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Waiting and Watching

January 27, 2019

Waiting for someone you love to die is hovering 10,000 feet in the air, knowing you can’t help the crash coming.

It is the fear of falling to sleep because you don’t want to miss the last 500 breathes they take.
It is waking up to see the sun, yet stumbling through days in darkness.
It is hearing laughter and wishing today was easy as that sound.
It is stinging cold bites on the hottest day of the year.

You look at the phone when it rings and decide that if you don’t answer, you don’t have to talk about “comfort” care or how many hours there may be left of what the nurse called his “natural life.”

If you have ever watched someone about to leave their body you know that God isn’t always beautiful, and without a doubt, she’s real. You know sometimes there’s a fight. You know there is no winning or losing. There is simply real.

Watching my 93 year old grandmama watch her first born, my daddy, die,- I learned that mama’s never stop seeing the innocence of their baby and always remember the complete joy and pain of their child’s first breath.

If you’ve ever watched and waited for someone you love to die, you know the air in the room and your whole world changes. In some places it thins, so they can pass through. Other places it thickens to hold all the love and memories in.

You know that spaces outside of the waiting room feel like betrayal. The way everyone else’s time seems to move on while you watch for it to stop in a kind of forever way.

You know that every prayer is heard, and ain’t always answered in ways we can understand. You know that in the rawest of moments, prayer is a covering for your heart. You know that when everything is pulled apart at the seams, prayer is the thread that holds the smallest part of us together.

You know what it is to retrace a lifetime of memories only to realize there are too many gaps and no way to fill them in. You hold on to faith that those places will indeed be “where the light enters.”

You know that sometimes silence is a loud and deafening sound.

Two years ago, on this day, and after weeks of waiting and watching, my daddy left his body.

10,000… 9,000, 8,000 feet in the air…

I never actually crashed. It has been slow going, turbulent, and an honest grounding. At times I’ve closed the window and my eyes on this ride because there is really nothing to see out there, everything to feel in here.

Yet I landed. I landed with my feet and heart deeper in the earth.

And I am closer to all living things and everything that has breath.

Closer to the helm of God’s torn, yet regal garment.

Braver in the face of the grit, stuff, compost within us all.

I am closer to the place that grows and returns every life to its beginning.

Dr. King’s Heart

January 21, 2019

When Dr. King was examined post death, he was found to have the heart of a 65 year old. He was only 39. To say his heart was heavy and weary, is an understatement. To say it was weighted is to misstate the magnitude of the load. How could being three fourths human, second class citizens, and treated (in law and action) less than equal add up to carrying the most weight? Who can measure the pressure that all of this created on his arteries? How cumbersome were those imbalanced scales of “justice” to live with? Who can calculate how both the need to fight in the first place and how the reality of legalized terror on Blackness aged his heart. And what is the gravity of that legacy of terror and inequity on our hearts now?

I wonder how old my daddy’s heart was when he died. How a lifetime of dreams systemically deferred burdened his heart even without being on the front lines of the battle to end it? What race based traumas he’d stored in his vessels, unable to process them through channels that wouldn’t force him to block or corrode his own?

Five years ago my mama survived a heart attacked that her surgeon said he’d seen take out 97% of the people who came in her condition. Of course there are many factors, some would call them “life style”, yet who can tally the impact of decades of racism, sexism, and poverty on my mama’s heart? How long had she been in that war? Did it start the day she was born? Or did it begin the day that she innocently watched the night news and asked her mother “mama why they put the dogs on the Black children like that?” only to receive no answer other than her mother’s silent tears. Or was it the the constant devaluation? Working more and harder than any man I know for less, always? Or was it the constant scraping to make dollars out of wooden nickels for me and my sister? What really attacked her heart? Who’s counting the additional weight of it all?

Sometimes I lay my head against my husband’s chest and listen to the story it taps out, loud and strong. I feel our Ancestor’s whose blood refused to drown in the Atlantic Ocean swimming within his veins.The ones who survived the field and the lash. The ones that broke the wings of Jim Crow. Sometimes it drums rapid and full of strained whispers, running running, running so fast from the south to the north and back again. I wonder who’s been running through his pulse when I hear that frantic banging from the door of his heart. Who within him was bound and tried to escape? Is my husband’s present life evidence that they found some chamber of freedom?

The other day I asked my two year old son where his heart was and he touched my chest and said “in there” and then pat his own chest, and said “here too.” He smiled.

I wonder if he meant, his heart feels all of the living, age, time, and experiences of mine?
If his heart is already stronger than other little boy’s because of our shared legacy?
I wonder if he meant he carries the wisdom of all the living before him, and also has fuller access to the lightness of his being because of the price they’ve paid?
And I wonder if he will be even more devoted to freedom and liberation of all our people in his lifetime because of that?

I thought of Dr. King’s old heart in that young body.

