Trayvon Martin Protest - Sanford (Photo credit: werthmedia)

Trayvon Martin is reaching out to tell us something. After all, now that he has joined the ancestors, God, Allah or whatever you believe in, he is surely smarter than we are; we people who have created a world in which a beautiful boy with a bag of Skittles dies in this manner. So now this boy spirit asks: What are you willing to do?

The question hovering in the air over Florida, over the U.S., over this world is not the small one: Will George Zimmerman go to prison? It is the larger question: “Will we stop hating one another?” Or “Will we do unto others as we will have them do unto us?”

The question may seem so boring when you want to scream because your heart has been ripped wide open. You may think the question produces no action, that I am saying to retreat and pray. I am saying that praying and changing your heart and showing others how to changetheirs  is a great action that requires ongoing participation into infinity. The  sentiment of doing unto others has been repeated over and over in holy books and sacred writings for centuries because it appears to be a difficult concept to humans and because it has not been answered affirmatively–yet. The sentiment pops up in songs and is rapped and rhymed because new generations recognize that it is a legitimate and worthy state of being, one raised before they were born by Martin Luther King, one that could be answered by a “yes” if that is really what we desire. So consider the opportunity Trayon has given us.

George Zimmerman is Latino. Oh, so now we have to talk about the fact that not only white people are racist or prejudice or believe in stereotypes about black people.

This was a gated community. Oh, so now we have to talk about classism and eliticism and how we come to believe that some people belong in a place while others do not. Or that there is no gate that keeps out hatred, racism, prejudice or all of the other negative energies we feed daily with our thoughts and actions.

This time the story spread by fingers and not by mouth. It was the social media being “social,” being a community, that spread the word of this horror.  It was not the traditional media organizations that once deemed what was news and what wasn’t. Now people who had no say-so, who no one would ever call for a quote or sound bite, get to speak first. Now what was long ago community news, kept inside of a neighborhood or on the block–the stories of people killed by hatred and their blood swept under the rug–is  out in the open, spread by typing fingers that tweet and blog and post and hit “send.”

This is the world Trayvon Martin grew up in and the world that killed him.

We all create this world. We add to it each day with our thoughts like drops of water in a river. What thought did you add today? Did you send hate to George Zimmerman or the Sanford police? I think the beautiful wise boy who lives in spirit now implores us to think BIG. Yes, take the legal recourses available, see that justice is done, march, protest, shout if you must. But know that real change is greater than these emotions, physical displays and movement.

After the verdicts when there is silence, do something more. If you march and shout and yet your heart is full of hatred or racist attitudes, you do a disservice to the spirit of Trayvon, and to Martin and to the peacemakers before you who have tried to create a very clear yellow brick path for us to follow. The hatred will stop when we (all of us) stop hating.

When I was in D.C., my girlfriend, who is white, moaned the fact that “We have had this conversation a million times,” referring to talks after young black men have been gunned down when an arm wrestling or maybe even a “no” would have sufficed. Or even when there was no reason for a “no.”

“We may have to have it a million more times,” I said. “But this time it is broader–it was a gated community, a boy with Skittles, a Latino gunman and fingers that type and send. This time is different and I thank Trayvon Martin for that.

He gave.

What are you willing to do?

Image by ~Willa~ via Flickr

Walk away from the ledge, put away regrets. Now is the time to write that book–at least to make a start. I can help you soar. So come and join me in an intimate setting, a small group where you can ask questions and get to know people on a journey similar to yours. (Register by April 20, 2012 by emailing brnangel50@bellsouth.net)        

CLASS TIME: 9 AM to 4 PM

PLACE: At 2615 Winchester Road, Montgomery 

Writer Patrice Gaines (www.patricegaines.com) goes to Montgomery to guide participants through an interactive workshop on writing memoir. This is for new writers who want to begin working on an autobiography for mass publication — or for those who simply wish to leave a book of life for their family.

The exercises of this workshop will help you identify the best structure for your book, outline your project and learn various techniques to enhance your storytelling.

Author Patrice Gaines’s memoir Laughing in the Dark has sold thousands and made her a popular motivational speaker. She was featured on “Dateline” and “The Oprah Winfrey Show.”She is also the author of the self-help Moments of Grace.

COST: $150 –  Includes Continental breakfast, lunch, snacks

To register or for more information: Call Patrice Gaines at 803-631-4009 or email brnangel50@bellsouth.net

Oh, if only all clutter  was ugly. It really would make cleaning out your life easier. But isn’t that the whole point. We clutter our lives because we think everything we have/own/use is useful and pretty and has a place in our lives. Wrong!

