Consciousness Rising

I titled this blog about consciousness rising because we are unconscious. We, as a female people, are unconscious to the subliminal traps being laid out at our feet. We don't simply walk into this trap, we dance our way, happily into the trap and are grateful to be there. Twerk our way into the joy of "love" found in the club. Why? Because Usher says love in the club is good and Beyonce agreed?

Let me tell you something that people have known for generations, that you have probaly heard before. No big epiphany: sex sells. People write what sells, sing what sells, portray what sales. It is a natural human reaction to want to be with someone else, to be part of a couple. To know that some other human being loves us more than any other human. So we join into mating rituals, we go where other humans will be, where we can display our attractiveness and hope that someone's pheromones want to mate with us.

Courtship begins in a dancehall to a song that queries if you want to get "down with the tool in his pants". That is tempting and gets you up, moving around, gyrating and happy. Of course, if that doesn't inspire you, your wannabe suitor can be more direct and simply demand, "go get up in dis ride." At which point you swoon, falling into his arms, desperately in love, ready to bare him a boy child.

He's just being silly when he calls you a ho, which to alleviate confusion, is short for 'whore'. You know, people who have sex for compensation. But, bitch, don't be sensitive. He just playing wityoass. I mean, how can you doubt it? Your relationship began with such respect. In case there is doubt, I'm being sarcastic.

I would caution you not to be surprised when your one night stand doesn't become your husband, but your baby daddy. Of course, he's totally to blame. Can't he see what a good woman you are? Niggas just don't appreciate shit! Think of all the meaningful conversations you've had. No? You shared your dreams and goals, right? Talked about putting God first and yadda yadda yadda? No.

Oh. Well. You had a great time, I'm sure, at the club of your choice. When he sang along with the song, calling you out of your name, that shit was hot! Talk dirty, daddy. Except he was serious. You are his whore. When he sees you, he sees a bitch, not his wife. All he wanted was to make you "say ayy". Brag about you to his friends, then move on to the next female willing to bobble head in his lap.

You were a top notch bitch. Unfortunately, that makes you a bottom of the barrel lady to most men. Lady, to be a lady, the character you portray is vital. I don't know any man who wants to walk into a room where half the men in the room know what his lady is like in bed. Who wants to hear,  "Man, has she done that tongue thing for you yet?"

I'm not saying you can't like a song, just don't live the lyrics. That's like choosing to be a gangster because you see Scarface. That makes no sense, right? So why put yourself out there as a slut because of a hard beat and a tight hook. Music is catchy and wonderful, and I can't imagine my life without my personal soundtrack blaring in my ears. The problem is when I become a "rack city bitch".

All I want is for us as a people, as a female nation to love ourselves. Love yourself. If noone has ever loved you, love yourself. Set standards for yourself and hold yourself accountable to them. I'm not going to tell you to think of a child or a parent, or blah blah blah. Think of yourself and do whatever you do or don't for yourself. Live and respect yourself for you. Whomever else benefits from it, great for them, but do it for you.

Come

Come close.
Touch me like it's your right.
Press your advantage.
Press me.

Come close.
Make me flood and
Conquer my waters like Sinbad.
Come love me.
   
Hurt me as I like it.
Come fuck me.
Come close.
Come now.
   
Come with me.
On me.
In me.

Come close.
We sin bad.
It feels good.
   
Modesty goes out the window
You come in my door.
Your smile good scary.
   
Have me going before skin can touch.
Your laugh mates with me
Your eyes capture me.
Captivated from hi dancing from your tongue to my ears.
   
Wet where once I was dry
From all of the thirsty you-wannabes
Pushing up on my shores.
   
Come closer that we come together.
Crescendo like the wildest weather.Whenever, however
Just come.

(c) Pamela Shropshire 2012

Share

Share...
But with whom?
On my knees I cry out to my Father.
Hope in my bosom keeps me strong.

Share.
Who on Earth could understand?
Who would willingly shoulder this burden of everything with me?
It is not a request that you be my everything,
Rather that I'm your something of import.
   
I would share if I thought you could handle it.
It is not that no one would or could.
Rather that so many times when playing the game of trust,
I've landed flat on my back.

The memory of my ass's pain makes me yet leery.
Hope deferred,
Trust rewarded with betrayal,
Holds me back.

If you knew all there was to know about me, would you still smile?
If the thoughts I think were on display would you still profess your love?
Perfect love casts out fear,
My love for humanity needs more proofing.
   
Perhaps I should force myself to share.
Steel is tempered by fire,
Perhaps my tin relationships could go titanium.
Looking into your eyes, I want to fall, and
I want you to be there to catch me.

