Eating My Broccoli

     I don't like broccoli. As a matter of fact I never had, yet I know it's good for me. Even as a child my mom could never get me to eat broccoli, cauliflower, brussel sprouts or spinach and the older I get the less appealing these vegetables are; yet, I realize that I have to eat them no matter  how bad they may taste. It's not that I don't like vegetables, because I like the ones that aren't green  but its the green ones that will keep me strong.

            Who wouldn't rather  have oatmeal chocolate chip cookies or fresh bread straight out of the oven?  But there’s a price to pay for bread and cookies that taste good now, but lead to low energy, diabetes or jeans that the whole family has to help me get into. The bottom line is that broccoli may not taste good now, but it has benefits that will continue to pay off in all the days to come.

            It's interesting though because broccoli shows up in my life in different ways. Sometimes it's the conversation I don't want to have but I need to because its the only way I'm going to bring about change. Other times the "broccoli" is a relationship that I am enjoying but I know is no good for me. The person, although nice, is draining me and will eventually deplete me if I'm not careful.

            I've not worked out with my personal trainer in six months since starting my new job and after gaining 10 lbs and catching the flu twice I realized that I needed to do what was best for me and not what I wanted to do. The other day I met with my personal trainer Danny and I swear that there were times when I saw a stalk of broccoli where his head should have been. I hated every plank, push up, and kettle bell swing he ordered me to do, but in the long run I know it's going to pay off.

            I've also gone back to drinking my Green Energy Smoothie every morning. Thankfully it doesn't contain broccoli, but it does have  spinach, celery, carrots, mint, oranges, apples, lemons, limes, and  cucumbers. It's not a Krispy Kreme donut, but its not completely disgusting either. Like my daughter Lyndsay says, "it's a toss up between grass and dirt." Nevertheless, in the long run its good for me so I hold my breath and drink it down.

            I know I would be a lot healthier and happier if I just did what I was supposed to do and not what I want to do, so here I go. It's not about Resolutions or feeling guilty about previous bad choices I've made (food, relationships, exercising). Rather, it's about being conscious about what I'm doing. I really do know what's best for me and when I take the time to think about it I tend to not get caught up and I make better choices, so please pass the broccoli. 

It's Hard Out Here For a Pimp and a Writer Too

     There's a Grammy winning song by Three 6 Mafia called It's Hard Out Here for a Pimp that I'm about to make my theme song. Although the lyrics are about a man trying to get his hustle on at the expense of the women working for him, I'm beginning to see how the lyrics can apply to most of the people I know in this Game. It seems nowadays everyone has a hustle and they're trying to find a way to get over on the next person.
     Lately I've felt like a bit of a pimp myself. Thankfully I don't have a stable I have to take care of. I'm responsible for only one, and as an author I'm constantly having to pimp myself. Every now and then I have to hike up my skirt and parade across social media because that's what new authors are supposed to do. I hate it because I'm a private person by nature. I would rather exchange meaningful dialogue over cups of tea instead of  Tweets. I'm not a Twitch or a Twigger and I honestly have more to say than what can be condensed to 140 characters or less. Don't get me started on Facebook. Every time I type a status update I feel like I just got naked in a back alley.
    According to Pimpology: The 48 Laws of the Game by Pimpin' Ken, all pimps must Get a Name in the Game, so I do what I have to do even though it's not natural to me. I write, I edit, I push send. Another of Pimpin' Ken's rules is that Pimpin' is What You Do, Not Who You Are so I guess, maybe, I need to just grin and bare it.
     It really helps to think I'm the pimp, but honestly I'm probably not. When I think about how most new authors like myself are treated, I realize that we're getting played. We hustle all day and all night and then turn over most of our money to the man (or woman) in the suit. It doesn't really feel like prostitution as it's happening, but afterwards you realize you just got screwed.
    Earlier today I spoke with a very successful writer friend of mine. Thankfully he talked me off the ledge and reminded me that in this business no one is going to take care of me better than me. I've watched enough movies to know that once the pimpin' begins the friendship ends so I need to be about my business.
   So I'm waxing off the Caddy and putting on the flashy suit and the big hat with the feather. I'm selling me. I promise, though, if you look closely enough you will see that behind the pimp facade is a shy writer who only wants to share her stories.

Holding On Too Long

     When I look back at my life, I see that I have a history of holding on too long. Normally I wouldn’t say this was a bad trait because it has actually served me well in many aspects of my life. For example, in my teaching career, there have been students who were struggling with the lessons and with life. I knew that I should just give them the failing grade they earned and move on, but something inside of me wouldn’t allow that, so I kept at them until they saw their own potential. Each time I see a former student and he or she says "thank you Dr. Thompson for believing in me" I realize that I did the right thing. 

