Beautiful Feet (Part I)...

(I thought about changing the name of my blog as I was thinking about writing this posting. Then I started to think about an entire blog makeover. I am still in a time of new beginnings, and since I have a new name, a new look would be fitting. We'll see. Stay tuned)

Speaking of new looks, I have been trying to get my big girl on in my shoe game. Because my mother wasn't a frou-frou, girly-girl heel wearer when I was growing up, I was never that girl who wore heels. OK, maybe not never. I tried for about 2.5 hours, but after the pain and the realization that I didn't know how to walk in the things hit me, I stopped trying. I was older and wiser when I went to Howard, so I didn't worry about fitting in with the girls on the yard as they strutted across campus in their 3 inch heels. But I must admit, as I spend more and more time in the church, I am always amazed by the sistahs who have on a bad pair of heels while getting their praise on! And don't let it be a preaching woman delivering a mighty word while standing tall in her shoes!

But the truth is I have special feet. I have my grandma Beaulah's feet. I have strong feet that hold me up. They are long and wide. And they usually have a hard time finding shoes that they like that like them back. They go for comfort over style because comfort is all they can find. But, this is a new day...

On Wednesday I went into Lane Bryant to buy a gift card. On my way to the register I saw them. They beckoned me, not interested in the fact that I had a task at hand and was on a schedule. They were not alone; there were many. All beautiful. All calling my name. So not to be rude, I answered. There were shoes and booties and boots with calf shafts wide enough to fit my legs. I played with them for a while, but decided I would leave them in the store. That was Wednesday.

On Saturday I still heard them calling. Plus, I needed a pair of shoes for worship on Sunday (long story, not important). So I made my way to to store, picked them up, and left with new shoes, who would become new friends.

Why do I call them friends? I put them on just before 7:00 a.m. yesterday morning and I did not take them off until after 8:00 p.m. last night. They were with me, on my feet, for not one, not two, but three services. I led worship in them. I praised in them. I walked in them. And they felt good. And they were FIERCE! Praise be to God!

At first I felt silly blogging about my shoes, especially after an awesome day of worship. However, this is part of who I am. Plus, I am convinced that my comfortable feet made it possible for my heart, mind, and spirit to be open for worship. There is not greater distraction in the world than to have your feet hurting!

So with that, I will end this post. But look out for part two (and three). As I wrote this I was reminded of papers I wrote for my Sacred Feet class in 2008.

Circle of Sistahs...

I am keenly aware that everyone your color ain't your kind, and everyone your kind ain't your color, but I have to admit that I find special comfort in the company of Black women. I also must admit that I have feeling a bit isolated in my new neighborhood. Edison, and especially our complex, is heavily populated by Indians and Indian-Americans. While I am pleasant to my neighbors, I find that not everyone responds to my cheerful "good mornings." My prayer is that I get to know some of the women in my complex, to form bonds that transgress the borders of race, ethnicity, and culture. But even then, there is something, for me, about connecting with Black women.

So begins my story. On Monday I was meeting a seminarian friend, Jameel, for coffee at Panera Bread. He was my ace at Drew, a fellow thinker and preacher, and it just so happens that we kind of live in the same neighborhood. Anyway, I got there early to do some work. When I walked in there was a group of Black women—beautiful, I might add—who were walking away from the counter with trays in their hands. One of the women smiled at me and softly said, "Good morning." I didn't know her, but I felt at home in her presence.

That fleeting moment was followed by me ordering coffee and finding a seat, which just happened to be across the room from these women. They were in my direct line of sight. Even though they were sitting in regular ole chairs at regular ole tables in Panera Bread talking and laughing and such, in my mind they looked like this Chester Higgins photograph:

I felt silly, but I wanted to know them. In fact, I was g-mail chatting with girlfriend extraordinaire, Courtney, and I told her that there was a group of FABULOUS Black women in Panera and I wanted to be their friend. Deep in my heart I was serious. There was something about this women. Don't get me wrong, I have wonderful sistah/girl/friends that are near and dear to my heart. Unfortunately, they are geographically far away, and I sure could use some sistah/girl/friends in geographical proximity. And here they were...

But how does a grown woman go about making new friends, other grown women, in a coffee shop. Cheesy pick-up lines? Crashing their table? Complementing their outfits? How about a connection that only God could provide.

So as I schemed, Jameel came into the spot. He sat down and we began to talk life, theology, and preaching. But something about this group of women held my attention. So I fessed up. I went through the whole I feel silly thing, but there is a group of fabulous women over there and I really want to be their friend. Well, wouldn't you know it...Jameel turned his head and it turned out he knew two of the women (one of which was the woman who said good morning) from his previous church. He spoke very highly of them: they were God-fearing women; they were smart women; they were family women; they were beautiful women; they were resilient women. He offered to introduce me, but I declined; I felt stupid. We moved on in our conversation. They were still in my sight, but for the moment they were out of mind.

As it would happen, as they were leaving the two women that Jameel knew came over to greet him. And then it happened...he introduced us and told them that I was over at the table admiring them. We talked a bit and exchanged numbers. I was grateful and excited to have some women—Christian women—in my neck of the woods to talk with, laugh with, to glean from, and to offer my gifts to. I am looking forward to joining their circle.

