God and Wine

This has been THE LONGEST JANUARY EVER! 🤯😫🙄😰🤬🤕 I've blogged every day since January 8th. I'm proud of myself for sticking it out even on the days when I was so emotionally weary or physically frustrated. There's something cathartic about release through public writing. Today, I don't have anything profound to convey. I'm merely grateful that I made it to the end of the month alive and (somewhat) well. My health is still a struggle. The ulcers in my stomach acted A FOOL this month, keeping me bedridden on many days. But, I'm still here! 🙌🏾 I'm ready for what February has to offer and grateful that I'm not ending the month the way I started it! Be encouraged, folks. We're gonna make it. 💜

I'd like to give a tithe and an offering to whoever created chicken wings! Like, not the chicken wing, itself, ...'cause we'd be thanking God! (Thank you, Almighty) But , the concept of fried/baked chicken wings, either plain or tossed in sauce! Just miraculous! Marvelous! A gift, like manna from heaven! Just think about all the flavors: Lemon Pepper, Cajun, BBQ, Sesame, Thai, Honey Garlic, Teriyaki, Mango Habanero, Jerk, Buffalo, Blazin' Buffalo, Flaming Buffalo, Meet-Me-At-My-Grave Buffalo! Just look at all of God's children walking hand in hand!👐 I thought about chicken wings often today. They are my happy place. I was vegan for a while (on and off) but there's something about chicken wings that brings my soul to life. I want to come alive, these days. I'm doing some serious work on myself and I don't have time to die. I don't have time to die.  I don't have time to be depressed because I can't eat the bbq wings I'm sniffin&#

 I mentioned on Instagram earlier today that I haven't posted current pictures of myself in a while. I haven't felt particularly beautiful this month. It has been a tumultuous month--surely a season of transition in my life where uncertainty abounds and anxiety overwhelms. BUT TODAY, I posted selfies! Goofy selfies. Selfies that weren't glamorous or seductive. Selfies of me smiling. I woke up this morning, looked at my bedroom wall (which has my various life goals and plans of action posted on it), and did much of what was on my spiritual plan-of-action list. I meditated. I prayed. I worshiped; and I got up to begin my day. It was glorious. The sun shone through my bedroom windows like a much needed halo, surrounding me and reminding me of my divinity. Today was my LAST first day of school as a full-time seminarian! 💪 Yes, it's a 3 year Master/Mistress of Divinity degree program, but I completed the coursework in 2 years and although I still have to write my thesis

Sitting in rejection is hard. Sitting in the uncertainty of a circumstance is painful. Drowning in a unrequited love is almost life-taking. On Sundays, I have a lot of time to think--to wallow in the whirlpool of my emotions that assault me on a weekly basis, almost like clockwork. What is this thing  that Sunday does to me every week? To go from feeling worthy and overcome in church to unworthy and overwhelmed in my home is a peculiar pendulum-like experience that suffocates. What is this fighting for air that I experience on Sunday ? Maybe it's PTSD--Sunday has been a traumatic day of the week for me throughout the years, and most definitely during the month of January. Maybe Sunday  triggers something in me that wants to keep me from joy and freedom. Maybe my  Sunday  needs to be reclaimed so that I can stop the cycle of unworthy thoughts and unrequited feelings. I'm out of words for this post, as is the case most Sundays. Perhaps, next week will be different

Has 2018 been underwhelming for you? Have you still not recovered from 2017? Are you struggling with the fact that January is almost gone and you ain't kept one resolution? Or maybe, if you're like me, you didn't even have the energy to make any? This post is for you! Yes, you who didn't ring in the new year with high hopes You, who spent NYE sobbing, you who began the new year soaking your sheets in tears You, who simply didn't have the energy to make resolutions or agonize over action plans for your goals You, who are tired of praying, disappointed with a prosperity gospel that didn't manifest in your life in 2017--It was not your season ! The harvest didn't come in and you're hungry  You, who got are weary You, who are empty and exhausted by a year that almost killed you You, who are angry at God It's not to late to START OVER! Maybe you gave up on dreaming because it was too painful to keep failing, over and over again. Maybe you

I almost forgot to write today. I'm in the middle of some much needed quality time with friends. Friends are certainly the family you choose. Beloved siblings, Get you some friends, ok! More than 1 or 2. You need a circle -- people who carry you AND people who hold you to a higher standard. People who wipe your tears and people who slap you up side the head when you're ackin crazy, Okay?! In Jesus' name. 😊 I'm so grateful for mine 🤗