I want you to see all of me and
Still catch me.
Catching me, hold me.
Love me.
Befriend me.
Cherish me.
Trust me.

Are you here to push  me to share?
I want to.
With you I want to trust that a blue sky could be green.
That the river of our love could rush up peaks.
With you I can believe the impossible.

I close my eyes and speak.
When they open you're still here.
In my dreams, you don't walk away.

Taking a deep breath, I put reality on trial.

(c) Pamela Shropshire 2012

My Addiction

Your name is obsession.
You taste of hope, with a dash of desperation.
And yours is the only menu I order from.

I spew lust from my mouth like the most vile of substances.
My tongue can taste imposter.
My palate craves the specialty of you called love.

I would run.
That me that fears to trust, would push back from the bounty of your love.
I would abstain, refusing that wonderful shot of you to my veins.
I would go on a you-free diet.

Except for the cravings...
The need that grips me at three in the morning.
The shakes when you are present are nothing to the shivers when you are absent.
I fiend for your side effects.

Yearn for the weight gain of your seed growing in my womb,
The breathless rush of the process to get there.
The giddy feelings whenever our eyes mate.

If that were all, perhaps I could escape.
Its not only what you gift to me;
I need what I give in return.
Need you to need me.

When your hand seeks mine.
When your arms pull me in close, as though even breath is an intolerable space between us.
When your eyes close and a sigh of release shudders out of you,
I know we are home.

Your laugh when I'm silly is my favorite song.
Your body is my playground; you are a joy to my senses.
A blessing to my life.

Ours is the love that could launch a thousand ships.
It is the purity of peace and the insanity of war.

Perhaps it is the perfection of you for me that makes me want to run.
The improbability of our oneness that does battle with logic.
That causes me to question,
To scrutinize under microscopic lenses.

No matter the equation, the magnification,
All I can see is you loving me.
Me in love with you.

You are my addiction and I want no rehab.
If you were an incurable sickness, invading my heart...
If you were a poison, I would gladly drink your Kool aid.

From now until eternity,
I want this love forever.
To infinity and beyond.
In my Buzzlight Year voice.

Smile, love.
This is my surrender.

(c) Pamela Shropshire 2012

Dreams

You are the hope I hope for.
You are the crushing need crashing down on me.
Your absence sends my smile running.

Nights like this I wish...
Days like tomorrow I wish...
Moments like now I yearn.

The memory of never mocks me.
The hope for my maybe being upgraded to a definitely throws my emotions a lifeline.

Just a friendly reminder that I still wait.
I still love you.
I'm ever in love with you.

So.
Yeah.
Hurry up.

I need you.

(c) Pamela Shropshire 2012

My First Time

You penetrated my body and knocked on the door to my soul.

Everything I thought I knew flew away with one thrust of trust.

You were let in, my everything.

What I felt with you was like a revelation.

It was like a prophesy carved in stone.

I didn’t want any barriers between us, just your flesh to my own.

I wanted us as close as we could get,

As close as our love already brought us.

When you mated our bodies, my mind was on forever.

I remembered your hand holding mine as we walked by the shore line.

I thought of your whispered declarations of love when the world came too close.

You made me a woman when I still fantasized like a child.

Still had dreams created in a Hollywood film set or an Atlanta music studio.

Following the eruption of completion came the crush of reality,

Weightier than the fall of your body to mine.

The perspiration on my upper lip now has more to do with regret, with sorrow, than with passion.

Though the first time was less than perfect physically,

What I felt in that moment we could never duplicate.

In all the times since, the climax of our passion has been insufficient to replace the enormity of that moment to my emotional self.

You were my everything.

I let you in.

I not only unlocked the door, I gave you a key.

Sometimes I think I gave you the only key.

I am full of emptiness now with this damned reality.

Devoid, a void.

I avoid thinking too deeply about what was and what is no more.

I avoid the thoughts of regret and self flagellation.

Emotionally constipated by how very much you have shit on my hopes and dreams.

You had me thinking…

I had me thinking about forever, when what we had was until.

Until you got bored.

Until the grass became less green or more so on the other side of the fence.

Until…

I’ve been thinking about forever, but you are no longer in that picture.

I want to be sophisticated and thank you for being my first time.

Thank you for the moment of completion I felt when hymen gave way to hope.

However the conflagration of this infatuation to my self, my psyche, my mind’s heart, doesn’t allow for that level of sophistication.

I’m just trying right now to get past reality.

I’ve been going deep into me, figuring out how to change the locks on my being so that you no longer have the key.

Perhaps I’m strong enough to thank you for the lesson you taught me;

Arousal isn’t love and orgasm doesn’t equal eternity.

Boundaries have been set, fences, bulwarks erected to protect my future for my forever.

My next first time will be real.

