Not Like Fathers

You Are Halves of Our Whole

To you, the fathers… It is often hard, I assume, to stand in the shadows of mothers as they take the glory of it all, and in most cases, rightfully so, but you… you wait patiently with no other means of celebration other than the one day designated where you may receive a few hugs, some decent gifts, a day out to your favorite restaurant, then time well-spent in your recliner. This is for you. Those yet still fathering, still yearning to love as they look at eyes that look back at them — identical in shape and color.

To you, fathers who stand beside their children, fighting for their rights in all things life-oriented, ensuring safety and love. To you, those of you afraid to reach out to take the hands of yours who have soared too high in the sky for you to be able to reach them and bring them back down to Earth. Fathers of prodigal sons and daughter still counting the days of their return; I offer you recognition and sincere adoration.

You are the halves of our whole and without you, there could be no us. Those of you trying harder than anyone can imagine and more than anyone can see, I tip my hat to you. Those of you struggling to make ends meet, constantly arguing with your children’s mother for the sake of their best interests— I hear you, I see you. To you, the fathers who cry when no one is around and pack in hurt after hurt and pained day after pained day, you are honored.

Fathers, do not let this day go by without attempting to learn, understand, care for, and love the ones who made you fathers. Start now, if you have not. For those of you fatherless and trying to father without the clear knowledge of the act — your children know that you are trying, even if they do not show it.

May this day be one to lift you up if you were feeling down and may love envelop you at every corner. Father is a forever word — a forever action. You will always be it.

From our small community to your hearts,
Happy Father’s Day.


Originally posted as a letter in A Cornered Gurl via Medium.

Scintillating Saturday Share #10

Every Saturday, I will share a photo that touches my heart, makes me happy, or lifts my spirits in some way. The purpose? To send love, light, peace, and kindness out into the ether. Scintillating Saturdays: one definition of the word scintillating is as follows: witty; brilliantly clever.”

Can we do that here, beautiful people, spark something brilliantly clever that touches others every Saturday? Please share this to all of your social media outlets. We can do what we can by spreading a little love, can’t we?

twomythicalanimals
Two Mythical Animals|ANITA RÉE

Using up to 7 words, tell me what this photo sparks in you. Here’s mine:


pink and blue
bashful creatures
mythical
beauties.


Now, it’s your turn. This’ll be our “Scintillating Saturday Share #10. You can respond to this post, reblog and respond, or create a standalone post of your own, but please ping or tag this post so that I’ll know to read and respond to yours.

Using up to 7 words, tell me what this photo sparks in you.
Care to get creative with me for this scintillating Saturday share?

“Our Father, Who Art In…”

I will never claim another

Gift Habeshaw | Unsplash

Fathers, do not provoke your children to anger by the way you treat them. Rather, bring them up with the discipline and instruction that comes from the Lord. — Ephesians, 6:4, NLT


The way my father looks at me is as if he is looking at the world in every color, tone, measurement, and description all at once. He takes me in — processes me, and tries to understand my words while I am speaking. He hears me. It is a blessed feeling to allow someone to dissect what you are saying when at times, those words have proven difficult to express. Given my father’s background and his marriage to the church as an elder and minister, listening is one of the things he does best. Coming out to my father was not as hard as I envisioned it would be. As a matter of fact, it was quite easy. He knew I had something to share, he had known for years — thus, he pressed forward with opening the door to our conversation about who I, his daughter, was. I touch on this just a bit in “Unconditional.”

Listen to me, baby. You are my child. I don’t care about anything else. I love you for who you are, you hear me? That will never change. Never.”

I could never have selected another man in this world to be half of what makes me whole. It would be pointless and an impossible feat. My father was made just for me at a time when roaming the streets, hanging out with his friends, and catching up on homework should have been the only things on his mind. To be a teenager, trying to bring a female mini-version of himself up in a crazy world, I am sure, was the last thing he wanted. But he did it and in his own way. I had enough years with my father in our home to know what I should know about life and understand what I should about right versus wrong.

