What’s Art Got to Do With It?

In light of events surrounding the culmination of Dave Chappelle's Netflix specials, I got to thinking about art and asked myself some questions. Is it as boundless as we pledge? Or is it contingent upon if everyone likes it?

By now, we should know that every form of art is subjective and hit or miss depending on the critic. There isn't an artist in the world that doesn't pour their hearts and souls into their work; I know this because I am one. It doesn't matter how minuscule or vast the project is. I cannot, WILL NOT half-ass it.

I may not have the latest gear and electronics or an ample number of followers on social media, but what I have and know now is more than enough to continue pursuing what I love to do, which is create. I'm an avid scholar, constantly evolving upon becoming introspective, so I am not saying that I haven't the desire to discover and accomplish more. In the end, I know I will and am doing what is in my power to reach my highest potential.

At any rate, the labor of love I feel for my babies [opuses] is infinite; like other artists, I can only hope that there'll be people out there that find me by divine direction and see the light and value in me and what I offer. However, there will be, and I am sure, has been already, individuals that have seen what I do and are not thoroughly impressed or moved by it.

That doesn't make me crumble as it did years ago because I know who I am and have every intention to keep being and doing me regardless of what others think. Another reason is that there is room in the end, not just for me but for all of us. It is impossible to satisfy everyone because everything is not for everybody. Artists are chefs with acquired flavors on our menu, and some folks won't like the taste; does it mean it's wretched? I don't think so; instead, it isn't for you.

Think about giving a bad review online after visiting a restaurant for the first time; how often does the restaurant close permanently? Hardly, right? And do you know why? Because there will always be curious passersby and loyal consumers that discern what you didn’t and enjoy visiting, viewing, listening, or experiencing whatever it is.

Art is its creator’s macrocosm! The only person qualified to say what does or doesn’t belong there is the maker himself. Several tourists may enter, but few will stay, and that few are all the creative needs; art is boundless, as its purpose is to produce emotion. Art should also make one think outside of their own spaces and consider the perspectives of others.

Finally, the higher road to take, yet harder for some, is to agree to disagree with the artist, those that understand him and MOVE ON. The amount of energy one often puts into rebuking another person could be the same energy they pour into themselves; turn the negative into a positive! And if you dare, be the change you’d like to see. Otherwise, shut the fuck up.

RESPECTFULLY.

Until the Next Opus,

THE BOX

While 90s nostalgic posts are imminent in this blog, the box I speak of today is not about music; on the one hand, it’s about the norm. As a Jupiter native, I’ve always been far from that, and for a good reason: it’s humdrum. For someone like me, monotony is tiring and uninspiring; it extinguishes the fire within, preventing me from functioning at my highest potential.

As 30 fastly approaches, I haven’t the time to operate below where I know I could be. In fact, that isn’t operating at all, but settling; settling in another person’s world, in another’s box, knowing good and well we don’t tick to their clock. We’re not in sync; therefore, we don't think similarly. Is this familiar to anyone other than me? Being among people who don’t get you but attempt to label you or play down what you do, making it seem simplistic.

On the other hand, if blundered, boxes can bind, block and box. They can prevent us from moving in our designed direction and can manifest as a multitude of things: emotions, thoughts, patterns, and even people if we let them. One can only keep Jack in a box for so long before he extracts and puts them on a shelf where they belong. So the key is to utilize and manage boxes properly.

On the road to recovery of any kind, recognizing a problem indicates that we are closer to healing than continued harm. Identify your box and your place with it; is it holding you? Or are you holding the box? If it’s holding you, extract, Jack! If you’re holding it, subtract! I mean acknowledging and decluttering; there’s no room for what we need in life the longer we hold on to things we don’t. It’s unhealthy and limiting because we cease to be our best when we don’t feel our best.

Toss out the irrelevant and irreparable; they only make the coming chapters on your journey harder and heavier; so, in the words of Badu, ‘…PACK LIGHT!’

Until the next opus,

Venus’s Top Se7en: Self-Care Patterns

Photo by Madison Inouye from Pexels

1. Prayer & Meditation

Photo by Clement Eastwood from Pexels

I begin my day with the acknowledgment of God because, in the beginning, there was only God, and I, you, and everything that was, is or will be, come from Him. As I grew, I understood that prayer is conversational, whether one is on their knees, seated upright, or standing. 

There are general things I give thanks about daily, such as life in general, family, health, wellness, and friendships. However, not every prayer begins and ends the same way, as it shouldn't because feelings change but coming to God as I am in the moment is how I approach prayer. 

If I rise in a good place and space, I say it, and if I do not, I say it; it's essential to be honest, period, and knowing that you cannot deceive yourself or the Creator, why lie or deny thought or feeling? I find that realness is realignment.  