With my next, my last, every time will be complete because of the love that will blanket us with its beauty.

Until he arrives, I’ll wait patiently and forgive myself for you.

The hope of him makes me smile again.

(c)Pamela Shropshire 2012

Vent To Reinvent

I wish I knew how to be a better friend. It is said, and I believe it that to have friends you must show yourself friendly. I believe that I am friendly most of the time. The problem with being friendly is being oneself. Who I am is difficult. I can get moody when I’m thinking about something of import. I pull into myself and I don’t let people close enough.

I watch people who are friends and I see the way they are with each other. The ease of dialogue, not watching every word, being relaxed. I have people that I have been friends with for years and I am still afraid of them knowing me. Still afraid of the day they actually see me and say, what am I doing with this person?

There are people of reason and wisdom who I can speak with, but my mind can’t seem to focus coherently on what I would say to them. Besides, this seems like so much narcissistic bullshit, except that I truly want to be a better friend. I want to have the type of relationship where I can go to someone and just cry.

Lately I have needed that. My life has altered and reshaped itself. Personally and professionally I have gone through upheavals. I normally go through them alone, but it feels like there’s this buildup of emotional need and no one to go to.

In the now it all feels like I need, but I don’t believe in feelings. I don’t believe in emoting. I believe in rationalizing, logic, wisdom. I believe in working things through mentally instead of emotionally. Feelings clutter up what is with what could be, might be, want to be.

Yet the feelings are still there. The need for a connection that I don’t have to be there. I love my friends. I love the people in my life I call friend and I will do anything for them. The problem is that I don’t share with them. I’m still working personally on how to receive from my friends. I feel like I am getting better, but I’m still a very large way away from being the kind of friend I want to be.

When my mom died, I needed. I just simply needed and I went to a friend who was just there for me. We didn’t talk about pain or loss. We were just together, silly and together. It was what I needed to get through that day to the next. That day, I received and the world didn’t end, so it’s baby steps being taken.

In the meantime, I have who I have always had. Me and God. For now it has to be good enough.

Love's Saga

Loneliness curls around my mind’s heart like a vice to squeeze,

To punish.

To penalize me for every no that could have been yes.

For every choice that chose not to be an option when I deserve to be a priority.

Someone once told me that I am in love with being in love.

Enamored with the thought of being some man’s wife.

Each word was like the lash of a whip,

Stinging my flesh with truth.

If it is true that a hit dog will holler,

Then this bitch be wailing.

Screaming at the injustice of life and circumstance.

Railing in my mind’s heart against the love that I love who I have yet to meet.

Perhaps I am in love with being in love.

Enamored with being called wife and mother.

Perhaps I am waiting to be rescued even as I am rescuer.

Penalized more for a belief than for a choosing.

The belief that if I can have the desire’s of my heart,

And this is a desire that thrums and radiates throughout my being,

A compulsion like dwarves drawn to rings,

Then surely it must come to pass.

I mean it would be the cruelest of jokes for me to be who and what I am,

To desire who and what I desire.

To love who I love.

Cherish a belief and it never manifest.

I combat sinister loneliness with the truth that it is a lie.

That I am never alone, even when I am devoid of human touch.

Combat with the knowledge that if Love loved Adam enough to fit him with a mate,

Then surely his flawed ancestor is worthy of the same.

When tears inexplicably fill my throat, flood my eyes,

Build bridges of despair in my soul,

I am comforted.

Consoled by the knowledge that patience should have her perfect work.

That in the dispensation of the fullness of time I will be perfect for what God has for me,

Entire, complete and having no emptiness,

Wanting nothing.

I may need.

Need to be needed by him.

Need to smell him on my pillow.

I may need to see him across the table from me.

Need to hold his hand in mine.

Need him to be the bulwark that holds life at bay,

Even as I am his port in the storm.

But I want nothing.

My every wish is addressed, my desire granted.

This moment in time while I wait for him to become who he needs to be to be the one I need…

This space of life wherein I become who I need to be to become who he needs me to be,

Is but a season.

Soon all will align for his eyes to meet mine.

For us to both recognize that what we two have separately, is not nearly as wonderful,

As what we two could have together.

Love.
Pure, blissful, blessed, God anointed, love.

For that I’ll wait.

For the promise of him I’ll fight the vice wanting to crush  my mind’s heart and flood my throat with tears.

For that…

For him.

For the promise of his love nothing is too much.

No wait interminable, no pain too deep.

For this promise launched ships and razed castles.

This promised started wars and inspired peace.

For this cause man has sacrificed for eons of time.

For this cause woman has suffered penalty of death, at just the whisper of a possibility that love given would be love returned.

How then can I do less than to wait?

