BLACK or NeoCAPITALISM ain’t the answer.

I left $103 in a Black Bank savings account last year.   I called to check on my M&F account that had started in the thousands but when I was closing the account because of location inconvenience I decided to keep the Black bank in play. I didn’t take all the money out. Well, I called yesterday to find that the $103 balance I had left there had become $48.98 because well, “Yes, interest is earned on $100 balance”.  “And, Less than $200 in savings service charge is $6 per month”. Nine months of $6 charges had been deducted. These people didn’t bother to advise me of a smart capitalist play…petty capitalist. Service is the Answer yall… anyway its clear Capitalism on top of Society is Crushing., and Black Capitalism makes it plain, you ain’t sh*t, and as long as you play our game, the rules will defeat, humiliate, and dismiss your existence.

Today when I go into the bank I am going to cause a scene of myself speaking out to all that can hear cause the great power I have is in my speech.  Our Power.  We must be compassionate, kind, and truly of service to each other.  We must use our brilliance to devise as my first spiritual teacher taught me, a Conscious Cosmic Citizen way of life.  A way of life that honors the earth, our future generations, and ourselves.

For your Compassionate Expansion

Post Script:

I went to the Bank and talked to the local top representative of the bank and expressed my concerns.  We discussed the terms and the non communication and he respectfully refunded the fees I had been charged.  M and F Bank wants to serve its mainly Black clientele to their satisfaction.  I learned that we must Speak Our Truth especially when we feel wronged and have a vision of what would be right.



Vivid Black 


Or Where THE **CK  I  Been

Its November 2017… I plan to share heavily in 2018. I’ve been away from posting to this blog most of 2016. I want to serve the world providing and gaining insight with my experiences; my reconnections with nature and my ideological questions and insights I find important.  Of course,  I may look at deconstructing some well-established perspectives like heterosexualism, or nature and culture as a binary. Politically, a big issue for me  is how revolutionaries go about being true to the vision of peace and love for humanity as we transition out of the clutches of capitalism. 

There are many delightful experiences ahead to love and grow through. We are going on a road trip in our 2001 Durango that we are hoping is in tip top shape.  It has heated leather seats, new front tires and an okay sound system. I am ashamed of the gas that it burns but this is part of the fate of a wasteful and polluting culture’s transportation vehicle that we can afford.  The existence of that gas burning car is part of the structuring of our minds to ignore our earth. Profit profit profit, cost cost cost is always is in and on our minds. While I ride I will be wondering about the institutions beyond capitalism that will be created in my own world…that’s what I will share with you.

Big questions are on my mind, how do we make sure we are non-hegemonic, non-sexist, and non-racist? How do we organize each other and ourselves while the gasping system lurches and and bedevils with more violence against black bodies, people of color and whites who are awakening.  Worldwide people are seeking greater power and freedom to roam and live in commons.  Even in the best material conditions people see how humanity is held hostage intellectually, physically, and spiritually whenever you listen to international news, travel and learn indigenous cultures. Armageddon is happening everyday somewhere on our earth whenever human crisis are ignored by our culture.  In the worst of material conditions it is obvious that the poor peoples power has been mortgaged for an indefinite period of time. Human beings seek real power that I think can only come collectively.

Holistic rebellion beyond ageism, sexism, racism and personal ego is the rising process I want to use to assists the elevation of kindness and love in my life and as my contribution to humanity.   Peace love and power is what we want and what we need, now.

I recently listened to Lewis Gordon, he is a philosopher and Frantz Fanon specialist.  He has talks on YouTube.  The “What Fanon Said”, talk is fabulous. Gordon opened up for me concepts of power, and the strategies for creating society.

