“Meditate and learn to be alone without being lonely…learn to be quiet enough to hear the sound of the genuine within yourself so that you can hear it in other people…A few minutes every hour, a half hour every day, a day a month, a week a year-in dedicated silence-is a goal to pursue.”

Marian Wright Edelman

Years ago, I was having a conversation with and during it, she mentioned her commitment to self-care rituals in spite of a busy schedule. Listening to her share how she gave herself permission to meditate, stretch, etc even while traveling gave me another layer of language to the life that I am trying to cultivate. Self-care, at least for me, is an extension of what I believe that I/we are worth. And. The truth is I’ve been busy for most of my life. Currently, I am in a doctoral program full-time and working full-time. Also trying to be a good friend. Also trying to be a good family member. Also trying to recuperate from anti-Blackness. Also trying to grieve my dead loved ones. Also trying to take some kind of breath when I read the news headlines coming out of our…(redacted)…country. Society’s rhythms are not aligned with my commitment to slow-paced living.

And no matter how busy I become, I’m still trying to be intentional about being fully present in the life that I am living. Still trying to be loving. Still trying to nurture my spirit, soul, and body. After a busy year that has left my body a bit beat up and my soul aching for rest…I’m renewing my commitment to renewal. I need to make some small changes for my own well-being. After an internal audit (I can say more about that in an another post if you desire) I’ve noticed that my inner voice has become compromised. Somehow, over the course of the year I’ve become self-deprecating. I think of myself more harshly now than I did a year ago. I’m softer with others than I am with myself. I notice that somehow my schedule has gotten so off base that I spend most of my evenings and weekends trying to recover from how much I push my body during my waking day.

I share these things vulnerably not for empathy, although I love that trait, but rather to hopefully serve as a conversation-starter with you. Somehow my inner life has started to reflect my chaotic outer life…and I want that to change. I don’t think I’m completely burned out. I AM overextended. I know this because yesterday on a long walk I looked up through the trees to see the sun peeking through. And as I took in the beauty, breathing deeply, my body began to shudder and tears started to flow. I muttered the words “everybody deserves renewal.” The chance to course correct. The chance to enjoy a good meal with someone loving. The opportunity to enjoy a sleeve of cookies. (Don’t ask…this is my Substack. Ha) Life. I knew my body was telling me that I haven’t made enough time to spend in nature, playing my piano, or reading a good book (not related to research). And so. I’m going to reset this summer, finding rhythms that make me feel like my best self.

1. I’m going to schedule small, intentional minutes for meditation and prayer.

2. I’m going to call a friend just to hear their voice.

3. I’m going to read more fiction.

4. I’m going to play piano once a week.

5. I’m going to get more sleep.

I hope you give yourself a chance for renewal this week.

*If you have stayed until the end of this post, I want to share with you that I passed my dissertation proposal defense. I am now ABD status for those who know what that is. I’m so proud of myself and the immense effort it has taken to get this far. Wow.

*Thank you for reading my Substack. I’m honored that you’re here. If my work blesses you:

1. Share it.

2. Become a paid subscriber

3. Buy Me a coffee.

4. Contribute to my doctoral research/reading collection

Let me start out this premium subscriber post by say thank you to all of you for how you’ve journeyed with me recently and with some of you…for years. It has meant the world to me to divest from content related writing and just write from the heart. I don’t feel the pressure to perform for you all and that is so freeing.

…

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I speak to God in public.

He keeps my rhymes in couplets.

-Chance the Rapper

I don’t tend to talk explicitly about my thoughts on God. I typically resist so much of the discourse that surrounds theological and spiritual circles because it tends to be ego-driven. I find that theology, instead of it being a joyous exploration of musings, theology turns into a Dominance-Story. I’m not afraid to talk about God. I am afraid to join in the chorus of hurtful theologies of dominance that have brutalized people’s hearts and minds. My thoughts on God are personal and reflected in community. And so. I decided, when I became a writer and scholar that faced the public, I would talk to God in public. Speaking ABOUT God in public. Rather than telling people how to believe, who to believe, and what to believe…I have journeyed to create/write in a way that speaks out loud areas of pain, joy, trauma, grief, love, and curiosity. Each post doesn’t have to explicitly say God in order for me to meaningfully talk to and about God. I sit down to write every day in a whirlwind of thought. There is a war in Iran. We are terrorizing immigrants. Billionaires laugh as the economy reels. Racism is still at a high. When I write, publicly or privately I sit down and I exhale with God. Sometimes that exhale is like what happens after you received the sweetest gift. Sometimes that exhale is the one that happens after you’ve spent hours crying alone. I exhale with God and write.

