Author: amini4

It’s a hard truth for some like me, and just a straight fact for others, but all human love is conditional. My godfather said this to me when we spoke of God vs. the average man and I hated that he sounded right in his simple statement because I wanted to be upset with someone for not holding me down. For showing less love despite what I offered abundantly. Humans are conditional innately. Hell, our bodies actually stop existing as proof, and our complicated love is an extension of our ego. It can be beautiful, forgiving, accepting. And still, love for self, love for others: selfish, conditional, relative, subjective. And the work it requires to exist at a functional capacity for harmony is not for the lazy. Certainly it requires intention and follow through and evaluation. Even still, our prescription for love is typically narrow and fragile. Once we understand this, we should strive to intentionally love fiercely, being vulnerable to the pain and pleasure of it because life is too short not to be expansive in this way, but with the keen awareness that it is also fleeting and certainly not the only thing we need. Because it is not reliable. Because we aren’t reliable. Because after all, what’s love got to do with it?

I am good; soft; beautiful and purposeful. I sow beauty in this world. This splitting seed process will bear majestic fruit. I just gotta keep watering myself.

Asé.

I’ve been mourning my beautiful young cousin who passed this week. Been celebrating him too because he was a funny ass kid with a brilliant perspective. Still, he was a kid. A baby. Our baby. My wife’s family has formed into my own and it’s comforting to be able to grieve together, showing love in this way. Growing a family means being prepared to lose them too. Having experienced the deaths of close loved ones earlier than I would’ve preferred or expected in my biological family, I have come to mostly accept that it is everyone’s path. And that it is not the end, just an end. But sadness and shock, anger and confusion still come. I fear it less now and I still don’t claim to understand it. I remember that people say a lot and nothing, searching for emotions that have no words to expound on their true depths. Cmon, how do we sum up love and loss adequately? I also realize that we get in our selfish bags, focusing on how death affects only us and not those around us, or running from it entirely as a form of hiding and escapism, like only focusing on others and not ourselves. How friends don’t know how to conceptualize death, especially those who haven’t lost their closest people yet, asking unanswerable questions like “how are you?”. Who think I must not be affected heavily because the person wasn’t my kin, so only reference my wife in the condolences. Death teaches us exactly what we don’t know. We also do a lot to explain or know facts or circumstances; all to make some meaning of it. But I return to this beautiful young man and get present with all that arises in my spirit. And there is so much love. I’m learning how not to suffer in spite of death because literally I have the choice to celebrate it as another form of life, grieving what was, who was, and who/what remains without losing myself or succumbing to my ego in it. Cuz ain’t no logic to the shit. It just is.

But to the point: I am renewed in why life is mine to live. And how my life is beautiful; a spiritual gift. I’ve been so stuck and rightfully so. Ego does a number on us when we are rejected or failing at something, or just aren’t where we think we should be. It can whisper or scream how we shouldn’t even be here. Or that our life is meaningless, unworthy of living. However, peering at a 25-year old body with a departed soul will shut that shit down! I am alive and I have today to make it right. Hell, without justification, I have today. It has me in it. And I get to serve while here. I get to be better. Remember my strength and calling. No matter how many times I have to be reminded in times like these, it’s a glorious and necessary repetition. I can’t really understand why my cousin is gone or why others get to live under similar circumstances, but I’m alive and can honor him now. Honor myself now. Live the god in me as I’m destined. Thank you for your humanity, lil cuz, and your guidebook.

There are times when it’s painstaking for me to be alone. Excruciating. Frightening. It feels like punishment and the stories I create breed resentment and hopelessness. What’s maybe worse is feeling alone or lonely when I am not. Someone who knows me closely is probably rolling their eyes or opening a shocked gaping mouth as they read this because they know of my supports and connections on the regular. After all, I’ve been in a loving relationship with my wife for a decade and have a host of friends and people who believe in me. I even met some of my maternal family recently and had a damn good time, so I should just stop it already, right? Anyway, my wife is one of many healthy mainstays in my life (grateful for our cultivation) and yet I still sometimes cling to the lack I feel elsewhere. And it’s so easy for me to go there; to the lonely place.

Being alone comes as no shock when I recount my 37 years. There are multiple moments or periods to posit that I was groomed for aloneness. I came into this world solo, the youngest of 6, and was the only child raised by my Mom with significant age gaps between me and most of my siblings. My Dad had no other kids (still waiting to meet a rando sibling from his island or Canada because men and their dicks), loved his bottle and freedom from raising me while my Mom was caught up in her trauma and rotating abusive relationships to really be present with and for me. She was fucking dope, but this is about how she wasn’t, so bear with me and hold the halo. I’ll allegedly write books on that. For now, I write checks to my psychotherapist, cashing the rest as apologies to people I hurt when I don’t manage my anger appropriately as both the adult I am and the one I was forced to be at a young age. The molestation I endured and domestic violence I witnessed made sure to end my childhood. Got bitterness, fatigue? But take today. I looked at a friend’s IG of her kid starting college with the traditional family caravan in tow, all happily piled into the dorm as a sendoff. I grew sad as I remembered having to take the bus to college alone, terrified and unsure, because my Mom didn’t have the means or wherewithal at that time to make a way. Insta-fucking-gram triggered that. Ugh! Also, as I’ve written in my earliest posts, my Mom passed when I was 22, so yeah, I know about being alone.