How then can I dishonor the legacy of love with the fallacy of lust?

I will wait for him, my promise.

For him will I wait.

When he comes, with purity of heart, joy of spirit,

We will celebrate.

With generosity of spirit, I will only make him suffer a little for my wait,

As the reality of his present presence obliterates past’s pain.

Making it as though it never were,

As sun pouring into a room that has been too long in the dark.

(c)Pamela Shropshire 2012

Angels Unaware

Tender hearted is what I’ve been called on more than one occasion.

Confusion mixed with gladness confounded me.

My heart’s mind sought to understand what that meant for the collective.

Once upon a time, Love loved me.

It mattered not how hard I ran, or how fast,

Love’s love was with me, embracing me,

Making me open my eyes and recognize that I am not alone.

Certainly not then.

Not now and not ever.

There was no blinding light shining down on me.

Nor was there any talking livestock or burning shrubbery.

What was sent were angelic helpers, unwittingly rendering a service of love.

What, then, is there to say about our brethren;

Those angels who in spite of my absolute misery loved me?

What is there to say about their purpose?

It is for us first to know, it is not their purpose, but our purpose.

It is one thing to say we are here to serve, quite another to recognize what that service is.

What moves and motivates a thought into action.

The various sets of circumstance that unite us.

Concern like the force of magnetism drawing us, one to another.

Charity cries out to us when we happen upon one another outside of the confines of the brick and mortar where we meet to worship.

The rush from the pit of our stomach that rises to course throughout our body,

That radiates in uncontainable waves of joy at just the sight of a fellow beloved.

In that moment, you realize that nothing else in this natural life matters;

All will be well because in a moment of absolute clarity, we know we are not alone.

We, ambassadors in a strange land; all warriors,

Will shore each other up.

We were sent for service.

Handpicked  for a duty revealed only to the chosen few, to be shared with the many.

Our purpose, we angels, is to be a beacon of light.

It is to show that in hopelessness, there is hope.

In futility, there is still another chance to be had.

And another, and yet another, in Christ who loved us.

Yet still not fully cognizant of what and who we are,

We fall short.

With so much hope and potential, the mark stays beyond our grasp.

We must realize, this fallibility is not so to defeat us, but to show humility.

To illustrate that we, none of us, are perfect and able to stand without God’s grace.

We are angels here to serve.

Not only each other, but those who are lonely of the light that shines in each of us.

To say that we must have is unity, is like saying we must breath.

It is both simple and extremely complex.

Our unity does not simply mean we love, but more that we must love to live.

For us, unity means that our actions must show forth the Love that first loved us.

Dissention within the community of our beloved is as devastating as ones immunity turning on them.

We are all here to support and uplift one another.

The moment we cease to do that;

The instant we forget the grace that opened our eyes and our hearts…

The moment our glory is tarnished and marred by the petty embellishments of mortal coil;

In the moment that we become less than the more we were called to be, something in us ceases to be.

It is not that grace forsakes us, for it never will.

It is more that when our eyes become full of the natural,

We can no longer behold the beauty of our hope.

We, angels unaware, must first wake up and become aware of all that we have.

We must come alive to the glory given,

The Love that first loved us all.

We, angels, saints of the living God, aware of the true mark of our calling,

Must then grow up.

Graduate from an elementary mindset to move on to what’s next.

Operation.

The time is now to operate in the duty, the calling for which we were all purposed.

The time is now for saints aware to embrace our adoption,

To embody love, faith and a giving spirit and serve.

The time, beloved, is now.

(c) Pamela Shropshire 2012

Madness

Apathetic empathy that should motivate and inspire mocks me.
No resolutions or solutions, just the proverbial binky to suckle.
Pacifying behaviors, disguising agendas, hidden like faces on Halloween.

Escape shrouded in futility, turning sunlight into darkest day.
Where is the hope that is implied via electronic boxes,
Connected to oblivious assholes, secretly secreting away the living of the masses?

Words dance like manic clowns in your head,
None of which can be spoken,
For tears wait like a spigot to be turned, filling your glass with angst ridden excuses disguised as reasons with no hope of resolution.

We cry in our head, for the frustration is heavy.
We wrack our brain for the problem wants solving.
A wise man once said, the solution to every problem is in the problem itself.

New questions beg like street urchins in a Middle Eastern marketplace.
What is the problem?
Truly, what is the problem?
What do we know?

Seats beg for bodies when passion is what's missing,
Transferred so sporadically no one truly gets their fill.
Heads are clouded with drugs that turn those manic clowns into a psychedelic nightmare that never ends,
Creating frenemies in the minds of the users.
Fear is a side dish, purchased with every meal; breakfast, lunch and dinner.

These are problems; where is the solution?