And in my mind, when I speak my inner truths, and the beauty that I see in the world (along with all the pain) I know that I am speaking to and about God. And. I need to state that this isn’t always a positive thing! I have been journaling since 2004 almost every single day, and believe me, the amount of times I’m writing about my rage towards God will be one for the history books. I endeavor to write openly about what I see when I look out my window. I’ve realized the world needs more of this. Less people trying to sway belief systems, but more expounding on what is out there. And perhaps in that truth-telling turned reflection, people will be able to analyze the world we are building.

I write as an exploration of God.

and myself.

and ourselves.

and our roles with each other.

And I write for all of those who don’t believe as I believe about God. (Except for the hateful bigots. I’m not writing to ya’ll dusty a…wifi signal fades) I’m hoping that even when folks don’t believe in God at all, that they find some hidden beauty and societal critique that will be valuable. I hope that you might appreciate the language that I utilize to speak about my relationship with the God I’ve come to know.

I write for thousands of people weekly on a few platforms. This isn’t a flex. Yikes/Phew. Being perceived at such a heart level by people is a vulnerable thing. And my biggest hope is that people can hear the echoes of a conversation that is playing out in my heart and mind. That, even if my writing style is clunky, they will see what genuine curiosity looks like.

Pray for me if you think of me. This Tuesday I will defend my dissertation proposal. If I successfully pass…I will be ABD. (For those who know what that is.)

*Thank you for reading my Substack. I’m honored that you’re here. If my work blesses you:

1. Share it.

2. Become a paid subscriber

3. Buy Me a coffee.

4. Contribute to my doctoral research/reading collection

“Remember to imagine and craft the worlds you cannot live without, just as you dismantle the ones you cannot live within.”

― Ruha Benjamin

Throughout the years of writing on Substack, I have written about the ways that fantasy and the power of fiction have shaped me into the man that I am today. My imagination allowed me to survive a youth that keeps me up at night…as I remember former days of rats scurrying around and over me. Roaches filling spaces they were never meant to occupy. A world beyond saved me and kept me relatively sane. Star Wars helped me dream of brighter days. Star Trek led me to believe that there were universes beyond what I could currently perceive. Books held me when loving hands could not, would not. I learned how to survive as a Black boy in an anti-Black world. And it is this same imagination that I use now to survive these days. These anti-intellectual, anti-Black, anti-diverse thought days. The valley of the shadow of death.

Lukewarm take: I believe that our individual and collective imagination is powerful.

What I mean is not some ethereal, escapism that allows folks to giggle while the world burns and dies. What I mean is not some sort of projection that allows us to party in the Capitol while the poors suffer throughout the districts.1 Imagination, as I mean it today, refers to that tool that my ancestors used to sing their way through the worst fires of hell and come out on the other side. The imagination I refer to can be found in the hymns of the enslaved, in the rituals that were enacted to tie families together all the while knowing that power was exerted upon them for capitalistic greed. Demonic. How could they even breathe through each day? When I read the songs of my people I find a reservoir of imagination that brings tears to my eyes. I’m in awe of that indescribable ember of hope that gave way to our liberation from bondage. I come from a people who turned dreams into reality. How?

“Whether we turn to children playing in the sand or tech billionaires offering us solutions while they build underground bunkers to survive the climate emergency, it matters whose imaginations get to materialize as our shared future.”

― Ruha Benjamin,

When I write poetry I tend to sneak some words/lines in there that presuppose that bigotry and capitalism are vile, distant memories. Things of the past that true, civilized people, have put behind them as they live in deep, nurturing communities. I think this pull towards futurism is my souls way of saying “it doesn’t have to look like this, doesn’t have to be this way” imagination grounds me in the reality that If we’ve made a thing we can unmake it. The unmaking, to be clear, is often violent, painful, and necessarily uncomfortable. This is due to the very human tendency towards ego. (Look at the anti racism movement Chile. All that crying and shaking and throwing up as folks tried to explain the term white privilege to folks insistent upon acting obtuse. Deep negro sigh)

The Liminality Journal

Day 11: Antidote

You’re the lucky ones today, because we have another guest post from someone I’ve admired on social media for years now: Robert Monson…

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21 days ago · 57 likes · 35 comments · Kaitlin Curtice

How does imagination change relationships?

Baby I’m glad you askedddddddd! Relationships built upon liberated imaginations invites curiosity and wonder into the ethos of how two people treat one another. It asks regularly 1. who are you now and 2. who are you becoming? (Here is a related conversation on this topic that I had with a good friend Sam.) I work, daily to protect and cultivate my imagination because I believe that it is one of my greatest superpowers. It is that force that allows me to remain loving in a world that demands that cruelty is the way to get ahead. When I apply imagination to the relationships closest to me, I am free to love those people fully, without ego or jealousy. Indifference is impossible when my imagination is active. And so. I work on it every day. I read poetry. I listen to music. I take slow walks outside. I text folks I love early in the morning or late in the evening. (well not exactly late, I’m lying…I go to bed early. But you get the drift.) Imagination is a gift to a self-possessed world.