I’m taking a prosperity class and it has sparked this wonderful de-cluttering binge.  I’ve been seriously de-cluttering this past week–spiritually and physically. (Don’t even get me started talking about spiritual cleaning, letting go of wrong-thinking–That’s another blog.) What I discovered about myself as I cleaned, was shocking to me.  Why did I have socks with holes in them? Why did I have some 40 pairs of socks? And I’m not counting panty hose and tights. The last time I looked I had 2 feet!

This is what I discovered about myself as I cleaned: 1. I kept some items because they were gifts, even though I didn’t like them when I received them. 2. I said “yes” when I should have said “no.” when someone asked, “Would you like this?” Or even when they said, “I would love for you to have this.” They were probably de-cluttering by giving me something I really should have refused. 3. Why did I keep something just because “I paid… whatever” for it. Heck, just because it was expensive doesn’t mean I should keep it beyond its usefulness or way after I’ve fallen out of love with it.  4. “This might come back in style.” Wrong. How old will I be and will I  really want to wear it at that age? Besides, how do I know who I will be at that time. I may want to dress differently. Dah.

I could go on, but there’s no use. I’d just be cluttering the blogosphere. The bottom line is this: I learned that I accept things I don’t want and hold onto things I no longer like because deep inside I believe: 1. If I reject or throw out something, the universe won’t replace it with something else–even something better; 2. I accept things I don’t want because I don’t honor who I am by standing up and saying kindly, “That’s beautiful but it’s really not me, it’s you.” Or whatever. 3: All of this speaks to issues of self-worth.

I know this: Clutter keeps you in a state of “lack” consciousness. Nothing better comes when something not-as-good is blocking that space. You have to believe that to let go.  It works with clutter and it works with people too.

Gotta go, I’m off to clean up my life. What glorious work! Everything is starting to look different…

However, since 2012 roared in I have been busy with work. I am sooo happy to have work! Last year, the work dried up. No new coaching clients. No requests for me to give speeches. I did finish a spiritual book (which is with an agent) and I’m two-thirds of the way through a novel. But when it came to paid work, I was experiencing what millions of other people in search for work were living.

This is the main reason I was happy to bid farewell to 2011. Good riddance, was my exact sentiment. It was the first time I had felt that way about a year, even the years when I was grieving over the loss of loved ones.

I spent the last day of 2011 in Odenton, Md. at my sister Debra’s house. She went  out to a party, so about 11 pm I was sitting with my sisters Sondra and Carol and their dogs and my great niece Mehkai. Whoo hooo! Say partay!

That last hour, I swear, was two days long. My niece put party hats on the heads of the adults and handed each of us a horn. She was a ball of energy. We adults were lethargic, wearing pajamas and tired of drinking champagne by 11:10 pm.

Every few minutes my niece said, “Is it time yet? Is it time?” Sadly, I said “No” more times than I remember. At one point I looked at my sisters and said, “How can the last hour of a year that flew by so fast go so slowly?” By midnight, we were bored with all of the television celebrations but I was finally able to tell my niece, “It’s time!” and we counted down: 10, 9, 8… We screamed “Happy New Year!” and blew our horns and toasted one last time. Then we went to bed. For the first time ever I entertained the thought of going to sleep early next New Year’s Eve, sleeping through all the festivities, and waking in 2013.

I plan to still keep my personal tradition of setting goals (I don’t like to think of them as resolutions). I try to write some goals that I envision will make my time on this earth even better than it has been in the past. One of this year’s goals was to blog more often.

So now, 10 days into the new year, I’ve at least started. Already, I feel better about 2012. Year!”

But a short time later, she literally crumpled to the floor, face down, her beautiful wings still.

I found her by the door. “Mehkai, what’s wrong?” I asked.

I had to ask a few more times before she finally said in a weak, muffled voice, “I can’t fly.”

Wow. It hadn’t occurred to us that she might think the wings would actually lift her off the floor. Her grandmother helped her up and drew her near to her. “Mehkai,” she said. “You can’t really fly with those wings.”

Mechkai’s mother had observed up to this point, but now she interrupted her mother. “Don’t tell her that,” Erin said.

And there we were, all facing an age-old question. How do you encourage someone to believe they can fly without setting them up to crumple if they fall short of their definition of flying?  How do we believe we have wings and that we can soar when all about us people are speaking words of limitation?

Both Mehkai’s grandmother, Carol, and her mom Erin love her. Neither wanted to nick her wings, or discourage her imagination.

“Mehkai, you can fly,” her mother said.

“Erin, we don’t want her climbing up on something and leaping off, thinking she can fly,” Carol said.

I admit, I was laughing, quietly. ”I know the feeling, Mehkai,” I said.

