Her reverie was soon interrupted by a lanky boy, who was much too tall to be a genuine third grader, possibly because he was a fourth grader who had been held back a year.

She watched him walk over and listened as he stated plainly, “Give me a kiss!”

Little Khadijah looked on, not sure how to respond.

“I said give me a kiss!”

“No.” She said simply, hoping it would suffice.

Little Khadijah squinted at his puckered lips. He made a sudden move but before he could grab her, she was off! She ran to the other side of the classroom; unfortunately, with him in tow. She dashed from left to right and skirted between desks and tables. Her grandfather used to call her “Flo Jo” after the famous track and field Olympian, Florence Griffith Joyner. She was impossible to catch.

Still, he was gaining on her. Behind her, she could see glimpses of his loose and lanky arms reaching forward to grab her. Hoping the teacher would return soon, she ran back to the table of shells at the back of the classroom. Just as she intended to protect herself behind it, the boy lunged forward, hit the shell table with his gangling legs and sent the table flying on its side. The beautiful shells crashed to the floor and slid in every which way.

At that unfortunate moment her teacher returned to the room to find the children all on the floor scrounging around, looking for shells, as if they were just being discovered and collected on some distant beach.

“Who overturned the shell table?” The teacher demanded.

No one answered, though all eyes tended in a certain direction.

“Who overturned the shell table?” The teacher demanded once again.

Feeling the pressure of the silence, Khadijah’s close friend volunteered, “Khadijah & Brian.”

Little Khadijah cut a sharp look at her friend, “I didn’t knock over the table.”

“Sit down, both of you!” She glared at Little Khadijah and Brian standing not very far from her. “Neither of you will receive gold stars today.”

“But!” Little Khadijah protested.

Before she could finish another classmate spoke up: “But he was trying to kiss her!”

“Everyone quiet! Once you have finished picking up the shells, you will return to your seats!”

The seashell table stood upright again. Buzzing around Little Khadijah like little worker bees, her classmates slowly finished restoring the shells to their rightful place.

Little Khadijah sat down, arms crossed and brow furrowed. She knew her grandmother would be hearing about this as she and her teacher attended the same church. She sat confused, unsure of what the proper behavior would have been. She made a note to self that apparently it is better or at least less troublesome to allow yourself to be accosted.

Feeling like her scholarly career was off to an unfair start, Little Khadijah sat disappointed once again in the adults. It was difficult to find the words but she simply wanted her teacher to understand that she did not want to give him a kiss.

“If she would only hear me out, then she would know it was not a game.” Little Khadijah thought to herself.  At a loss for the right words and sure her teacher wanted to hear none of it, she took her punishment, chin in the air and with a defiant smile.

In her mind she began to feel sad about the loss of stars. Perhaps it would not have been better, but maybe it would have been easier to give him the kiss. She played with the idea: The situation would have been over before her teacher entered. Sure, the class would have laughed at her. She might have felt disrespected, not only by him but by herself as well, but the teacher never would have known. She could have gone home with another gold star for good behavior, taking her one step closer to the prize at the end of the year. However, in her heart she was sure she had might the right choice even if, this time around, it didn’t feel very good.  

On the bus home that evening, Brian made his disappointment and growing contempt very clear. Objects flew forward towards her seat, preceded by comments about her, her lack of beauty and intelligence. Khadijah sat cross-armed, alarmed by his sudden change in sentiments.

When her stop came, she stepped off the bus, relieved. Happily ignoring the obscenities flowing from the window above, she walked triumphantly towards her house and her haven.

When I woke in the morning, I thought, “Huh. That’s the second time I’ve had a dream of missing or almost missing (I never saw how it ended) a bus.” If you come visit me in this space often, then you know that I place a lot of value on my dreams. So I refocused and began making time for creativity and the things, like writing, that I truly want to manifest in my life, so that when opportunities arrive, I will know myself in that space and be ready. Still the dream lingered.

Next to my bed, in the corner of my bedroom, are all of my journals from over the years. I keep lots of stories, dreams, events and valuable insights compiled in them. They are near me so I can reach them easily and so that guests do not peruse them at their leisure. Being the 3^rd of 3 children, I learned to protect them the hard way. I tell you this because shortly after the dream above, I had another:

I was in my bed and had my current journal in my hands. Somehow in my periphery I could see all my journals lined up in the corner of my room (just as they are now). Suddenly I heard a very strong and present voice say, “Burn your journals!” Immediately I began looking for a lighter so that I could set the pages of my journals on fire. I felt like the request was strange as my journals hold many of the beautiful, eccentric and exciting dreams I have had over the years, but the voice sounded powerful, as if it were sure that destroying them would be in my best interest.

Suddenly, I awoke unsure about what I had just heard. Awake, the thought of burning or destroying my journals seemed even more bizarre, considering that I often perused their pages to remind me of wisdom won and fresh insights. I don’t know exactly how I knew but I felt that I wasn’t being asked to literally destroy the journals. So I thought about their purpose, and I realized that they often hold the past within their pages.

Journals are symbols of the human tendency to chronicle ups and downs. The process can be very cathartic or it can be destructive, leaving one imprisoned in its pages. After reflecting on my habits, I realized the message had nothing to do with my journals and everything to do with my letting go of swimming in the past and embracing the newness before me.

Reminiscing and even reflection, which we are often encouraged to do, can sometimes take us down spirally side paths along memory lane. Before we know it we are lost, cold and covered in the muck of regrets and morphed memories. We must be gentle and careful when we time travel lest we become distracted by things we can no longer change.

This morning I found myself reflecting on the dream of trying to catch the bus, and suddenly I realized that both dreams are connected. While the dream of potentially missing the bus did encourage me to write and to feel the joy of it more regularly, the dream also wanted to caution me on the dangers of looking back, on lingering in the past. I could spend days asking myself if I had done the right thing. Memories from past years would pop up and I would go over my actions again and again, considering whether I had truly done my best.

Not too long ago I watched a wonderful, young writer live her dream. While I felt happy for her, I found myself looking back and wondering whether I had given my all for my dreams over the years. I asked myself whether I could have given more and done more for myself and others by now, if I had had the self-confidence to step into my power. In those moments I completely forgot that I had moved to a new country, learned a new language, got married, traveled around Europe and the list goes on. I found myself, in a moment of celebration for another, swimming in a fear of lack.

The dream of missing the bus then came back to me. It seemed to signify an opportunity to end the cycle of self-doubt and regret. It seemed to stretch out its hand and offer me the chance to identify and let go of the tasks and habits that diminish that connection to my inner light. It is like my Higher Self was once again calling me out on a bad habit and saying, “You did the best you could with what you had. Cherish the lesson and let the past inspire you to step into your power now. Appreciate the gift of the present moment and allow the joy of it to create the future.”

It is true that we must learn from past mistakes, but we always have the choice to take up the learning with gratitude and move on to brighter and healthier places.

We often spend so much time meandering in the past that we struggle to come to the realization that if we were to simply stay in the present, we would be exactly where we are meant to be. Quiet does not imply stagnation. Sometimes, in moments when we feel like we are not moving forward, it is only because we are being held so gently and so tightly that we do not realize the catapult we are sitting in is being pulled and locked. Before we know it we are flying forward into all the adventure we had hoped for, wishing we had taken the time to rest when we had the chance.