The answer is in the riddle and looking beyond the obvious is madness.
Madness like trying to solve an equation when you don't know the rules of the problem.
This is but the rule of life.
I want you to know.

With bated breath you wait because in your heart you're a fixer.
When life pushes you to give up, you say, "But I haven't tried this yet."
The answer is simple yet complex.

You can't save the world.

There. Done. Finis. End Game.
You can not save the world, and to believe otherwise is prideful madness.

Why?!
I hear your voice crying out before the sentence is closed.
I see the mutinous set of your jaw, the whirring of cogs in your brain.
You have one last plan, and how dare I say its over?

Dearly beloved friend,
You can not save the world simply because not everyone wants to be saved.
In my head Project Pat sings, Don't save them, they don't wanna be saved,
Even as your arm extends on one last rescue mission.

Rebellion glints like evil gold waiting to be mined in the brown of your eyes.
Your chest rises and falls with the beat of your heart.
Still reaching out, you cry,
I can save them all!

But alas no.
You aren't a super hero and Disney Pixar didn't write this life.
The will to rebel will flow like blood running from a million cuts, as the masses you try to save
Turn on you like rabid beasts.

The desire for "my way" mentalities will be the storm blowing away your plans,
Scattering them, forcing you back to the drawing board.
Time and frustrating time again.

Until finally you wake up and recognize that you can't plan in a tornado.
At some point you must seek shelter or the wind will blow you away.

While madness and mayhem flows around you, get to the eye of the storm.
Recognize that some things will be lost,
But that which is meant to remain, will stand.

Those people, places or things that are meant to see the light of tomorrow's day,
That which you can truly rely on and trust,
Will be saved to see you through the next storm.

All you have to do is take that one step.
Take it; I believe in you.

Hello. My name is Pam and I'm a fixer.
...
But I can't save the world.
Thank you.

Now, walk into your freedom.

(c) Pamela Shropshire 2012

Things That Piss Me Off #AndShiz #561

I don’t believe that I talk differently at any given point than normal, for the most part... Until I do. What’s wrong with differentiating the way I talk when I’m chilled out from when I’m doing my professional thing? I am told I sound like a white girl, constantly. This begs the question: What does a white girl sound like in comparison to any other female?

To clarify, I'm not talking accents I'm talking grammar. At some point enunciation and proper grammar became synonymous with one race and all other races became pretenders. I don’t believe I’m pretending when I enunciate and speak in a formal manner in my work setting. Truthfully, when I’m relaxing with friends, I relax my speech because I can. When I’m speaking with someone I should be more proper with, for example a client, I am. It’s no different than the difference between wearing business attire to a meeting and shorts to the beach; you dress for the occasion.

Likewise you speak for the occasion. That’s not fake, its wisdom. So why do people of all races believe otherwise? I'll answer that question with a question: Did you know that there are different versions of English for different races? There is black English which can refer to Black Creole for blacks of Caribbean or British descent or English for African Americans. An example of black english, is "case quarter".

I know what is meant when someone asks if I have a "case quarter", but in a recent poll I learned that quite a few of my caucasian friends did not. The ones who did said they knew because of their "diverse circle of friends". The term is derived from the use of "case dollar" which was used in the old days when dollars were coins that could be broken into bits. Like so many things that can be true of African Americans, including our diet, a portion of our vocabulary is derived from our times in slavery.

Who did African slaves interact with most? Their overseer and other low level employees. People of little or no education. Even in times of slavery and civil movement, well spoken African Americans were told they sound "white". Why can't a well spoken minority simply sound like someone with a full and diverse vocabulary?

There are studies for most non-native English speaking nationalities, which sparks an interesting thought; mostly because I'm argumentative. Who says we should be speaking the Queen's English? Technically the native language of these America's has changed with the power shift over time. We speak the language of the power structure. My point is, for this great melting pot where everyone speaks there own variation from a Brooklyn butcher to a Maine fisherman to, yes, the homeboy, who is to say what's right or wrong?

The maze further continues as more and more people adopt African American vernacular as their "relax" language. Ya heard me? I mean, do you understand me? It is the cool thing to speak like your favorite hip hop star, especially because music is everywhere. Life moves to the sound of whatever is blaring through your Beats spiked in from your iPod. Thanks to crossover artists, there is no genre that can be owned by any one race; it's all up for grabs.

Ijs, who says what is correct when it's all an adaptation? The English language is ever evolving, generation to generation. We lol more than we laugh out loud. Every other sentence is hash-tagged for #importance. Our life and our language is a trending topic.

My point is simply that speech is not locked to race. Everyone speaks their English. Some English is more acceptable in different situations, but none of it is "wrong". Trill? Trill.