Somehow we all decided to tell Mehkai know how beautiful she looked in her wings. We didn’t want her to see them as useless, because they were beautiful and they sparked her imagination and gave her joy. That in itself is like flying, I thought. It may not be the type of flying Mehkai has seen on cartoons, but we tried to let her know that the wings were marvelous and she looked amazing as she ran around the room with her arms flapping.

To us, she was flying. And we just wanted her to see it too.

So we got our pricelss reminder from the dollar wings: Sometimes we are flying and we don’t even recognize it. Sometimes our spiritual wings are doing exactly what they should do, but our vision is askew. We are comparing our flight patterns to everyone else’s. Oh, I pray I see the beauty in my own wings. And I pray we set Mehkai off on the right path.

The  World Trade Center was burning. And shortly after I turned on the TV, the South Tower collapsed. I wept, but as the tears fell I sensed Spirits flying away from the Tower, away from the horror, away from me. away from everyone here on this earth.

Then in the next moment,  before the other towers collasped, before a plane flew into the Pentagon and some brave souls foiled the plans of terrorists and crashed into the Pennsylvania soil, before any of this–I felt a strange flood of joy that I did not in any way understand. I knew from past experiences, though, that if I opened my heart to recieve this odd gift without judgment, I would recieve the knowledge of an explanation. So I opened my heart and this is what the joy said to me: Those spirits that I felt flying away from us had sacrificed their lives so that we might live in a different, more peaceful way.

I did not dream this or think it up. I would never have had such a thought on my own. This knowledge seemed to seep into me and instead of continuing my crying, I began to pray and give thanks pasionately to those who had died in the horror. I thanked them for their sacrifices and I promised to live my life in a way that honored all that it appeared they had given up–the babies that would never be seen, the wedding vows that would not be said, the tear-stained faces of mothers left without a child. How could I repay such a gift?

I thought of this for days. I was not sure of what new life awaited us–I do not even think today that we have seen this new life yet–but I was certain then and I am now, too, that these kind spirits sacrificed for me and for all of us left behind.

What could I do? I asked myself. Certainly, nothing would compare. I started off by rearranging my life. I had already left a job where I was not appreciated or treated with respect. I knew I had to leave my marriage. My existence felt as if I were wearing a coat too small. (In fact, I had a dream where my grandmother came to ask me to try on “Joseph’s coat of  many colors.”) To keep my promise to those who had sacrificed on 9/11, I had to build a better, more honest life, one where I stepped into my authentic self, into the huge being  I really am, the person I came here to be. How dare I do any less!

Ten years later, I am still evolving. On this tenth anniversary of 9/11 I was forced to ask: What have I done with my 10 years? With 3,650 days?

I am happy with some of the answers to that question, but I am also disappointed. At times I have lost the momentum of my promise. I have forgotten those 3,000 souls who left so that I could have a new day.

Where is the new world they sacrificed for? I believe it is still evolving, still being made by all of us. Our wobbling economy is teaching us that we cannot afford to be selfish, greedy and loveless. Sure, we fight change. Yet the signs are all around that in the United States–as in the world–selfishness must be replaced with selflessness; greed with equality; hatred with love.

Today, I vow to remember the pain and the joy I felt 10 years ago; the joy that I believe came from thousands of smiling souls, happy to do the work they had been called to do, perhaps work they had agreed to do in another dimension at another time. And I firmly believe that if we are brave enough to shift the energy of this world, we will be assisted by some 3,000 Spirits working on our behalf.

They are waiting.

*  *   *  In the spirit of love and remembrance for every sacrifice made that day, I wrote this poem, which was aired on WPFW in Washington, DC   http://www.patricegaines.com/media_radio.html

“Hatred will kill you. I know. When I was in my 20s I hated my father. I had a definition of love that fit neatly into a small box and the way he treated me didn’t fit into it. So I felt he didn’t love me–and I hated him for it. My mom used to say, ‘Look at what your father does for you’ and she would list things like buying me clothes, providing a nice house, paying for me to go somewhere.’ She didn’t get it–nor did I at the time –that what I wanted was to hear my father say, ‘I love you.’

“Hatred can make you crazy. You do things that seem unreasonable and insane to other people. I desperately chased men who didn’t love me. I begged for love in ways I can’t even remember. I didn’t see a connection to my desperation and my hatred for my father.

“It took being raped and nearly beaten to death to wake me up, to get my attention. We each have our own wake-up calls. I knew I needed help. I wanted a better life for myself. A better life for my daughter. So I went to a therapist. I went to two before I found the right one. I went to him for several years. Then finally, I saw that  my hatred for my father was stopping me from seeing life as it really was. No matter what I did, I was  blinded or distracted by my hatred for my father.

