RSS

A Meditation on Love: City of Refuge

I been missing something, I did not know to miss.

When I was 19, I spent way too much time watching wedding shows. That is the only time I can recall ever wanting a wedding. Outside of potential tax breaks, marriage was never something I desired. My visions of a future did not include images of a romantic partner. I told my parents long ago that I will be there one child who does not get married. No worries, my siblings got married enough for all of us.

I firmly believe that marriage is an archaic, patriarchal and oppressive institution. However, this belief does not explain why I never desired long-term romantic partner(s). Perhaps subconsciously I didn’t think it was possible for me. The examples of long term partnerships that I saw did not interest me. Perhaps, I did not think long term partnerships were available for someone like me. Especially as I begin identifying as queer.

I was raised in a world that taught me that queer folks were not worthy of love. While, I have done a lot of work to correct this belief- It is still something that lingers in the corners of my mind

At the end of 2017, I finally made it to “The Bay.” San Francisco and Oakland are kinda iconic for Black Queer Folks. This is where Marlon Riggs, Sylvester and Pomo Afro Homos created iconic works. Oakland is where the Black Panther Party was founded. for colored girls who have considered suicide / when the rainbow is enuf debuted in Berkeley bars. “The Bay” has always been a place I felt I knew, without ever being there. So you you know I had to stan out as a “tourist.”

Attending Bishop Yvette Flunder’s City of Refuge Church, was at the top of my to-do list. I have been following her ministry and work for years. I skipped out on going to SoulCycle with my friend to attend service. The last time I went church I left in tears and the reminder that church is a violent place for people like me. However, I knew that Bishop Flunder made space for people like me.

I don’t have the words to describe what it felt like to watch queer people of color be themselves as they worship and praise. What it meant to hear queer folk talk unapologetically about being HIV positive. To know how much harm the Black church inflicted during height of the AIDS epidemic, while also being in a church that was giving free HIV test during the service. The Sunday I went happen to coincide with World AIDS Day and the sermon was done by a HIV+ minister. That despite not being a believer, that I could fully show up and be seen.

Up until I was 20 years old I thought all Black lesbians were chronically unemployed who got kicked out of their mother’s houses. I was probably 23 before I stopped associating lesbians with predators. While my access and understanding of the queer community has grown significantly, it is still limited. Sitting at City of Refuge, I was surrounded by Black queer people of all ages. I saw something I rarely see in our youth obsessed culture, mature and elderly queer Black couples. I can’t think of ever seeing a representation of an elderly queer Black couple in the media or in my life growing up. But here I was surrounded by queer Black folk with grey hair and aging bodies-holding hands and loving each other. I could not help but wonder how my capacity for love might have been expanded if I knew this was possible at an earlier age. Would I have had the desire to share a life with a partner(s)? Having access to only heterosexual and monogamous models of love does us such a disservice.

IMG_20171204_1736003

Walking thru the Casto and found the Bishop giving cover girl looks

Bishop Flunder wasn’t there young Tab would have left, but her wife Mother Shirley Miller was. Their love story has lasted over thirty years. They were open about their love in the highly homophobic gospel music industry, while also doing ministry as an out lesbian couple in the 90s. They toured with Walter Hawkins and The Love Center Choir. Shirley is also Walter’s cousin. Hawkins’ church, The Love Center would come to embrace the Sylvester James at the end of his life and Flunder would serve as his spiritual council. So much Black queer iconic history wrapped up in Hawkins and Flunder’s ministry. (Go watch Sylvester’s Unsung).

When speaking of their love in a 2014 interview, Bishop Flunder states: “You know, one of our church members said the reason why our church has grown so much over the years is not because of our programs. It’s because of our love for each other. Our love has shown people that a great love like this is possible.”

I wholeheartedly echo her sentiment, the love that was evident at her church, through Mother Miller’s words and the many Black queer people present in the sanctuary challenged me to think about love and expand my own desire for it in my life. I left City of Refuge wanting to cry, thinking about all the time I spent never even considering the possibility of having someone(s) continually love me. That somehow, I was taught that being Black and queer meant love was temporary and fleeting- that in the end I would be alone.

That day I learned how much I needed mature and elderly Black queer people in my life. I get so much joy from being around and seeing Black queer families and couples. But I can’t help but feel angry, that I was deprived of these representations and models for much of my life. While I still have no desire to be married, experiences like the one I had at City of Refuge opens me up to love in new ways. It reminds that I can create define partnership and family in affirming ways.