Motivational speakers and some spiritual teachers encourage us to get moving. Sometimes these teachings are misdirected and sometimes we misunderstand the message and think that the greatest value of the present time is productivity. Yet, while it is important for us to create, to express and to move forward, we can also learn how to be aware of cycles and what cycle each of us is currently in. I am in a creation and rest cycle. It is a time for me to enjoy my craft, writing, while also taking time for relaxation, dreaming and genuine reflection. As I write I can feel my understanding of who I am expanding. I feel that I am on the cusp of something new and while my ego would like to live the learned habit of pushing and forcing, I can hear the voice of my higher-self getting louder and reassuring me that trust and surrender will open more doors than force ever could.

The point of a journey is certainly not to be the end at the beginning. The point of the journey is to understand there is no end, only regularly occurring new beginnings. At each new beginning we realize that we have grown since the last. Each step up becomes easier as we exercise our spiritual muscles and allow them to grow. Our endurance becomes so steadfast that when challenges arise, we master them with a newly acquired ease.

It is difficult to receive the gift of new beginning, if we insist on holding on to what is closing. I choose to accept this gift and to release my life as I once knew it, knowing that below the surface something great and new is bubbling up to take its place and lift me to higher heights. 

As we settle into 2021, I want to ask you: “Have you let go of the 2020 uproar?” It was a very disruptive year. Will you spend 2021 looking back, fearing that it could be a repeat of 2020? Will you begin the New Year cursing the old one? Or will you begin the year with gratitude for cycles of completion and renewal? In general are you holding on to regrets, should haves and could haves? Will you move into 2021 being present in the fullness of your being? In order to be strong receptacles for all of the bounty the Universe has to offer, we must let go of the past.

Jesus once said, “…No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for service in the kingdom of God.” (Luke 9:62) When you plow as they did in the old days, with the plow and cattle in front of you, looking back meant that you might create crooked furrows, lessening the abundance of the harvest. No matter what you believe, it is true that we all have the opportunity to create a personal heaven or a personal hell. There were moments on the side paths of memory lane that I created personal hells of regret and shame, only to see myself come out on top, stronger than before. When I realized the value of the lesson, it became easier to create earthly heavens. In my earthly heaven I move forward fearlessly trusting that my actions will lead to good.

May you have a beautiful and abundant harvest in 2021. May you let go of any regrets, any sadness, any unforgiveness. May you look forward, set your plow straight and move into creating the bountiful life that you truly want and deserve!

We walk up and down along the space many times, looking at all of the delicacies and treats. Some of us dig in and come away full while others consider for a while, unable to choose from the endless possibilities. As we watch people receive what they ask for and fill their bellies, we look on wondering if we could have something so delicious and easy for ourselves. Undecided, and afraid of choosing the wrong things, we disappear onto the sidelines and move within the confines of indecision and worry.

Sometimes the clouded stories we have been told here on this Earth, in this space where we frequently forget our inner truth, come creeping in. We are told that our access to the smorgasbord of the Universe depends on our socio-economic status, our race, our school grades, our size, our sex or even our sexual orientation, all depending on the values of those orchestrating our upbringing and socialization. Over time we start to believe these stories and even begin telling them to children, participating in the false upbringing of others, all founded on appropriated and uninformed values.

Like sleeping beauty we bite into the apple and fall into a slumber of mindless living and productivity. It is not the restful sleep of replenishment but instead a driving, pushing and forcing. The results of which lead us to “9 to 5s” and jobs that pay the bills as opposed to serving our true purpose here on Earth: joyful self-realization and fulfillment.

Our hearts begin yearning for that smorgasbord that now seems like a distant memory. Glimpses of it return and we can feel our hearts drifting back towards that expansive food court. Having tried everything else we are finally ready to believe happiness could come from a place of asking and claiming as opposed to force. We are finally ready to give in to the thought that we are worthy of abundance and that the receiving could be initiated by the simple task of inviting.

As the smorgasbord slowly comes back into view, we stand looking, licking our lips unsure of what to pick. What if I choose the wrong thing? What if I forget something? What if I’m not ready for it? What if I am? What if it’s impractical? Suddenly it becomes clear that we don’t have to decide from the plethora of delicacies. All we have to do is feel it, describe it, taste it, all with a joyful heart, and the Universe will allow just the right pieces to flow to us on wings.

Sometimes we work hard to manifest something into our lives without truly understanding what it is we desire or need on a soul level. At times such as these it is important to quiet ourselves, go within, into that safe creation space in our hearts that belongs to each of us. When we are in that space we can begin daydreaming, visualizing and feeling our dreams come to fruition.

Do you ever find yourself wanting or needing something that is not yet present in your life? Perhaps you want more caring connections that fill you up and encourage you to express your truth. Perhaps you would like more money, so that you can bring more well-being into your life and help others to do the same. Perhaps you desire a new career path that allows you to create from a heart space and be of genuine service to others. Perhaps you would like more time for rest and ease, so that you can be more present in the moment, allowing you to enjoy and participate in life.

All of these gifts are open to you and much, much more. Joy is the ultimate purpose of life, and we can manifest the elements we need in order to make life more exciting. We have the power to live abundant lives from a place of ease and delight.

May I challenge you to identify a space in your life where you would like to see changes take place? It could be health, finances, relationships, career or fun & adventure. Choose one or choose all, then sit down and take a moment to connect with yourself. This is important because when we design our lives, we must come from a space of love and inner truth. It makes it not only easier to create but also helps us to blend out and let go of the expectations of others. You know best what it is that your heart needs and desires.

Once you have affirmed your connection to your higher self, that is to say your true self, take a pen and piece of paper – or perhaps you would like to grab your favorite journal – and describe what you would like your life to look like in the area(s) you chose. Be specific: What does life look like in that dream? Where are you? How do you feel? How does it taste? Does is smell like lavender or maybe sea salt? How are you spending your time? What type of companions are there with you? How do they make you feel? Enjoy the journey through your new awareness.

If you can describe your desired life, then let the dream wander on wind while you focus on happy creation, you will soon find pieces of that dream emerging into your reality, creating a new and vibrant whole. Describing what you want and how it feels is like sitting at a five star restaurant, describing to the waiter what you have a taste for and trusting that the chef, who knows and oversees, will send you exactly what you were looking for.

Before I leave you with your thoughts, I would like to share something a very wise woman once said to me. At an acting workshop in Athens, Greece, I told my teacher how I was struggling to figure out what I want and to determine the best next steps and she answered simply, “Don’t worry so much about figuring it out and just create.”

Allow the Universe to take care of the logistics.

Just some weeks ago I had a dream: An eye appeared before me, beautiful and bold. I examined the Eye and wondered at the joy it exuded. While staring and examining it in awe, the Eye swung back, like a door opening to a new pathway. I stepped through the opening into a room. In front of me, on the couch, sat my inner child or me as a child. I was ecstatic to see her and to have the opportunity to physically embrace her. I walked over to her, and although I could tell she had a different intent for my being there, I insisted on holding her as tightly as I could. My heart was full of the desire to show her I value her and love her and to defeat any neglect. She received my coddling patiently but it quickly became apparent that she had a task for me and needed me to focus.

