Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive The Bus

I was on my way down the driveway, headed to the Little Free Library in my neighborhood. In my arms was the book, Don’t Let the Pigeon Ride The Bus – one of my favorites. I was determined to gift this book to someone to enjoy and complete my book purge. Yikes, I know…

Before, I could make it to the end of the driveway, a former student, Alana Surun, responded to my “give away” Facebook post concerning my haul. She asked if I could please send her the book. I quickly turned on my heels and the Pigeon went back in the garage for safe keeping.

A few days later, as I was about to send the book off to Alana in New York City,  I thought, she must want this book to read to her son and that made me really happy.  Then, I started to think about her and the other (now) adults with children who were children themselves when they showed up at my classroom door 30 years ago in NYC. This memory made me really happy.

I deep breath and tears of joy started to flow. I decided right then and there to read the book one last time and, furthermore, I decided to record it. Not sure why.

While reading, I imagined the students around me on the rug, oohing and ahhing and laughing at the storyline and someone inevitably saying, “Pigeons can’t drive a bus!!” This memory made me happy AND it gave me the space to forget the troubles of the present-just for a moment. In that moment, I felt the immense love of that I have for my students and for the gift of having been with them. A moment that will last a lifetime.

As I read more and more of the short, hilarious !!! book—I became more and more myself and that felt good. After that I was ready to release the book and wait for the memory that was to come- of Alana reading this book to her son.

This book had gone full circle and what could be better than that?!

But as the universe would have it, the story is not over—a librarian sent me a message saying that the read aloud was such a nice gift for her—a much needed break during this time of confusion and sadness and isolation. She dubbed it the– Please Read to Me Break — and asked if I could do it again. Yup, I sure can.

Subsequently, a parent commented that her non-verbal daughter loves these (now called) Please Read to Me Breaks and the daughter of an author (of one of my all time favorite books, Mufaro’s Beautiful Daughters, thanked me for keeping the memory of her father alive by reading his book aloud.  Adults and children are finding comfort and relaxation in these Read to Me Breaks  or maybe they are just curious… who’s to say.  As for me, I feel compelled, at least for the time being, to keep reading aloud. Doing so brings me joy, way down on the inside and what could be better than that.

Enjoy

In-Joy

To tune in to my read-alouds, join FB live at 6 pm on Wednesday and Fridays (until further noticeJ ) Also, subscribe to my YouTube Channel : Dr. Hollee’s Please Read to Me Break for past episodes.

These Pandemic Days

These pandemic days have got me looking at the sky…a lot. 

Looking at the rain. Looking at the clouds. Noticing more.

More repetitive movements like turning over soil with a trowel.
Poking hot embers with a sturdy stick.

Staring at a little camouflaged green cricket. 

 

Just noticing and watching and trying to remember each bit of these moments.

Remembering exactly how scared I felt when I jumped off the Jaws Bridge last summer in Martha’s Vineyard.

Remembering to be grateful.

Always grateful.

Remembering the present is one thing. Remembering the past is something altogether different. Memories of my childhood largely escape me. There are only a few scraps that I replay over and over in my mind. Others are the by-product of secondhand stories told during holidays to explain a photo saved in an old book or salient piece of information. “Remember the Christmas when you got the Easy-Bake Oven?” 

I have traveled far and wide only to come back to the three people who together know all of my memories—and I am not one of them. It is not uncommon for me to go to this “3-legged stool of memory” with questions such as, “How do I know so and so?” or ” Where did I live when I was 14 again?Was I happy?” or “How did I get this discoloration on my thumb?” or “What was the name of the teacher that I loved so much, you know, the one who called me bird names depending on what color I was wearing that day?”

My own memories—the ones that I own firsthand—are more like Polaroid pictures. I can access one image at a time from a shiny pack which only holds a finite number of images. I often spread them out, touch a few of them with an inward eye and with a furrowed brow and try to bring together the connections with other peoples’ memories of my life.