My recent favorite class at the university is Literary Theory.   I studied thinkers who scholars and philosophers draw on to advance their stratospheric ideas and visions for getting it “right” this time. I was fascinated with Jacques Derrida, Carl Jung, Chandra Mohanty, Karl Marx, Adrienne Rich, Chinua Achebe, and Frantz Fanon. Of course there are many more in all the fields of knowledge waiting to be known and created by you and me. The philosopher scholars (its not hard and clear to me what distinguishes these two groups theorists and philosopher scholars) such as; Louis Farrakhan, Angela Davis, bell hooks, Cornell West, Deepak Chopra, Robyn D.G. Kelley and newly found philosopher, Lewis Gordon. So my life is just getting interesting, but I must backtrack from here Fall/winter to spring.

2016 in PHOTOS




Defeat Generates My Vortex of Creative Power – It Is Truly All Good

“You may encounter many defeats, but you must not be defeated. In fact, it may be necessary to encounter the defeats, so you can know who you are, what you can rise from, how you can still come out of it.” – MayaAngelou

Goddess Energy Connection

Goddess Energy Connection

The Presidential election indicates that the maelstrom and chaos that would test our consciousness, intelligence, and emotional balance has been well underway (we are just seeing it directly right now). We were warned of this shift… What does this mean for us? It means NO HALF STEPPING. Be Wise, Courageous and Compassionate and Conscious. Be visionary, humble, clear, strong, woke and committed to an elevated loving frequency within and around your being. Protect yourself…This morning I am diffusing Clary Sage, burning sage throughout my house…Maintain and reconnect with your connection to nature…go home to our close mother and first teacher. Our sustainability is the earth’s sustainability. Regard your physical and mental health as sacred.

Me and My Granddaughter Coltrane Mekatalili Oct 2016

Me and My Granddaughter Coltrane Mekatalili Oct 2016

I would love for millions of us to ride to Standing Rock and share with our Sisters and Brothers there. Share magic, spiritual treatments, inspiring energy for our movements to raise awareness of our duty to the secular and the sacred missions.  The original sin of America (perpetuating ignorance, separation, hatred, elitism, rich white domination, confusion, cannot be continually swept under the rug. America must reconcile with people of color here and around the world. We must meet and share more and support each other. All people can know their responsibility to create societies that protect, nurture,  justice for all…real justice for all, not just the elite white world. NO HALF STEPPING…This is about global leadership in the making of great human beings. MAKE HUMANS GREAT AGAIN! 



2016 Yoga Teacher Training

Yoga Teacher Training

Yoga Teacher Training

Today I opened up the application for Yoga Teacher Training at Charlotte Yoga.  For several weeks I pondered Me and Teacher Training.  I would need to activate the dollars acquisition energy.  My energy is currently active around; the Masters Program at SNHU where I am majoring in English and taking multimedia writing classes like screen writing and storytelling styles.  My energy is on; making a prom dress for my granddaughter Coltrane, further developing the narrative around Nature Culture along  with Karim.  My energy is on Spring planting, making my front and back yard a FOOD YARD.  My energy is on how to be a apart of the movement to create a higher civilization on the planet.  Well Yoga Teacher Training contributes to all these endeavors.


I decided to utilize Go Fund Me campaign to ask the public  to contribute dollars to pay for my 200 hour Yoga Teacher Training which is $2,800.  Actually the 200 hour at Charlotte Yoga is step two of the process to initiate City of Charlotte Energy Centers.  Step one was to return to hot yoga classes in October 2015.  Step three is to take Egyptian Yoga Teacher Training.  Along the way I hope to bond with others around the country and the world who practice and encourage inner health and well-being practices.


What I love about yoga is that it gives me HOPE for the human species. I know many participants in hot yoga classes are there to improve the look of their bodies.  What happens that along the way of sweating out toxins and fat you become acquainted with soul.  Some teachers offer spiritual guidance teachings but most assuredly you can their sense of connection with all the students.  There is not the gym push or vibe, but one of release and peace in most yoga studios.  I think continuing students gain more patience, and appreciation for other beings.


I envision as indoor and outdoor ENERGY CENTER, studio space with showers.  Just like we have city Tennis Courts, Basketball, Football facilities, we can have an ENERGY CENTER.  Classes  of many different styles of yoga, martial arts, and chi gong etc.  Certified Teachers and very low cost classes.  Outdoor would also include a labyrinth and Nature Culture Garden.  If you agree with me that every city needs an ENERGY CENTER, please keep up with my blog and look for my Go Fund Me site.  I guess I will call it Yoga Teacher Training phase One to  Build Energy Center in Charlotte.