Favor

I've been learning a lot about favor in the last couple of years. Favor is defined as an attitude of approval or liking. That definition is so tame for the outpouring of goodness that flows into you when you are favored. The amazing feeling you get when your know you've done absolutely nothing to gain the love and approval of someone. The act of favor is when you receive of someone their approval and support when you don't deserve it.

You should think about that; the verb of favor directed at you. The noun of favor, meaning that someone is looking at you with the identifier that you are favored. Favor is not something to take lightly or to be dismissed. True favor is a gift. Favor is not a passive emotion or something to be lightly said, "I favor..." Favor takes action on the part of the person bestowing it, and respect and honor on the part of the favored.

When you favor something or someone, you go an extra step for your favored. You move over for the favored because when you look at that person or thing, they hold a special meaning to you. There is something about that person or thing that even when you don't want to, even when you may feel betrayed, something inside of you pushes you towards forgiveness. Pushes you to show mercy and long suffering to the recipient of your favor.

When you are favored, you are not only honored to be the recipient of extraordinary liking, approval and support. When you receive favor, you also receive responsibility. A responsibility not to take your favor for granted. You are now responsible to recognize the favor you have received and treat it with prize and reverence. It is important to think on the favor. Not to think on why you're favored; favor is a gift, not something earned. Think how to best honor your gift. What can you do to to show respect to the bestower of favor.

This process starts by looking dep into "receive". To receive is to take delivery of. When favor is offered, you can receive or you can dismiss the gift given. To receive favor, you own the favor and all that comes with it. In order to receive, you must first "recognize". To recognize is to identify from knowledge of appearance or character. You must first identify favor by knowing the appearance and character of favor.

What is the appearance of favor? Look into instances in your life. The moment in life when something shouldn't have gone your way, but suddenly there was intervention. An intervention you didn't deserve or earn, but that was gifted to you. That is what favor looks like. Favor looks like a miracle. Favor is the Red Sea parting. Favor is the cop who was set on writing you a ticket and gave you a warning. Favor is all of those moments when you reached your edge, and intervention arrived on your behalf.

What is the character of favor? What is the distinctive quality of favor? What makes it special? The characters of favor are mercifulness. Favor shows mercy, not rewarding you what you deserve, but what you need. Favor is longsuffering, because you may not get the hint at first and may require more and more mercy. Favor is love, giving compassion and charity in the face of foolish humanity. Favor is forgiveness, because sometimes you do that which you would not and don't do what you would. Favor recognizes your flesh is weak and mercifully, forgives you, with long suffering, over and over again.

That's only a small portion of the characteristics of favor. Favor is ever evolving and ever growing. When you are able to recognize the favor directed at you, more character will display itself. Soon you'll wnat to be the benefactor of favor; you'll look for opportunities to show favor. When you taste the wonderfulness of favor, you'll crave it. When you are able to receognize favor, you'll walk in a fog of favor.

The other thing to know about favor is that your benefactor may use others to favor you. Whether they know it or not, people bestow acts of favor on you everyday. This is like second hand favor. The Champ, the Absolute King of Favor is none other than the King of Kings, the Great I Am. Our Heavenly Father. He is also the best at using people to favor you; when He does it, its like double favor and wonderful.

The danger of favor... Losing it. If you fail to recognize the gift of favor, you fail to honor and respect it, you are in danger of losing it. When I say not showing respect to favor, it is to feel  that you are entitled to the gifts given to you. When you show a lack of respect to the bestower of favor. All things in life require appreciation to survive. If favor is taken for granted it will eventually leave you.

I hope after reading this, you'll look for favor. Not only look to receive, but look for opportunities to show favor. There may be a person you favor, no matter what. Don't fight it. Exercising the fundamentals of favor, will make you a stronger, better, human being.

***Disclaimer*** Don't fight the desire to favor until or unless showing this person favor becomes detrimental to your health, because they are unable to recognize or appreciate you or your gift of favor.

Think Like A Man- Review

I recently had the surprising, pleasure of viewing the movie, Think Like A Man. I say surprising because from the time I received a text asking me to join a friend at the theatre, until the movie began, I was skeptical about enjoying this film. The layout of the movie, with Steve Harvey interjecting excerpts from his book added to the entertainment value of the movie. Without being preachy, this script combined comedy with reality to provide insight into the mind of a man, as well as the confusion of woman when it come to man.

The movie showcased different types of women and men, exploring the reality of today's relationship dynamic. Truly men have more power today than they ever have before. Steve Harvey and the cast put ideas that force both men and women to think outside of the relationship box and examine some of their non-negotiables. Sometimes they can be unrealistic and hurtful to both parties.