This is one of those rambling posts. I promised myself I'd do 365 days of blogging, meaning I'd write publicly  every day from January 8th, 2018 to January 8th, 2019. Whew! This has been a whirlwind experience! Something about journaling publicly holds me a certain kind of accountable...to the world and to myself.  I started on the 8th by venting my very raw emotions. I was tired. I was hurting. I was healing. I was trying to process the past 18 months of my life--trying to unpack the roller-coaster ride that is "stepping into my calling." And I'm exhausted! There are great days--days where I've written some of the most profound analyses on life and love, on pushing through pain and surviving black womanhood. There have been days when nothing seemingly profound wants to come out. There are posts filled with honesty--like admitting to the world that I'm a working woman who desires to have a baby, with or without a partner [ Read Here ]. There are posts

Ntozake Shange has been on my minds for weeks now. For those of you who don't know her, she's a poet and the author of the renowned play For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide/When The Rainbow Is Enuf.   I first heard of this play in my childhood, seeing monologues performed by local black women in the New Orleans theater scene. I knew it was special cuz my elders told me so; but I had no idea I'd connect with it on such a profound and visceral level later on in life. This season of my life has brought me closer to the essence of Shange's work--to the script, to the lines that didn't make sense then but make sense now--to the pain and the heartache..to my stuff! There's a poem by in For Colored Girls performed by the Lady in Green called, "somebody almost walked off wid alla my stuff."   somebody almost walked off wid alla my stuff  not my poems or a dance i gave up in the street but somebody almost walked off wid alla my stuff like

"You don't like to lose," my therapist said in a session a few weeks ago. "Well, it's not that, it's--" She cuts off my poor attempt at an explanation. "That wasn't a question," she said. "It was a statement. You don't like to lose." Ouch. I mean, how dare she read me like that?!  I deserved it, I'm sure. It really knocked me up side the head because I didn't realize how competitive I was until she pointed out that the root of the stress caused by my latest personal debacle was about losing.  I remember being a sore loser as a kid. My mom and I would play scrabble and she was always so great and she didn't let me win just because I was kid. She wanted me to learn all the fancy 50-point words she was laying down. She'd make me look them up in the dictionary so I could be better at scrabble (and vocabulary) in the future; but I couldn't see past the pain of losing against her to appreciate the l

For the second time in my life, I'm seriously considering moving away...from New York--the place I've called home for 10+ years. I think I've outgrown my little one-bedroom apartment, the overcrowded trains give me anxiety, and I need some personal outdoor space to meditate and write while sipping moderately-priced top-shelf bourbon. It wouldn't be for another year or so, at least--my lease ends January 31, 2019. I have some time to think about it. Also, I would like to finish my ordination process in New York, so I'd have to wait until that is over.  Let me know what you think.  Watch the VLOG and list some cities below! Cheers

Today was a hard day. After a weekend full of "busyness" I couldn't even muster up the mental or physical energy To get out of bed. Grief is hard.  But I'm still here And this is my 14th blog of the year! That's right! I set a goal on January 8th to blog for 365 days and I haven't missed one day! Sometimes the entry got posted late but it got posted, okay! Cheers!🎉🎉🎉 I'm celebrating the small victories in 2018. I deserve to. I cried on Monday. And then again on Thursday night  into Friday morning. I miss elements of my past so much. It's painful even though I know God is growing me in this season. The tears came. Snotty nose, wailing cries Convulsing body parts-- Everything. So I write. I write because "Everyday something has tried to kill me and has failed." - Lucille Clifton I write because Healing is but a word away. I write because I have no choice But to be free.

A lot of people have read my earlier post ( For Colored Girls Who Aren't Afraid to Acknowledge Their Therapist, Pt. 1 ) about being a strong black woman who unashamedly has a therapist. I've gotten a few comments like: "Mia! You've always seemed like you had it all together! I'm surprised." "Mia, this is my life! I've had/I'm having trouble finding a therapist too!" "I had no idea therapy costs that much! Why won't insurance cover mental health care like they cover everything else?" 1. So, let me say this: I'm grateful to know that I am not alone in this process--that there are friends and colleagues who are doing or want to do work on themselves so that they, too, can be healthy. My generation might be deemed selfish or self-absorbed by older onlookers, but many of us are outchea tryna to cultivate the best version of ourselves--the version our families and communities expect from us. We ain't jus

so often we look for blessings to drop from the sky like manna from heaven. but what if every thing we reached for was inside? what if instead of grabbing we pushed? there's a blessing in your belly waiting to be birthed. labor pains dormant for a short period of time while distracted by life; but in sleepless nights that give way to weary days, contractions kick in so fiercely. the spine aches as hip bones adjust to stress placed upon them. "I'm tired of being in labor," she says. tired of being tired. caught somewhere between "I need to rest" and "I need to push." which one is it, God?  