Shirley Miller is 12 years older than Yvette Flunder, their age gap love gives me hope. You know I like em’ older.

~JustTab

 

 

Advertisements
 

Tags: , , , , ,

Mission, Tab-possible.

I have been able to lead a life where I can cultivate the type of people I spend time with and build with. My chosen community consist of queer, radical and open-minded folks. My time in St. Lucia earlier this year had me around more cis-hetero people than I am used to. They were all older and many subscribed to very different politics than me. I can only imagine how they read my queer self throughout our week together. I believe they would say I was idealistic and perhaps naive. This tends to be the reactions folks give you when you believe you can create the world you want to live in and question things they have been taught are facts.

I spent the night of my birthday writing a mission statement for my year and my life. I wanted something that could serve as a guide of who I strive to be and a document for my community and loved one’s to hold me accountable when I fall short or forget.


 

Tab’s Mission Statement

It is Tab’s mission and desire to undergo transformative, radical and sustainable growth.

Transformative in the way that it transforms not only Tab but those around Tab, particularly the communities that Tab is accountable to. This means practicing listening as well as vocalizing the things that Tab has previously been uncomfortable and afraid of saying. This means understanding and recognizing how interconnected we all are. Remembering and cherishing the values we all bring into our communities. Reminding oneself of how much we must learn from others.

Radical in the sense that Tab was not been given the tools to love Tab’s Black, queer, female-bodied, GNC self fully.  Remembering that it is a political act to love ourselves and others fully. It is Tab’s goal to practice intimacy, vulnerability and accountability in platonic, romantic, personal and professional relationships. To engage in a practice of showing up for people, how they need Tab to show up. This means not presuming to know what is best for others. Practicing forgiveness and reconciliation whenever possible. Remembering it is ok to step back and breathe.

Radical in the sense that Tab must fight capitalist ideas such as “production” and “consumption.”  This means Tab must practice not measuring their worth in what they can produce in a given day, month, or year. Tab must also be mindful of the products and ideas Tab consume. This means eating organic and local products whenever possible. Purchasing fair trade products, preparing meals for Tab and those Tab loves. Divesting from companies that support apartheid Israel, profit from prison labor and engage in other exploitative business practices.

Tab recognizes change can be a slow and arduous process. Tab must give themselves and others grace as we implement the changes in ourselves and work for greater liberation in our world. Rather than commit to huge life-altering steps, it is important for Tab to engage in changes and relationships that are sustainable. Is it feasible in Tab current life to never eat out or stop purchasing processed food? Or rather is a more sustainable for Tab to be conscious of the choices Tab makes with food and try to make better choices as much as possible?

Is it sustainable for Tab to continue one-side relationships where Tab’s needs rarely if ever get met? Is it sustainable and a best practice to wait until the night before to create lesson plans and/or grade? Is it sustainable to commit to meditation for an hour each day? What are ways that Tab can shift their  relationship with things Tab “hates”?  An example could be grading. Shifting this negative relationship could include spreading out grading, creating more exciting assignments or utilizing non-traditional assessments. grading prompts.

Is the way Tab receives money (employment) sustainable to Tab’s mental, emotional, spiritual and financial health? If not, how might I create sustainable and life-affirming financial stream. How might Tab engage in a practice that is patient and gentle with themselves as they create this stream?

Who does Tab give money to? Do their vision for the future aligns with Tab’s? Do their policies and business practices have a negative effect on the world?  For Tab this means divesting from the “fast-fashion industry” (see “The True Cost”). This looks like rather than paying for a blazer from J. Crew, that might have been made in unsafe working conditions in SE Asia,  hiring those in the community to make and/or rehab a blazer for Tab.

The mission statement serves as Tab’s intentions and check points for accountability. The statements reminds Tab of their values and serves as a check point for decisions Tab makes. These values may shift and change organically, and new ones may emerge.


While I wrote this statement for myself, I want to reiterate this statement is for everyone I am in community with. I desire and encourage you to hold me lovingly accountable as we create a more just world. I plan to share with you my progress on this journey.

 

-Just Tab

 

 

 

 
2 Comments

Posted by on January 22, 2018 in Learning bout Tab!, my friends, politics

 

Tags: , , ,

not about you (or oct 12th musings)

This is not about you.

It is about me.

That is something I have to remind myself of constantly. When thoughts of you flood my mind early in the morning and late at night. When I obsessed about finding the right words, putting them in the perfect order so that you would respond. Notice me. Remember me.  When I convince myself that all would be well if you just let me in your life again.

That is when I hear a tiny but strong voice telling me

This is not about her.

This about you.

So I sit. Feel all the things. Hurt, lost, joy, love. All them. Learning that if I don’t feel them they will just come back stronger and more intense until I do sit and feel them.

I ask myself why are you not letting go? Why are you not closing this chapter?

My heart knows the answer. It is a simple one. Fear. I am fearful that if this person who loved and felt for me as intensely and consistently as she did, could leave without a word- anyone can and will. I am fearfully that her decision to no longer be present means that the love we shared was not real. Perhaps something I have exaggerated in the two years since I have seen her.

I take her out of the equation and it is clear- I fear not being loved. I fear I am not loveable. I am afraid that people fall in love with an ideal of me but the reality of me makes them leave.

I hold on to the idea of her returning to my life because it might prove that I am indeed lovable and worth fighting for. Obsessing about calling her and the fantasy of her reaching out to me is easier than accepting and dealing with the fear and insecurity of  not being enough.

So I long for her. Fill my head with thoughts of her. Just to drown out the insecurities floating in my head.

It is not about her.

It is about me.

 

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on October 31, 2017 in Learning bout Tab!

 

Tags: ,

Father’s Day

“We don’t necessarily know how to hear stories about any kind of violence, because it is hard to accept that violence is as simple as it is complicated, that you can love someone who hurts you, that you can stay with someone who hurts you, that you can be hurt by someone who loves you, that you can be hurt by a complete stranger, that you can be hurt in so many, terrible, intimate ways.” Hunger, Roxane Gay.

 

This is a story of hurt.

This is a story of violence.

Sunday, I went to church. Ya’ll know I don’t go to church. My reason for going was similar to some children going to church on Mother’s Day. I knew it would make my father happy. I am a child, I like to make my parents happy.  In the 7 weeks since I moved to Florida I have rarely been in town on a Sunday. I have rarely left the house other than to find food or go to Crossfit. I spend my days largely at home and since my father works from home – I spend a lot of time with him.

I get anxious when I go to my childhood church. At times, I bring friends to deflect the attention that is geared towards me. I am rarely seen- people get excited to see me. Their excitement also comes with a host of questions, many of which I do not want answer. However, there is a beauty in returning that I see more as I age. On Sunday, I remembered feeling a warmness of being surrounded by people who have known me all my life and who I have known all their lives.  The children I left when I went to college over 13 years are young adults-who appear older than me. My father became the pastor when I was 6 months old, I have history here. Often the bad history overshadows the good. But there is a lot of good. After the passing of the peace, it was time for the sermon.

Shortly after he stood to start the sermon, my father made a joke that I found transphobic and repulsive. His words caught me off guard. I have no memories of my father every being homophobic or transphobic from the pulpit. The laughter echoed by some in the congregation made the violence of his statement reverberate through my spirit. Violence accompanied smiles and laughter still causes harm. It is as harmful as violence accompanied by screams and physical harm. My whole body changed as I heard his words. I was confused. I did not understand the purpose of the “joke.” Just moments before he had been relatively inclusive about ideas of “fathers,” just to ultimately define one ability to be a father by their genitals.

The words spoken by my father would have caused me to get up and leave the service if it was spoken by anyone else. I sat and wrestled with my inability to leave. I did not want to upset my father or throw his focus off during his sermon. Although, I believe he saw my face and body shift when he spoke those words-he quickly shifted to another topic. I was shock to a point where I could not really move. I felt betrayed. Gender is my life. I wonder how real the conversations my father and I have had about gender was? I thought that he would be more conscious about the harm his words can cause from the pulpit.

As I sat the harm that I experienced in the church came back. The realization that the church will never be a safe space for folks like me and those I love.  I have stories of harm inside of those walls that seem endless. Those experiences have led me to research and do the work I now do. These experiences taught me that my queerness and my gender were problems, that they prevented me from truly being loved by my creator. So much came into my head. By the time alter call came, so did the tears. So did the tears. I remember someone rubbing my back. They probably thought I was overcome with the “spirit.” I was crying because I had been hurt. I was harmed by his words & his laughter. I was harmed by someone I love more than almost anything in the world.