*Thank you for reading my Substack. I’m honored that you’re here. If my work blesses you:

1. Share it.

2. Become a paid subscriber

3. Buy Me a coffee.

4. Contribute to my doctoral research/reading collection

Scrolling through news headlines and:

A man from Washington went to Hawaii and proceeded to terrorize local wildlife.

Or. A man threw a rock at a monk seal.

Whatever way you want to capture this moment in time, at the very least…it’s disgusting. I sighed audibly as I read through the reporting of this incident in which a man, seemingly for fun, throws a rock at a seal. The sheer arrogance of this man is nauseating to me. Hubris. Yuck. With all of the horrific headlines that course through the national media, I wondered to myself why this particular incident caused me grief. It’s not surprising. Humanity loves to terrorize. It loves to dominate. whispers especially male humanity. I wonder, foolishly, why someone would travel all the way to Hawaii and disturb animals in their natural element.1 What is it about beauty that beckons so many to take, to obtain…to dominate? The signposts of our dominance are written all over the world in subtle and obvious ways.

What is our relationship to beauty?

What is our relationship to those things/places/people that are beautiful? These questions ground me today as I think about this world and our place in it. These questions haunt me.

I am a beautiful soul. I really am. Of course that doesn’t mean that I have always acted beautifully, but as I sit here today I know that the core of who I am is lovely. It always has been. The world taught me how to be ugly to survive. To get some respect. To “get ahead in the workplace.” Academia ABSOLUTELY has taught me that beauty doesn’t get ahead when it comes to prominence, numbers, etc. (Don’t argue with me. Phew.) I consider how often my beauty has been co-opted. How people have tried to twist it to please themselves without any consideration for what would allow me to continue to blossom. I meet people weekly who want to use me to 1. help them sell their books 2. be a part of their fantasy world 3. be the advice-giver 4. massage their ego 5. use my unique gift mix to finish a work task that is beyond my pay/scope 6. be the magical negro figure that gives their conference the appearance of diversity. 7. be the father/son/lover/friend that they never had.

It’s easier for folks to dominate beauty as opposed to gently walk alongside it. To nurture it. To appreciate it the same way that I lovingly gaze at my houseplants. Beauty isn’t a thing to be conquered. A thing to be snatched up. At least it shouldn’t be. When we bring the force of our will/expectations down upon beautiful things, we break them. We flatten them. Look at our world. Look at our relationships. Look at who we’ve been and consider that…this doesn’t have to be who we always will be. I’m a lover of beautiful things and I want to offer that gift for us all to cultivate. A prayer that I pray regularly is “Help me to see beauty in unexpected places.” This prayer is a steady thrum in my chest and I often find myself mouthing it unknowingly. Perhaps it is just a placebo, but I often stop and find myself in tears over the smallest things. On walks I notice a new leaf on a tree that wasn’t there a week ago. I see a father walking with his son. I see lovers hand in hand shuffling down the street. The other day I saw a woman…on a walk…with her pet butterflies. (Lol. There was a lot going on.) I want to be shaped by my capacity to perceive beauty and I wish that I lived in a world that had that same earnest desire. I cultivate this capacity by sitting for long hours staring at beautiful images, reading poetry, listening to music, considering my loved ones…This is a big world and I naively believe that there is no reason for us to dominate one another to live peacefully within it. Love to you all today.

*Thank you for reading my Substack. I’m honored that you’re here. If my work blesses you:

1. Share it.

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3. Buy Me a coffee.

4. Contribute to my doctoral research/reading collection

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I have a writing ritual for creativity that is sacred to me. Weekly, I close the door to my room (I live alone) and I open myself to reflect on my week. I sit with beautiful things. Hard things. Things I wish I said. Things I wish I hadn’t. And as I lay back, listening to music, I consider what stories might float to the top of my heart. What inner mysteries do I feel like writing about or to. Today I cried as I considered how many poems, essays, articles, journal entries I’ve devoted in the past two decades of my life to the topic of love. Publicly, I've written about the ways that love and grief are linked. How love informs grief and vice versa. I’ve devoted myself to exploring love in the context of Blackness and maleness…thoughtful of the ways that capitalism and white supremacy nullify loving bonds between individuals/communities. At the risk of being siloed creatively, put into a predetermined box, I will choose to write on love for the rest of my life.1 The topic will show up in glimpses in my academic work. Peering through the ledges as I talk about disability, soft masculinities, and Black futurism. Love will be there as I compose music. Love will show up in how/who/what I cite. Love will be there.

I’m in it for love.