One memory that I can readily pull up during this pandemic, especially when I am looking at the sky or the rain, is the repetitive motion of windshield wiper blades going back and forth battling against the darkness and the rain while I held my newborn sister in my lap on the long front vinyl seat of the car. The wipers gave me fleeting glimpses of my mother in the creek behind our apartment as she gathered rocks for my science project. When I paid attention to the windshield wipers, they let me know by their particular sound that–now– the glass would become clear, just for an instant and I could see my mother in the headlights. Through the wiper sounds, my mother turned the water over and over, pouring out the silt and sand as rocks landed in her shovel.

Turning soil

Turning embers

Turning water

I don’t actually remember the sunny day that surely came later or the project that was finished or even the exact moment that the fire was consumed last night. I do, however, fight to remember and remember to be grateful especially in these pandemic times.

 

So yeah. It’s MLK Day here too.

So there’s an article circulating from theroot.com that really got me going. The Root is a well established and well regarded digital platform that focuses on Black News, Opinions, Politics and Culture. The articles always have a slant to them, how could they not but this title really hit me in the gut :

It’s MLK Day Everywhere but Virginia. They’re Doing a Gun Rally Complete With Neo-Nazis Instead

The story, written by #ZackLinly is a solid recap of all that has been going on here in the Commonwealth of Virginia but the title–man, that really got me in my feelings. So… I wrote a response but alas, I could not upload it to the site because I just do not want to add another password to my cornucopia of passwords–I know that google stores all of them for you but…I am purging so to add one more just didn’t seem worth it.

In any event, here’s my response to the title (and article).

“So, it IS MLK day here in Virginia just like it is in other states. We are not DOING a gun rally. We are actually engaged in legislation re: gun control as we speak and yep, because of that, folks are coming here to rally against this legislation and yep, some of those people are neo-nazis from the Commonwealth and yep, some are from elsewhere. But trust , this is not just a problem for Virginia. We are moving forward with legislation. So please, show some support for those of us here taking this step even as legislators are getting death threats. So yeah, it’s MLK Day here just like it’s MLK elsewhere.

Power to the people.

Hiking and Thinking

 

So, I did my 6th annual First Day Hike here in Richmond. I always ALWAYS think about the First Day Hikes in Boston. It would usually be so cold and most likely…snowing. We would hike in snowsuits and boots. Folk would be outfitted in snowshoes and carry poles, even the dogs were suited-up for the adventure. When reminiscing while walking on Belle Isle, I always feel weepy and happy at the same time-especially on the First Day. 

As I look out over the James from “Bubba’s Bench”  (yep, there’s a real marker that says Bubba’s Bench), I remember when Marcie, Rebecca and I got ‘lost’ in the woods in Boston (well,  in the Blue Hills of Milton actually). Rebecca had some tiny bars or some nuts or something and Marcie, in all her Jewish-ness started praying to God that we would come out of this (so you know it was bad) LOLOLOLOL and we DID. We came out, almost instantaneously, I might add. It was…a miracle. 

So, here, as I walk past the Hollywood, then Riverview, then Mount Calvary cemeteries on January 1, 2020, I remember birthdays spent climbing to the top of the Blue Hills and swimming in Houghton’s Pond in Boston. As I cast my intentions into the river under the railroad trestle on the South side of the might James, I remember floating at Ellen’s house in Menemsha, Martha’s Vineyard in the summer. This brings me to a more recent but not less potent memory.. jumping off the Jaws Bridge in Oaks Bluff with Marcie and Danielle and the random Asian dude who was as scared as I was. …and since I have on my- I survived the Jaws Bridge- tee shirt on, I am sure to be asked about it and I am.

Then I tell the story and I feel happy and weepy at the same time walking in Richmond, thinking about my friends hiking and living in Boston. 

 

But when Angela crosses the “swinging bridge”, I feel so completely happy and proud of her and of myself. I have to stop and weep a little just thinking about what I have created for myself and others and and I know that this is why I am here hiking and thinking in Richmond.

                         

On One Accord

I have been working on my meditation routine for quite some time now without much success. It ebbs and flows, ebbs and flows. If I’m being honest I’d have to admit that sometime I only work on it only in my mind—my thoughts go something like this…’yep, I should sit myself down right now and chill’ —all the way to me actually sitting down and attempting to calm my innermost being. It’s a process, no?