“The therapist suggested I go out somewhere with my father. “He suggested breakfast together. But I  thought, ‘He won’t go anywhere with me. What would we talk about? We never talk.’ I invited him anyway. We went to breakfast at a cheap diner. We ate. We talked. We laughed. Later, he bragged to people about our breakfast. And I discovered my father loved me.

“My father never told me, ‘I love you.’ But he died shortly after that breakfast and he came to me in my dream and kissed me and I woke up and he said, ‘I love you and I’m proud of you.’ Of course, I said, ‘I know that.’ Because I did. That breakfast was a gift. Letting go of that hatred was a gift.

My daddy didn’t change; I changed! I had to do the work to change.  My life got better the more I let go of the hatred. I saw that it was true, my father had always loved me. I was the one who needed to expand my definition of love.

By the time the last word fell from my mouth,  we were at the bus station. We sat quietly a few moments. Then we said goodbye and my niece got out the car and went to catch her bus.

I told someone the other day: “I spent the first half of my life accumulating stuff; I will spend the last half of it getting rid of stuff.”

Maybe it’s a process that comes with age, this sifting through ones belongings to find the the real gifts. I like to think it comes with wisdom. There comes a day when you realize you have too much stuff. Life doesn’t require a ton of stuff. It’s a well-worn but true adage: Most of what you need in life is free.

You don’t know this when you are young. You don’t know this for much of life. Part of the journey of life is learning who you are at  any present moment and one way we identify ourselves, especially in a capitalistic society where everyone is collecting things, is that we accumulate. We look at our stuff and we know who we are.

Sure, we are not quite that shallow. I am simplifying the process. But look around you. Unless you are a nun or monk, you are probably surrounded by items you have collected over years. Yet in the mass of possessions are many items you no longer use, read, wear or pay attention to.

My friend Jean loves  to collect words. She fills her house with books, magazines, and newspaper clippings. She even carries poems in her pocketbook (actually, this is something I would like to see more of us do). But she said a neighbor was visting her house one day when she noticed all the stacks of magazines and piles of books and she remarked, “You won’t live enough years to ever read all of this. And do you want to spend the rest of your life doing that and not living your life?”

Jean’s initial reaction was to get angry. Then she realized she was angry because it was true and the truth can be painful.

Being a writer, of course I have also filled my house with books, magazines and newspapers. Over the past two years I’ve started giving away the books, mostly to my local jail, which is setting up up a library for the women. Starting with books was a big step for me. There’s not much I love more than books when it comes to stuff. Once I can conquer the urge to collect and hoard them, I am sure letting go of the other items I’ve accumulated will be easy.

At one time, I realized I had at least 100 books that I had not yet read and another 100 that I had read but that I loved so much I had convinced myself I was going to read them again. Then with new commitment to finding the real gifts in my life, I looked at the titles of my keepsake books and realized that the truth was I wasn’t going to read them again. I had my own painful truth: “I could never live long enough to do that and read the constant flow of new books also.” So I began the process of letting go.

I went through my clothing closest, another place where I had convinced myself that I should hold onto old favorites. “They’ll come back,”I told myself. “Once I give it away, I’ll miss it.” But I had lots of clothes I hadn’t worn in years.

A few years ago I had an attic built, creating a room and space where there was none before. And what did I do with this new space? I filled it with stuff! I even put books up there. I laugh about this now. Do I really need books if I keep them in the attic? Honestly, will I go to the attic, passing several bookshelves, to pick out a dusty book I haven’t seen in years? I think you get what I am saying.

We create rationalizations–even attics–to protect our painful truths. We need to let go of the stuff. In letting go we get the presents, the real gifts. The ability to see life more clearly. To understand what it is about, to see who we are at this moment: Spiritual beings who really can’t possess anything. Or in other words, “You can’t take it with you.”

Now I think of my daughter, who will be left to sift through my stuff when I am gone. I try to ask myself of each item: Will it matter that I left this behind? Generally with stuff, the answer is, “No.”   What I will leave that will matter the most, my presents to her and the others with whom I have shared this journey, is kind words that have encouraged, memories that have made and hopefully will continue to make people laugh’ love that people will weep over missing. None of these things can be hung in a closet or stored in a dusty attic.

Image via Wikipedia

I know I’m not the only one that this happens to. The Universe seems to deal you a few setbacks or disappointments and you’re looking at air, saying “What the f$#&?”