I thought of all of the hearts that have beat, pulsed, fought (publicly and/or privately), and loved in order for our love to exist.

And I remembered why I stay focused and unapologetic about living in such a way and doing work that supports the hearts of people who’ve been running so far for so long, all while carrying the heaviest load.

Birthday Reflections

October 22, 2018
She was moving a refrigerator when she went in labor with me.
(Moving a refrigerator after coming from out my Aunt Gloria’s house getting her hair touched up, cause she had to be fly for birth- that’s my mama!)


I didn’t come out until mama, deep in labor called on her mama, Annie Mae Williams who’d been gone from this earth nine years, one month, and four days before I was born. When my mama called on her mama, as her story goes, I came on through.


And the way my daddy told it. He held me, his first one to make it out alive, on his right side. He held his best cuban cigar (he’d been saving a decade) in his left hand.
An old ritual.  Calling mama’s mama. Pushing a fridge- My welcome to this world.


This week I saw another birthday; and I turned a corner.


Mama told our birth story again and I tried to remember it.
In dad’s physical absence two hawks followed me all day.
Jemar held complete space for me to simply do me and not the 1,000 other things I usually do in a day. And I felt deeply seen and understood in that space.
Oye “baked” me a cake out of play dough, pine needles, and red clay. And I remembered the beauty, mess, and sweetness of my Gainesville, Georgia childhood.


I cried, laughed,smiled, and remembered a lot on my birthday. Mostly laughed and smiled.


I got a facial for the first time in 5 years. Katie took me to another planet with massage + reiki. I ate icecream for lunch. I met up with my life/business coach who  helped me recount another birth story of sorts, how I got from the mud of last October to the lotus of this October. That night, I stayed up way too late and read a book from cover to cover, Kiese Laymon’s memoir- Heavy…A love letter to his mama (y’all read it-it’s brilliant).


Retracing steps, I turned a corner and ran into my whole self. We stood for a moment staring at one another full of shy admiration of who we have become. Who we love. How we love. How we are loved. How we’ve pushed all manner of “bigger than us things” out of the way when necessary. How we’ve inherently known when to call Annie Mae and nem (our Ancestors) when we couldn’t push anymore. How we’ve known to tuck our best away for our very best ,even at our worst like my dad did with that one cuban cigar.


I come from real, loving, and imperfect people. From a real, loving, and imperfect place.

That has always been true.

I turned a corner and ran into an acceptance of my past and present that I didn’t know I needed in order to access the infinite potential of my future..

This year is a rebirth.

The cost of dreams

September 25, 2018

Your dream will cost you. You are worth it.

I paid attention.  I realized how much work the work would take.

Was this my work? Could I do this work? What did that really mean? What would that require of me?  11 or so years ago, these were the questions I asked myself.

I didn’t dream of being a yoga teacher.

I dreamed of music that me and my sister Ebony spent countless hours fighting over when deciding what to listen to: Lauryn Hill, Outkast, Sade… I dreamed in mama’s Saturday night records- Chaka Khan, Patti Labelle, and Aretha. I dreamed in the Gospel: God Specializes.  Lashun Pace’s, I know I been changed.

I dreamed the way my childhood smelled: Whiffs of cocoa butter, mama’s hot comb, and Ora Faith’s fried apple pie. Gainesville, Georgia. Wet red clay. Hints of incense bought at the corner store-sacred.

I dreamed the sound of laughter that I’d sipped and guzzled around a table of sisters  in Accra, Ghana.

I dreamed the way sweat fell on those Boston living room floors, at that house party me, Ibi, Avril, and Karima had in 2003.

I dreamed in the texture of  tears Alesha, Noro and I shed at  Ki’s funeral in that small chapel on the southside of Chicago.

I dreamed of a place that held the healing tones that me, Tiffany, and Jami shared at our Sunday Soul Suppers in a little ranch house in the Arizona desert.

I dreamed the feeling of being held, fed, and loved in the midst of it all.

I dreamed of holding. Feeding. Loving.

I dreamed circles made of Starshine & Clay.

A place that gathered all of what makes me whole-my pieces- and affirmed it.

I didn’t dream of being a yoga teacher.

My practice revealed dimensions of bonds, locks, and chains.

My practice also showed me how discipline, alignment, and awareness were essential keys.

And so, I dreamed of being free.


And I knew, because I’d sat at the feet of masterful teachers and paid attention,  that it would cost me. And it did.


It cost me my addiction to grasping, lack, and limiting beliefs.

It cost me comfortable, yet tired relationships and the capacity to maintain fake friends for status and social “mobility”. It cost me dinners out and many lazy nights in. It required me to pay in thousands of hours of teaching, studying, and learning totaling years and years BEFORE I left my day job. It cost me the familiarity of a time clock and the ability to delay responses like I did when I didn’t work for myself. I paid with misunderstandings and silent tears in rooms, as the only one.