     In my own academic career I have been extremely persistent.  When I was in graduate school, there was this one professor who said I was a pit bull because once I bit into something I wouldn’t let go. I've always  wanted to go a little farther and push a little harder until I could see progress. Maybe that’s why I’ve started marathon training. I like to push the limits and since there are no mountains in Florida I have to run. 
     While running last Saturday, my friend Natalie and I were on mile 11 and it was cold and dark and we were both ready to quit, but I reminded her that at that point it was all mental because our bodies had already proven that we could run long distances, we just needed to focus and push a little more to make it to the finish line. 

     Anyone married for as long as my husband Lynn and I knows that there are times when you want to quit but you realize that it would be best for everyone to try a little harder for a little longer because you don’t want to give up on what could have been.

     But as I watch the last of 2012 slip through my fingers, I know that there are some things I need to let go of. There is this one business relationship that I have held on to for far too long. I’ve listened to the empty promises and the flat out lies and I've kept hoping that things would get better. They haven’t, so it’s time to say goodbye. There are also some vampires who suck up all my time with their trifles. It’s time for me to begin guarding my time the same way I guard my energy.

     I promise not to give up on my students and others who I see have the potential for greatness and I’m sure as hell not going to give up on my own hopes and dreams, but I am going to begin charging a higher admission into my life. I am also going to do what my writer friend Karen suggested when she paraphrased Ronald Reagan “believe, but verify!” When a person makes a promise I’m going to believe them only until I can find out if what they're saying is true and if I discover it’s not I’m going to move on.  No more waiting around for them to try to make it right.

     So here it is December 2012 and I am releasing it all. I have no idea what God is about to do, but I am ready because I am no longer clutching tightly to things that should have been released a long time ago.

Roy's Miracle

Recently I was invited by my friend Sheila to speak at her husband Roy's graduation." Roy's the only graduate and it'll just be a small group of family and friends," she said.  "I know it's not what you're used to, but it would really mean a lot to us." I was already over scheduled, but everything else would have to wait because it's not everyday that I get to witness a miracle.

It all began in the late 1950s when Roy was unable to obtain his high school diploma. Growing up in the rural south in the late 1950s taught African Americans many life lessons, but the lessons Roy had to learn were bitterly hard. He fled his home at a young age in order to seek a better life, and a better life he did find. One that included a wife, Sheila, who loved and supported him, seven beautiful children, and more family and friends than he could have ever imagined. Although he knew that God had protected him and blessed him all of these years, there was still something missing:  his high school diploma.

Over forty years later Sheila began to make his dreams come true. Together they found an online program that would allow him to earn an actual high school diploma and not a GED. In the evenings after work, he would study and his entire family encouraged him during those times when he thought he could not go on.

It was only at the end of this story that I entered the picture and I played such a small part, but it touched me in a big way. I got to see first hand what faith, love and courage were all about.

Before the ceremony Roy was insistent that we practice, so I slowly donned my full academic regalia and waited for instructions. Sheila pressed a button and Pomp and Circumstance played from mini-speakers connected to her phone. Before marching around the small room, Roy said apologetically "I know you've done this a million times before." I listened to him and smiled and followed Sheila who had assumed the role of Commencement Marshal. In my peripheral vision I saw Roy wiping tears from his eyes as he took it all on.

Later when I got up to speak I was able to look into the faces of those who came to share this moment with Roy and Sheila and I saw how proud they were of him, but more importantly I saw how proud he was of himself. Not only was he about to receive his diploma forty-plus years after he should have received it; he was graduating with honors (he had earned a 3.6 grade point average)!

I work on a university campus and take for granted the degrees on my wall and the cap and gown that I have to wear twice a year during commencement. I barely even remember my own graduations-and I did it three times for three different degrees, but Roy's ceremony will stay with me forever as a cherished memory. I was humbled because I've taken my own experiences for granted and had failed to pay attention to how important every achievement was. Roy had accomplished something amazing and I wanted to pay attention this time. I wanted to honor him for never giving up on himself even when others had written him off. I wanted to bear witness to the love that Sheila had that made her put everything else on hold to help him achieve his dream, and  I wanted to acknowledge that something amazing had taken place.

After I spoke I sat down trying hard to fight back the tears. Then Sheila got up, this time as a devoted wife and not the person in charge, and showed the audience the class ring that she was able to design after learning that the high school Roy would have graduated from had closed many years ago and she explained the significance of the color of his cap and gown. A benediction was given and the ceremony was over.

But Roy's life was just beginning. He had achieved the one thing he wanted more than anything else and it was miraculous!