I was talking to my friend and in her ever-brilliant way of speaking, she mentioned an an analysis on “the shape of our love.” I told her that I would eventually write on that phrase and…here I am. True to my word. The shape of love is a beautiful phrase that invites me to consider/contemplate again on how love manifests before our eyes. Today I’m considering how I/we are shaped by love though.

I want to be shaped into softness. Softness here being connected to safety. Softness being used to refer to a grounded spiritual ethic that is connected to a healthy view of myself, God, and the people around me. I think and write about softness and love together because I know that it is the opposite of what is depicted of things attached to being uniquely male. I claim softness as the ways that I will exist in this world because too much of patriarchy demands that I be cold, cruel, and dominant.

What does it look like for a man to be loved and to love?

Recently, I had to advocate for myself in the work place; standing up to leadership that were creating a decidedly toxic workplace environment. Sustained grace and empathy on my behalf had only resulted in consistent condescension, disrespect, and micromanaging. When it finally came time to speak my mind, and declare healthy boundaries, although I remained rooted to kindness, I mourned the ways that I had to “get out of my seat” and tell my bosses the truth. I didn’t yell. I didn’t name call. Nothing like that. I spoke the truth(s) as I saw it. And one truth was that I could see the ways that my leaders had been shaped by competition/jealousy/capitalism/self-doubt instead of by love and collaboration. I wish that we all had space and access to be shaped into softness. That we could exist in spaces and communities where we didn’t have to be jaded or guarded. Where we could let our hair down without fear of our vulnerabilities being used against us. Today I’m thinking how I can continue my journey into softness by writing, creating, speaking, preaching in such a way that people consider their precious humanity and the precious humanity of others. Softness isn’t just for me…it’s for the world that I hope to live in.2 I wonder what a summer devoted to softness would reveal in us. What it would look like.

Softness can save us.

If we let it.

*Thank you for reading my Substack. I’m honored that you’re here. If my work blesses you:

1. Share it.

2. Become a paid subscriber

3. Buy Me a coffee.

4. Contribute to my doctoral research/reading collection

I think about my/our mortality more than seems reasonable for a man my age. Weirdly enough, the finality of our life has been a recurring base of my thinking since I was a child. Disconnected from any formal religious belonging (I grew up as an atheist), I was obsessed with what happens when our lives are all used up. When the world will eventually move on from what marks out my particular life. And although this may seem morbid, this type of reflecting has also helped anchor me to the present moments. To be grateful for the life that I am living here. now. Right now. And with this small life, I endeavored (and to endeavor) to build a loving life. I would be l lying if I said that all of my actions in life would lead one to believe that I am perfect in love. And. But. I want to love myself. I want to love God. I want to love people. Better. More intentionally.

I’m attracted to writings and reflections upon love perhaps because it has been the great wound in my life. I’ve been anxious to be loved my whole life. I wish I grew up knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt that I was loved. And I’ve been anxious to show people that they are loved. That if nobody else loves them, at least they can love themselves. Love is a constant meditation for me as I journey to embody it. Perhaps it’s because deep down I’ve always been a contemplative. a poet. a musician…but love in all its forms has been a bit of an obsession for me. I’m obsessed with how much of our lives would be so much better if we were loved properly. If we were made to feel like we were special…worth having around.

I was scrolling social media the other day when I came across a post by Ms. Rachel. She is popular in her videos for the kiddos and she has a distinctive, calming voice. Her work with children, especially marginalized children, has been personally inspiring to me. She seems to possess an unwavering commitment to advocating for children’s survival and thriving.

“How does love react?”

I find in Ms. Rachel’s simple words an invitation as I consider the callousness in the world. I’m struck by the lovelessness and the cruelty that I see in the world. The ways that billionaires meditate night and day on how to profit more on the backs of the poor and marginalized. I’m struck by the ways that religious leaders will use spirituality as a tool to bind people to submission. I’m struck that capitalism is killing all of us. And in all this…how does love react?

It isn’t passive. That’s for sure. Anyone who has been “loved” by someone who is nonchalant can attest to this. Phew. The type of love I think that the world needs isn’t a love that is filled with trite, flat sayings. There are no false promises in the reactive love that we need. Love speaks up at the meeting when a coworker is being condescended to. Love votes in a way that minimizes damage to the most vulnerable of people. Love goes to great lengths to be open and honest. Love prompts a text to the person we haven’t heard in awhile. Love sends gifts to people just because we are thinking of them. Yes, I’ve read the biblical account of 1 Corinthians that expounds upon what love can and does look like. And. Most importantly, love, at least powerful love…liberates.

