Just do it

I recall the burgundy, the thickened tapestry woven atop firm pillows. I poke a pen through, the small holes marking my idle noted as brilliance. Offering envelopes covered in black ink –notes, beckoning me to pay attention. The slips of paper then tucked in purses, pockets, carefully folded but lost and perhaps found in the folds of next week’s Bible. 

Twice monthly, standing with white maroon robes draping Sunday’s clothes. Both soprano and alto of the young chorus followed school in the practice room. At last, reaching the high school group, the golden age of perceived freedom, but was also meant to be released with just belief. 

Dedications of pokey, ornate white dresses, often the newborn in tears. Baptisms of white robs and close caps. Communion of white two-piece suits of the mothers, weighted pearls at their necks and cooly dotting their ears. White, purity, messages woven within crimson stains and cleansing. Open symbols stitched within garments, architecture and design.

What is unadulterated? What is whole? 

Repentance, weeping, awash, renewed. On the first Sunday, first fruits. Bitter, but sweet grape juice accompanying white wafers. Drawing separation of divine Spirit and flesh. Repeated three hours East, within the wood-slatted building. The similar, red, delicious apples in paper bags. The maroon Buick, the chewing tobacco, the white home with crimson frames. The waft of dried, pine peaking through flowing tulle. Long, pink baskets swinging, carried with skips. Eggs dipped in pastels or plastic wombs holding coveted two-dollar bills. 

What happens when the Spirit penetrates the real? Elevated from the lines of words to the heart? From the girl to the woman? When tears etch the cheeks’ contours and the regimen falls to the side? 

When need pushes questions? When exploration penetrates depth? When a white wash feels grey? 

When restoration and truth comes from within as God manifests to all. When this world feels foreign and light dim. Yet, the internal flame is covered as a candle’s presence. The Light firmly flickering in the wind. And Spirit awakens to soar within, the need to create new rituals, new gifts, new absolutions. To dance, to sing truths, to leap, to still. To know the God of ancestors, of ages, of peoples not bound within walls.

Alive and of power, of a relationship, not hidden, of Black, of me. 

To a woman at whatever age this is read, perhaps with Sun-kissed melanin, clay cheeks who’ve held tears expansive as the delta and both knows the richness of the ground beneath and ahead of her. 

Growth is to be amplified. Shame is to be shared. Sharing is to have a portion with another. However, sharing is also occupying space, standing. Then, what follows is the ‘who’ more so ‘what’ – as I refuse to own shame in my temple and am standing. Not in still-I-rise-way or the forced power pose sense – these are much too defensive, moving in response to those around (though the Black ocean at the end is closer). 

This is the interior, the subtle feminine, the elegant, the quirky, the courage, the confidence - my contract with me today and futurity – and this is the standing, the dance, the art.

And all things in between.