Well, it happened to me again recently. In the course of just over a week I lost several pieces of jewelry I loved. It’s not that the pieces were costly (thank goodness!) but they had meaning to me, sentimental value. First, I lost a ring I bought in Greece. It was an odd ring, I thought, with a flat, round disk on top imprinted with the Greek calendar. My daughter bought one too. We sat in a jewelry store in Athens and negotiated with the salesman, of course only to find the ring slightly cheaper at another shop in Santorini. Still, that ring represented the entire experience–the trip with friends, floating in the Aegean Sea, the black sands of the beach at Santorini, our laughter when we found that like typical tourists, we had been taken again.

A day after losing the ring, I lost a silver ring I had gotten with a gift card given to me on my big 60th birthday. It represented the friendship of the young woman who gave it to me. A couple of days later I lost what had become my everyday earrings, a silver pair my sister Carol bought me on one of our trips to Target. As I said, it wasn’t the cost that made me ache, it was the intention and memory behind the jewelry. Carol is unemployed and so the gift was even more appreciated. She knew I didn’t have a pair of everyday earrings (having lost mine some time ago) and she sacrificed to buy those for me.

So I found myself screaming at the Universe and–yes, questioning God once again: “What do you want from me? Why am I losing my jewelry? Are you trying to tell me something?”

I decided to get over it, shrug and move on. The answer would come. And really, it was small stuff. I was headed to Philly to a conference. Shortly after I arrived at my friend’s house, where I would be staying, she gave me a small box.

“Your late birthday gift,” she said. Inside, I found what has now become my new pair of everyday earrings.  (I wanted to show you a photo but I couldn’t get it attached. Shucks). The next day, I received another gift in the mail that I had forgotten about. It was a beautiful pair of earrings made by my childhood girlfriend Romenia.

I had a beloved bracelet given to me by another friend and that bracelet had broken. I asked Romenia to take the pieces and make me earrings. She made gorgeous earrings, each one a different shaped, large sliver of aqua colored stone with various metal and jewels  hanging. They were not a perfect match, which I love! I had forgotten that she was going to send them to me in Philly, so it was a pleasant surprise .

I had two new pairs of earrings! Then my hostess, my friend Earni, handed me another pair of unusual green, wooden earrings that she had bought for herself but discovered she didn’t like. I adore them. So in less than three full days, I had received three new pairs of earrings.

The Universe is perfect. It takes and it gives. That doesn’t mean it’s easy to let go or to “lose” what we hold dear to us.

This does not compare in any way, but I am reminded of a conversation with a friend the other day. His son passed away just over a week ago. I can’t imagine the pain. (I don’t think we are supposed to be able to imagine such.) My friend spoke to me about “letting go,” about how we become attached to things and yes, most assuredly to people, especially to our beloved children and family. And yet, he said he was trying to accept “letting go” of the physical part of his son. We spoke of all that his son left behind in the place of his physical self–the love, compassion, intelligence and much more he had spawned with his presence.

All you can do is hold onto your faith. Hold it close, always and pay attention because you can lose something and find that you can receive something else that in some way is even greater. Open your eyes wide to see; your ears to hear; your arms to embrace what comes. No doubt, some losses are much greater–harder– than others. In my case, I shrugged, let go and put out my hands. Friends filled my hands with more than what I thought I had lost.

That lovely sunny day In Philly she only talked about her vampire books. I was mesmerized. She could tell a good story, explain her life in a way that pulled you close. It was like older sista talking to younger ones.

I was struck that day by her effervesence but also by her love for her daughter. She was a single mom and so was I. She was driven to be successful by her love for her daughter and so was I.

I never saw her again after that day. I took the memory and wove it into my DNA. The memory of a passionate writer who loves her daughter. This is something lovely to hold onto. Which is why I cried when I heard about her death. She was so vibrant! But I thought: Oh my God , her daughter! I also thought about my friend Bebe Moore Campbell. The day I met Leslie I was standing in for Bebe, who died in 20006. She also graduated from Girls High. And for their annual reunion (I think it was. Or was it career day?), when alumns return to the school to talk, me and some of Bebe’s other girlfriends decided we would return there to represent her. Bebe was 56 when she died of brain cancer.

I thought of this irony when I heard of Leslie. Two sista girls, two powerful women authors; two vibrant, happy women who left behind beloved daughters as well as strangers to mourn them. Is it an African proverb that says something about keeping a person alive by speaking their name? I could have this sooo wrong, but I like the idea of it. I take turns whispering the names of my loved ones who are gone. I whisper “Bebe Moore Campbell” and smile. I whisper: “L.A. Banks” and I admit, I laugh because she wrote under several names. But I know God knows who I’m talking about. And I am keeping her alive.

A fund has been set up to pay for Leslie’s medical bills: