years until he proposed, then it was unholy to speak to me … I used to be happy he had finally gotten happy with someone else.
I used to be … As I got older, I just accepted it — neither happy nor sad, just aware that these things happen, and we had to lose each other in order for me to find myself.
I can’t run up and down courts anymore — my shins are bad, my lower back is garbage, and my knees have seen their last days swerving to box someone out for a rebound.
But I remember those 30 seconds. I remember those 2 days. I wonder — does he? Should he? Probably not.
Stepping out of my comfort zone and finally feeling free
I have done three different things this week, all of which have taken me out of my comfort zone a bit, and placed me in a space I had not met before. I will start with the why of it all. Why have I done these things? What am I looking to gain from having done them? How will I move forward now with each of them started and a part of who I am?
When you are a fearful person, everything that falls outside of your line of comfort scares you. The dreams you have festering in your mind continue to fester because you fear every move you need to make in order to make those dreams your reality.
I have lived at least twenty years of my life stuck in constant fear of the unknown, yet the unknown is what I am drawn/connected to. It is where I want to be — where I see myself at my happiest. So, how do I get there if I stay stuck in the same spot — afraid to move? I won’t. And that had to change. It is changing.
So, what did I do — which three things?
Others recognize my strength as a writer — this gives me joy
Late last year, I submitted to a publication called The Short of It, which is hosted by editor Susi Bocks. The premise of the online publication is to publish “exquisite expressions in tiny explosions.” I submitted five micro-poems all the while, thinking, as I am often wont to do, they would not be chosen, and they were.
The editor published the feature for the five poems in the wee hours of Friday, July 29, 2022, and you can find each poem here. I want to share one poem with you, though — one that encompasses all that I have been feeling of late about myself and the world at large.
Pressure
she sits on the sea’s floor shaped by the world above it–changed forever. the workers of ancient tongues sift through her words, chanting their dismissals. the pressure from centuries ago labels her again and again. is this the chosen path home or not?
To see these poems of mine hosted via The Short of It amongst many other writers whom I read daily and find comfort in doing so gives me an incredible amount of joy. For a couple of years, I’d ceased submitting to both online and print publications because the number of rejections was mounting, and I did not have the strength to scale that mountain any longer.
Braving it once again allowed me not only to submit to The Short of It, but also to write an essay catered to and about Black Joy regarding country music. I had in mind the publication (via Medium) I want this work to be connected to, so I wrote the essay with the publication’s theme sounding off as I typed each word.
I edited, fine-tuned, and combed through every word at different intervals. The time came to apply to be a writer. I did — again, fearful that I would not be their choice. I received the acceptance email also on Friday, July 29, 2022, and had been advised to submit the draft to the publication for continued review.
If you are a writer on/from Medium reading this, or if you have submitted your work to any viable or indomitable publication, whether online or in print, you know this does not mean the work will be published. This means you are IN. The publication will now work with you to bring your best work to their audience or they could decline every new submission if not tailored to their liking/theme accordingly.
I am hopeful the essay will be published, though, and I am optimistic about its chances. Again, there is joy racing through my bones solely about being accepted as a writer for this publication because I had been so afraid to even apply just two years ago.
I pushed myself out of my comfort zone and walked to exactly where I needed to be. And now, the journey is such a freeing one.
When people connect with your writing — they want to build with you
On Friday — yes, there’s a theme here. Do you see it? A fellow writer who is also an entrepreneur, artist, and creative powerhouse, left a comment on a previous TGR newsletter pertinent to my “dream” job and future goals. I read the comment — reached out to her. This morning, we had an hour-plus-long call that can only breed good things from this moment forward.
I am confident in her vision and in what we discussed as a game plan. It is intentional. It is laser-focused on a certain topic. It is exactly what I believe most of us need right now and in the immediate future — especially me. Prayerfully, early next year will produce more great things because of this interaction.
If I had not been writing my heart out — not sharing my difficulties and breakthroughs with grief — I never would have made this connection. If I had not taken a moment to break away from that pesky comfort zone of mine, I would not have sent the email or hopped on the call.
She saw — has seen something in my writing for years that made her want to build with me. There is no phrase — no way of actually describing this feeling that can do it justice.
When you are doing what your heart pushes you to do, the right people see it.
I whisper these accomplishments to the wind, and she hears them
The one thing that shatters my heart, though, about my newfound freedom is the fact that I cannot verbally share this with my cousin and hear her response. But I whisper it into the open air. I bend the ear of the flirting trees. I allow myself to bounce ideas out loud and nod when I feel like she approves — supports them.
I have learned that freedom from fear comes when the comfort zone is squashed. I am learning to guide myself down paths that speak to me and feel safe with more of an open mind. I am learning that although my cousin is no longer here to experience everything with me as I experience these things in real time — she is in my heart tapping at the center of me, at just the right moment.
And every tear that falls doesn’t come from me being sad anymore — they sometimes come with an undeniable air of joy surrounding me at every turn.
Find a place inside where there’s joy, and the joy will burn out the pain. — Joseph Campbell
Welcome to The Grieving Room. I am here. You are here. We are not alone in this.
I didn’t think he’d see me staring at him. I tried to fiddle with the People magazine in my hand — darted my eyes over the cuckoo clock above the Barista’s head.
He spotted me. And I couldn’t backpedal, couldn’t turn away fast enough. He was the color of pre-evening with onyx eyes and a James Earl Jones voice.
My entire body convulsed when he said, “I think you dropped this.” I looked down and he was holding my pen. I had been tackling a crossword puzzle, and the sleek writing tool must’ve escaped my grip when I saw him.
“I, uh … Yes, that’s mine.” I started tripping over my words. What was I doing?! Where was my head? I dragged the pen from his grip.
“I’m Loyal.” He extended his very manicured right hand to me.
“Um … I’m trustworthy.”
He giggled. I heard cherubs singing. I hadn’t caught the humor until he casually said, “No. Loyal is my name. Loyal Manor.”
His hand was still waiting for mine. I slapped it nervously, cupped it, then gave it two quick shakes.
“Oh! Oh! Haha. My apologies. I’m Grace … Grace Baron. It’s nice to meet you, Loyal.”
I glanced over at the Barista, who flawlessly prepares my order daily, and she flashed me a wink.
“Well, I’ll let you get back to your puzzle, Grace. Will you be here tomorrow?”
“WILL I?! I mean … Sure, I’ll be here.”
The dimple in his left cheek made my acquaintance, and I became as giddy as a schoolgirl. Everything about Loyal was smooth as a cup of pour-over coffee, and I wanted to learn more about him.
“Okay, then. I’ll see you tomorrow, Grace Baron.”
“Uh huh. Yes. Yes, you will.”
He turned to exit the building, and I knew it was rude to watch, but I wanted to be sure I wasn’t dreaming.
The Barista tipped her hat in my direction, and flashed me another wink. The server bought me a second cup of coffee and patted my hand. A piece of paper bounced off my knuckles.
There, on a strawberry-scented blueprint piece of stationery, was Loyal’s phone number.
A Cornered Gurl 
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