Choose Whether to Wither or to Grow

What would happen if for just one day we were to let the world see how incredible we really are? Would others shrink from our radiance and withdraw into their own chrysalis of insecurity and fear? Or would they lean into our brilliance the way flowers reach for the sun? Would our magnificence radiate for all to see?
It makes me wonder what it is about this human pilgrimage that makes us believe that this heavy suit of flesh must dull our experience? We beat ourselves down until we are merely an empty shell. We are spiritual beings and we are made in the image of the divine. Shouldn't that in itself be cause to celebrate?
I, for one, am tired of playing small. I've lost patience with trying to position myself just so in order not to offend. 
The truth is I'm ready to offend. I want to shake things up and push up against the edges. That is, after all, how the caterpillar becomes a butterfly. It's not my job to make people comfortable and I no longer assume that responsibility. Like the caterpillar, if I stay in this small, safe place I will eventually wither and die. Just as the butterfly was always within the caterpillar, my brilliance is deep within me yearning to come forward and so is yours.
It took a woman much younger than I (who is wise beyond her few years) to remind me that I have two choices: to wither or to grow. I choose to grow because I realize that she and so many others are looking to me to be all that I can be so that they know that it is safe for them to be who they are destined to be. 
As I write this I wonder who in your life is watching you play small? Who is it who knows all that you are capable of becoming yet watches you choose to be less than you really are? I know in my life it's Z and many others.
I have no idea whether or not it is painful for the caterpillar to molt into a butterfly, but I do know that it has been a painful process for me to cast aside other's opinions of me and feel comfortable being who I am without apologies. I also know that an important stage of this transformative process requires the caterpillar to completely dissolve away. All of its old self must disappear before the new self can emerge. 
That is what I think holds so many of us back. We hold onto things that are dead or are in the process of dying when we must release them in order to grow. I have not metamorphosed yet, but I am growing and I am learning to be okay with letting go and letting the process happen. I now understand that I don't have to do anything. I just have to be. And in this being-ness I become... 

I Don't Eat Shit

Why do people keep giving me their shit to eat and then call me ungrateful when I tell them that I don't eat shit?
They serve it up on beautiful plates and expect me not to notice that what they've given me is not what I've asked for? The flowers on the table and the soft music playing in the background do not disguise what's actually being offered. I'm too old to pretend that I don't notice the smell.

You see when I was younger, I was content with make believe. I enjoyed taking mud from the yard and pretending it was a pie. It was fun draping a towel around my shoulders and pretending I was  Wonder Woman. But I'm much too old for that now.

Maybe that's it. Maybe I'm just growing cantankerous as I age because I'm tired of half-baked, mammy-made, broke down, second-hand versions of the truth. I'm just sick of sorry.

More than that, I'm tired of being told that my expectations are too high and that there is something wrong with wanting. It is not that I lack gratitude because I appreciate all that I have, but I need for the charade to stop.
There's no need to promise me the moon if you don't own real estate there.
Please don't share a golden dream with me if when I hold it to the light I see where the color is chipping off.

Just tell me the truth. Tell me what you can do. Nothing more, nothing less. Let me know your limits and your capabilities. Stop pretending like you can fly because when I run along beside you I'm going to expect you to soar. Long ago I learned how to fly and if you were honest with me, I would spread my wings and carry you along, too.

I learned so much from eating dirt and pretending like I was Wonder Woman.
I learned that dirt isn't shit although sometimes it looks the same.
And I learned that it wasn't Wonder Woman's cape that made her a superhero, it was her Lasso of Truth. Don't you remember that anyone held by the Lasso had to tell the absolute truth?

That's what I want.
To wrap you in my Lasso of Truth and hear for once what you can really do.
Not what you would do if "this were that" or if somehow things were different.
I want to sit at the table and if it is shit let's not pretend it's anything but that. Instead of eating it, let's come up with a plan on how to turn it into what we desire and then we can feast upon that.

Following My Own North Star

Like so many women I know where I want to go, but the path that leads there is unfamiliar. As I look at all of my options spread before me like cards on a dealers table, I'm almost afraid to choose one because of the consequences of choosing wrongly. There are just no easy answers, so sometimes I don't bother asking the questions. What's comforting is that I know I am not alone in this dilemma because all too frequently I hear other women express the same concerns.

Although the sky appears dark, I can see my North Star twinkling if I focus and look in the right direction. I know if I gaze upon it long enough the way will become clear to me. The challenge, however, is that in order to follow where my North Star leads, I must leave all that I know behind. 

Although there may be things I don't like about where I am, it is familiar. I know the location, the players, and the game. What will happen when I set out on the new adventure and it leads me to perilous places? Do I have what it takes to wade through murky waters and cross large expanses of barren land? Will I know how to communicate with others who seemingly speak an unknown tongue and will they embrace me although I am a foreigner?

What happens if the world is really flat and I fall off? Will all of the people who warned me that my dreams were too big cluck their teeth and whisper behind my back "that's what happens to women who forget their place."

Right now I can only gaze up at the night sky and imagine the worlds that await me. One day soon I will walk naked into the night toward my shining star. When it’s time to travel, I must listen carefully to the wind for the whispered directions from those who’ve set out on the journey before me. Surely they will tell me what lies ahead. And when I arrive at the place where my North Star leads, I will lay stones to commemorate the lessons I’ve learned along the way and the parts of my self that needed to die. Then I will begin sending word back to the women who are waiting to follow.