I’m dealing with my therapist’s retirement announcement in my own way. I’m happy. I’m sad. I’m so hopeful for her future. I wish her well, too.
But I am not looking forward to the search that is before me for a new one.
And so, I’m writing poetry about it. Of course, I am. Of course, I am.
Originally shared via Instagram.
1. Doing Jewish: A Story From Ghana, is a documentary about filmmaker, Gabrielle Zilkha making the trek to Ghana to learn more about Ghanaians practicing Judaism and learning, loving, living, and letting others know about their faith in Africa (specifically Ghana, Uganda, Zimbabwe, with a prominent focus on Africans in a small village called Sefwi Wiawso, Ghana).
I watched the documentary on Tuesday, February 27, 2024, early in the morning. I found it to be interesting and informative. In all honesty, I needed this particular movie at that particular time.
Here is a brief synopsis of it:
A tiny community in rural Ghana recently discovered that the religion they have been practicing for centuries is Judaism. Filmmaker Gabrielle Zilkha explores their story from isolation to global connection and the challenges and rewards they face along the way.
IMDB, 2016
2. A lovely card from a dear friend. This beautifully multi-colored card arrived in my mailbox on the same day. Again, I needed this. It seemed like things popped up or occurred on Tuesday when I was NOT feeling like myself at all, and I had spiraled into a complete downward unwelcome place.
The Lord knows when to send help. He knows when you need it most. And on Tuesday, I had to be pulled out from a dark place to which I had landed.
I am grateful for good movies, great friends, and momentary interactions with darkness . . . it reminds me just how important love and light is.
Single, Black, independent bi-women hear voices, too.
Beatrice is a 36-year-old charge nurse in the OR for St. Agnes Memorial Hospital in Blue Lake Falls County. She is a sufferer of migraines, a prisoner to insomnia, and a magnet for bowed-leg men who don’t know any better.
On the eve of her fifth anniversary of work, she began reminiscing about Mike. Mike with the double-dimpled cheeks, endless credit line, and badass walk. But . . . he was a stranger to commitment.
Why is it Mike?! Why would she think about him after the way he left things between them?
He still has two bags of clothing and a pair of shoes in my closet! The nerve of that man! He was supposed to come and get this shit months ago.
She looks around her somber bedroom for clues. Did he leave anything else? No. Just his voice.
And his voice, along with that of Charlie and Omaira’s, seemed to play hopscotch in her mind multiple times per day.
Charlie scooped her heart right from her chest, licked the pain away that surrounded it, and added more. Intentionally or unintentionally, she still isn’t sure.
Omaira had been a woman she met through a mutual friend (let’s call her Sydnee), who thought she would like to try something different. And “different” was perfect for her for five years.
Until it wasn’t. Omaira gave Beatrice one last orgasm before stealing her vintage jewelry, three pairs of costly heels, and the spare key to her car. The car — she had taken to a local chop shop. Easy money.
She wouldn’t find out Omaira had been battling kleptomania until weeks later. She spins the thought of it around in her head once again.
How does one spend five years with someone and still not know them?!
She hated this quality of hers; the knowing and unknowing of things she so casually continued to do. She wanted to hear something else. Anything other than their voices.
Needless to say, these were people she shouldn’t be thinking about, but she was. And isn’t that how love is sometimes?
It sneaks up on us in one of its best disguises, lures us in, carves out a piece of our heart, and then exits stage left — leaving us limp-lipped and unamused.
The alarm clock screeches. It is 06:00 AM. Another night without sleep. Another night without rest.
Originally published in Prism & Pen via Medium.
scraping against an
old wound reminded me
of forgotten sorrows we visit
when time stands still
rumor has it that
a stubborn woman
landed in the selfish
lap of a has-been hero
and begged him to
be something else
the burning in his
chest wrapped itself
around his heart
no one knows him well
enough to bury him
A Cornered Gurl 
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