We are a family of awkward and corny jokes. These jokes at times reveal the truth of situations. I believe and know I am my parent’s favorite. Not despite my queerness but because of my queerness. I joked with my father that I didn’t have the luxury of heterosexuality so I must be perfect. I wonder how much my performance of “good” is tied to my queerness, to me not being a “believer.” Never asking too much from parents. Always giving. Always wanting to help. My drive to finish school and get degrees. My need for them to be proud of me. For them to know I am still good even though I am not a Christian. That I am still worthy of their love even being queer. I see this same drive towards perfection and “success” in many of my queer friends. They are doctors and lawyers- they are the ones their families go to for financial help. Yet, they are the ones being encouraged to change. They could never do half the things their trifling siblings do.

I was grateful that I sat near the back of the church. I left immediately after alter call. I did not have the strength to engage in small talk with anyone.

During the service, I texted my younger brother and told him what had happen. He told me that those words did not even sound like our father, something I agree with. I wondered who is this man speaking right now. He was so different from the man who I have deep and meaningful conversations with. My brother- the pastor told me he was sorry for the harm I experienced.

I called him when I left. He was preparing for his own Sunday service. I appreciate him taking the time to talk to me. I appreciate his love for me. I love him for his desire (and his actions) to make church a safer place not only for me-his sibling but for all of us.

Typically, when one experience harm from the pulpit, they can walk away from the church. I live with this man. I live in his house. His face looks like mine. My plan was to be out the house as much as possible on Sunday. I didn’t want to see him but I also did not want to ruin his “Father’s Day.”

I called my childhood friend. She was at work. I called her because I knew she understood harm through her adolescence experiences growing up in my father’s church. The church (my father included) allowed a man and his unchecked toxic masculinity to destroy young adult lives. He outed my friends. Force her to tell her mother about her sexuality. Prevented her from participating in the choir all in an effort to make her “straight.” There were other things, but that’s not my story to tell. Sunday, my friend told me she was broken by that experience and she believes it change the trajectory of her life for the worse. The pain was still there. The hurt was present in her voice.

Growing up I knew pieces of her story. I knew how they were treating her was wrong. Her experience was a cautionary tale for me. It showed me what happens to queer children. I was charged somehow with being a good role model for her. I remember her mother telling me, “I wish she (her daughter) was more like you.” That does something to a child. I knew her adoration for me had everything to do with my performance of heterosexuality and my “good” grades. I knew I had to maintain those things to avoid being an outcast. My friend was an outcast, I knew I didn’t want to be treated like they treated her.

On the phone I wished my friend a Happy Father’s Day.- for her role in raising her girlfriend’s child. We talked to her shift was over. I follow her girlfriend on snapchat- I saw that they surprised my friend with a Father’s Day celebration.

I want to tell my father that people with penis do not own the title of father. Just like they do not own masculinity. I want to tell my father that people with vaginas do not own the title of mother. Just like they do not own femininity. Black and Brown Queer folks have redefined and created families when their own families were inhospitable and violent places. See the real work that house mothers and fathers have done to care and nurture Black and Brown Queer youth in ballroom culture and beyond. Shit, I can let you know why they called me daddy but that’s a NSFW topic.

Staying out the house was harder than I expected. My date went ghost on me. I aint trippin tho’ we had one good tipsy night together.

My natural reaction to being hurt is to shut down. Close myself off to others. Try to ignore the hurt until it is a distant memory.

Since Sunday morning my father has told me he loves me more times than I can count.

Monday, he came in my room. Told me he never wants to hurt me. That he loved me. That his greatest joy is seeing me happy. That he is sorry for anything he has done to hurt me and he loves me unconditionally. Then he grabbed me and hugged me. I wept. There is so much I am unpacking.

I do not doubt my father’s love for me. I do know his love and ability to see me is clouded by what society and religion teaches us. We live in a transphobic, homophobic and anti-Black world, it is only natural that he/we internalize these messages. I am fighting to unlearn these messages.

Monday night, I left for Colombia. I am grateful for the time away to think and process. I am thinking about what happens after harm. I am thinking about what healing and reconciliation looks like. I am committed to liberation and wholeness in my life. I am not afraid to leave those behind that do not contribute to this. But I am invested in building bridges and trying with those who so clearly love me, but have not been taught how to love and protect people like me.  Love is not enough action is needed. So perhaps, when I get home I will have real conversation with my father and explain to him the work he needs to do if he wants me in his life in a real concrete way. It is enough for me to feel safe with him, I want to know that those around me can also feel safe and free to be themselves. There is a lot more to this. I am reminded of the ways that unaddressed trauma resurfaces. I am grateful that I have more tools and language to deal with trauma than I did at 19.  I am thankful that I know “I am holy, by my own.”