Love is liberating because it is committed to the wholeness of another being. It is a spiritual thing. A powerful force. Love is. This is what motivates me to get out of bed and order my life in the ways that I do. I genuinely want to love myself well enough so that I can love others that I come across. Lingering in the grocery store just a moment to smile at someone. Or. I get stopped often by strangers who seem to have singled me out for their whole life story. Recently, I was in a very public setting and someone told me about all of the science fiction and Pokemon characters that they enjoy. I could tell in his excitement that he just needed someone to talk to. And I wonder to myself how often I’ve needed that from friends and family. Just a safe space to say nerdy things to.

I want to be clear in my writing today that choosing to write on the topic of love is not some type of escapist mentality meant to put a silver lining of the chaos that surrounds us. I don’t mean any of this as a means to be so “heavenly minded that I’m no earthly good.” I write on love often because it is the center of my life that I try to operate from. Love is the anchor that causes me to write. To create. To ask questions. I am naive enough to believe that there needs to be MORE writing on love rather than less. My life has been extremely busy lately and it has caused me to be off balance. I’m attempting to slow down to consider how love would react? How love would prioritize? How love can be more intentionally integrated in my life…now.

Quick updates:

1. I now am moving into the dissertation phase of my PhD. Wow.

2. I recently did a podcast on the erotic and putting it in conversation with Howard Thurman. This episode with was so so cool. Check it out here

*If my work has blessed you:

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3. Buy me a coffee.

I. I’m still recovering from a year of comprehensive exams. I’m doing my best to allow my nervous system to reboot after being compromised for so long. A deep fatigue and achy joints are part of what I’m trying to heal as w…

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I was taught that I had to wield my words like a weapon.

cutting through misconceptions and untruths

dominating conversations to get my point across

but these days, I take solace in the silence that comes,

when I know who I am and where I’m going.

No matter what may come my way,

I’ll always find a way back to myself.

I write this restful musing from a selfish place. I’ve been in a very overextended place for some weeks. Coming off of my last doctoral exams and into traveling quite a bit and a full workload…I’m a bit sleep deprived, anxious, and irritable. I’m feeling under appreciated and overworked. Phew. So, when I sat down to write this musing, tears began to flow as I processed my stress and anxiety. I’ll be ok, I always find a way, but I wanted to start this reflection honestly lest folks reading my words assume that I’m always hyper-spiritual and positive. That isn’t the truth and I don’t want to project that image.

When I’m overextended, working beyond my bandwidth, I always feel a gentle tug to pause for a moment. I feel a nudge towards silence…even if it is just for a “pair of seconds.” Pausing to allow silence to reveal the places that I’m anxious and unattended to, is a tool that I also want to extend to you all who will read this. I realize that silence is an oppressor to those who have had to fight for much of their life to be seen, listened to, taken seriously. Silence is scary to those who have been muzzled by someone/someones/institutions. It’s been scary to me when I’m in a frenzy because being silent opens me up to vulnerability. Can I invite you/us into a small moment of silence to honor your body and heart? What might silence speak to you if you pause for just a moment? Our bodies are constantly trying to get our attention to alert us of fear/hunger/dehydration…and pockets of silence can allow us to hear what our bodies need.

Silence is telling me (right now) that I need to hear that I’m loved, valued, worth having around. And the beautiful thing that I can do for myself (today)is to put my hand over my heart and affirm these things.

I wrote this reflection selfishly, but I end it gently, hoping that a moment of silence can be a gift to you today. Even if you aren’t as overextended as I am currently, I hope that silence can be a strengthening tool for you.

You are a gift.

A dream.

A miracle.

More precious than gold.

Love to you.

*If my work blesses you, would you consider:

1. sharing it with someone

2. becoming a paid subscriber

3. buying me a coffee

I hide knowledge in the posts that I write.1 Pieces of information that the general public can’t really access readily. Jokes that make me giggle like a hyena, but only really make sense if you know my profound silliness. To that end, I almost entitled this particular musing “have you ever been to space?” And that joke won’t let me go…I put it here now for the folks who know me well enough to know why and HOW this is funny…

Somehow, over the past week or so, I found myself sucked into a rabbit hole on social media as I watched hundreds of folks reflect on the space mission of the Artemis II. I can’t reflect on the science of this mission, or really its objectives. I leave that to people more qualified than myself. What I can say is that for a moment, precious moments, I’ve seen the best of humanity as they wished this crew good fortunes. The collective imagination extended itself towards the skies, and I experienced a collective childlikeness accompanied by a deep sigh. Images of the crew began to flood social media, and for once, I didn’t see negativity mixed in with commentary. (I’m sure there was plenty of negativity…have you seen the human race?)

I got to witness so many images of the moon.

I got to see all of the folks who expressed their desires to be astronauts.

I got to witness people weep over strangers in space.