Ben Okri, the author of Famished Road suggests that we read everything, especially those things that you are told you should not read.  I’ve wished that I had read Salt Eaters by Toni Cade Bambara.  I have the book on my shelf, I remember her in the community when I lived in Atlanta. I heard great things about her writing skills from the progressive artists of the West End in Atlanta.   She died in 1995, it’s 2015 and I would love to connect with Toni.



I am so pleased to have this piece of writing to come my way via my first class in graduate school. Toni Cade Bambara was legendary in Atlanta 36 years ago when our paths crossed. Somehow I mustered up the confidence to have a comment or conversation with her at an art opening. That’s my second son Kamari in my arms; he is now 36 years old.

This short story by Toni Cade Bambara stirs my soul. I was having a conversation with my husband today attempting to remember what types of conversations circulated in our households in relationship to the social political climate. Na Da, nothing, oh yeah, “act your age but not your color”. Reading The Lesson brought me back to inner feelings of defeat all through childhood. I was a black and almost poor and that was that. Best option in life is to get an education.         I imagine now that the black folks who were courageous enough to go to college must have been super brilliant to feel that they could succeed within the voluminous layers of self-hatred running through our thoughts and veins. Self-sabotage, hatred, and poverty hid the reality of our natural brilliance and radiant beauty.   I remember feeling the finality of this existence of the system of white supremacy.   Toni Cade Bambara is teaching me how to write and how to love my self and humanity.

Thank you Toni, your contribution as a writer is so pure and deep and it lives on eternally.  For your pleasure enjoy the short story below.

The Lesson

Toni Cade Bambara (1939-1995)

Back in the days when everyone was old and stupid or young and foolish and me and Sugar were the only ones just right, this lady moved on our block with nappy hair and proper speech and no makeup. And quite naturally we laughed at her, laughed the way we did at the junk man who went about his business like he was some big-time president and his sorry-ass horse his secretary. And we kinda hated her too, hated the way we did the winos who cluttered up our parks and pissed on our handball walls and stank up our hallways and stairs so you couldn’t halfway play hide-and-seek without a goddamn gas mask. Miss Moore was her name. The only woman on the block with no first name. And she was black as hell, cept for her feet, which were fish-white and spooky. And she was always planning these boring-ass things for us to do, us being my cousin, mostly, who lived on the block cause we all moved North the same time and to the same apartment then spread out gradual to breathe. And our parents would yank our heads into some kinda shape and crisp up our clothes so we’d be presentable for travel with Miss Moore, who always looked like she was going to church though she never did. Which is just one of the things the grownups talked about when they talked behind her back like a dog. But when she came calling with some sachet she’d sewed up or some gingerbread she’d made or some book, why then they’d all be too embarrassed to turn her down and we’d get handed over all spruced up. She’d been to college and said it was only right that she should take responsibility for the young ones’ education, and she not even related by marriage or blood. So they’d go for it. Specially Aunt Gretchen. She was the main gofer in the family. You got some ole dumb shit foolishness you want somebody to go for, you send for Aunt Gretchen. She been screwed into the go-along for so long, it’s a blood-deep natural thing with her. Which is how she got saddled with me and Sugar and Junior in the first place while our mothers were in a la-de-da apartment up the block having a good ole time.