 

 

 

(You like how I slide in that I am in Colombia for the week. Estoy en Medellín)

 

-JustTab

 

 

 
 

Tags: , , , ,

Capricorn in Cuba

 

I was almost to my casa particular, the Cuban home I was staying at while in Trinidad.

I went out. Listen to Cuban music and watch beautiful Cuban men flirt with white foreigners.

I even had a drink, although I nursed it for an hour and did not finish it.

But the point remained, I went out for my 30th birthday.

As I approached the street my casa particular was on. I saw Andres. Andres hair was in a long ponytail and they wore a short dress showing off their legs. I had been on an unofficial search for queer people in Cuba.

I had not seen many in Havana and when I did I was not in a place where I could approach them. But here alone at 10:30pm on an empty street in Trinidad, I ventured to speak.

Andres walked past me and I turned around and stop them. My Spanish was not helped by the nervousness that is accompanied by stopping a stranger and assuming them queer. I am from the U.S. it is not always safe for people that are perceived as masculine to express femininity in clothing and in acts.

“Hola. Yo estoy in Cuba para tres dias, no mirrar mucho gente de diferente. Pero tu. Tu es muy bonita. Como se illama?”

That was me shooting my shot. It worked. Andres then responded to me in English. They asked me where I was going and told me that it was too early to go back home. There were many parties in Trinidad, they invited me to join. As we walked back to the party era we met up with one of Andres friends. He was a young cutie who later told me that he was 19. As we walked Andres asked me was I gay? Andres seemed determined to find me a Cuban girlfriend. We return to the House of Music, the venue I had just left. Andres introduced me to all the queer folks there. The crowd had grown since I left.

I was struck by how popular Andres was as we walked through the city. Everyone greeted Andres. I did not apprehend mean looks or stares. Andres took me to 3 clubs. Reminding me to stay quiet as he paid (with my money). Cubans paid less than foreigners and I look Cuban. I just do not sound Cuban. Pero mi Buenos Dias es muy perfecto. Hence, I saved money.

At the end of the night Andres and the friend. Walked me back to my casa and we made plans to meet the next day to go to the beach.

I am Black and Queer.

Consequently I seek out other Black, Brown and Queer Folks.

I tend to travel to countries where the majority of the population is Black or Brown.

I have not cared enough to travel to Europe. I can stay in the US and see white folks in power.

Over the past 4 months, I have traveled to Puerto Rico, Jamaica, Bahamas and Cuba. Without a doubt Cuba appears to be the most hospitable place for queer folk.

I ask the 19 year old was it easy being gay in Cuba.

Si, es muy facil.

But easy is relative. His 19 years looked and felt very different from Andres 33 years. Cuba is complicated in ways my Black American self will never understand. The next day at the beach Andres told me more about their life and what it meant to be queer in Cuba. I was reminded that life for queer people of color is rarely a crystal stairs.

My time in Cuba forced me search beneath the surface and remember that things are rarely as they appear to be. In this next decade, I plan to be more intentional about taking time to listen to other’s stories.

~JustTab

 

Also Andres is also a Capricorn, the best sign out there

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on December 31, 2016 in Gender, Travel, Uncategorized

 

Tags: ,

Without a home

 

Homeless.

As I left Ohio, I looked down at my three new keys. Two storage units and a P.O. Box.

Tab you are without a home. To say that I am homeless does not mean I do not have a place to stay. As many of you know, I am teaching at a summer program in Michigan. While here I am subletting someone’s apartment.

But this is not my home. It is temporary. It is filled with another person’s stuff. This stuff includes lots of religious iconography. I sleep underneath a cross.

I am a girl without a home.

In the next week I will begin a search for housing in Ohio. This will certainly be my last year. Three years longer than I initially anticipated.

The place I find will be comfortable but not a home. It will be temporary. I will resist putting too many things like pictures around the house. I will know that shortly I will be leaving. I will not get too comfortable or attached. The place will not be my home.