I was looking at something specific though. The presence of a Black man in space touched something deep in my nerdy heart and made me genuinely weep. His warm smile and care…whew. I felt transported to my childhood where I spent countless hours devoting myself to fantasy. I’ve been honest that my childhood wasn’t one that was a considerably loved one. Science fiction provided me a way of escape from poverty and the stuttering that made it hard for me to connect with others. When I was engaging science fiction, I felt like I could be anything. At least for a few moments. I could consider the stars and the heights that a Black boy could ascend to if only technology (and society) would permit it.

I know nothing about the Artemis II and its ambitions. Yes, I could look it up. That is irrelevant for my imagination today. I am relishing a Black man floating through space and being my connection to dreams I dreamt long ago. For a few moments, warmth filled the collective gaze, and for that I will always be grateful.

I’m Black boy dreaming today.

I hope you will join me.

Love to you.

*If my work has blessed you please consider:

1. Sharing it.

2. Becoming a paid subscriber.

3. Buying me a coffee.

Life has been accelerated at a ghastly rate for me and well…the globe. Global politics, capitalism, and war. I’m doing my best to take each day as it comes. I’m doing my best to remain rooted in spiritual practices that nourish my own soul, while choosing to not ignore the wellbeing of others. Only time will tell if I’ve …

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good morning. please permit me (hell this is my Substack…I permit myself) to give you a bit of an insight into my writing practice(s) that might illuminate how you understand this (and other) posts of mine.

when I write, I write with care. thinking through the implications of each line, each punctuation mark, what I choose to embolden. how to use capitalization and “…” to my benefit as I attempt to reflect some aspect of my inward imagination to the outside world.1 I write out of pain, some pain on any given subject that has persisted with me for weeks/months/years. when I choose to write, I do so hesitatingly as the little Black boy who grew up stuttering in front of his peers. this hesitation can manifest itself as the fear of being misunderstood. (my lifelong enemy) or the fear of not-belonging. (a name i’ve run from for decades.) but fear, in its many forms, isn’t the only thing that undergirds my writing. there is a pause, an inner reservoir of peace, that animates my fingers. often, I wait for one solitary phrase to “haunt” me. I wait until a sentence or a spiritual saying or…a joke…floats to the top of my mind. once I have that phrase, and only when I have that phrase…I can write in peace. I know that this inner dialogue is meaningful. I know that whatever I choose to write will be successful because the “success” I am looking for isn’t predicated upon how many people read or engage with my work. To that end, the majority of my poems and songs will probably never be experienced by the world. What I do know is that writing for me is excavating the small, impactful phrases that float through my mind as I consider myself, the world around me…God. All of it. I write from the inside out.

“Life is more than survival.”

I have no idea why this phrase has been tugging at the edges of my mind. That is a lie. I DO know. I’m weary after a year of comprehensive exams that became intertwined with a year of difficulties that have left me a bit cold inside. Numb. And as I claw my way out of burnout for the seemingly millionth time, I am made numb again by the world around me. The increased American militaristic bloodlust.2 The extreme financial fatigue that I experience as I try to help those around me. (Shoot, I need my own help.) The bigotry that flows down from the government to drown all of us “little people” down on the ground. And the social media arguments. My God, my living God, I hate the social media arguments. Each day a new way to dehumanize and dismantle one another. No clear vision. Anger. Vibes. And with all that, there is a little bitty voice, the voice I imagine when I think of my younger self…Rob’s voice (don’t call me that unless you know me well :) echoes to me “life is more than survival.”

The Invisible Work.

what comparison can’t see.

Some days comparison arrives before breakfast…

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2 months ago · 26 likes · 7 comments · Jamal Robinson

All we/I have are these present moments. We are collections of stories of our families, communities, ancestors, and circumstances that have converged to bring us all here…to right now. And soon, for all of us…there will be more days behind us than ahead of us. I say that not as a means of emotional manipulation, but rather out of my sincere desire to live. Right now live. I don’t want to just survive here. Perhaps that is a naive statement. But it’s my truth. I don’t want o give the strength of my life to only resisting, only clocking into work, only living for the approval of others.

Courage, weary heart.

Life has to be more than survival.

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*Welcome to my restful musings. I haven’t introduced myself in a while, and for today, I want to introduce you to why posting on Sundays is a sacred rhythm for me. I started writing on Substack in September 2021 with no ambitions to be popular. I simply wanted a place to create out loud. I wanted a play/dreaming/grieving/loving space to work out my thoughts. As my time progressed I found something extremely life-giving with posting, at the very least, a “musing” every Sunday. I had ambitions of people reading my work over breakfast or their morning coffee. A “restful musing” emerged as an offering from my heart to the world. I want this space to be a moment in time that allows you to take your resilience cape and engage yourself with whatever feels restful. When I say restful, it doesn’t mean that everything I craft each Sunday ignores the painful dimension of our experiences. The ultimate rest that I desire is a life beyond capitalism, bigotry, colonial harm, etc. I hope that these Sunday musings allow you to peer into the way that I think. I hope that as you gaze, you are able to perceive your own stories with more clarity, more compassion. Thank you for journeying with me.