You can come to me. I hope you’ll always remember that. I love you.”

He fathered the way he knew how. He stumbled. He struggled. He made a ton of mistakes. But one thing he did not fail at doing is loving me. It took me nearly fourteen years after my parents’ divorce to realize that fact. Today, I can call my father up and we can chit-chat about whatever, like whatever is the best thing since jelly on toastWe can hoot, holler, boast, brag, and commend each other freely without that awkward silence that used to layer itself around us.

I no longer have to wonder what my dad will say or do about his oldest daughter being bisexual. I no longer have to shelter, hide, or deny myself happiness thinking I will be shunned from the spirit of the messenger. After all, I am his child.”

I am grateful for a father who openly loves me and dotes on me around his peers regardless of how many of them misinterpret the Bible. He has not struck me down — with words nor his fists. He tries to guide me in his own way and sometimes it may come off a bit preachy (that’s a given), he notices the coldness before I can even utter a word and simplifies and coats his words with love so as to not break my heart. There were years when I did not mention him, would not mention him. He was there, but not there. Not to me. Divorce can cloud a teenager’s mind and when step-parents are introduced, it can do even more.

I think back now to many of the hurtful things I said — how I allowed myself to let my tongue walk all over him without apologizing for my crassness. My father, knowing who I was at my core, gave me the space to vent and be free with my words in my growing up years without causing me to shrink. One thing he would say often was, “When you are older, you will know all that I did for you, how hard I tried.” I did not recognize the importance of that then. Oh, but I do now.

I am equal parts Michael and equal parts Angela and with the two of them buried deep inside my veins, I am one person. I finally understand why I ached for so many years when I thought of, interacted with, and tried to hold on to a bond with my father — stubbornness. The older I get, the better I am becoming at understanding who he is simply because he has always tried to understand who I am. My eyes are no longer closed.


To my father, who never has to change . . . thank you for everything past, present, and whatever there is to come. I will never claim another.


Originally published in Our Human Family via Medium.

No Road To Recovery

redcloakwoman
Closed Eyes|Odilon Redon — circa 1894

An Experimental Audio Micro-Poem

We have been stripped
of the lives we knew
 — thrown into
the lives we hate by
keepers who do not know
what it means to be kept.


Originally published in Other Doors via Medium.


*Author’s Note: The Powerhouse introduced The Handmaid’s Tale to me and I have found myself binge-watching every episode, trying not to let myself become too angry with each new dive into the “fictional” lives of women who have been stripped of the lives that they once knew and forced into the lives of those who want nothing more of them than “miracle babies.” I cannot fathom what it must feel like to be raped on a consistent schedule with empty rhetoric and twisted biblical scriptures as reputable reasons for their drastic and inconceivable ways of life decided by those in power or considered the “Upper Echelon” of the U.S. of A.What’s even scarier? It feels like we could be headed in that direction.

Open

When You Know You’re Not In Someone’s League

Young Woman With Ibis- Edgar Degas 1860-1862

There’s a league,
some know it, some are
bound to stay in their place,
but I am stubborn.
I know no league of my own,
however, I wouldn’t dare cross yours.

The door is padlocked,
no one has a key.
I’ll never be that lucky.
With all my rights, my wrongs
take over and they tell me that
I am not worthy,
I cannot open you.

I can sit and listen to
the ailments that come from
a broken heart, can lend a kind word,
send a tight hug, but I
deny you from my dreams.
You are sacred territory,
I am not fit to clean
the grounds
or roam them freely.

I know this.
The knowing introduces itself
at night, it comes cloaked as
an angel, but I know the Devil
even when in disguise.
I shake the hinges and chain
my heart.

There’s no room for me,
not now.
There’s no way for me,
not now.
I observe every league and count
the beings who are diamonds to
my gold.

My love,
I am not fit to shine
in your direction. I am a
hollowed wall, crumbling in
your midst.
You are what I fear.