Lest We Forget...

As I drove home from church today, I was filled with mixed emotions. On one hand, I was filled with joy and excitement after having (nervously) served communion for the first time. On the other hand, I was deeply saddened ad frustrated by some of the mess we do, claiming to be done in the name of Jesus. Let me give you some background:

Last week, as if I had nothing better to do, I spent part of Monday morning looking at foolish videos on YouTube. I blame one of friends from Drew. His Facebook status read, "Fast forward to 1:50. This is how I'm going to dance if the Knicks get Carmelo Anthony" and had a link to a video titled, "Foolishness in Church." So, I clicked on the link, and instead of fast forwarding as instructed, I watched the whole thing. I'll spare you the whole video, not because I want to rain on your parade, but more because I don't think foolishness like this needs to get any more page hits (page hits=popularity in the virtual world). I did not laugh. All I could do was shake my head.

There was something about this video that troubled me. Let me be the first to say that although I do not attend a pentecostal/apostolic church, we at Bethesda are no strangers to the move of the Holy Spirit in worship. In the words of the song we sang today in worship, we don't mind giving God the praise. Trust and believe that, while we may lift holy hands, shout, and even cut a step, the Holy Spirit moves in decency and order. Our praise will always give God glory. My spirit was disquieted within me when I viewed this video. This morning, after serving communion, I recognized why.

If you look at the image above, taken from the foolish video, you'll notice a young man dancing on a table. Look closely. He isn't dancing on just any table. He is dancing on the Communion table. The table that house the elements of bread and wine, symbols of Christ's broken body and shed blood, is being trampled upon. To make matters worse, the juxtaposition of this man profaning the sacred table with the words on the table, "this do, in remembrance of me" cause me to wonder if we are truly remembering Jesus' awesome sacrifice, or if we are simply playing church.

And then I thought about this morning. I thought about the anticipation that hung heavy in the air of the sanctuary. I think about the Apostle Paul's words found in 1 Corinthians 11:23-26: For I received from the Lord that which I also delivered to you: that the Lord Jesus on thesame night in which He was betrayed took bread; and when He had given thanks, He broke itand said, “Take, eat; this is My body which is broken for you; do this in remembrance of Me.” In the same manner He also took the cup after supper, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in My blood. This do, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of Me.” For as often as you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death till He comes.

I thought about our reaffirmation of our church covenant—our covenant with God and each other. I thought about how we partake of the elements so that we never forget what God has done for us in Jesus Christ. I thought about Jesus on the cross in my/our place. I thought about His bruised and bloodied body bearing the weight of my/our sin. I thought about my/our sin and how it was forgiven at Calvary. I thought about how we wait for everyone to be served and eat together as a witness of what we believe and a symbol of the unity of the body. We eat the bread in remembrance of Him. We drink the fruit of the cup in remembrance of Him. It is a solemn, yet beautiful moment. I felt honored and privileged to be able to preside over the table, to help usher people into a space of remembrance. And I know that the foolishness in this world, and even in some of our churches, can never cause me to forget...

Going in Different Direction

This commercial makes me laugh out loud every single time I see it. Every time! It also makes not not feel so bad about my inconsistent work-out schedule. I'm slacking a bit, but I'm certainly not going in a different direction!

Enjoy a laugh...

Tag! You're it!

I have always loved a good game of tag! And so, when LC over at Loving Me tagged me to answer a few questions about myself, my blog, and my style, I took off running....

1.What inspired you to start a blog and share your style with the world?

I am a writer. I have been a writer since I was five years old. I love to share my words, because I think words matter. As for my style, well, I am excited to share that as it develops.

2. If you dumped your handbag right this second, what contents would fall out of your makeup bag?

Nars All-in-One Bronzer Stick (Palm Beach), Nars Blush (Taos), Bobbi Brown Lipstick (Black Garnet), Bobbi Brown Eye Shadow (Black Berry), Bobbi Brown Kohl Pencil (Black), Med-ex lip balm, a couple of make-up brushes, wedges, and some lint.

3. Which celebrity do you wish you had on speed dial to call for shopping dates?

I’m not sure that I would want a celebrity to call—I have FABULOUS girlfriends who have no problem closing down the mall with me. But, given my newfound fascination with dresses and developing my signature style, I’d have to say first lady Michelle Obama.

4. Favorite Ben and Jerry's flavor.

Chubby Hubby. I mean, really, who thinks to put pretzels, fudge, and peanut butter in one container?

5. What are you most looking forward to pulling out of your closet this fall?

I always love pulling out my turquoise leather jacket and my funky scarves!

6. Describe your personal style in three words.

Funky, Sweet, and Sophisticated.

7. What are you currently rocking on your iPod?

There is so much, but my favorite playlist, one that makes me feel like a woman when I am working out, has The Commodores, Anthony Hamilton, Bilal, Michael Jackson, Soul II Soul, Prince, Aretha Frnaklin, Jill Scott, Lauryn Hill, Mary J. Blige, De la Soul, and Dwele.