For the first time in three years, I face the reality of moving into a space alone. Of being the one person responsible for the upkeep and whatever love that will enter the house. I won’t have to share a bathroom or compromise.

As thrilling as this should be, I am also dealing with anger. I do not want to have to do this alone.

The writing of this is steeped in privilege. I do not fear not having a place to sleep at night. I have the money to pay a deposit on whatever residence I decide to lease. I do not fear not being able to afford utilities or any essentials.

I am aware that while homeless LGBT youth represents 7% of the youth population, they account for 40% of the homeless youth.

That for many queer kids in this country finding a safe place to rest their head each and every night is a struggle.

“They are always getting kicked out the house. They never have homes.” This was one of the many reasons I told myself I did not like being around lesbians as a teen. They just seem to have so much drama. It is always easier to look at the LGBT youth as the problem and not the society we live in.

They are children without homes.

I have been in community and in relationships with adults who were kicked out of their homes as a child for being queer. That kind of pain never really heals. When she tells me about her 16-year old self being called a dyke. Her mother throwing plates at her and her brother assaulting her per their mother’s request because she was dating a girl- my heart breaks. Knowing her story is one that is too common.

Many years have passed, yet her greatest fear remains being homeless.

She is a girl without home.

She was a girl I try to be home for. To give a home to.

But I was also just a girl without a home.

“I cannot go home as who I am It seems. Unredeemed by what blood? Unsaved by what grace? Unnatural by whose standard?”

A young male poet performs this in Marlon Riggs’ 1995 documentary on Black identity Black is….Black Aint. This poem introduces the section where sexuality, religion,  and Blackness are explored.

This poem always resonates with me. People often ask me when I will go home again. They mean to my hometown. They mean to my father’s church. They mean to my parent’s house.

Some days I respond not anytime soon. Other days I tell them I do not have a home.

No one ever talks about the queer kids who grow up to be queer adults. Who come into their adultness and their queerness away from their family and the community they grew up in.  No one ever talks about the pieces of themselves they are encouraged to hide- explicitly and implicitly in order to be welcomed home. No one talks about the parents who might never overtly demonize your queerness with words, yet their actions creates the same results. The attention and favor they bestow on the performances of heteronormativity present in their other children produces just as much pain. Pain that is often hard to put in words because no one ever beats you up, no one ever calls you a dyke. They just pretend that aspects of you and your life do not exist.

Home denotes a place of safety, of care and permanence.

I am a girl without a home.

 

~JustTab

 
1 Comment

Posted by on July 20, 2016 in Uncategorized

 

Blocked

Blocked.

Not in the social media sense. Though I am all about blocking people as a self-care practice.

But Blocked in the sense that I am not able to write.

The thoughts that are in my mind have not easily translated to the written word.

So here are some thoughts.

I turn 30 at the end of this year.

They tell me that is a big deal.

I agree.

Not everyone makes it to 30.

Mike-Mike didn’t.

Tamir didn’t.

Renisha didn’t.

Mya didn’t.

Marshawn didn’t.

The list goes on and on.

I mean I aint even make it…yet.

I had so many plans for where I would be by now.

I wanted more figured out. More accomplished.

I still got time to change some things but I feel blocked.

Stuck.

But maybe it is a sign to be patient. To be still and think about the things I have done.

To be still and think about the things I have done.

The people I have loved. The places I experienced.

The places I experienced.

They say people are a mess in their 20’s.

I say people don’t start looking right until their 30’s.

You know Tab likes them older.

They tend to grow into themselves and find a level of self-acceptance that only increases with their age.

I am looking forward to that.

If I am 30 that means people gotta take me serious.

I gotta take myself serious.

No more blaming my recklessness on my youth.

Tomorrow I am going to New Orleans.

I have never been.

It is part of my list of things I want to do before 30.

  1. Visit 3 new places
  2. Go skinny dipping.
  3. Skydive
  4. Cuba and Brazil for my birthday

The rest of the list are personal growth things like unapologetically engage in practices of radical love for self and others.

Can’t be going into 30 with the baggage from yesteryears.

This means doing the work.

Even when I feel blocked.

Or especially when I feel blocked.

I’m looking around at how lucky I am to be alive right now.

Hamilton reminds me to look at where I am and where I started, the fact that I am alive is a miracle.

And if I can stay alive that would be enough.

Because I am enough.

 

~JustTab

 
2 Comments

Posted by on July 15, 2016 in Learning bout Tab!