After pressing her close to me long and hard, she asked me to go into the other room and look for something. Her asking did not take place with words. It was a look and a knowing. The door was on the other side of the room, on the wall next to the door I had entered in. I stepped through and, although it was clouded with (perhaps) smoke, I could tell there were men in the room. I searched for what she had asked me to find, not able to pay much attention to detail. My gaze swept the space quickly and discretely, not wanting to disturb or imposition those present. I ducked and tiptoed my way across the room. I gave up and moved on to the next room to search for the other thing I was asked to find, and there too I went about it bashfully and was, once again, unsuccessful. I was disappointed that I could neither help her nor complete the task.

When I awoke that morning, slowly the dream came back to me and I felt a rush of joy fill my heart. I could not believe that I had hugged Little Khadijah so tightly. Even waking up in the cold morning, I felt warmed by the thought of our embrace. Still, as I lay in the bed, I wondered about the missions I had been sent on. I could remember faint details of the colors gray and a cold, light blue clouding the vision in the first room. I remember my body being almost bent in apology as I made myself small to avoid being noticed, doing my best to disturb my surroundings as little as possible.

As soon as I was fully awake, I wrote the dream down in my journal, describing my encounter with Little Khadijah heartily. The descriptions of my excursions into the neighboring rooms received only a short mention. I felt ashamed of my timidity and did not want to commit the experience too strongly to memory. Despite my attempts to sweep past the topic, it would not leave me alone. Just a few nights later, I had another dream:

We went into some kind of lockdown. The “we” included a large group of strangers, all White, perhaps because I am in Germany, perhaps not. We were all scattered about the room, some sitting at tables some at the bar. I was at a table with my arms crossed and my head resting on my arms. At the front were two people doing a roll call. In my mind I didn’t care whether I introduced myself or not. I wasn’t nervous and felt ready to respond if the time came for me to speak.

One after one each greeted the room with their name. As it came closer to being my turn, I felt that flutter of excitement common before speaking in front of groups, only for them to pass over me, ignore me and jump to the next table. I considered making myself known by speaking up, thinking that they may not have seen me with my head on the table. Nevertheless, I decided to say nothing and let them skip me and continue on.

In the dream I could feel myself falling into the comfortable habit of melting into the background for fear that the attention could draw some unsavory experience into my energy field. As a child I experienced many difficult situations in which I was hurt or ridiculed by adults. The shadows of these experiences were lingering and my compassionate inner child calmly called me out on my decision to accept them for fear that eradication meant change and unease.

To be clear I am not a timid person by nature. I am actually quite lively and outspoken. I will stand up for what I believe in no matter the hierarchical position of the person standing across from me. My sweet subconscious was drawing attention to the timidity that surfaces when it comes to telling MY story and speaking up for myself. It is often easier to stand up and speak up when we see injustice being done to another, but when we are called to speak for ourselves and ourselves alone, there is a doubt that sometimes creeps in and pushes us to “just deal with it” as opposed to addressing it as we have done many, many times for others. When I am in need or when the child within begs for creative space, timidity ensues as if to say that the needs of others deserve more attention and voice than mine. My dreams were amazing in that they not only highlighted the issue but also the various nuances attached to my timid behavior: superfluous modesty, fear of disruption only for my sake, the easiness of invisibility and the thirst for harmony.

Many may ask at this point: Can we really take our dreams this seriously? The truth is I can’t afford not to. The things I am afraid to face in the light of day, present themselves to me gently at night, allowing for openness and understanding. Dream psychologists as well as spiritual teachers counsel us to pay attention to our dreams when they come knocking. I like to think that I have developed a radar that lets me know when a dream is simply an adventure and when it offers a genuine opportunity for learning. I immediately recognized both of the dreams above as teaching dreams, though I have had others that failed to make such a lasting impression on me.

We each have the capacity to be our own teachers and to filter information, according to what feels good and right for our unique journeys. Though the messages of my dreams did not feel good to me per se, I recognized the hand being offered to me and I have taken it. I have allowed it to pull me out of the anonymity and fear my timid behavior manifested in my life.

The first step to affecting this change was awareness. My dreams drew attention to my tendency to allow others to pass over me, tripping over my carefully concealed frame along the way. They were calling me out on my desire to put the needs and sensitivities of others before my own truths.

After trying to identify similar situations in my waking life, I came to the conclusion that over time, in my effort to fit in to a new culture, I slowly began to make myself small, only speaking up when I could identify true injustice. In my desire to be welcome, I allowed myself to be tossed about between different affinities and subjective tastes. With each alteration I began to lose a piece of myself that I am only now, thanks to the frankness of my dreams, beginning to reclaim.

In a 5^th grade school play I once played Sleeping Beauty, and I was sung back into waking life by the boy I had the biggest crush on. During the rehearsal my teacher encouraged me to slowly awaken while the song was being sung. While wakening I should smile while stretching and yawning, and truly feel the joy of being awakened by the person I love most. I can feel now genuinely what I was trying to mimic all of those years ago.

Living boldly requires unshakeable self-trust. It is connected to knowing that no matter what storm comes your way, no matter what surprises the future holds, you are willing and ready to meet each challenge with patience and self-compassion, knowing that you can always rely on yourself.

As a child my mother would take me to the church soup kitchen to volunteer. She and I would cook and make care packages for all who came seeking hot meals and non-perishables for themselves and their families. I remember my first time helping out. The doors opened and slowly people began walking in, some with shopping carts full of their most prized possessions and others alone. Some greeted each other like old friends. I remember one woman who came in greeting others with a smile. She wore a white t-shirt and through it you could see her large breasts moving back and forth, free of the usual constraint.

My mother and I were alone in the kitchen, a two-woman show. 8-year-old Little Khadijah watched with big eyes as the adults arrived. Before she climbed onto the chair that would help her to see out of the serving window where she would be handing out food, she turned to her mother and said, “I’m scared. I don’t know what to say to the people when they walk up to the window.”

My mother took my hand in the middle of the kitchen and said a prayer with me, asking God to give me courage. Feeling fortified I took my place in the window and from that moment on I became a regular fixture at the church soup kitchen, packing care packages, serving food and smiling at all who came looking for some type of nourishment, support and solace.

Thankfully the value of service was instilled in me at a very young age. Even now when I walk the streets and see homeless people I give and when I am not able to give something I smile and nod to say I see you.

As I grew older I continually made an effort to give back when and where I could. In college I had the opportunity to take part in initiatives that allowed me not only to serve but also to converse with those who wandered the streets und were not so fortunate to have a roof over their heads. 

Once a friend and I were in Malibu – this was during the time when I was studying at Pepperdine University. We were grabbing some frozen yogurt at our favorite ice cream parlor. I got my usual vanilla frozen yogurt topped with cookies and cookie dough. My more health conscious suitemate ordered her usual fruit topping and we searched for a place to sit. All the tables were taken. We had just about given up when a homeless man sitting at a table alone eating soup asked whether we would like to join him. My suitemate and I looked at each other and sat down, thanking him for the invitation.

He told us a lot about himself, about once having been a professor. I remember in particular him telling me that Jesus is above us in a spaceship just waiting for the right time & opportunity to land. We listened intently and interestingly enough that wouldn’t be the last time that I would hear that piece of information.

As we sat engrossed in conversation, sharing spontaneously whatever came to mind, two women walked past us. Looking at us, one said loudly: “Well that’s something you don’t see every day.”