It has afforded me  a sense of deep trust that it’s my birth rite and responsibility to create and design a life that reflects the prayers of my mama and grandmama ‘nem.

It has netted me the capacity to discern the taste of an organic relationship in the making vs. a modified one long before I fill my plate with someone else’s stuff.

It has granted me a level of integrity in my response and communication (time) with others that honor our potential or real life relationship.

It has repaid me in understanding, smiles of soul recognition, and cries of release with yogis like and unlike me all over Atlanta, Georgia, and the southeast.

Here I am free-er to be myself- to live, love, mother, create, and work on terms that my great great grandmama might not have been able to imagine.

Yes. It has cost me more than I have space to write here.
Yet I owe no one more than I owe the girl I was, the woman I am, and the woman I am destined to be.

Who or what do you Envy?

September 12, 2018

Something made you roll your eyes, hiss a little, and think “they are so extra- ugh?” as you scrolled through the feeds.


Is there someone you feel like you are silently  in competition with?


Is there someone you watch and might even take notes from, but you don’t “follow”,  “like” or <3 them.


We know that social media has created means to constantly compare that never existed before. And we know that comparing ourselves to someone else’s parts will always insure we (feel like) we are coming up short and can never be enough.


Yet.  Still.

Can we learn something from compassionately examining who and what we envy ?


I’ll share a personal experience that I’ve tucked away and carried around for a while.


Before I became a mama, I’d suck my teeth when people talked about, posted about, wrote about, or shared pictures of their kids. Or I’d pretend to be overly interested. Once, while on a retreat, a sister kept talking about her children . At first I was “so” into it. But it seemed to go on too long. My fake interest turned to pure irritation. I literally said to her
“Girl… I thought you came here to rest and be free of them and all that. Don’t you have something else in your life to talk about” (Yes y’all, I said that to someone). I was so annoyed at her. But was it annoyance? Was it “at” her? I went and sat with my feelings and examined my response.  Annoyance gave way to the feeling of a sharp rock in my belly. My heart felt punctured open, 1,000mph wind howled through.


My sitting turned to laying down. I held myself and wrapped deep breaths around my spirit. Then it happened. This feeling was a tunnel to crawl and peer through. A way to both see and humbly touch what I wanted. I wanted children that I would miss on a retreat. I let myself feel all of the inner questioning that I’d “put it off”  and then it seemed to be eluding me.  I wanted to unroll my yoga mat and have little socks that had been left behind fall out. I wanted to feel and give the depth of love present in that sister’s (and so many mamas) eyes, words, and the way she carried her body and even her purse around.


For many layered reasons, I couldn’t/ wouldn’t admit that longing any other way. And so that thing dressed up like annoyance and strolled in as envy.  Only once fully investigated did it reveal a desire that I’d meticulously hidden and covered up beneath other emotions, interests, and even ambitions.


Envy does not feel good and is not “nice”. And yet, it is often a determined and nuisanced teacher. You may be more evolved, and so, you won’t have or need the lessons to come through envy.


but y’all… that was how I realized one of my deepest desires. Through a messy inquiry into who and what I envied & exactly why.


Who do you envy? Are you jealous of someone else’s work? Relationship(s)? Family? Vacation? Why? What does envy feel like in your body? Where do you feel it? What longing or desire might be asking you to take notice through this fiery emotion?


Danielle Laporte says this of jealousy/envy:

“It asks us to give ourselves permission to want what we want… and get our ass in gear.

Envy is often a call to action.”




love+ honor you as much as you can. Then look your envy in the eye. Look at and beneath it. Ask it what it really wants. Be honest.

Ask you what you really want. And

Take your next bold step.

Guide my feet

May 7, 2018

“Guide my feet, while I run this race.” The first year of mothering and studio ownership revealed my dark- deeper. My underbelly. My fears. My messiness. My grit. My shame. My pride. My place of grace. My resilience. My strength. My softness. My naivete. My wisdom.

I wouldn’t trade nothing for year one right now, and I ain’t turning around either- though.

I have to do this work. This work has to work.
I want to do this work. I feel called, inspired, loved, challenged, and sometimes on edge with this work. It is, in fact, actually, work.
I share the “full” studio pictures, and there are still days where there’s one, two, three students in class. Real life is this AND that. Not this or that. .
I share from an open hand often, and there are moments when I am gripping, tightened fist, closed.

Some days feel like walking through thick and unrelenting bush. Some days I am dancing in an open field, twirling forward.

All of the while, I sense my feet are being guide.

Sometimes it’s a fire walk to get to stream. Sometimes we crawl to what we think is the finish line, only to realize it’s the start. Sometimes the directions are wrong, and we get lost in order to find our way home. Many times we are standing, in front of the sign we are praying for, but can’t see it because the message isn’t often packaged or in shiny papers.

My feet have been guided to this place of knowing: It ain’t “this or that”. It’s this AND that.

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