So this one day Miss Moore rounds us all up at the mailbox and it’s puredee hot and she’s knockin herself out about arithmetic. And school suppose to let up in summer I heard, but she don’t never let up. And the starch in my pinafore scratching the shit outta me and I’m really hating this nappy-head bitch and her goddamn college degree. I’d much rather go to the pool or to the show where it’s cool. So me and Sugar leaning on the mailbox being surly, which is a Miss Moore word. And Flyboy checking out what everybody brought for lunch. And Fat Butt already wasting his peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich like the pig he is. And Junebug punchin on Q.T.’s arm for potato chips. And Rosie Giraffe shifting from one hip to the other waiting for somebody to step on her foot or ask her if she from Georgia so she can kick ass, preferably Mercedes’. And Miss Moore asking us do we know what money is like we a bunch of retards. I mean real money, she say, like it’s only poker chips or monopoly papers we lay on the grocer. So right away I’m tired of this and say so. And would much rather snatch Sugar and go to the Sunset and terrorize the West Indian kids and take their hair ribbons and their money too. And Miss Moore files that remark away for next week’s lesson on brotherhood, I can tell. And finally I say we oughta get to the subway cause it’s cooler an’ besides we might meet some cute boys. Sugar done swiped her mama’s lipstick, so we ready.

So we heading down the street and she’s boring us silly about what things cost and what our parents make and how much goes for rent and how money ain’t divided up right in this country. And then she gets to the part about we all poor and live in the slums which I don’t feature. And I’m ready to speak on that, but she steps out in the street and hails two cabs just like that. Then she hustles half the crew in with her and hands me a five-dollar bill and tells me to calculate 10 percent tip for the driver. And we’re off. Me and Sugar and Junebug and Flyboy hangin out the window and hollering to everybody, putting lipstick on each other cause Flyboy a faggot anyway, and making farts with our sweaty armpits. But I’m mostly trying to figure how to spend this money. But they are fascinated with the meter ticking and Junebug starts laying bets as to how much it’ll read when Flyboy can’t hold his breath no more. Then Sugar lays bets as to how much it’ll be when we get there. So I’m stuck. Don’t nobody want to go for my plan, which is to jump out at the next light and run off to the first bar-b-que we can find. Then the driver tells us to get the hell out cause we there already. And the meter reads eighty-five cents. And I’m stalling to figure out the tip and Sugar say give him a dime. And I decide he don’t need it bad as I do, so later for him. But then he tries to take off with Junebug foot still in the door so we talk about his mama something ferocious. Then we check out that we on Fifth Avenue and everybody dressed up in stockings. One lady in a fur coat, hot as it is. White folks crazy.

“This is the place, ” Miss Moore say, presenting it to us in the voice she uses at the museum. “Let’s look in the windows before we go in.”

“Can we steal?” Sugar asks very serious like she’s getting the ground rules squared away before she plays. “I beg your pardon,” say Miss Moore, and we fall out. So she leads us around the windows of the toy store and me and Sugar screamin, “This is mine, that’s mine, I gotta have that, that was made for me, I was born for that,” till Big Butt drowns us out.

“Hey, I’m goin to buy that there.”

“That there? You don’t even know what it is, stupid.”

“I do so,” he say punchin on Rosie Giraffe. “It’s a microscope.”

“Whatcha gonna do with a microscope, fool?”

“Look at things.”

“Like what, Ronald?” ask Miss Moore. And Big Butt ain’t got the first notion. So here go Miss Moore gabbing about the thousands of bacteria in a drop of water and the somethinorother in a speck of blood and the million and one living things in the air around us is invisible to the naked eye. And what she say that for? Junebug go to town on that “naked” and we rolling. Then Miss Moore ask what it cost. So we all jam into the window smudgin it up and the price tag say $300. So then she ask how long’d take for Big Butt and Junebug to save up their allowances. “Too long,” I say. “Yeh,” adds Sugar, “outgrown it by that time.” And Miss Moore say no, you never outgrow learning instruments. “Why, even medical students and interns and,” blah, blah, blah. And we ready to choke Big Butt for bringing it up in the first damn place.

“This here costs four hundred eighty dollars,” say Rosie Giraffe. So we pile up all over her to see what she pointin out. My eyes tell me it’s a chunk of glass cracked with something heavy, and different-color inks dripped into the splits, then the whole thing put into a oven or something. But for $480 it don’t make sense.

“That’s a paperweight made of semi-precious stones fused together under tremendous pressure,” she explains slowly, with her hands doing the mining and all the factory work.