In response to her observation our former professor friend replied, mimicking her tone, “Now that’s someone I don’t need in my life.”

We parted and said our goodbyes to our new friend, all hoping that we might see each other again one day, but unfortunately we didn’t.

During my time in Malibu I had the opportunity to spend time with a lot of homeless men. A professor once took us, his entire class, to the Santa Monica Beach to pass out warm socks, dry goods and hygiene articles to the homeless sleeping along the shore. It was during this trip that I once again heard that Jesus is in a spaceship circling, waiting for the appointed moment to land.

Walking on with this in mind, I sat down to talk to one man and ended up spending the afternoon with him. He had cuts in his face, apparently after being attacked. He went for urgent care and was given a bottle of strong pills. He was told to make sure that he ate before taking them. He laughed, saying that he was never sure of a meal. Sitting cross-legged on the sandy grass he continued to share: After the doctor’s visit he was able to find some meat in a dumpster that still had a normal color to it that enabled him to take his meds after leaving the clinic. He told me how the Santa Monica nights could be very cold.

When the class returned to campus I tried to find a way to get from Malibu back to Santa Monica, so that I could buy him a blanket and bring it to him. My friends laughed at my plan to find him again. I didn’t have a car and it was too far for a taxi. As a Freshman I didn’t feel comfortable asking the people I had just met for help. The nights after that meeting on the beach were long. I couldn’t sleep for months, thinking that my cowardice was forcing another human being to endure cold nights. I started to hate my blanket and felt guilty for having what others also deserve. I remember his name even to this day, though I won’t mention it here, and think of him very often.

From Malibu I moved on to Nashville, Tennessee. It was beautiful living in Malibu but I could rarely enjoy it. I had to work a lot to be able to afford food, tuition and expenses, so while the beach had led me to the university, I rarely got to see it. So I decided to transfer to the school I had wanted to attend since I was 11 years old.

In Nashville I met “Larry”. We were out cleaning the streets, an initiative organized by the homeless. Together we cleaned the streets, giving us individuals from different walks of life an opportunity to spend time together and learn more about each other. When the street cleaning was finished a man walked up to me and asked if he could tell me his story.

“Sure,” I replied, unsure why he had chosen me. Before I could ask he said, “I would like to tell it to you because you look like someone who will not judge me.”

Thankful and wondering how I had managed to give off such good and wholesome vibes, I told him I would love to hear his story. He kept it very short.

Although it was many years ago, I remember him telling me that he had once had everything he could ever wish for and he chose to give it all up and live on the streets. I asked him why, and he simply replied, “Because I felt like I didn’t deserve it.”

In that moment I had a knee-jerk reaction. I could feel my lips moving to begin to tell him that we all deserve to have when I remembered his desire not to be judged. He neither wanted to be pronounced guilty nor innocent. He didn’t want to be pronounced deserving or undeserving. He just wanted to share. So I caught myself and held my tongue. I switched gears.

“What is your name?” I asked, as he began to walk away.

“I don’t want to tell you and become a burden to you.” He said.

“You could never be a burden to me. I just want to remember you!”

“Larry.” He replied. But by the mischievous look in his eyes I could tell his name was as much Larry as mine is Esmerelda.

“Ok.” I said. “It was so nice to meet you, ‘Larry’, and thank you for telling me your story.”

We all meet with difficulties and challenges along our paths. Some homeless people were kicked out of their homes by their parents at a young age. Some lost the people they love to accidents or illnesses and spiraled into depression, no longer able to care for themselves. There was even a time during my college years when I was left without a home and a place to sleep.

During this Covid-19 pandemic many soup kitchens and shelters have closed for fear of spreading the virus. Thousands of people in Germany alone are left with no food and shelter for the winter. In order to help those in need I have asked friends and family to donate so that we can create care packages. We have bought sleeping bags to help keep people warm as well as hygiene articles and dry goods.

Jesus was always moved by the outcasts and those who could not find a home in society. Perhaps he would not need to land his spaceship, if we would step up and show our brother and sister human beings compassion and care for each other as Jesus once requested.

Please reach out to your local missions and ask how you can help. It could be as simple as a donation of money, a sleeping bag or dry goods. Every little bit counts and could save a life.

It was 2004, the year of my first presidential election and an important one. To be more specific it was the first time that I would be allowed to cast my vote and join in on determining who would have the responsibility of running my home, the United States of America.

The republican George Bush was up for reelection and the Democrats had chosen John Kerry as the worthy opponent. Among these two main candidates were many others from different parties such as the Independent and Green parties. There would also be the opportunity to elect other officials to different offices. It was up to me to weigh-in and push for the candidates I thought would best manifest our collective highest greatest good. What a delightful burden to carry.

Looking forward to this new beginning I registered to vote and took all of the necessary steps to make sure that I could participate. Not only did I feel that it was important to vote and have a say in how one is led, but I also wanted to show respect for all of those who fought hard to ensure that I received my due right to vote as a Black woman. So much sacrifice to eradicate prejudice and limitation. I wanted to be sure to honor that sacrifice by casting my ballot.

Finally November 2^nd arrived and I skipped my college classes for the day to head to my voting location. Before leaving campus I ran into a friend who cordially reminded me who to vote for. I smiled politely, thinking that I would vote according to my heart and conscience when the time came.

As I stood in line I watched all of the poll volunteers completing their civic duties. Some sat at tables, taking names and checking identification. Others were escorting voters to the poll machines, I patiently waited until it was my turn. After checking in with the election judges, an elderly Black man with salt and pepper hair showed me to my designated poll machine. I walked in feeling ready. I looked to the left to see the poll curtain was closed.

I turned my attention back to the ballot. Carefully, making sure to follow marking instructions, I chose the presidential candidate I thought best. Breathing deeply I took in the proud moment. Before I continued on to vote on other officials and amendments, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. You know that feeling you get when you think someone is standing behind you but no one has touched you or said anything? Heeding the eerie warning on the back of my neck, I turned to see that the poll worker who had escorted me to my voting cubicle was still standing behind me. He had peeked in the closed curtains to watch me vote.

We stared at each other. He stammered something about whether I needed assistance. Clearly, I did not. I stood there torn between giving him a piece of my mind and wanting to turn back to my ballot. I chose the latter and in a much more subdued mood finished casting my vote for the 2004 election.

When I left the booth the poll worker walked past me once again escorting other voters to their machines. I moved to stop him and confront his behavior. I felt so annoyed at him infringing on my right to a secret ballot, a right that came at a huge cost. In those few short moments, when he walked past me, all I could manage was a determined frown. Have you ever felt like you want to speak up but your voice catches in your throat and you find yourself nestled somewhere between annoyance and anger?

Even now I still look back on that day and feel disappointed that instead of speaking up for my rights, I took pity on his age. He can’t have been much more than 60 years old which seemed really old to me back then at the age of 20. I wonder how many voters he secretly watched that day. More importantly I wonder how often, over the years, I took pity on others instead of voicing my concerns and needs.

Have you ever made excuses for people instead of standing up for what you know to be right? I was very good, even overzealous when it came to standing up for others. When it came to speaking up for me I often found myself just letting it be or reassuring myself that I could take the heat. You teach people how to treat you and sometimes it is good to remind others that you have not only needs but also constitutional rights that are to be respected.