8. What's your favorite way to mix high-end items with low-budget pieces?

My favorite way? Mixing high-end and low-budget items is my only way.

I tag Kem over at Loverly Notions… She hasn't blogged in a while but maybe this will bring her out of blogging hibernation!

Think on These Things...

"Courage is fear that has said its prayers"

(Dorothy Bernard)

image taken fromhttp://www.willowtreegifts.net/images/products/AngelOfPrayer.jpg

Untitled...

This entry isn't really untitled. It has many titles. I couldn't decide on just one.

Here are but a few:

Tell 'em why You Mad Son...

or, No/bodies, Some/bodies...

or, For Real MoMa? You're Kidding, Right...

or, Where is Lorna?

I feverishly typed most of this entry on my Blackberry while sitting on the top floor of the Museum of Metropolitan Art. I had not been to the new location (which isn't so new anymore) and I was excited to get out and be inspired. Instead I felt like my life/breath was being choked out of me. Here is my story:

As I traveled up yet another escalator, I realized that I paid twenty bucks to get mad. I could feel the heat rising in my body like steam coming out from a NYC manhole cover. I could have gotten mad for free (like I did in the Bolton's fitting room earlier), but no, I paid to be angered.

I should have expected it. I should have known better. But I walked in blindly and got smacked upside the head pretty hard. I felt like Wily Coyote getting hit by a ton of Acme bricks. What hit me? It was the reality that many are still content with ignoring the bodies and the bodies of work of African-American women.

Let me begin with our bodies. I am no small girl. In fact, I was reminded of this in the fitting room of Bolton's earlier today. I may not be tall, but I am certainly not lacking presence. Except, of course, in places where white folks and a few others aren't expecting my presence. I was bumped and brushed one too many times for my taste. It was like I wasn't there. It was like they didn't see me. I am grateful that I have been set aside for Christian ministry because there is no telling what I may have otherwise said and done. What happens when your body has become so devalued in society that folks treat you like you have no body at all? No body. Nobody.

As for the bodies of work of African-American women artists, MoMa gets the gas face. Minutes before going to the women in photography exhibit, I snapped this picture and sent it to a friend. She and I had just been talking about the Guerilla Girls.

My delight by the inclusion of work by the Geurilla girls, and their creative commentary on African-American/Black woman artists, was dampened by the exclusion of African-American women photographers in an exhibit that "encompassed the vitality and richness of photography's many creative traditions and demonstrates the medium's accessibility to women from its inception."
Accessible? To whom? By whom? What women? How could MoMa have an exhibition of women photographers that contains only one Jeanne Moutoussamy-Ashe print? Where is Lorna? Where is Clarissa? Where is Deborah? Where is Adrian? Where?

MoMa, what are you saying? Are we nobodies with no bodies of work?

In an act of resistance I slipped quietly in the corner on the sixth floor of MoMa, slipped my iPod out of my purple bag, slipped on my headphones and listened to Jill Scott's "I'm Still Here," and then I left.

I am a boisterous river
I am a mountains story
I am a quiet feeling
I am a fragrant flower
I am a moonlit evening
I am a peaceful night
I am a writers thinking
I am a wealth unfathomed
And if you don’t recognize my presence, I am here
And if you don’t recognize me, I am here

I am a source of power
I am excited journey
I am the rock of patience
I am a whisper singing
I am unbridled freedom
I am the thought from thinking
I am a love unshattered
I am the great orgasm

And if you don’t recognize my presence, I am here
And if you don’t recognize my presence, I am here

And even if you don’t recognize me, I‘m still here
And even if you don’t recognize me

And even if you don’t recognize me, I‘m still here
And even if you don’t recognize me, I am, oh, I’m still here

Even if you don’t recognize me, I’m here, I’m here, I’m here

To add insult to injury, I walked past (and doubled back to) a painted image in the window of the really swanky bar, Modern, that is doors down from MoMa. Here is a detail. There was too much of a glare to get the entire display. What you don't see in this image are the other two women and the ways in which their bodies are postured, layered on each other, baring flesh.

Here were black women's bodies. On display. In a window. They were teasing, titillating, tempting. I felt like I was at the intersection of a slave auction block and Q-Tip's video for Vivrant Thang instead of at 53rd Street and 5th Avenue in Midtown Manhattan.

It is acceptable for our bodies bodies to be sexual, used to invoke or evoke pleasure for others. It is alright for our bodies to be used in service to others, laboring for the well being of others whether as a domestic worker, nanny, or factory worker. But folks don't know what to do with our bodies when we are just being. Though I haven't talked about Erykah Badu's video for "Window Seat" on the blog, I think that is precisely the issue. What do we do with the body of a black woman when she isn't shaking her a**?

Black women have strong bodies. Black women have beautiful bodies. Black women have intelligent bodies. Black women have resilient bodies. Sadly, Black women have bodies that are only recognized when we are sexual or working.

I don't know how to end this blog. Truth is, I am still angry. I thought writing would help. Maybe it did a little. There is more to be done to right these wrongs...