I'm a strong, black woman. And I have a therapist. I don't just have a therapist. I need her these days. In the height of summer, I sought much needed help in the midst of a bout of depression. She was hard to find. Having been in therapy before and not being completely satisfied or comfortable, I decided to be intentional this time about who and what I was looking for. In 2015, I sought therapy and got a recommendation from a colleague. My only qualification at the time was that she be a woman of faith and preferably, a woman of color. I ended up with a middle aged Asian woman who lived in Westchester and loosely practice Christianity. It was cool at first. And expensive! My insurance wouldn't cover up front costs, so I paid out of pocket--$190 a session-- with the hopes that Blue Cross Blue Shield would reimburse ya girl 80%. They did...after a month of submitting paperwork. I was poor and unemployed but I needed help. The therapy didn't last. I

We spend our whole lives                   climbing mountains If it's not one mountain, it's another We're always climbing      And it's good What would life look like if we became content           with the climb if the climb became normal if the climb became life giving I've always wanted to climb a mountain. I was never much of an outdoors person as a kid, but something about mountain climbers--the ones who reached the tops of Everest or Kilimanjaro--seemed so cool! To go against gravity in such a way that made your lungs weaken during ascension. To rise above the clouds--closer to heaven to ever before. What I love about mountains           is that I am but a speck I disappear in the grandeur of something so much bigger           than myself Mountains humble. Egos crumble. In bumper sticker-Christianity, people like to talk so brazenly about God moving mountains for them...for us--about God disrupting God's nature for lil ole

It wasn't long ago that I thought I'd be married by 30... Or at least around 30...32 maybe? But recently, I let go of that dream. Its not gone completely; I'm just not holding on to it so tightly. It was beginning to make me feel like a failure. 😑 As I swiftly approach 29, I seem to have lost the desire to try to meet any romantic relationship goals I had for myself. I'm also not sure if I want to spend my 30's waiting on my spouse to grow up only for him to release a banging album about how he grew up...AT FORTY-SEVEN! Lol No shade Jayonce😎🌴. I'm just saying. The thing is, I want to have a baby. Pause...I know, I know. cuhrazy right? Recently, I have found myself daydreaming about giving birth with a doula or midwife. I'm not sure what that's all about, but #babyfever is real. My ovaries go into overdrive every time a baby smiles at me on the train or at church. I want to experience growing something inside of me and giving birth in my home...

I've been feeling super unmotivated lately. Unmotivated to eat. Unmotivated to read for class. Unmotivated to play my piano. Yes. Superwoman is unmotivated! Unmotivated to do laundry even though I'm running out of clothes.  Unmotivated to unpack my suitcase from Christmas. YUP! Christmas was 3 weeks ago today and my suitcase is still sitting on my bedroom floor with clothes spilling out of it. It's been 3 weeks since I felt all was right in the world. And by right, I don't mean perfect. Just right enough with the hope that 2018 would carry me into a much needed and worked for breakthrough. I actually thought that I deserved a breakthrough--how egotistical of me?--that I had put in the work, that I had parted with a lot in order to embrace this calling, that I had said "yes" to God enough times to warrant a turning of the tides in 2018. I. Was. So. Wrong. I sit here with unpacked suitcases on my bedroom floor, afraid to say goodbye to the wonderf

I'm not feeling well today. My body has been in shambles for a few weeks and I'm procrastinating on doctors appointments because...I don't know. The doctors haven't been able to heal my chronic pain for years, so I've just about given up. Stomach ulcers, debilitating acid reflux, asthma, chest pains--the list goes on and as I age, I'm forced to come to terms with my mortality. Today, I thought a lot about death. As I sat in my office at the church, I thought, "Am I dying?" "Is this what a slow, painful death feels like?" I've always been obsessed with death--with what happens in the finals days and final moments of life. I'm really intrigued by people who document their terminal illnesses, letting us into their very personal conversations with God and with themselves in their last days, weeks, months, and years. I've read countless cancer blogs and I've watched people video log their lives up until their last breath. Weird,

I've been keeping up with my 365 days of blogging challenge, which started on January 8th. Today, I opted for a Vlog experience. Keeping it fresh. Hope you enjoy! Mark 2 (NRSV) 1 When he returned to Capernaum after some days, it was reported that he was at home. 2 So many gathered around that there was no longer room for them, not even in front of the door; and he was speaking the word to them. 3 Then some people[a] came, bringing to him a paralyzed man, carried by four of them. 4 And when they could not bring him to Jesus because of the crowd, they removed the roof above him; and after having dug through it, they let down the mat on which the paralytic lay. 5 When Jesus saw their faith, he said to the paralytic, “Son, your sins are forgiven.” 