That was my first and last experience at the polls so far. Shortly after that election I moved overseas to Germany and have been casting my votes via Absentee Ballot ever since.

Bush won the 2004 election, making life overseas somewhat difficult. When I arrived at the German university and I met one of my suitemates, we introduced ourselves and he asked where I was from. As soon as I mentioned the USA he promptly let me know that he doesn’t like Americans because they reelected Bush. He quickly added that he liked me, and he liked the other American suitemate he once had, but in general he doesn’t like Americans.

“So he doesn’t like Americans, but he likes all of the Americans he’s met so far? Hmm.” I thought to myself. It didn’t seem to me that he had reflected well on his prejudiced opinions but we would be sharing the same kitchen and bathroom for the next months, so I decided to let it slide.

As we move into the coming 2020 presidential election, I hope that we all will rise up and take pride in our right to vote. Many women and men sacrificed their lives and rights to set strong foundations for future generations. By exercising our right to vote, we too have the opportunity to take part in democracy and be instrumental in establishing positive foundations for the generations to come. Sometimes it all seems like a carefully crafted fairytale, but we must take advantage of the tools offered to us in order to steer the country and the world into more compassionate and restorative spaces.

Over the last months many have worked hard to define what it means to be privileged. Privilege to me is when you can say that you didn’t know that poverty, unemployment or racism exist, that because you had never experienced it for yourself you thought it to be a non-issue. What if we could move the world into a space where issues such as these indeed become mythical, not just for a portion of the population but for all? What if these issues were only relatable through old stories of the way things once had been. Our next generations could grow up saying, “Yes, my ancestors experienced poverty and racism, but I have never experienced it and I don’t personally know anyone who has.”

The meeting room was full, and on this particular summer day in Munich, Germany, my colleagues hesitated to wander back to their desks only to sit out the afternoon and wait slowly for finishing time to come. You could see them grasping for relevant work topics, when they finally gave up and a lively conversation about beer ensued. I looked at the door, wondering if I could make a run for it. I looked sideways at my boss, who nestled more snugly into her chair, and frowned. I was relatively new at the company and didn’t want to seem anti-social, so I took my cue from her and hung around with a forced smile. Small talk can be so taxing. As an introvert with only rare (and sporadic) extrovert tendencies, I struggled to get into the mood to talk about nothing.

At first I was distracted. I was doing that thing that introverts sometimes will do at such moments and watching people interact in their habitat. Gradually, I began to listen in on the conversation. They were talking about infamously named beers. When I realized this I began to fidget because I knew exactly what was coming. There is a popular drink that is a mix of wheat beer and cola. Many years ago in some, not all, parts of Germany, this beer had the name of the German version of the N** word.

And there it was before I knew it, the colleague had uttered the name of the beer, N** word and all, in the middle of the meeting room. She continued on laughing, when a colleague interrupted her and let her know that one could not say that name anymore. They quickly began talking about all of the replacement names now used for that particular beer mix.

My supervisor interrupted and put them all in their place. “If that’s the name of the beer, then that is just the name of the beer. It’s like N**,” she said, referring to some kind of pastry, “I still call them N** because that’s what they are.”

An uneasiness entered the room and took a seat at the table. No one could stop him. The energy had been invited in and there was no going back. Colleagues began to steal glances and look at me uncomfortably.

We left the room. I stopped to pick my chin up off the carpet on the way out. So shocked by the easiness of the conversation, I didn’t know what to say or even where to begin. Silently, I walked back to my desk, thinking about what to do or not do, feeling like any reaction or the lack there of would be a statement.

As soon as I reached my desk, the phone rang. I knew who it was but I looked at the display anyway and promptly rolled my eyes. I knew what was coming. The woman who had introduced and led the conversation was calling me, most likely to hear what the only Black person in the room (and the company for that matter) had to say about it. I was tempted not to answer, but the shock had worn off, and since I didn’t say anything to her about her behavior in the meeting I decided to go ahead. Now is as good a time as any. 

She didn’t say why, she simply asked if we could meet downstairs for a smoke. I don’t smoke but I agreed to meet her downstairs. She was waiting for me in the courtyard. I watched from a distance as she moved from one foot to the other. Her arms were crossed with a cigarette hanging between her fingers. I sauntered up to her, trying not be distracted by my disappointment in the entire situation.

“Thanks for coming down. I called you because Marie* said I shouldn’t have talked about the mix beer and said that word in front of you. I just wanted to know what you think and whether it was wrong.”

Inside I didn’t know whether to be amused or dismayed. I cannot remember my exact first response, although parts I remember very clearly, perhaps even exactly.

“So you asked me here because Marie told you your comments were wrong?”

She repeated the issue. “Yes, she said I should not have said that in front of you and it bothered me, so I decided to speak to you about it.”

This is something that happens often. That “ooh sorry you had to hear that”. They are not sorry they said it. They are only sorry you heard it. Really, it’s your fault for being present when the offensive comment or joke was made. It’s your fault everyone is uncomfortable.

“I appreciate Marie’s concern but why should my presence determine whether or not what you said is wrong? So it would have been ok if hadn’t have heard it?” I asked.

She fidgeted.

I continued. “I really do not like it when White people ask me to be there Black judge and jury. You have to know whether you are ok with the words that you spoke. They are a reflection of you not of me.”

She went on to explain that in her eyes she was speaking about facts. It’s a fact that the drinks once had infamous names, including N**. Sometimes people talk about how things were back then.

Overall, I agreed with her. There are conversations people hold in order to talk about and reconstruct past situations. It is important to talk about these things and draw attention to them. It helps us to understand and avoid future insensitivities. I remember a situation long ago when I once couldn’t decide what to drink at a restaurant. I rarely drink beer but decided to be adventurous and try a new one. So I chose a beer and cola mix from the menu. The waitress looked at me strangely. At the table everyone was quiet, and I couldn’t understand what had just happened. Then, as she brought the beer to me, I looked at the brown color of the drink and realized I had just ordered the beer once called N**! I was so embarrassed, called the waitress and sent it back to the kitchen. I have nothing against the drink itself, still I didn’t care if the beer had been given a new name, I refused to pour anything down my throat that once held a name my ancestors fought to eradicate. Call me dramatic if you will, but I was not going to take a sip and declare the drink “refreshing”.

Yes, it is important to talk about these things and to share. Still, I reminded my colleague that it depends on the context. Are we talking about it with the intent to educate or the intent to glorify? The conversation in our work meeting and the humor that surrounded the discussion that afternoon made it feel like the latter.

Unfortunately, I started to become annoyed with the conversation. I wished I had not answered the phone and put myself in the position of having to explain to someone why their behavior made me uncomfortable. I felt like in asking me to judge her behavior, she was asking me to assume a shared responsibility. My disappointment expressed itself as sarcasm.

“You know there is no Black caucus that meets regularly to decide whether one White person’s everyday actions are deemed justifiable or not. We don’t send out a memo and universally agree on whether certain behaviors are ok or not. What may be ok for me might not be for someone else who shares my skin color. Why would you leave the judgment of your actions up to someone else? You know whether something you say or do is ok or not.”

