What if?

What if my family never moved from Jackson?
What if I never left Lansing?
What if I attended that college I desperately sought after?
What if I chose not to attend college?
What if I let a lack of finances dictate my life style?
What if I were never self motivated?
What if no one ever believed in me or encouraged me?
What if I never attended Upward Bound?
What if I completed studies in architecture, psychology, or sociology?
What if I never pledged Delta?
What if I never loved?
What if I never lost love?
What if I were a product of my environment?
What if I never had Mount Zion?
What if I fell to teen pregnancy?
What if I fell to substance abuse?
What if I were never strong enough to make my own decisions?
What if I never left Atlanta?
What if I were married and started a family?

Where would I be? I am not sure, but those are not questions I have to answer. I am living with no regrets and I urge you to do the same.

My storyboard

Currently, my life is like a storyboard template with sketches and incomplete sentences. Ideas strewn about trying to create a big picture, but nothing quite coming together. Random occurrences and ill thought out plans to create a future of some sort, a future uncertain to present hopes. I keep reorganizing the ideas, but there is no natural flow pattern for this particular storyboard. The plot is generic and has lost its tenacity to reach a climatic point that preludes the dynamic ending. This story could take several courses, yet I am assured there is only one predestined outcome. Creativity is a struggle. The gift of choice and decision comes with great burdens and time sensitivities. How do I organize this storyboard and decide what makes it into the final script? Whatever this production transpires will be the story of my life. Stay tuned...

Cake Batter

When I was I child I loved being in the kitchen with my dad. He would cut and whip, dice and stir, flip and dip, coat and mix. He seared and smothered on top of the stove, he baked on the inside of the stove and broiled under the bottom of the stove. My dad grilled in the back yard and fried on the double burner, free standing gas stove hooked to a tank. It was versatility at its finest. Such sweet smells and memories. Cake batter!

The holidays rolled around and groceries would pour in. Sticks of butter and eggs would pile on the table. Dad left them out overnight, then in the morning he made magic happen with butter, sugar and eggs. We filled the large plastic bowl with flour, a pinch of this and a dash of that. My dad put in the hand mixer and let the whipping begin; he even let me hold it for a twirl. I knew a baking delight was coming within an hour or two, but that mattered none. I was holding out for something much grander, more sweet and instantly delectable. There was no need to wait an hour when I could have the spoon, bowl and mixing spatulas to lick that sweet combination of ingredients that once sat bored in solidarity on the table. Cake batter!

James Brown and Parliament were among the top plays in his theme music. By the age of five I could glide across the floor, twiddle my feet and do a cold spin before I dipped to the floor in a split. The dance breaks in between the cooking brought joy to the heart, especially when my dad threw on his hat and tipped it forward, put his hands behind his back as he hunched forward and slide across the floor with one leg cocked in the air. He did it with so much soul. Cake batter!

I have since grown from that admiring youngster and moved far away from my dad's stove and the holiday filled kitchen. As the years passed, so did sad times and good times. My dad experienced life and all of its peaks and valleys. I came to know life and all of its harshness and prosperity. Even so, cooking holds its therapeutic stance. When the holidays come around I must cut and dice, stir and mix, flip and fry in my own kitchen. The recipes and ingredients remain, and my playlist is quite reminiscent of a youth before my birth. A little James Brown, some Al Green, a little Bootsy, P-funk and the like to get my spatulas spinning. No matter where I am or how old I get, I will never forget those times. My home will share in that same joy to the tunes, to the gastronomic delicacies of my roots. Cake batter!

The chapel

I stepped into the chapel for a word of prayer and insightful reflection. Directly in front of me stood a podium that held a large book. I walked to the altar to make sure it was the Holy Bible. I walked back to sit in the back row and glanced to the right. A menorah was draped on the wall. The bookshelves under it were lined with Holy Bibles and books marked with Hebrew lettering. I peered behind me over my other shoulder and a cross in a frame hung on a partition. Videos about Jesus Christ were available for viewing. The far left wall was lined with a large rug. A man was there praying. Photographs of different mosques from around the world adorned this wall. Another shelf was labeled, "prayer clothing" and "prayer rugs". On top were Holy Qur'ans. After he finished praying he sat and read from the Qur'an. After I finished praying I sat and read the chapter of the Bible that was open on the podium using a borrowed bible from the chapel.

Peace overwhelmed me as I sat there. I became emotional in my conversation with God and in my reckoning with the Word. When I completed the short chapter I looked the chapel over entirely. On the sign in sheet I wrote a thank you note and left my name and city of residence. As I was writing, my Muslim brother exited the chapel and said, "God bless you" as he left. Religion was not a question nor an issue. We were both in the same place and honored that there is one God. 

My gratitude to the Washington Dulles airport for providing a place of worship and peace. There is unity in diversity. Ubuntu!   

2013

The clocks have turned and 2012 is fast behind us as we zoom into 2013. A new year and new expectations for the masses. I chose to be realistic is setting goals for this year. I didn't need to change much from the goals I set last year because I am simply continuing what I began a few months ago. Projects are still in motion and I am thrilled about what is to come. It is my hope that people realize that the new year is just a day like yesterday. A new year can begin at any point in the 365 and a quarter days throughout the calendar just because a person says so. A new year is mental, unless you are dealing with finances and fiscal quarters. Whatever your position, commit to something and do it with great intentions. Claim your successes this year and be renewed in spirit and mind.

Happy New Year!

A world forgotten: Part II

I laid back on my straw mat and peered into a blue sky. Cranes glided through the sky by day and tiptoed through the tide as the red sun sank behind the horizon. The crickets began their nightly opera and the silhouette of the city stood quietly in the distance. My hands and feet became one with the sand.
I was the land; undisturbed.
I was the land; calm.
I was the land; free.
  

STARVATION

Seems like the ages have left nothing but a shadow cast among the people. A dark oversight of greed, fear, and ignorance.
Tormented membranes thrashed with negativity and doubt, lost without hope and a vision for the future.
Arguments between leadership direct the masses into confusion leaving a labyrinth of isms and tarnished values that once guided the land.
Realism is lost in fantasy. Respect is decimated by hatred. Reflection has yielded to an insensitivity of history and its purpose. Repetition of calamitous disasters are inevitable.
Vivid scenes painted by the media leaves us afraid and our souls tormented with the disturbia of death, violence, self-hatred, deceit and beyond.
Anarchy is far too prevalent across states. Protests and riots sputter. The rights to speech lose compassion and create chaos.
There is no consideration or courtesy given to people, to officers, to dignitaries, or the elders.
In this age we have abandoned wisdom and do not seek its face, but riches and fame propel us forward.
Onward towards a sky of nothing our children are doomed to gaze because the treasured teacher has disappeared. Trustworthiness, kindness, friendship, helpfulness, and other good character traits elude us.
Now is upon us and here we stand. Craving redemption and desperately needing greatness because our skin is feverish from starvation. We need to be quenched with a zeal for life.

C. Cunningham