Even when I get my body to actually stop, my mind doesn’t want to stop. Alas, I have been wrestling with how to make my mind and my body slow down at the same time. My heart and my mind seem to be having tug of war and my body, my spirit- is in the middle.

This morning however, I was compelled to try something different. I sat in front of my paternal grandmother’s old Singer sewing machine. I opened each of the small drawers, took in the smell, touched the objects therein and then…I put my foot on the pedal…and it moved…and I instantly started to cry. Big tears. Tears of rejuvenation.

                         

I touched the past or maybe…the past reached back and touched me and I felt completely in the present.

My mind and my heart are on one accord.

Prayerfully, let’s see what tomorrow holds.

My Blue Dasher

Yes. You are my Blue Dasher
But of course. You do not belong to me
No. You belong to the Air, the Wind, and the Sky

Like me. You also inhabit the Celestial World, flying low only to remind us of the brilliance that is uniquely you

 

As for me. My earthly apparitions stay a little longer-bathing in the sun, alighting to observe and be observed
You. You don’t stay as long-landing within the blink of an eye and just as suddenly you are gone toward your next calling

Yet. Sometimes. My Blue Dasher, you stay long enough for me to gaze upon you intently, looking at every vein, watching your small movements and noticing the blood that balances you

Rarer still, Beautiful Dasher, you get close enough, leaving me with an experience of you that stays with me

No. You do not belong to me

Yet. You are mine

And I cherish each one of our encounters for they remind me of the beauty, brilliance and freedom

That is you.

That is me.

That is the heavens.

To Destroy Something, Go to the Source

First Title (when I was being all emotional about it):  You Can Never Annihilate Ants, One by One…With Your Finger (I tried)

I don’t know about where you live, but here in Virginia…on my street, we have a problem with those tiny ants that just kinda appear to taunt you.

Now, I’m a bug girl and everything but every time I see an ant, a memory of army ants (or maybe they were those biting red ants) that I tried to repress from all those years ago in Costa Rica, come flooding back.

Here’s the scene—I was staying with my friend Edna in the Monteverde Cloud Forest when we saw a huge army of ants (literally) just doing their thing. I’m going to call it– a home invasion.  Edna said that the best course of action was to let them march on through the house unobstructed and unbothered. I’m not sure if that’s really the best course of action but I was a visitor and also— I was in the cloud forest and well… what did I know so I just looked on incredulously.

I think this was the first time that as kumbayah, tree-hugging, nature loving that I am–I admitted that I really, really don’t like ants—ANY ants. I know that ants are some dope little insects and can do ah-mazing feats but nah—I’m good with not having to experience them.

So imagine my chagrin when I returned to work after a glorious two-week vacation and my desk was party central for a family reunion of ants. They were have a grand ole’ time moving all over ONE PIECE of wrapped candy that I’d inadvertently left on the desk before my departure. Nooooooooo!!!!!!!!       Whyyyyyyyyy???

Suddenly, and this is gross (so turn away from the screen)…I started to squish them with my finger.

So.incredibly.gross. I squished so many ants that my finger was orange. So gross. So completely gross…I know and I’m sorry –like in a Bambi way, sorry.

Suddenly, I came back to myself, washed my hands and surrendered cuz… you can never kill all the ants—at least not by squishing them one by one.  If you really want to rid yourself of ants, you have to find their pathway and follow it to the source.

So, I did. I found their entrance route and I went straight to Lowe’s (cuz we are not doing Home Depot) and put some yummy Taro down for them to feast on. Three days later and I was so happy to have my desk back. I feel bad but then again, I don’t.

So… (drum roll here) in all of this there’s a lesson:

Say the ants are the negative thoughts that you keep saying to yourself (I can’t. I don’t have time. I’m not good enough. I’ll never. blah, blah, blah…).

You can catch and stop each thought one by one but there will always be more. You must find the pathway, the source, the root cause and annihilate these thoughts from there. Makes sense?! So, follow your pathway, do the work to annihilate whatever you need to get rid of, clean up the mess, and get back to work.

You’re welcome.

Come to think of it, I wrote a blog post about Lion Ants a few years ago. Scroll through my posts and I bet you will find it.