She was looking for absolution, but the truth is I could not give it to her. We all must be aware of our core values and act accordingly. We cannot leave it to one person from a particular community to give us permission to act in a certain way. We should each of us be able to evaluate whether our words and actions reflect the values we hold dearly. To live with integrity means to live these values and not to leave it up to others to evaluate, sanction and potentially heal our decisions. It is ok to ask me to educate you or even forgive you but don’t ask me to judge you or your actions. I am my brother’s keeper but he must be his own decision-maker and account for his actions.

Living with integrity allows you to stand by your decisions because you know you acted in a way that reflects your values and promotes healing.

Living with integrity means your words and actions were uttered free of the intention to divide or to hurt others.

Living with integrity means you are honest with yourself and able to acknowledge, with self-compassion, when actions were harmful to the self and/or others.

In order to live with integrity we must understand that we do not have control over the legacy we leave behind anymore than we have control over the fruits of our labors. I believe it’s more about the story we want to tell. As far as we know we only have this one life in this unique form. What story will each of us choose to tell with the life we have been given?

The decision belongs to each of us and though it might be comfortable we cannot and should not give that deciding power away to others. Let us look at our lives and decide whether the story we are telling with our words and actions truly reflects the epic we want to portray to future generations. If not it is time to course correct. It is never too late to adjust our path and change direction.

The Oxford Learner’s Dictionary[1] describes integrity as “the state of being whole and not divided”. Let us come together and recognize our oneness. Unity of purpose is what we need most right now. There is a blatant call for peace and healing resounding across the world. When we answer this call, we are living a model of integrity. We are acknowledging our innate unified state and calling the world to return back to the wholeness it has forgotten.

I choose to walk in integrity, looking out for my fellow beings who come from the same Source, while at the same recognizing their innate power and ability to take part in creating this reality. Let us walk together to build on and preserve that perfect Oneness we call life.

[1] Oxfordlearnersdictionaries.com. 2020. Integrity Noun – Definition, Pictures, Pronunciation And Usage Notes | Oxford Advanced Learner’s Dictionary At Oxfordlearnersdictionaries.Com. [online] Available at: <https://www.oxfordlearnersdictionaries.com/definition/english/integrity?q=integrity> [Accessed 10 October 2020].

This particular morning I woke up joyful, ready to manifest a wonderful day. I jumped out of bed and headed to the kitchen to make tea. It’s the only way to properly start any day. And this day needed to jump off well, considering it was the beginning of my vacation, and I always feel a little pressure to make sure that my vacations are wonderfully relaxing, which in all honesty, sometimes gets in the way of my reaching that goal.

My husband’s family was on their way from Leipzig to Munich for a visit. We planned to leave Munich the next day to head to the Alps and enjoy some relaxation, hiking and good food in the mountains. We decided to start our time together by grilling, so I headed to the supermarket to get us some food. I decided that since I was in the area I would stop by the drugstore to pick up a few things quickly.

As soon as I walked in I headed to the first aisle where the hand lotion stood, excited to collect the last few things I needed for my sister’s care package. I picked up the organic rose hand lotion, trying to decide whether to send her one or two, when I noticed a woman standing near me. She was short with strawberry blond hair. In her hands she held a shopping basket and, although surrounded by shelves of products, she seemed to be looking deep and intently into nowhere.

Due to Covid-19 we were all wearing masks and keeping our distance. I thought perhaps she also wanted to look at the lotions and was waiting for me to move on. So I finally decided to send two lotions, picked up a second one and moved farther down the aisle. To my surprise the woman did not move in to look at the lotions more closely, instead she also moved down the aisle, heading towards the hair products. I thought I must have misread the situation and didn’t think much more about it.

As I stopped to look at a few hair products, I noticed that the woman with the basket stopped as well. I stood for a while and finally chose to try out some new hair clips. I moved on with them in hand and noticed that the woman moved on as well. I laughed to myself and thought, “This woman seems to be following me.”

As people often do I second-guessed my intuition and continued to move about the aisle. As much as I tried to ignore it, the eeriness of the situation would not let me be. I have often been followed in Germany as well as America by civilians intrigued by my afro or skin color. I’ve been followed in stores and on trains. Once a security guard at a clothing store even came after me and grabbed me after I had already left the store. Feeling the fear rising, I decided to test whether she was actually following me, before letting the panic get the better of me.

As I moved towards to the shower products, I decided that I would stop there and have a look, although I didn’t need anything. I just wanted to see if she would also stop. Just as I had expected, she came around the corner and began looking at the deodorants. Slowly she turned towards me, forgetting about the deodorants, and just watched me for several minutes. I shivered.

I pulled out my cell phone and wrote my husband: “There is a woman following me.”

He answered immediately: “Should I call you?”

“Yeah.” I wrote back.

Just as I sent the last message, I saw her walk closer to me. My hands shaking, I turned to her and said as clearly and politely as possible, “Can I help you with something?”

“What should you be able to help me with?!” She shrieked. “Monkey!” Then her yelling turned into indistinct angry talk as she disappeared behind another shelf and slowly left that section of the store entirely.

Another shopper and I looked at each other shocked, neither one able to get a word out.

“Did she just call me a monkey?” I asked myself, thinking that something so absurd and hurtful could not have just happened to me on such a lovely day.

Slowly I turned away from the other shopper as she stood there still open-mouthed. I tried to calm myself and at that moment my husband called. 

I related the entire story and, with him on the phone, I moved to the front of the store, hoping that she had already left. Just as I was telling my husband that she may be a security guard undercover who thought that the only Black person in the store would surely steal something, I saw her emerge and speak to another employee. Then she turned and came towards me with an aggressive sneer, only to walk past me and disappear into the break room.

At this point I became angry at finding out that my Hollywood-like explanation of being followed by an undercover store employee was actually true. My heart was racing and immediately, I decided to speak to the cashier ringing up my items and tell her what had happened.

“Excuse me, I would like to report that one of your employees followed me through the entire store. She took a basket pretending to be a shopper and followed me around.” I said, full of anger, incredulity and pain.

“I can see you are upset.” She replied.

“Yes, I am, and when I asked politely whether there was something I could help her with she began berating and insulting me.”

“What’s going on?” A short woman with blond hair appeared. I recognized her as the store manager, who I had seen here and there throughout the 5 years that I had been shopping in that particular store.

“This woman is making a complaint. Mary* has been following her around the store.” The cashier explained.

“Aha,” the manager answered and without a word or look in my direction she also disappeared into the break room.

“Please wait here for a moment,” the cashier said.

Hurt by the manager’s lack of respect and interest I immediately replied: “I honestly don’t see how my waiting here will help the situation, and I do not want to have to interact with your employee again.”

“I’m so sorry you had to go through that. Please wait here,” the cashier insisted. So I waited although I was terribly uncomfortable. A crowd began to gather, all watching me. Some aware of what had happened and others doing their best to piece together the incomplete puzzle of information.

Moments later the employee who insulted me came rushing out of the break room. I backed up, thinking this is exactly what I did not want. She said goodbye to the cashier and wished her a nice evening, then she turned to me while reaching into her pocket. She pulled out a badge and in front of all who stood watching announced:

“I am the store detective. I was just doing my job and didn’t mean any harm.”

I interrupted her. “Then why did you berate and insult me?” I was thinking of her “monkey” comment.