Of course, the film offered a happily ever after, fairy tale ending for the characters. I mean, who wants to leave a movie depressed; we go to the movies to escape our reality. Real world love has enough crushing disappointment as is. This movie showed hope to figure out the tangled web of romantic love, against the backdrop of awesome music.

The movie inspired me to work on a blog series for men about women. The fact remains, men and women often operate at cross purposes in a relationship; more often than not it is due to a power struggle. Of course women know that there are women who operate by the so-called "man playbook". In such a case, well, there's really little hope for success until someone decides to take low.

I digress. I highly recommend this movie, and if you like soulful, R&Bish music, the soundtrack isn't anything to sleep on, either. If you want to see a fun, insightful comedy... If you're looking for the perfect date movie, Think Like A Man is it.

Screaming

I'm yelling.
Screaming.
Hollering.

Crying out hoping to be heard.
But I won't be.
No one is where I am.

Like insidious, I'm trapped inside
With all of these thoughts, fears, uncertainties
Bleeding, seething wounds
Breeding new ways to be hurt.

My dreams are nightmares of dead hope revealed.
Light shining, coating my consciousness, does battle with effort.
The will to move, to do, to live on.

Do I scream, outing my heart into the effort of expelling every dark specter lurking in mt subconscious?
So that when I reach you see.
When I speak you hear.
When I cry your arms rescue me.

Like some scary movie insecurity flows out.
Reaching back, it grabs hold.
I'm your security blanket, it wails.
You need....

No, I don't need you.

Angrily, claws dig in.
No one will ever be there for you.
No one truly likes you, loves you.
Without me, you're alone.
Live with me or die alone.

In the face of my ego's ire, my legs want to buckle,
Tempting me to fall back into the pit of quiet noise.
A place of silent rage, it calls to me.

Seconds before my knees touch the earth...
Moments before surrender comes,
I square my shoulders, lock my knees and rise.
Standing I see that other me that does what I would not.
I recognize that I which feels what I refuse.

Seeing, I reckon that this wrecked psyche is not the I that I am.
Turning from it, ignoring my whispers,
I run from that fatal me to the I am who loves herself.
The I am who is eager for what's next;
Who knows that fire tempers steel.

Soldiers don't run from the enemy;
Warriors cry out for more.

Being cognizant of my deployment, I eagerly take a stand for now, tomorrow.
I release yesterday; allowing it to remain dead.
Dead success, dead sorrow can't touch me.
I'm all about what's next.

In the face of adversity, to life's Commander in Chief, I reply
Sir, yes, sir.

(c) Pamela Shropshire 2012

The Greatest Promise

The urgent desire to push and you’re ready.

There’s no formal training; it’s all on the job.

You’re ready, eager.

Anticipation is a drug coursing through your veins;

You’re high.

People surround you, love and well wishes rain down on you.

Your child is blessed.

You’re ready.

No one hands you an official training manual as you leave the hospital.

The one that says your kid may be such a polar opposite to you that it’ll be scary.

They don’t tell you how to handle the shy child that would rather read than shop.

The little genius content in their own world.

The wild bohemian running through your house with enough energy to light a small country.

No one showed you how to deal with potential hurt and personality clashes.

When your joy looks at you with disdain and your heart breaks.

No one told your baby, your promise, that you had no training.

No one explained that you were doing your best with the greatest love, the best joy in your life.

No one told your promise to be patient; you’re not perfect.

None of that matters now; it’s not precocious yet.

You are god and there is no talking back.

Your baby hasn’t slammed a door, rolled an eye, made you cry.

Yes, you’re ready; still high on the anticipation of this promise.

Then you wake up one morning and your baby knows everything.

They’ve eaten the forbidden fruit of life and are now wiser than you could hope to be.

Heads bump, moods shift, peace is rocked; love stands.

You are no longer ready.

As a mother, you weren’t ready for this.

You always said, not mine.

Yet today, it is yours.

Because there is no manual,  you don’t know is that even when no longer answer on the first call.

Even though their bedroom door stays shut and the music is loud,

When their friend knows the important thing before you,

In the heart of your baby is a flame called mom.

Mother.

Mama.

Mommy.

That flame is protected and tended as carefully, as faithfully, as you tended your newborn babe.

Fuel is added when they receive a smile, when you brush a kiss across their forehead.

When you crack the bedroom door just to make sure they’re ok,

Even though they think they’re grown, behind the disgruntled mumble, their heart’s flame flares.

When you have occasion to say no,

When harsh words are exchanged, cold shoulders presented,

Your promise, covers the flame so that the winds of discord don’t touch it.

As you remember the day you brought them home,

Reminisce at their sweet smell and the way they snuggled up to you,

Your child remembers, also.