Sign Changer, Life Changer

 

               

It took mere minutes and a lifetime for city workers (mostly men, mostly Black men) to hoist themselves on ladders armed with screwdrivers and clippers and paint to change the signs from Boulevard to Arthur Ashe Boulevard on June 22, 2019.

Thousands of us had just witnessed a ceremony of the highest magnitude with dignitaries, family and friends yet, there was a ceremony of a different kind-just there…at the street corners in places where no one made grand speeches…no purple streamers fell, no songs sung.

Here, on the outskirts of the picture frame, after the hand clapping, laughter and tears there were men on ladders in bright yellow vests doing what was more than a lifetime and minutes in the making.

I watched them in awe and found myself wondering, “What do these guys think about the significant role they are playing right now in this endeavor, far from the dais and the accolades, moving quickly in the shadows of the Confederate statues they would surely pass as they christened the new thoroughfare with shiny new signs of hope and activism.

Suddenly, I heard, “Hey Doc!” and before I knew it my cousin, Scooter (Jawad Abdu) was upon me with his bright yellow blazer and carrying a grand smile that lit up the beautiful blue sky. Serendipity. It was him. Of course it was him.

We shared a quick embrace during this dedicated moment of triumph in between his sign changing. It was then that I asked him how he felt. Scooter said that he felt great, that he was on the clock, and that he would talk to me more later.

During a conversation later that evening that he was able to tell me more about his experience on this day.

My cousin reflected that Arthur Ashe was one of our Uncle Buster’s (James Buchanan, Esq.) heroes. He said that Uncle Buster learned how to play tennis from Arthur Ashe and that he always talked about the accomplishments of Ashe. Sccooter went on to say, “I know that Uncle Buster was smiling down from heaven looking at what I was doing and I felt overwhelmed by it…in a good way”, he quickly added.

At the end of the conversation, my cousin added, “I only questioned myself once by saying- What am I doing here? Why was I picked for an occasion such as this?”

Then Scooter reflected on the enormity of what he was tasked to do—for him it was not the allure of overtime or the act of merely taking down one sign and putting up another. Rather, he says, “I was doing this for someone, for all of the someones, who are not here to see this. I am a part of the legacy. I am part of something great.”

My dear cousin, Scooter—you are exactly right. You are part and parcel of something great.

I am so glad it was you.

I am so glad it was you.

Scooter, like many other Black men, has faced considerable challenges in his life and works  through them each day graciously and with love. He has co-founded RVA League for Safer Streets and is taking on herculean work with his colleagues to reduce the rate of incarceration in our city and to help formerly incarcerated men, women and youth re-enter society effectively and permanently.

 

“make trouble, make good trouble, make necessary trouble”

Representative John Lewis, Arthur Ashe Boulevard dedication

Richmond, VA June 22, 2019

 

 

Spring Flower for You

“So why did you do it?”

This was a simple enough question asked of me but unbelievably hard to answer.

I jumped at the chance to deliver carnations to senior citizens staying/living at a local rehabilitation/senior living center. I wasn’t quite sure why I did it. I just felt compelled in my body and in my spirit to do it.  Before, I knew it, I was wrestling 175 beautiful long stemmed carnations out of my car and headed across the parking lot to meet Ms. G, who was going to walk me around as I delivered every single carnation to every single resident.  

However, as fate would have it,  Ms.G. had other plans. She was getting a party set up in the community room and thus, would not be able to walk around with me. To make it easy on me– Ms. G (bless her heart) started me off on the wing comprised of people living with dementia. After I worked my way around the 3 hallways solo, I was then come back down to the community room on the 1st floor, where the party would be in full swing.

Ok. I got this.

First deep breath.

I made my way to the ‘dementia wing’ (I know…that sounds awful). It felt awful–deer in headlights, awful. What-in-the-world am I doing here awful. I chatted with the attendant sitting among the people and then I proceeded to place a flower looking at the attendant for reassurance at every careful turn. I place a flower in front of all of the bodies sitting in all of the chairs in front of all of the tables. Bodies that were just… sitting there. Each angled a bit differently. A random assortment of still bodies looking down, looking here, looking over there–maybe not looking but rather-facing all of the invisible points in the room.