“So what’s a paperweight?” asks Rosie Giraffe.

“To weigh paper with, dumbbell,” say Flyboy, the wise man from the East.

“Not exactly,” say Miss Moore, which is what she say when you warm or way off too. “It’s to weigh paper down so it won’t scatter and make your desk untidy. ” So right away me and Sugar curtsy to each other and then to Mercedes who is more the tidy type.

“We don’t keep paper on top of the desk in my class,” say Junebug, figuring Miss Moore crazy or lyin one.

“At home, then,” she say. “Don’t you have a calendar and a pencil case and a blotter and a letter-opener on your desk at home where you do your homework?” And she know damn well what our homes look like cause she nosys around in them every chance she gets.

“I don’t even have a desk,” say Junebug. “Do we?”

“No. And I don’t get no homework neither,” says Big Butt.

“And I don’t even have a home,” say Flyboy like he do at school to keep the white folks off his back and sorry for him. Send this poor kid to camp posters, is his specialty.

“I do,” says Mercedes. “I have a box of stationery on my desk and a picture of my cat. My godmother bought the stationery and the desk. There’s a big rose on each sheet and the envelopes smell like roses.”

“Who wants to know about your smelly-ass stationery,” say Rosie Giraffe fore I can get my two cents in.

“It’s important to have a work area all your own so that . . .”

“Will you look at this sailboat, please,” say Flyboy, cuttin her off and pointin to the thing like it was his. So once again we tumble all over each other to gaze at this magnificent thing in the toy store which is just big enough to maybe sail two kittens across the pond if you strap them to the posts tight. We all start reciting the price tag like we in assembly. “Hand-crafted sailboat of fiberglass at one thousand one hundred ninety-five dollars.”

“Unbelievable,” I hear myself say and am really stunned. I read it again for myself just in case the group recitation put me in a trance. Same thing. For some reason this pisses me off. We look at Miss Moore and she lookin at us, waiting for I dunno what.

“Who’d pay all that when you can buy a sailboat set for a quarter at Pop’s, a tube of glue for a dime, and a ball of string for eight cents? It must have a motor and a whole lot else besides,” I say. “My sailboat cost me about fifty cents.”

“But will it take water?” say Mercedes with her smart ass.

“Took mine to Alley Pond Park once,” say Flyboy. “String broke. Lost it. Pity.”

“Sailed mine in Gentral Park and it keeled over and sank. Had to ask my father for another dollar.”

“And you got the strap,” laugh Big Butt. “The jerk didn’t even have a string on it. My old man wailed on his behind.”

Little Q.T. was staring hard at the sailboat and you could see he wanted it bad. But he too little and somebody’d just take it from him. So what the hell. “This boat for kids, Miss Moore?”

“Parents silly to buy something like that just to get all broke up,” say Rosie Giraffe.

“That much money it should last forever,” I figure.

“My father’d buy it for me if I wanted it.”

“Your father, my ass,” say Rosie Giraffe getting a chance to finally push Mercedes.

“Must be rich people shop here,” say Q.T.

“You are a very bright boy,” say Flyboy. “What was your first clue?” And he rap him on the head with the back of his knuckles, since Q.T. the only one he could get away with. Though Q.T. liable to come up behind you years later and get his licks in when you half expect it.

“What I want to know is,” I says to Miss Moore though I never talk to her, I wouldn’t give the bitch that satisfaction, “is how much a real boat costs? I figure a thousand’d get you a yacht any day.”