I remember the kisses when I fell,

The shelter when I was cold or frightened.

I remember that even when it seemed the answer was no more than it was yes,

Your yes stood for something.

I remember the security of your love.

Remember that even as I slammed the door and swore I hated you,

My heart cried and called me a liar,

Reminding me of the laughter and joy I only found with mama.

When I grow older, there is still a part of my heart that cries out in times of trouble.

The part where the flame is still protected that screams,

Mommy!

Our hearts memory recalls that in the deepest times of distress only you, mama, could offer comfort.

Now, as you sleep,

A part of my heart still cries out,

Still yearns.

My heart wants your comfort through this loss.

My brain screams as it scrambles to deal,

Only mama could get me through this, the toughest of moments.

 I need you back to get me through this.

I know you can’t, and that’s ok.

I go to my hearts flame and am warmed.

Standing by that fire, I know I’ll make it still.

Knowing I would need more than you,  you  placed me in the presence of a great opportunity.

Crying, kicking and screaming.

Pinching, popping, glaring and smiling, you put me in the presence of a greater family.

Gave me the knowledge of a greater Father than even my natural father.

It is this Father and this family that offers me comfort and strength as you leave me.

They surround me with reassurance and love; joy.

It is this, the greatest gift a parent can offer their promise that I  lean on now that I am unable to lean on you.

This is your promise, your legacy.

You, beloved, didn’t know it all.

You weren’t perfect.

There were times we didn’t agree.

You loved me.

You loved God.

You gave your girls a foundation built on the word of God.

I loved you.

I love you still.

(c) Pamela Shropshire 2012

Majestic

We are majestic from the beginning.

We are not the history we were given, but the history that is real.

A history of warriors and kings.

It is only since Maafa that we have been less, that we have been second class.

We are not second class.

We are not less than any other people, nor are we brute beasts,

Good only to be trained to bow and scrape; fetch and carry.

A concept of focus in our history.

We remember Maafa, the kidnapping, enslavement and subsequent abuse of our American and European forefathers.

I tell you that we are more than what Maafa let us be.

We are more than what American history has allowed us to be.

We are strength.

We are wisdom and intelligence.

We are beauty.

We are invincible; it is only fear that can stop us.

It is our very history that cripples us.

The assertion that our race is our hindrance, rather than our advantage.

To be black is to be brilliant and strong.

To be black is to be compassionate and merciful.

It is also to be ruthless and cunning.

It is, in effect, to be human,

A humanity placed in doubt by years of oppression.

It is a crime that this noblest of people should be subjugated and stripped of identity.

I don’t want the identity that would be given to me by former slave owners.

I don’t claim the identity bequeathed unto me by the very people who enslaved my forefathers.

I am not the heir of slavery, but of greatness.

I am the daughter of Askia, a great King who ruled and thrived.

A man of vision and conquest who did not take no for an answer.

History tells me I am the descendant of John, a slave born to a slave on plantation in the South.

This history would tell me that he was industrious and worked hard, earning a place of trust with his master.

This history would encourage me to find a place of trust with my economic master.

To work hard, bow and scrape until I am a trusted counsel to my lord.

I do not concede to this history.

Perhaps that was John’s fate, after his father was stolen as Jeer.

I look beyond John, I look to the center rings of the mighty Jackalberry that is my history.

I look to the day of planting of my lineage and I find greatness.

I look to the rings yet forming and I see promise.

I look to my people and I find hope that conquers despair.

I see a future that shines like the midday sun on an African horizon.

From panther to President.

Disenfranchised battlefield beasts to Commander in Chief.

I see more than what is there, I see what could be.

I see what should be there.

There is respect that has been earned, wages as yet unpaid.

Dynasty’s not restored.

I urge that we take lessons from Martin and Malcolm, but build anew.

Today is not as tomorrow nor as yesterday.

There were men greater still in our history.

Look beyond this continent to the savannah and take charge.

Not to forget Maafa of our past, but to view it as a small part, not the central theme.

Allow hate to be the wind beneath our wings, offering opportunity to be bigger and soar higher,

Not the excuse to be less than.

Allow it to be the motivating factor, to remind the world that we are not slaves still.

We are Kings and Queens.

Our children Prince and Princess.

We are what we were before the slave ships were ever built.

We are as the center ring of our historical tree.

Not a Georgia Oak, but a tree planted and began thousands of miles away.

A tree that thrives in the harshest of circumstance.

A tree that offers refuge and hope.

Sustenance and survival.

We are more.

I can’t say that enough.

We are more than American history.

We are more than a twelfth of a year.

We are more than our eyes can behold.

We are so much more than now,

Greater even than tomorrow.

We are majestic.

(C) Pamela Shropshire 2012