Second deep breath.

It was as if I was walking among statues. Yet, I saw some eyes flicker, some hands move while other bodies seem to have no knowledge of another human–no knowledge that I was standing so close to them. If I could just push my energy field out, it might hit theirs and there would be a stirring.

I left that large room and continued to deliver the armful of flowers (175 long stem carnations are heavy 🙂 to the individuals occupying both sides of the three hallways on the 2nd floor. I walked gingerly down the hallway, trying not to drop the flowers and trying not to be in anyone’s way.  I peeked into the rooms and when I saw someone, I would say, “May I give you a spring flower. It’s springtime!” The walking/peeking became easier the more I did it.  I made small talk when I could, smiled when I couldn’t.  I looked for small body movements under covers and in the chairs. I noticed gnarled fingers reached for the flowers, which I carefully wedged in their hands. I noticed eyes open slightly, heads lift “Happy Spring. May I offer you a flower?” over and over and over again. Smiling the whole time. Now waving as I passed familiar rooms.

Mission accomplished and feeling accomplished on the 2nd floor, I was ready for the big party. I pushed the elevator code and ran right into a real party with cake and punch, 3 men signing old gospel tunes and a room full of residents.  Ms. G. gave me the thumbs up and I proceeded to take on the 3 hallways on this floor.

As I made my way up and down the hallways, my refrain,  “Spring flower for you.  It’s spring time,” elicited smiles even if it was only perceptible in the eyes or a slight hand movement, or an upturned lip. When the flower was inside of their tiny hands, they would close their eyes and breath in the flower. I cried each time that happened.

Lots of deep breaths now.

Every single person who could, smelled the flower with eyes closed. In was in these precious moments that I looked around the rooms.  It was in these sacred moments that I noticed something that I hadn’t noticed previously–even though many (not all) of the residents were pretty much despondent, infirmed,  and seemed to be the shell of their former self , their lives were on their walls and on their beds and on their tables–graduation photos of grandchildren, military momentos, photos of themselves during younger times, handmade quilts, special plastic cups. I could not help but cast my eyes around their spaces (wanting to lean into their lives and yet trying to be careful about imposing). Who were these people? What were their lives like? What are their lives like? There was so much more here that I couldn’t see with my naked eyes. I wanted to know these people in my mind’s eye–know them in my heart. Feel them in my soul.

So, why did you do it?

Happy Spring
Happy Spring

I have a spring flower for you.

I need to know that you’re ok

I came home one day this week and the house was clean- I mean- totally clean (even my bathroom :0) . Danielle, home from her first spring break as a university student and fresh off of her multi-day whirlwind Amtrak tour o’cities,  had done a deep cleaning, washed clothes and more. I felt a freedom in the organization and cleanliness of it all.

When I saw and smelled how clean the place was I thanked her with gusto and told her that I appreciate what she did. She said, back to me, “I know you do.”  (love her) She then admonished me by saying that she didn’t want me to ever be in such messy, dirty environs again. But what really got me was when she looked at me and said, “ I have to know that you’re okay when I’m at school.” (Soooo, that’s a heart stopper…) How do you respond to that? I don’t want her to worry but.. some days have been hard…

The truth is that I have been using all of my strength to get through work. Long hours, complicated issues and being pulled in so many directions is taking its toll on my life outside of work. I have managed to continue going to my dance class and making sure I read before bed and keeping my spirits pretty much intact–that is about it. Actually, that’s a lot, now that I think about it.  For the rest, I’m just plain ole’ tired and as a result, my eating and exercise has suffered, the cleanliness of my house and car has suffered (I mean-like–stuff everywhere, no order).  I’m not beating myself up. It is what it is. I like my alone time just as much as everyone else. However, having her here for a few days to chat with and share in some of the housework was in stark contrast to every other day for me since she’s been at school.

So, here we are again, at the beginning of a new week and a new chance to do a bit better. Self care is as much about keeping your thoughts disciplined as it is your routines. The best motivation for trying a bit harder is that I want her to know that yep, I’m ok. Way down in my spirit, “I’m ok”.