There have been two times in my life when I've been shaken awake by a full song--a complete "original" composition that I had to race to my piano or phone to record. I've awakened to verses or refrains many times, but only twice has a full song been dropped into my spirit--start to finish. I knew that in those moments, that song wasn't mine to begin--that there was some previous carrier, some witness in the clouds, that needed me to get their song into this sphere of the universe. I knew that I was merely the vessel--that they chose me to receive their song in my slumber. This "choosing' is reminiscent of God's choosing and anointing of me, over and over again, though I fight hard against that sometimes. I've consciously written over 100 songs. Many more are still inside of me and haven't been placed into the universe yet. I used to be scared that I'd die with all of this music in me--with all of these ideas and scripts and sermons i

the lemons remind you that you're hurting the lemons remind you that you're healing the lemons remind you that you're human You ever touch a lemon and it burns? Here's how it goes: You get a slight cut on your finger, maybe from the edge of a piece of paper or, perhaps, you grazed your flesh along the ridge of knife. Regardless of how it got there, you may not realize it until something external lets you know it's there. I'm a bartender who frequently cuts her fingers on things. I'm often made aware of my injuries when I come in contact with a piece of citrus while garnishing your adult beverage. I cringe for a moment and keep it moving, only to be reminded seconds later that my wound is still very much open and alive. Before you know it, I've raced on to the next task that causes me to momentarily forget about my open wound. Racing through your healing deepens the wound. We do this to ourselves. Over and over again. We race throu

Yesterday , in my Psychoanalysis class at Union Theological Seminary, the wonderful Professor shared this beautiful story about a couple. One of the individuals in the relationship had been in a season of depression. I mean, deep depression. It got to the point where this person decided on their own that they could not suffer any longer. They had been through so much and they had decided they would throw in the towel. But before they did that, they went to their partner and they told their partner that they were sorry that their depression was so bad and was weighing on the relationship and they asked the partner for permission to leave. They asked their partner for permission to bow out of the relationship, to bow out of the life they had created because their mental health had become unbearable. This story hit me hard in class because I, too, have dealt with bouts of depression, especially over the past year as I came to terms with the reality that I was leaving most of what

March 2nd, 2015, was the last day I saw Leo alive. He was one of my closest friends. I've known him since I was 10 years old and he was a friend of the family before I was even thought of. I went home for a week at the end of February and the beginning of March to do two things: celebrate my mom's retirement from her job of 38.5 years and to visit Leo, who had been in the hospital for months battling cancer. I saw him twice during my trip, and sat with him and talked about Diana Ross, his favorite artist, and he touched my newly chopped fro; I had done the big chop only a few days earlier. And in our last visit he said, "make sure you get me some pralines from Southern Candymakers and send them to me." We both loved New Orleans delicacies, such as praline candy and king cake, and he would often send me some to New York. I laughed at that and said "absolutely"-- I would, I would send him some praline candy when he got home from the hospital. I left there an

If you follow my inconsistent blogging, you might remember my blog from late July when I described the feeling of drowning--or sinking...since accepting my call to preach. Here it is... It's been...TUMULTUOUS, to say the very, very least. It's been said that when it rains, it pours. So cliche, I know. But it's true. My 2017 was beautiful and eye-opening, and filled with chaos and commotion. Some things that happened: 1) Fell in love...with a person and preaching... 2) Parted with my acting manager 2) Parted with my acting career all together (at least temporarily) 3) Quit my job (decreasing my income by 75%) 4) Accepted a job at a church that wasn't my home church (#SeparationAnxiety) 5) Lost "friends" 6) Separated from my comfort zone So, that is a lot. And then 2018 happened and....KA BOOM! I won't go into details but WHEN IT RAINS, IT MUTHAF***IN POURS, OKAY! It seems like the more I lean into this calling, the more I lose . The