Solid As A Rock...

As I as driving home this afternoon, listening to Marley Marl play old school R&B on 98.7 Kiss FM, I felt old. Really old. I didn't feel old because I could sing along with every word of every song he was playing, thereby showing my age. No, I felt old when the following though crossed my mind: They sure don't make music like they used to...

I mean really. That is on par with attributing every problem that every person has to drugs. You know what I'm talking about... Whether someone is 3 months behind on rent, isn't taking care of their child, got fired from yet another job, or lost 20 pounds rapidly, an older (and usually wiser) person will ask, "Is he (or she) on drugs?" Some don't even ask. They just declare, "That girl (or boy) must be on something." Well, I find myself doing that. In fact I did it earlier this week. (Don't laugh, you know you do it too!)

Back to the matter at hand. I must admit, I don't trust Trey Songz like I trust Teddy Pendergrass. I don't think Beyonce and Jay-Z can say anything worth holding a candle to Ashford and Simpson. Don't get me wrong. There are some new folks doing it right now. (Case in point, Jeanelle Monet. Girl can sing and dance and probably could have kept up with James Brown in his heyday.) But for the most part, music today isn't saying too much. At least nothing worth listening to.

Well, in honor of my age, and in celebration of a song that really inspired this newlywed on her ride home, pump up the volume and press play. Now they were saying something....

Lena's Gone Home...

In the midst of (still) writing my final paper, I need to pause to honor and celebrate the life of Lena Horne (June 30, 1917-May, 9, 2010). I have few words right now to describe the powerhouse of a woman that was Lena Horne, but I will say that she exuded grace in all that she did. There was indeed a simple elegance about her. In many ways, especially for African American female actresses and singers, her life and work was a gift that opened doors and opportunities.

Here is to you, Ms. Lena. My prayer is that one day I will embody the grace that you so wonderfully lived...

Morning Inspiration...

They were supposed to be playing Morning Inspiration...

But instead there was a commercial from Time Life Music for the Sweet Soul of the Seventies Collection. I don’t know if I’m feeling especially sentimental this morning...Lovin’ You by Minnie Ripperton. I don’t know if love is doing its thing in me... I’ve Got Love on My Mind by Natalie Cole. Perhaps I’m just tired and vulnerable... For the Love of You by the Isley Brothers. Maybe the cold of winter is getting to me...Always and Forever by Heatwave. It has been a minute since I’ve been in a relationship...Reunited by Peaches and Herb.

Where is the Morning Inspiration???

Wherever it was, as the snippets played, my heart grew heavy. There was a deep longing present that words cannot describe. Admittedly, tears were welling up. And then it happened. They played, La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, means I Love You and I was done. DONE. I got up, walked into my room, grabbed my phone and called the 800 number. I never call 800 numbers. Ok, maybe not never. I used to when I was a girl. I’d see something on TV that I wanted, call the number, and cajole my father into sending a check to the P.O. Box. The best score was the Hey Minnie album. But I digress.

Here I was, on the phone with Janet and I was getting got and I had no way to stop it. That was, of course, until the woman on the phone told me that 11 CD’s could cost me $180 bucks. And then, my bubble was burst. I was down off the cloud. For a moment, at least.

Ahem. Morning Inspiration, where are you?

I wanted to cry. Instead I laughed. It was pretty funny. I called my mom and she laughed with me and assured me that she had most of the songs on the collection and that I could burn them from her. I also realized that I could make a list of the songs and slowly but surely build up my own collection on iTunes that would cost far lest than $180 bucks. That part of the crisis was averted...but there was still the issue of my heart.

Is this your idea of Morning Inspiration?

Even as I am writing this, I recognize that the Sweet Soul of the Seventies commercial was indeed morning inspiration. To make a long story really short, I lost the love of my life about three years ago—we are both alive and well, just not together. When I started my theological education, I buried myself in theology and books and papers and ideas. My heart was inactive. As time passed, I buried myself deeper, and my heart grew a thick skin over it: perhaps to protect it; perhaps to preserve it. The skin grew so thick that I could no longer feel my heart. I didn’t know if it was still capable of fluttering. I didn’t know if it was still capable of giving. I didn’t know if it was still capable of receiving. I didn’t know.

Over the past few months—after years of engaging my mind and attempting to re-engage my body—my heart has been making its presence known. It started with a third grade type giggly girl crush in Tennessee over the summer. I could feel the layers being removed. But now, with more going on than I care to blog about at the moment, the layers that had built up around my heart have been completely removed.

My mentor teaches that “body is soul perceived by the senses.” I believe that heart is soul. Zora Neale Hurston once wrote that, “Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place.” Heart crawling out from its hiding place. Heart making itself known. Heart giving and receiving. Heart beating.

And yes, I am especially sentimental; Love is doing its thing in me; I am tired and vulnerable; I am ready for the warmth and life and newness of spring; and in the words of India Aire, I am ready for love. The Sweet Soul of the Seventies commercial woke me up and breathed into me.

Ahhhhh, Morning Inspiration...

Truly, MJ was an experience.

I was driving from Gallatin to memphis when I got the news of Michael’s passing. I was about an hour into my drive, somewhere south and west of Nashville. The news came via text: MJ is dead. Instantly, I knew the text was about Michael Jackson. I mean, that is how big he was. All you had to do was say his initials and I recognized. Anyway, when  I got the text, I was in disbelief. I happened to be on the phone with my roommate. “Google it,” I said. She did, and the reports had not been confirmed. So at that moment, he went from dead to rushed to the hospital. Whew. How crazy would it be for Michael Jackson to be dead? I breathed a sigh of relief. Don’t get me wrong, I know that death is a part of life. But like Tupac and the Notorious BIG, I felt like there was more. More Michael to be experience. Truly, he was an experience.

But there was no more. In a matter of minutes, the reports (and truth) of his death started coming in. I felt myself welling up with tears. I became deeply saddened not only because of his death, but because he was a troubled soul, because he gave of himself—his gifts—freely and often, because we abused his person while enjoying his music. We talked about him, instead of loving him though his pain.

Even as I write this, I am saddened. I cannot bear to hear the reports of his troubles. I don't want to speculate about the details of his death. I don't want to write anymore. I just want to go dance. So, before I leave Memphis, I will (we will) get up on somebody's karayoke stage and pay homage to a legend lost. RIP Michael Jackson (1958-2009)