I cried all day.

That’s how I remember it.

I can’t remember the school grade, but early in my school career, I remember distinctly being taken to a school classroom and left there. I believe that I was transferring to a new school and this place was strange to me. I wish I knew all of the thoughts that were in my young mind, but this early memory haunts me from time to time. The disconnection of being left in a foreign place felt like I was being abandoned. And on that day of abandonment, I cried for what felt like the first time publicly. Kudos to my teacher. I don’t remember her name, but she allowed me to put my little desk beside her desk and I stayed there…crying…a lot. Looking back through my adult eyes, I know that this particular memory stands out as a formational event. This was the first time my sensitive heart was on display, and I hated it. I hated that I felt such overwhelming fear. I hated the looks in the other students’ eyes as they made obvious what they thought of the “new, crying kid.” I knew as a young Black boy, I was supposed to toughen up. To others, I’m sure my reaction to a very normal event, was overly emotional.

I remember this day of crying from time to time, and I’m always struck with such compassion for my younger self. I feel such a kindness for the younger Robert who was afraid of…well…everything. My sensitivity meant/still means that things impact my emotions heavily. When I’m happy, I am joyous. When I’m grieving, there is a depth that matches my ability to love…so…a lot. I’m not ashamed of young Robert anymore. In many ways, I’m doing my best to return to so many parts of who I was as a young child. I didn’t get the chance to enjoy those personality traits at the time because I was in such a rush to grow up and “be somebody.” These days I’m returning.

I don’t share this memory randomly. This deeply personal event, like much of what I share publicly, is hopefully a moment of connection that may overlap with your own experiences. I wonder about what formative memories are operating underneath the surface of your life? Are there unprocessed memories lingering? Most importantly for me…Is there some compassion that you could offer to younger iterations of yourself?

Good news alert!

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I approach the world with profound curiosity. I hope a bit of that curiosity seeps through the words that I write. At the core of my life remains this inner reservoir of questions that bubble up daily. I want to know who I am. I want to know who God is. I want to know who you are. I want to know what makes you afraid…

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I’ve been savoring the words of Audre Lorde recently. As I read her essays, as well as her reflections in the midst of a cancer, I’m reminded (again) how beautifully curious and brilliant her mind was. When I sit down to read her work, there is a defined moral clarity existing alongside a willingness to experience love/beauty/delight/freedom. And now that I’m towards the end of the book, there are these beautiful reflections on how she viewed the power of the poem. As a poet-nerd (the nerd is connected because I don’t know if all poets are automatically nerds. maybe.) I’m invigorated in her belief that poems come from a reservoir of emotion inside a writer and is somehow able to refresh and teach the reader in a dynamic way. For her, poems seemed to capture something critical in the emotion of a person and translate itself to the page. Poems seem to be powerful tools of truth-telling and connection.

*pats seat on a nearby rocking chair*

Today, I’m in a relaxed place and thinking about poetry. Or rather the power of the poem beyond just its aesthetic qualities. Can we talk about poetry without you defining yourself out of the conversation? “I don’t really get poetry.” Or “I’m a writer, just not a poet.” Because I find, that especially with these two self-definitions that they, especially the latter are things that people say out of anxiety and comparison. The truth is, that you don’t need someone to validate your ability to be a poet. Like writing in general, if you are a writer…write. And if you desire to be someone who writes poems…let’s get it going. I suppose I’ve been a writer all my life. I just didn’t have the resources and time to do it conventionally. In recent years, I shook off comparison, and began to tell people that I am both a writer and a poet.

Poetry is more than a type of writing if we allow it to be. I approach life as a contemplative poet, by which I mean that the ways I approach living is intentional, spiritual, sensual, and curious. It is important for me to name myself as a poet, because it describes how I make decisions. Being a poet that is influenced by Jazz means that I’m prone to want to riff/collaborate with people as opposed to doing work that focuses directly on me. And so. Every day. Ok I’m lying not EVERY day, I try to write a few lines of poetry. This practice that I have cultivated for myself has given me a few intentional minutes per day where I can slow down and try to communicate something that is on my heart. The majority of these poems the world will never see. Phew. They contain my musings on God. My heartbreaks. The contours of my sensuality. My quest to mature in loving people and loving myself. The poem is important to me. Perhaps I am writing all of this today because I’m reflective and sensitive. Perhaps I’m wanting folks to read more and write more poetry.1 And perhaps I’m wanting people to embrace a life built on intention…which is what poetry means to me.

Poetry is a vehicle, slowly, moving me to my destination(s).