“Why don’t you check that out,” she says, “and report back to the group?” Which really pains my ass. If you gonna mess up a perfectly good swim day least you could do is have some answers. “Let’s go in,” she say like she got something up her sleeve. Only she don’t lead the way. So me and Sugar turn the corner to where the entrance is, but when we get there I kinda hang back. Not that I’m scared, what’s there to be afraid of, just a toy store. But I feel funny, shame. But what I got to be shamed about? Got as much right to go in as anybody. But somehow I can’t seem to get hold of the door, so I step away from Sugar to lead. But she hangs back too. And I look at her and she looks at me and this is ridiculous. I mean, damn, I have never ever been shy about doing nothing or going nowhere. But then Mercedes steps up and then Rosie Giraffe and Big Butt crowd in behind and shove, and next thing we all stuffed into the doorway with only Mercedes squeezing past us, smoothing out her jumper and walking right down the aisle. Then the rest of us tumble in like a glued-together jigsaw done all wrong. And people lookin at us. And it’s like the time me and Sugar crashed into the Catholic church on a dare. But once we got in there and everything so hushed and holy and the candles and the bowin and the handkerchiefs on all the drooping heads, I just couldn’t go through with the plan. Which was for me to run up to the altar and do a tap dance while Sugar played the nose flute and messed around in the holy water. And Sugar kept givin me the elbow. Then later teased me so bad I tied her up in the shower and turned it on and locked her in. And she’d be there till this day if Aunt Gretchen hadn’t finally figured I was lyin about the boarder takin a shower.

Same thing in the store. We all walkin on tiptoe and hardly touchin the games and puzzles and things. And I watched Miss Moore who is steady watchin us like she waitin for a sign. Like Mama Drewery watches the sky and sniffs the air and takes note of just how much slant is in the bird formation. Then me and Sugar bump smack into each other, so busy gazing at the toys, ‘specially the sailboat. But we don’t laugh and go into our fat-lady bump-stomach routine. We just stare at that price tag. Then Sugar run a finger over the whole boat. And I’m jealous and want to hit her. Maybe not her, but I sure want to punch somebody in the mouth.

“Watcha bring us here for, Miss Moore?”

“You sound angry, Sylvia. Are you mad about something?” Givin me one of them grins like she tellin a grown-up joke that never turns out to be funny. And she’s lookin very closely at me like maybe she plannin to do my portrait from memory. I’m mad, but I won’t give her that satisfaction. So I slouch around the store bein very bored and say, “Let’s go.”

Me and Sugar at the back of the train watchin the tracks whizzin by large then small then gettin gobbled up in the dark. I’m thinkin about this tricky toy I saw in the store. A clown that somersaults on a bar then does chin-ups just cause you yank lightly at his leg. Cost $35. I could see me askin my mother for a $35 birthday clown. “You wanna who that costs what?” she’d say, cocking her head to the side to get a better view of the hole in my head. Thirty-five dollars could buy new bunk beds for Junior and Gretchen’s boy. Thirty-five dollars and the whole household could go visit Grand-daddy Nelson in the country. Thirty-five dollars would pay for the rent and the piano bill too. Who are these people that spend that much for performing clowns and $1000 for toy sailboats? What kinda work they do and how they live and how come we ain’t in on it? Where we are is who we are, Miss Moore always pointin out. But it don’t necessarily have to be that way, she always adds then waits for somebody to say that poor people have to wake up and demand their share of the pie and don’t none of us know what kind of pie she talking about in the first damn place. But she ain’t so smart cause I still got her four dollars from the taxi and she sure ain’t gettin it Messin up my day with this shit. Sugar nudges me in my pocket and winks.

Miss Moore lines us up in front of the mailbox where we started from, seem like years ago, and I got a headache for thinkin so hard. And we lean all over each other so we can hold up under the draggy ass lecture she always finishes us off with at the end before we thank her for borin us to tears. But she just looks at us like she readin tea leaves. Finally she say, “Well, what did you think of F.A.0. Schwarz?”

Rosie Giraffe mumbles, “White folks crazy.”

“I’d like to go there again when I get my birthday money,” says Mercedes, and we shove her out the pack so she has to lean on the mailbox by herself.

“I’d like a shower. Tiring day,” say Flyboy.

Then Sugar surprises me by sayin, “You know, Miss Moore, I don’t think all of us here put together eat in a year what that sailboat costs.” And Miss Moore lights up like somebody goosed her. “And?” she say, urging Sugar on. Only I’m standin on her foot so she don’t continue.

“Imagine for a minute what kind of society it is in which some people can spend on a toy what it would cost to feed a family of six or seven. What do you think?”