Ignoring my question she turned towards the door and shouted over her shoulder, “If you don’t like it, then feel free to report it.”

I turned to the cashier, who was just as surprised as I was, and asked, “Now what was the purpose of that?” And left with everyone looking on.

I could hear the cashier calling for me to wait but I refused and left the store immediately. It seemed useless to me to stand there and discuss.

When Black people are killed while running away from or resisting the cops people often ask why they didn’t just comply. I cannot answer for all or even one of those persons lost, but I can tell you that it can be terrifying to live in a world with individuals who you know for sure see your skin color as a physical manifestation of guilt.

Sadly, this incident only happened days ago, and when I look back on that day and others like it, I have to fight feeling like no one cares. It can be maddening to be treated with indifference when you do your best to address the situation appropriately. 

Forgetting about the groceries I had intended to pick up, I walked home feeling nauseous and upset. I walked around the park near our home to cool off. Finally, I stopped and decided to send up a prayer for the security guard and the employees at the drugstore. It took every bit of goodness I could muster. Still, I sent positive, loving energy to each of the women I spoke to that day. And when the words stuck in my throat and I felt I could not continue, I reminded myself that forgiveness is freedom, and I choose to live a life free from all types of bondage. I finished my prayer and moved towards the apartment to meet my husband who had rushed out to meet me.

Some might consider it weak to forgive. Forgiveness, however, allows us to free ourselves from the poisonous burdens of bitterness, resentment, self-pity and hurt. It is difficult to avoid getting caught up in thinking that it would be so much easier to find the security guard guilty and to condemn her. That type of satisfaction is a short-lived illusion at best and eventually morphs into anger and unhappiness. It becomes difficult to heal because we are so preoccupied with picking at the wound. We get caught up in our stories. They wrap themselves around us, tripping us up and send us flying towards the ground.

In addition to my choice to forgive, I have taken action to make the drugstore executives aware of what I experienced in the store in the hopes of shielding others from such experiences. In reply I have received apologies from their service department via e-mail and telephone. Over the phone the service team lead expressed his apologies as well as underlined that their company is an inclusive organization that values all of its customers no matter ethnicity and creed.

He went on to explain that the woman is a security guard working for a company they had contracted in order to ensure that products were not flying off the shelves too quickly during the Covid-19 pandemic. He went on to say in a proud but also stern voice that the woman has been removed from her security position at the store and the security company she works for will no longer provide security services for their drugstores. All ties have been cut.  The national service team lead thanked me for my courage in speaking up and for mirroring the situation back to them so that they could take action.

To be honest I was somewhat surprised by this prompt, heart-felt and decisive response. When he quieted I thanked him for his kind words and for taking the painful and embarrassing situation so seriously. Often with racism people do not like to talk about it, let alone act. They prefer to sweep it under the carpet and hope no one will notice because it is so uncomfortable. What many perhaps do not realize is that it’s terribly and hurtfully uncomfortable for those who must experience it.

I explained to him that it was never my intention to cause someone to lose their job during a pandemic but having a person who has such unhealthy feelings and thoughts towards others in such a powerful position is dangerous and unwise. He heartily agreed and said it has no place in their stores to begin with. I bet when she turned around and encouraged me to file a complaint that she did not expect to lose her position at that store and cost her employer a contract with a Germany-wide drugstore chain.

Forgiveness does not mean that we must put ourselves in harm’s way and allow such things to happen again. Forgiveness is the ultimate form of self-love. Forgiveness means we can go about healing and finding solutions with dignity and power, knowing that only light can drive out darkness and someone else’s pain does not have to become our own.

In A Course In Miracles it is explained very clearly:

“Remember that those who attack are poor. Their poverty asks for gifts,

not for further impoverishment. You who could help them are surely acting

destructively if you accept their poverty as yours.”[1]

I do not accept her poverty as my own. Instead I chose to bring gifts and enrichment to the situation by drawing attention to the problem and being instrumental in bringing about a solution.

Challenges often give us the opportunity to see how much we have grown. With this situation I could acknowledge that, not just in word but also in my deeds, I have chosen to let go of allowing others to determine my self-worth. I now have taken assertive action to underline the truth: I know who I am.

[1] Schucman, H. (., & Thetford, W. T. (2009). Chapter 11: God’s Plan for Salvation. In Course in miracles – original edition text – pocket edition (p. 237). Omaha, NE: Course In Miracles Society

Challenge #5 Compassion in the Face of Racism

“When I grow up and become a boy,” Little Khadijah would say, “then I’m gonna…” and usually this passionate declaration would be followed by the description of some kind of fantastic adventure.

As a child I would make completely outrageous statements that seemed quite the norm to me. Often these claims were met with humor and teasing but I could not be deterred.

“One day they will see.” I thought to myself.

Among these “outlandish” assertions was the belief that over time, shortly after puberty, people change colors and genders. Boys become women, girls become men, White children become Black adults and Black children become White adults. It is God’s way of helping us to understand each other, to literally walk in the shoes of another, thereby planting seeds and harvesting the fruits of genuine empathy. The plan seemed absolutely genius to me. God, I thought, was completely on point and knew exactly how to make life exciting for His people.

“When I grow up and become White,” Little Khadijah would say, then I’m gonna…” Unfortunately, I can’t remember exactly what would follow these increasingly eccentric declarations. I do remember that my musings were completely binary, focusing only on Black and White, female and male, because that’s all my little world could support at the time. It never even donned on me to ask my mother whether she had been a little White boy before she became my resilient Black mother.

For outsiders looking in it would be natural to assume that this mix-up came from my growing up as a young Black girl in a patriarchal, white society. The thought of becoming a White male might seem enticing and offer an opportunity to realize sleeping dreams. While that was part of the journey (and more stories in that space to come) in this particular case my understanding of the world was mostly a result of watching Michael Jackson and RuPaul during the 90s. I watched these men move between genders and skin colors, denying – in my little brown eyes – any boundaries set by science.

Wouldn’t it be so much easier to show empathy, if we knew we would have to walk in another’s shoes at some point? Could we show women more understanding or be more patient with men? Would the Black male appear as threatening if one knew that at some point one would also be housed in the same color skin? Could we be more loving and appreciative of transgender individuals if we were to let go of near- sighted understandings of gender associations?

Little Khadijah was on to something, and she was very disappointed to find that she would not be a part of any such adventures. As an adult I have come to understand that although this plan might have seemed genius in my little eyes, my viewpoint as a child was completely focused on the body and not on the spirit of the individual.

We human beings do tend to concentrate more on the physical aspect of life. We see each other as physical beings as opposed to spiritual beings that give these bodily frames life. On a soul level we transcend the physical, including color, gender, size, and all of the differences that cause us to fear and ostracize those we consider to be the “other”.

There was no need for God to have us change genders and colors mid-life because, if we open up the eyes of the soul, we will recognize that from the outset we have always been the same, emanations of the great Source of Love and Light energy. We are and always have been One.

