Temp post;

Sometimes I don't believe that death actually exists.
Physical death is a myth. It's not real.

This may sound cruel and brutal to those who have lost a loved one;
or to someone who has tried to achieve physical death.

I don't know if it's real because I choose not to accept it,
or because we exist as souls and spirits, not bodies.

Either way, death isn't tangible to me and  I don't accept it as truth.

"Christians who remain neutral and complacent over race matters in contemporary media need to look closer at the life of Jesus. He was NOT supposed to talk to the woman at the well because of her race, but He did. A ministry that does not address the issues of it's members is not a ministry I would like to be a part of. Yes, I am a Christian, but I'm also a black female who understands her position in this world. I refuse to remain silent in order to allow white Christians feel more comfortable. And as far as I'm concerned it's white Christians who speak less about race issues. Speak up for the very thing our God spoke out against! Look at the body of Christ. Your Black brothers and sisters are hurting in their community and you have nothing to say? If a church claims to be diverse and multi-ethnic/cultural, then speak on all issues of all cultures, not the convenient and comfortable issues."

I decided to add my twitter rant after I read the comments on Lecrae's Instagram. I was literally drawn to tears at the things I was reading because of his social advocacy posts regarding the Black community, murder rates, and police brutality. The comments were coming from white (brothers in Christ). Calling Lecrae a racist, claiming to unfollow and even justifying the death of Mike Brown. Someone even had the audacity to tell Lecrae to "keep his mind on Christ and not on worldly things." As if Christ never told us to help the poor and homeless, as if Proverbs 31:8-9 means nothing.

What I've realized is that it's impossible to be a Black Christian. They don't want us to discuss our Blackness. They don't want us to be too Black. Just Black enough. Honestly, it hurts to know that white brothers and sisters in Christ are actually blind and ignorant on these issues. Just as white privilege is real so is white Christian privilege. White Christians, for the most part, are able to speak out on issues, post certain pictures, and do certain things without the ramifications of Black Christians. It's simply the reality that I've grown aware of.

Honestly, it hurts. It hurts that even in a community when we're supposed to bear one another's burdens, members choose whose burdens to bear.

Thank God for artists like Sho Baraka and Propaganda. Lovers of Christ who are Black excellence. God bless them always, all ways.

With you. [II] // 8.10.14

Yesterday I saw the super moon with you as we drove the back roads through rich land.

It was so full, so big, and so bright, like a reflection of our hearts at that very moment.

I would have taken a picture, to put on this here blog, but I dared not let go of your hand.

The last time I saw the sky as beautiful, I was with you.

And it was then that I never wanted to be with anyone but you, while under the beauty of God's creation.

Guest.

It's an early Sunday morning in northern Ohio, a state I've never been before, and I crawl out of the box bed trying not to wake my three girlfriends. Although it's 7 am here, my body is fully aware that it operates on central time zone and tries to remind me that it's truly 6 am. But I needed to get up. I needed to eat breakfast.

After locating the modest continental breakfast, I make a plate of eggs and silver dollar waffles (Who know waffles came in silver dollars??), and a side of warm oatmeal, yogurt, and an almost too ripe banana. I take a few bites to get familiar with my plate and then crack open "Eat, Pray, Love," using my banana as a paperweight to keep the pages down as I scarf my meal.

A lady, whom has been there since I got off the elevator, greeting me with coffee in hand, turned to me and said "What a scholar." I looked up from my book to a bright smile and kind eyes. Thank you, as I offered a smile just as warm. She then walked away to a corner to accompany her husband, leaving me alone with my book at the breakfast bar.

I seem to always do this; more times than not. Granted I don't go to hotels often because I don't travel often, I find a sense of peace and solitude to eat breakfast among strangers who don't know my story and I don't know their names. To get lost in a novel over sub-par breakfasts' while being completely aware of the mysterious presence of others.

I want to always be a guest. I want to always eat breakfast in cities not known, among people who become less than strangers after the first exchange of words.

I want to always be a guest to a city willing to host me. To invite me in with their coffeehouses and friendly travelers in hotel lobbies. To introduce me to their culture and art museums and bad habits.

I want to be anonymous but completely at home wherever I go. I long to be a guest in cities I may or may not see again.

What two year olds have taught me

Today is officially a month since I started childcare, and man haven't I learned a lot.

The World is your Oyster

Or better yet, the world is your playground. If you can't find the fun, then create it wherever you are. For the past few months I've been feeling stuck, as if I'm missing out on all of the fun. What a ridiculous thought. While I'm in my current location and situation, I might as well make the best of it. Wherever I am, at this moment, I have the ability to create my own happiness.

Note to self: [II]

Who is Shelby?

No, really. Who the heck am I?

What am I doing here? What do I love and enjoy? What are my passions? What is my calling? What makes me, me?

How does this even work?? How does one begin to know who they are? And when? How long does it take? And what's to be done until then?

Just exist, I suppose.

Seven Two's.