“I think,” say Sugar pushing me off her feet like she never done before cause I whip her ass in a minute, “that this is not much of a democracy if you ask me. Equal chance to pursue happiness means an equal crack at the dough, don’t it?” Miss Moore is besides herself and I am disgusted with Sugar’s treachery. So I stand on her foot one more time to see if she’ll shove me. She shuts up, and Miss Moore looks at me, sorrowfully I’m thinkin. And somethin weird is goin on, I can feel it in my chest. “Anybody else learn anything today?” lookin dead at me. I walk away and Sugar has to run to catch up and don’t even seem to notice when I shrug her arm off my shoulder.

“Well, we got four dollars anyway,” she says. “Uh hun.”

“We could go to Hascombs and get half a chocolate layer and then go to the Sunset and still have plenty money for potato chips and ice cream sodas.”

“Uh hun.”

“Race you to Hascombs,” she say.

We start down the block and she gets ahead which is O.K. by me cause I’m going to the West End and then over to the Drive to think this day through. She can run if she want to and even run faster. But ain’t nobody gonna beat me at nuthin.




Being An Elder


..a new definition of elder is critical…

For the last forty years or so I have revered the title of elder.  I was always wishing for older women to be in my life who were wise.  I found many older women who were immature emotionally, politically, socially, and characteristically.   Because I grew up in this world I have realized that a new definition of elder was critical.  To compensate for the vague definition of elder I decided on my definition /code.  A elder is wise.  My greatest wish for myself was to become a wise elder.  A wise elder : Honors the Creator as the source and supply, a wise elder is: observant of self.  A Wise Elder practices Health.   This is the beginning of my open quest to deliberately communicate basic characteristics of an elder capable of contributing to the creation of a system of “justice” and dismantling the system of white supremacy.  This system of white supremacy is Tricky, its smart, it  creates monetary system after mistreating people, the worst mis- treatment to people is based on skin color.  It  defines and keeps values vague and bewildering, like life, freedom and justice.

The word justice, like the word elder must be defined by the  “justice society creators”.  I like Neely Fuller’s definition of JUSTICE meaning:
“Justice guarantees that no person is mistreated.  Any person who needs help the most get the most constructive help in every area of human activity”.

This is the type of society that all my political movement,  art activist activities, spiritual cultivation efforts, and wholistic community development efforts have led me to.  Imagine the kind of development a person must have to contribute to a society that drops the global system of white  supremacy and sexism. The hidden hand of the global system is powerful,  yet feeble in the presence of wisdom, health and the Creator’s guidance.  Elders is past non white supremacist societies were honored because they communicated guidance and direction for their community that preserved the heart of integrity of that community and they also elevated the personal and collective powers of the participants of the community/society.  The elders would teach by example in physical and metaphysical matters.  I want to be a wise elder.  I’m still learning.

NATURE and Consciousness: The Great Bridge To Human Dignity?


Wilderness Women Workshop 2015 in the North Carolina mountains.  We ate great food, and made some good friends, you know, folks that I would love to have as neighbors someday.  The air was fresh and wet.  We had a lot of rain, I chased the idea away that my sixty something year old bones and body would suffer from so much dampness trying to sleep in a tent perched on a concrete slab with a nice cot to rest my sleeping bag on.  As I write this its two days later, I’ve been to hot yoga and my body is great.


IMG_7902The first night ceremony that I attended in the Red Tent was glorious.  As I approached the entrance on the west I was sprinkled with rosewater.  I had to stoop low to enter the the gathering in the tent.  I sat in the circle next to the “panchamama” Sister Sangoma.  Her voice was deep and rich as she welcomed and confirmed that the space we were all in was heart centered and safe.  Sangoma invited every woman who so desired to  give the group her heart through her speaking.  I was moved to speak and I guess I may have been possessed because I did not prepare or remember what my heart said explicitly.  I know that the barrier presented by the false idea of white supremacy in our society is operative in our lives has been a critical issue on my mind.  Several sister women approached me after saying they were very appreciative of my offering.