This teaching of spiritual oneness and the body as form reaches across religions, scientific areas of study, creeds and spiritual teachings many of which I enjoy reading and learning from. In the text A Course in Miracles, an understanding of the body as a frame and the soul as the intended focus, is explained beautifully:

“Who hangs an empty frame upon a wall and stands before it, deep in reverence, as if a masterpiece were there to see? Yet if you see your brother as a body, it is but this you do. The masterpiece that God has set within this frame is all there is to see. The body holds it for a while without obscuring it in anyway. Yet what God has created needs no frame, for what He has created He supports and frames within Himself. His masterpiece He offers you to see. And would you rather see the frame instead of this? And see the picture not at all?”[1]

You are a masterpiece, and your body is the frame that gives this beautiful expression form. The last questions posed in the quote are great questions that we could each ask ourselves honestly. Would I prefer to continue seeing the body and ignoring the beautiful, soulful masterpiece that makes each person special? When we leave this life we cannot take our bodies with us, so wouldn’t it make more sense to focus on the spirit?

The word namasté from the Sanskrit language literally means “bow to you”. When you put your hands palm to palm, look at the person across from you and say namasté, you are basically saying “the masterpiece in me acknowledges and honors the masterpiece in you”. In order for you to accept yourself as a masterpiece, you must also see your fellow beings as masterpieces, looking beyond the frame of the body and directly at the spirit of the individual. The same way when visiting a museum you would look past the frame, directly at the work of art. If this gift has been given to me, then I must recognize that it has been extended to all.

In my experience Empathy finds space in our hearts when we embrace the following:

Empathy can find its way through the heart’s door when we welcome her in by being gentle with ourselves and extending this gentleness to others.

Empathy will settle in our hearts when we let go of fear of the “other” and we acknowledge that, though different, we are all One. Our physical differences simply add an exciting and unique flavor to our inner consistency.

Empathy can become our friend when we let go of the fear of being duped or deceived by another. Empathy actually helps us to sharpen our intuition and recognize falsehoods more quickly and accurately by asking us to go within and perceive via the soul as opposed to perceiving situations via the body’s eyes. When we open our hearts, we increase our ability to read people and situations, making it easier to recognize when to engage and when to move on.

We can allow Empathy houseroom when we understand that how we treat ourselves is how we treat our fellow beings and how we treat our fellow being tends to reflect how we treat ourselves. Why not be good to ourselves? Why not be good to others?

The power of Empathy is the ability to feel with another. Empathy helps us to move according to our spiritual integrity and dignity. Before we act we have the opportunity to ask ourselves: Is this how I would want to be treated? Am I helping to create the highest good for all involved?

To close off I would like to leave you with the words of Albert Einstein, who in a letter (1950) to Robert S. Marcus – a great Samaritan who lost his son to polio – spoke of our journey to transcend the perception of physical separation and to embrace Oneness in order to attain peace within:

“A human being is a part of the whole, called by us “Universe,” a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings as something separate from the rest—a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. The striving to free oneself from this delusion is the one issue of true religion. Not to nourish it but to try to overcome it is the way to reach the attainable measure of peace of mind.”²

Thank you for reading.

Namasté.

[1] Schucman, H. (., & Thetford, W. T. (2009). Chapter 25: The Remedy. In Course in miracles – original edition text – pocket edition (p. 487). Omaha, NE: Course In Miracles Society.

[2] Haymond, B. (2019, May 23). Einstein’s Misquote on the Illusion of Feeling Separate from the Whole. Retrieved September 13, 2020, from https://www.thymindoman.com/einsteins-misquote-on-the-illusion-of-feeling-separate-from-the-whole/

The bed felt so comfortable that evening. I nestled into it even more deeply with my book in hand. I relished these quiet, comfortable moments of travel. In the comfort of home, with the right words carefully selected, ordered and placed between two book covers, I could take off to far places. I could brave cold, snow-tipped mountains and delve into the deepest seas without a sniffle or a shiver. It was a small but generous reward after a long day. At that time in my life it took me a good 1.5 hours to get to work and another to get home, so in the evenings I made sure to gift myself with some peace and quiet.

My adventure was just beginning when a familiar smell stuck its head through the door and peaked into my room. Hesitantly, it drifted in and moved about. Startled I sat up suddenly as I observed it with incredulity.

“It can’t be.” I said to myself. Regretfully I peeled back the covers and placed my feet on to the shockingly cold, stiff ground. I quickly jumped up into my warm bathrobe and stepped lightly into the hallway. As I did I was met with the forceful smell of burning clothes.

“What is she thinking?” I wondered. “It’s 11 o’clock at night.”

Slowly and deliberately I walked down the hard, stone stairs. I passed the living room where my host father was watching TV. I watched for a second as the lights of the television danced on his face and across the walls.  Finally, I slipped down the stairs into the basement.

It was true. My nose did not deceive me.

“Hi Khadijah!” She greeted me so friendly as she stood there on the cold concrete floor, bent over her ironing board as she hot pressed work shirts for her husband.

“What are you doing? It’s late! Why are you ironing?” I asked, putting an extra portion of honey on my warm voice, hoping to mask my astonishment, exasperation and slight frustration.

“Well I was so busy today, I didn’t get around to it, so I thought I would do it now.”

“Can I help you?” I asked, trying to cut her moonlight ironing adventure as short as possible.

“No, it has to be done a certain way, so that they do not get wrinkled when he sits in the car or in the office.” She patiently explained.

“But why are you doing it now?” I insisted. “Wouldn’t it be enough to do it tomorrow or another day? Doesn’t he have enough ironed at least for tomorrow?”

“Of course he does.”

“So why are you doing it now?” I persisted.

She looked at me. I looked at her.

“Go upstairs. Sit down next to your husband with a beer in front of the TV.” I demanded. “It’s late.”

She looked at me. I looked at her.

“You worked so hard all day. His work hours are over. Yours should be too. You deserve to relax and regroup.”

She looked at me. I looked at her. She finished the shirt and turned off the iron.

Satisfied that the battle had been won, at least for today, I crept back upstairs and snuggled under the blankets. They embraced me and seemed to ask where I had been.

Although I cracked open my book, looking forward to returning to those cold mountains and deep seas, it couldn’t hold up to the adventure I had just experienced. My mind began to wander over hills and through valleys, trying to find its way through the complex terrain of enoughness.

Housewives do not have the advantage of having their contribution and labor quantified as those who work in jobs that bestow paychecks or insist on sending you home after a certain amount of hours. Their home is their workplace and working hours can reach deep into the night, unseen overtime for the good of the family.

After that evening the smell of hot pressed clothing did not peak its head into my room again so late at night. Most evenings I could hear them laughing at the TV or moving between the living room and kitchen to refresh drinks and snacks. Sometimes all it takes is a little wake up call to pull us out of our trance, give us permission to relax and to acknowledge the hard work of one day.

The truth is we teach best what we need to learn most, and after all of these years, looking back at that moment in time, I am beginning to ask myself: In what areas of my life am I standing in the basement ironing instead of taking a seat at the table? Where am I hiding myself below ground instead of surfacing and standing in my unique power? Where is the fear of not being and doing enough keeping me from sharing my knowledge and gifts? Where am I waiting for an invitation instead of actively taking up my rightful place?

These are questions I can only answer with time and honest reflection. Still at this moment I would like to invite you to take a seat at the table, to laugh with me and to acknowledge the hard work of each day, to accept that our contributions are important and more than enough.

It was a privilege to be able to encourage my host mother to take a break and allow herself space for relaxation in the evenings. It was a joy to be a help to someone who had so often and so willingly helped me.

Thank you for reading!

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