Despite knowing aloneness well, I struggle with it and it makes me hate myself. I know who and what I am, mostly. I’m amazing! Why’d I want to keep company with anyone else more than with myself? After all, my best words and ideas stem from this solitude and singular physicality and my creativity morphs into more beauty. But it’s not just being alone. It’s knowing I have to be. Because then I’d have to get square with the pain aforementioned. That’s it. I’m terrified of my story; the one I co-created long before and/or just existed in, and the one I continue to write that’s awfully despondent right now. The story no one else can write, nor should. This fear assumes the form of an unloved, unseen other. In this space, I’m not confident, powerful or effective. I run from myself often and get stopped in my tracks by my misery and mystery. Funny shit is that I also isolate. I can get so consumed in others and my work that I wind up requiring way more solo time to repair. But in my fuckery, that seems like a normal path to consequence. It’s when I crave community and don’t wanna ask for it, or only get fractions of a whole that I feel abandoned or exiled. Oh, so much wasted energy y’all!

So as I write I’m clear that I gotta reorganize the narrative and dig deep. My wellness, my vitality and purpose depends on it. Growing up unprotected and unseen where it mattered has taken me too long to heal and more healing is mos def needed. At my core, in my still place, I know I can heal myself. I have before. I even have some damn tools to get started. If my close people are still reading this then they are also taking all these examples and reworking them into the resilient fighter stories they know so well. Given this cocoon called “life” that I’m in, I’ll be best served to remember that I possess the power to craft my journey. And recreate it. I’m struggling with my higher self and it’s ok, we all do it. So no pity please. Pray for a sista though. Lately I’ve been called to my oneness with the universe. My spirit gently accepts the peace in that certainty as I close out. Writing moves me ahead per usual. Thank Goddess! I confided in a loved one that I am a seed splitting. I’m no farmer, but the distance between seeds seems requisite for their growth and transformation. Guess I’ll heed nature yet again.

There are times when it’s painstaking for me to be alone. Excruciating. Frightening. It feels like punishment and the stories I create breed resentment and hopelessness. What’s maybe worse is feeling alone or lonely when I am not. Someone who knows me closely is probably rolling their eyes or opening a shocked gaping mouth as they read this because they know of my supports and connections on the regular. After all, I’ve been in a loving relationship with my wife for a decade and have a host of friends and people who believe in me. I even met some of my maternal family recently and had a damn good time, so I should just stop it already, right? Anyway, my wife is one of many healthy mainstays in my life (grateful for our cultivation) and yet I still sometimes cling to the lack I feel elsewhere. And it’s so easy for me to go there; to the lonely place.

Being alone comes as no shock when I recount my 37 years. There are multiple moments or periods to posit that I was groomed for aloneness. I came into this world solo, the youngest of 6, and was the only child raised by my Mom with significant age gaps between me and most of my siblings. My Dad had no other kids (still waiting to meet a rando sibling from his island or Canada because men and their dicks), loved his bottle and freedom from raising me while my Mom was caught up in her trauma and rotating abusive relationships to really be present with and for me. She was fucking dope, but this is about how she wasn’t, so bear with me and hold the halo. I’ll allegedly write books on that. For now, I write checks to my psychotherapist, cashing the rest as apologies to people I hurt when I don’t manage my anger appropriately as both the adult I am and the one I was forced to be at a young age. The molestation I endured and domestic violence I witnessed made sure to end my childhood. Got bitterness, fatigue? But take today. I looked at a friend’s IG of her kid starting college with the traditional family caravan in tow, all happily piled into the dorm as a sendoff. I grew sad as I remembered having to take the bus to college alone, terrified and unsure, because my Mom didn’t have the means or wherewithal at that time to make a way. Insta-fucking-gram triggered that. Ugh! Also, as I’ve written in my earliest posts, my Mom passed when I was 22, so yeah, I know about being alone.

Despite knowing aloneness well, I struggle with it and it makes me hate myself. I know who and what I am, mostly. I’m amazing! Why’d I want to keep company with anyone else more than with myself? After all, my best words and ideas stem from this solitude and singular physicality and my creativity morphs into more beauty. But it’s not just being alone. It’s knowing I have to be. Because then I’d have to get square with the pain aforementioned. That’s it. I’m terrified of my story; the one I co-created long before and/or just existed in, and the one I continue to write that’s awfully despondent right now. The story no one else can write, nor should. This fear assumes the form of an unloved, unseen other. In this space, I’m not confident, powerful or effective. I run from myself often and get stopped in my tracks by my misery and mystery. Funny shit is that I also isolate. I can get so consumed in others and my work that I wind up requiring way more solo time to repair. But in my fuckery, that seems like a normal path to consequence. It’s when I crave community and don’t wanna ask for it, or only get fractions of a whole that I feel abandoned or exiled. Oh, so much wasted energy y’all!