I surprised myself with several activities this year.  I learned a bit about spinning wool into yarn, dyeing wool with conchineal insects, hunting, tying knots, imprinting fabric with leaves, and harvesting a rabbit.  I actually reached into the warm body of the rabbit and removed its lungs and heart.


I was excited to get up the mountain and breathe the air of the mountains but the interactions with my sisters happened.  It was if we all walked through a portal and were reborn into innocent happy girls wanting to play with as many others as we could.  Everyone was open and expansive.     Everyone was appreciative of everyone and everything that each of us delivered, carried, represented, and attempted.


I had an amazing learning and powerful session during a multigenerational conversation about elders honoring the youth, the value of the matrilineal heritage that has a tens of thousand year time line predating  the patriarchal scientific time line  for human societies.  Balance and honoring the masculine energy was also within that conversation.  We noted and value how mens energy is concentrated on the moment with great power that is crucial to progress and protection.  The subtle art of mending was introduced to me.  This subtle art parallels the subtle power of women to coalesce multiple streams of information and events.


I am hoping that more and more women of color attend this Wilderness Women gathering and experience as I did the bridge to the heart that Nature provides.


I have prayed to have enjoyable, resourceful, joyous neighbors, and now I know that I can get hundreds of them at least for four days and nights in Nature at the Wilderness Women Workshop.

Summer Reading

July 31, 2015

My reading is finally completed of the 548 pages of, Standing On The Scratch Line by Guy Johnson.

I watched the memorial service for Dr. Maya Angelou last year 2014. The comments were all stunning from all the luminaries like Oprah Winfrey, but I was completely captivated by a grandfather in a wheelchair who with the help of his grandson spoke of his mother with such a depth that I had to finally get his books. Many friends had recommended the book as recently as 3 years ago and when it was first published in 1998.   Just as I was when listening to Johnson give the Eulogy to his mother, reading book I was page by page captivated by an existential air of something about and beyond dignity. The story is a fictional account of a black man, Tremaine; a man of high principles and dignity, a real black existentialist super hero of the early 1900s. It was a treat to imagine the lifestyles of folk during the brief era when black towns thrived and rivaled progressive countries. My man Mr. Tremaine was brilliant and stayed one step ahead of the white supremacist and other petty detractors. I wanted to learn more of this man Guy Johnson who carried the frequency and vibration of my heroine Maya Angelou, this man who commanded his grandson so regally as he instructed him to assist him at the podium with simple phrases like “turn the page grandson”. Turn the page grandson, and every instruction he gave his 7 to 10 year old grandson reverberated a value system to me. With every page I turned there was a new brain circuitry awakened, and bloodlines that had run weak strengthened.


Inspired Reading


Akiba Reading from Ben Okri’s A TIME FOR NEW DREAMS  Healing The Africa Within,

The message of this aphorism charged up my spine and poured into my brain.  It’s not just black people who suffer with estrangement from the motherland.  All humanity has disconnected from the Mother continent, the heart of all humanity.  The distress humanity places on the mother continent can be linked to the entire world’s neurosis and imbalances that many consider normal and part of being human.

Humanities connection to its birthplace aligns with humanities connection to nature.  The African Marigold Project is to foster the connection with nature and with Africa.


Growing Feasts


My  winter garden plants still wave in the spring breezes.  The season transitional temperatures have ranged from 40 to 80 degrees.  This week It was so cold and rainy that the seedlings could not come outside the garage for two days.  We brought the aloe vera’s that are in pots back inside too.  The almanac says there is no danger of frost, but I am told by the old farmers and gardeners “don’t jump out there too quick”,  putting your plants in the ground.  It may not get freezing but wait until the ground is warm.  We found out in our area that seasoned gardeners wait until at least April 23rd before they plant.  May 1st is the safe date to plant.  So we have a few weeks to prepare the ground by pulling up the collard greens, kale, and chickweed ground cover.  In the meantime I am enjoying a transitional floral arrangement of Spring Irises and Collard Green flowers. I just love the pop of yellow in my life.