You’re not in my class so I can’t give you homework. But can I ask you some things to consider?

1. can you read more poetry? consider reading a bit per day/night

2. do you journal/write/make poems?

3. what are your practices to engage beauty in your daily life?

Before I go, I want to state that I finished my last doctoral exam this week. This year has been grueling and my mind/body are completely exhausted. And. I’m thankful that I have made it this far in my PhD. Some of you have been reading this newsletter since I was in a Masters program. Wow. I’ve made it a long way. Thank you for being here.

*If my work has blessed you please share it. Consider becoming a paid subscriber. (Please). Consider buying me a coffee.

I contemplate words quite a bit. Positively or negatively, I will sit with words spoken or shared for hours/days/months/years. While I could say much about a tendency I have to ruminate on the negative, there is a lot to say about how words positively effect me. I remember phrases that loved ones uttered to me years ago. I linger over books as I try to soak in the author’s story. I scan social media looking for traces of beauty that I might be tempted to ignore. Words mean a lot to me.

A few months ago, I was scrolling the internet and I came across the image below. There is such a beauty and tenderness in this short writing. The depiction of afrofuturism as a girl with locs made of light, is so stunningly said…wow. I have this image in my phone because I wanted to be able to go to it on days where I’m discouraged. The line “each one is a timeline where we won” moves me to tears.

What does it look like to win?

What does it mean to win a thing (?) is in my mind, as I turn this beautiful phrase above, over and over again? What would it mean for us to overcome this dysfunctional reality that we’ve made for ourselves(and our children) and transcend to a place where the majority of our days are filled with light? Human history is full of victors (and losers). One group of people expands to conquer another. One empire rises to subjugate those unfortunate enough to be within reach. I’m writing this from a country that prides itself on winning any armed conflict.

No. Perhaps not. This “each one is a timeline where we won” must look exponentially different than the “winning” that we witness every day. If I open my imagination and still my fears, “a timeline where we won” looks like children are finally safe. They have enough to eat. They aren’t embarrassed by their parents online for doing normal child-like things. A timeline where we won…white supremacy is a thing of the past. Where we couldn’t even imagine what it would be like to establish hierarchy over other human beings. A timeline where we won means that the most vulnerable people get the most extraordinary care. A timeline where we won is predicated on rest and NEVER working 40 hours a week for pay.

A timeline where we won is a fictional/hopeful/theological thread for me. I wrote this post wanting to convey a piece of my heart that wants a better day for all of us. Love to you all.

*If my work has blessed you pleaseeee consider sharing it. Consider becoming a paid subscriber. And while you are considering…please buy me a coffee.

Hi everyone, I hope you are doing well in a world bent towards chaos. It has been a few weeks since I posted a work just for paid subscribers. I have been knee deep in my second to last comprehensive exams so…phew.

I wanted to take a bit of a stroll through my work as a Theoethicist for those who m…

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Returning to former days

My father used to get mad when I cried.

I still remember his face. How it would contort and shapeshift into a snarl. My tears did something to my father and it made him an enemy at times. I’m old enough now, at the ripe age of 42, to know that my emotions triggered an emotional response. Happy or sad, my father found me perplexing. I wonder what my tears meant to him, what fears it reflected to him as he looked into my face. What made my tear-stained face a source of contention between us will always be a mystery to me. What I do know is that any punishment was doubled when I cried. My extreme emotional sensitivity has always made me prone to show my feelings to the outside world. Disappointment used to trigger my tear ducts as I wrestled with a world that didn’t seem fair to me. (I see youScholastic book fair and being so poor I couldn’t afford books from yall.)

if I could linger in conjecture around what my father saw in my tears…I can…this is my page…

1. I think my tears made my father afraid. Crybaby Black boys don’t survive well. Tears from Black boys are an unspeakable curse in an antiBlack world.

2. Every tear reminded my father of his own emotions that were never heard, never attended to. Perhaps my emotionality made him hate me because of what he could never be.

I embrace being a crybaby in these years of my life. Tears, painful or joyous, remind me that I’m alive. Fully. They are a mirror into a soul that feels deeply at the edge of life. Our tears can be a profound liability. I know this. If you’re reading this and have ever been labeled crybaby, I highly doubt that it was usually used in a positive way. I know that being sensitive is usually a label that we give to the weak, those who haven’t learned how to toughen up. And. I am coming back to the boy I used to be. That soft heart wasn’t ever a bad thing. It was never a sign that I wasn’t strong. Crybabies are the best of us I think. Their attunement to their (and others’) emotions is a superpower.

Maybe my tears won’t save the world , but perhaps they can save me.

When I pass away one day, I hope that my tears will carry me home.

If my work has blessed you please share it. Consider becoming a paid subscriber. Consider buying me a coffee.