So as I write I’m clear that I gotta reorganize the narrative and dig deep. My wellness, my vitality and purpose depends on it. Growing up unprotected and unseen where it mattered has taken me too long to heal and more healing is mos def needed. At my core, in my still place, I know I can heal myself. I have before. I even have some damn tools to get started. If my close people are still reading this then they are also taking all these examples and reworking them into the resilient fighter stories they know so well. Given this cocoon called “life” that I’m in, I’ll be best served to remember that I possess the power to craft my journey. And recreate it. I’m struggling with my higher self and it’s ok, we all do it. So no pity please. Pray for a sista though. Lately I’ve been called to my oneness with the universe. My spirit gently accepts the peace in that certainty as I close out. Writing moves me ahead per usual. Thank Goddess! I confided in a loved one that I am a seed splitting. I’m no farmer, but the distance between seeds seems requisite for their growth and transformation. Guess I’ll heed nature yet again.

God, grant me the serenity to accept that I can change things.

Do you have the courage to see?

I find it hard to believe people when they say “I miss you”, especially over text, but don’t prove it in action. Who haven’t made attempts in their very able life to see me or check in. Traumas and dramas persist, and still. This irritation is part of my history of abandonment, yes, though I won’t be relegated to that meager explanation. A strong believer in people’s ability to show up, and my skill of watching what people do or don’t vs. what they say is also why I know they can try harder to make space for me in their lives. I’ve always been someone who makes diligent efforts with varying degrees of important folks in my life and even as I’ve aged and understand my own flakiness over time, I celebrate my consistency and availability. I can tell the difference between those who try and those who don’t. Those who like the empty sound of “I’ll do better” and those who actually show up. I see where I’m someone’s priority.

Since I’m working on accepting what I witness and feel, aware of the shifts that can take, it’s clearer to me that I have a ways to go in being alone. In easing into the hurt that accompanies my aloneness, I must focus on that instead of just telling myself that people don’t care when they don’t reach out or respond. When they don’t do what I would do. I need to get still with this uneasiness so that I stop harboring resentment and also cease overexerting myself to stay in touch. To prove a point that then backfires at times when folks don’t return my effort. This breeds bitterness in me and makes the experience of trying to stay connected fruitless, fleeting and inauthentic. Still, it hurts to be the one working harder at contact than those I value. Or to be the one people only remember when in need. Or to be the one they don’t need at all. Still, it’s my job to heal.

I can need what I need, my people can do better and dammit it’s still not about me. Sure, we take people’s presence for granted, assuming they’ll always be there. We let life get in the way. We haven’t learned how to be consistent and reciprocal. Aaaaaaand it’s not personal. I should guard myself by doing my stillness and gratitude work – loving myself enough to not desperately seek that love in others. We’re communal and need connection with others, and I can also soothe many pieces of my soul and body. Get comfy in my aloneness, even when I’m hurting. I am exactly what I need most. When I run from this truth I perceive others’ distance as an attack.

I’m still in process y’all.

Recovering.

Working on this self-awareness and acceptance.

So I’m writing to you (and myself) instead of cursing out the homie or family.

I’m grateful for the regularity and irregularity of contact with loved ones because I got squad and have more valuable connection each day.

I am loved, worthy and I am seen.

And yeah, some friends just suck. But I’m working on me.

I am not too much. The world just isn’t enough.

I held this beautiful baby girl today. She appeared to be discerning in her innocence or maybe that’s just what I projected onto this little human as she stared her observant stare and got closer to take me in. I enjoyed her smell, so comforting. She transported me for a spell as I needed the reminder of fertile opportunity, of the playful quietness with a little black girl exploring her vast world. How she instinctively knew I would hold her up and reached out for me to do so. But now I’m home in my sorrow wondering if the world won’t show up for her. How despite the efforts of her parents and other protectors, she’ll still be made to “adult” before age 15, even age 8. Will she only be remembered for her provoked anger or tricked into complacency? Or be lauded for the way she accommodated oppressors at her own expense, being nothing but a disservice to her people despite taking the L for them? I sob knowing that I’m actually in my own story, though I’m thankful that hers is still a mystery waiting to be written. Sadly, my hope for myself does not transcend the pain in which I sit.

The remarks remain the same. The attention on nothing else. “She’s loud, too loud. She fights too hard. Is too honest. She’s mad, angry, doesn’t play ball, she’s explosive.” If they don’t say the words, there are the stares of disapproval masked as diplomatic support. Where are the critics when I weep and lament as another dream is erased or belittled or stolen? Don’t they hear my doubts? My fears? My regrets are endless and desires few. I feel like nothing in a world dying to prove it’s everything. Where are the saviors then, the ones who clearly wanted me to be quieter, more demure, passive and amiable to justify my deservedness? The ones who amped me up to say what they wouldn’t? I’m writhing inside and people reduce me to a one-dimensional epithet with no regard for how it hurts to be misnamed and unseen. How it hurts to be hurt. To not be mentioned at all. Eyes flooded, I envy that beautiful baby girl because she gets to be one.