Seven two's at my feet. More milk. I don't want it. Use your spoon Tommy. Stop playing in your peas. More milk! Don't touch him. Are you done?

Seven boys at my table. It's lunch time. Styrofoam plates and plastic spoons placed around the rectangular kiddie furniture. Only a foot and a half from the floor with lime green chairs.

It was a Thursday. Just one more day. I just have to get through one. more. day I thought as I almost pulled my hair from my scalp. (Every bit of it was almost worth the pain and baldness that would have resulted.)

Twenty-two with seven kids. Twenty-two with seven boys. Twenty-two with seven two year old boys.

I'm hunched over, trying to sit at the tiny table, while cleaning tiny fingers from the meal that was supposed to end up in their bellies, but is actually plastered on their shirts. I wipe a sticky palm as I'm day dreaming about God knows what, but God brought something better. Across the room, among the chaos and confusion, I spot a cardinal. He peeped his head from below the window frame, offering me solace. I accepted and smiled.

I smiled for the first time that day, and nothing could take that smile away. Not even the thought that I had six more tiny hands to wipe.

I'm in an LDR.

Long Distance Relationship.

The relation? My best friend from London... who I've only met once.

We met Saturday, July 26th, 2014. We went to the mall, ate greasy mall food, and went to the typical mall stores. But the greatest part about it, we were able to laugh and talk without any electronic devices. We were able to hug, and touch each others hair (which we were both excited to do), and just learn each other the way friends are supposed to.

Because I Need To

My theory is that sometimes our bodies need things to the point of force. When that something is missing, the body will find a way to either replace it or make it happen involuntarily, without our conscious consent.

Like the way our tongues always manage to wiggle between two teeth, the pink fleshy crater tasting of lead and silver paper clips. No matter how hard we try, muscle memory sets in and our tongues always find it's place abreast with enamel. As if it belonged, needing to be there, number thirty two.

Or the way our eyes draw thick as velvet curtains and demand an exit of thoughts and an entrance of dreams. Paralyzed, closed eyes, no matter how hard we try. Our heads nod and bob, struggling to make it through one more episode, one more video, one more tweet. We wake up with laptops that had fallen asleep not long after our bodies became wrapped up in our sheets. Our eyes know before we do. And we have no choice but to agree.

Nights when I don't know why I'm crying, I credit it to the fact that, perhaps I haven't cried in a while and it's about time. My body is probably ridding the toxic thoughts and poisonous people from my spirit. Or maybe because I yearn for something more that I don't know how to give myself. The way an infant wails because there's nothing else to do to get his or her needs tended to. I guess maybe I cry because I don't have the words to say.

As I write this I can feel my tongue gliding across my teeth filled with anxiety, and my eyes are swelling, filled with tears. 

I don't know why, but I would like to think my body knows what it's doing. 

And I just agree.

"I could use a little break from this cycle, to give myself some space to discover what I look like and talk like when I'm not trying to merge with someone. And also, let's be honest — it might be a generous public service for me to leave intimacy alone for a while. When I scan back on my romantic record, it doesn't look so good. It's been one catastrophe after another. How many more different types of men can I keep trying to love, and continue to fail?"

Elizabeth Gilbert | Eat, Pray, Love

Our Black Men

Eric Garner | Oscar Grant | Sean Bell | Trayvon Martin | Jordan Davis

& the list goes on
                      and on
                            and on.

I mourn for the Black men in this country. I mourn for the Black men of the world whose lives are considered insignificant. They don't see the strength of a Black men. His power. His intelligence. His life as a human being.

They see his skin. As if the eumelanin determines one's worth and value.

The Veil continues to be relevant and active. The lack of clarity to see Blacks as people, as Americans, is active in our schools, our workplaces, and our communities. We are invisible to the world unless they want to make a mockery of the design of our biology. Unless they want to profit off of our minds and our bodies. Unless they want to show themselves as the "White savior" by offering the same hand that enslaved us.

The war on drugs is the war on us. Prisons are built based on our little Black and Brown boys. ^[1]

I mourn for little Black boys whose mothers pray for their safety walking to the bus stop and buying Skittles. I mourn for the little Black girls who will grow up to feel like the least desired cohort and will statistically feel the truth of the numbers. I mourn for the Black women who don't know if their husband's will come home and how they will tell their children.

Black in America is possibly one of the worst things to be. 

Yet being Black is by far the greatest person to be. 

Excuse my bias, but I have every reason to be.

note to self:

Never say, "I do that to everyone." to anyone at any time.

Love me better

Only I know how to love me the way I want to be loved.
There is no one on this Earth I expect to love me the way I can.

But there is someOne who can love me greater than I.

I stopped putting my hope in things.
I stopped putting my joy in situations.
I stopped putting my peace in people.

I know how to love me, but He loves me better.

With you. // 6.10.14

I've never seen a sky so beautiful than when I'm with you.
And I hope to never witness another with anyone but you.