I express gratitude and praise to the Most High God throughout my day because He deserves that and more! Nothing I ever do will be enough, but I am grateful that He accepts my efforts. 

I look at meditating as a way of listening for the voice of God; I usually bask in silence or ambient sounds after prayer because, following a period of speaking to the Creator, I must be still long enough for Him to talk to me. Again, prayer is conversational! And it is impossible to listen if one is speaking. 

I had to practice this because I used to finish praying, move on with the day, and wonder why I didn't hear from Him. Of course, our solutions don't always come when we want them, but in His time, whether we're praying, meditating, or not. So, no matter where I begin and end my prayer, I don't occupy myself with anything in the minutes that come for that reason. 

I also enjoy meditation because the presence of God is the only perfect setting; there is no feeling like being there! The reconnecting to His spirit truly is the fullness of joy and peace and love, all of which come from Him. 

2. Creating

Photo by Suzy Hazelwood from Pexels

My opuses involve writing, video production, and performing arts, specifically mime. I don't think a day goes by without my doing at least one of these things; I'm always writing something, be it a poem, blog post, an outline for a video, a script, or ideas for all of the above! 

I've learned there's often a blurred line regarding passion and purpose; some things we are passionate about may not be a part of our purposes. And that our purposes are the things that don't allow us to function without them; that's what writing, mime, and filmmaking are to me! 

I learn a lot about myself in developing my craft in each area, and I love discovering what I wasn't aware existed previously. I consider myself a writer and mime that uses filmmaking as a vehicle to get my voice in other places. I love filmmaking from a visual and storytelling perspective; writing, too, is visible and tells a story, of course, and so can mime. Some of my videos are toward the bottom of the homepage of this site. Check it out, if you haven’t already. More is coming!

3. Reading

Photo by lilartsy from Pexels

Although a writer, I can't say that I ever considered myself a bookworm until 2020. If my laptop's monitor were a skillet, my eyes would be eggs, sunny side up. Other than give my peepers a break from the strain, I took it upon myself to make reading a lifestyle because I felt something missing that I hoped to find, maybe not directly within the pages of a book, but within myself just by making that adjustment. 

The more I read, the better I would feel from a cognitive standpoint; the more I read, the more challenging it became to close a book. I'd tell myself, 'one more chapter,' and three or four chapters later, I was still reading. I made a habit of highlighting words with which I was unfamiliar and learning their definitions after I finished the book.

Doing that instilled a desire to learn at least a word a day; on the days I'd procrastinate, I'd teach myself an additional term to make up for the days I missed. While I do not know every benefit of reading daily, I feel the difference when I do and don't. I know other writers that do not like to read and do not often; while I understand some of their reasons, it’s been beneficial for me.

4. Singing

Photo by freestocks.org from Pexels

I started singing as a preteen in the shower, like most people. But in doing it, I felt better. I have been singing ever since; these days, I’ve been challenging myself to sing some of my favorite songs differently than they were recorded. As mentioned in my second blog post, The Leonine Lyricist, I am experimenting with music and my poetry, so one day, I’ll sing either an original song for you or my interpretation of a favorite. I encourage everyone that’s inclined to sing. It mitigates stress, enhances mental health and communication, and just feels good, so as Karen Carpenter said, ‘don’t worry that it’s not good enough for anyone else to hear, just sing a song!’ 

5. Dancing

Photo by Wendy Wei

I’ve got rhythm, I’ve got music, but I’m no Lola Falana! That doesn’t stop me from doing my two-step when the music’s too good to sit through. And it shouldn’t stop you, either. I have a love/hate relationship with exercise; I’ll do it consistently for weeks or months and then stop but complain when my ass-cheeks give me a round of applause every time I run up the stairs! I prefer fitness that doesn’t feel like exercise, and dance does not feel like it. 

Granted, mime is movement and similar to dance, depending on the approach, but before I go to bed at night, I’ll put on some of my favorite songs and jump around my room like House of Pain meets Kriss Kross, Van Halen, and The Pointer Sisters. A half-hour is usually the time frame I give myself, and sometimes, I’ll dance longer and not even realize how much time went by. It’s just another way of integrating movement in my daily life. My butt and I are happier now. 

6. Driving

Photo by Taras Makarenko

Despite getting a citation and into a few collisions within my first two years of licensed driving, I still love being behind the wheel. Don’t worry! The collisions I speak of were minor, and only one of them involved another car; every other time, it was me and nature nearly becoming one. ‘But GOD,’ as my church folks say, covered me, and I drove away without harming myself or anything else. 

I could drive forever and wherever! I’m quick to catch some vitamin D via caplet, then sunlight in the mornings, and cruise the streets in the evenings. One of my favorite nights spent on the road was after the rain, listening to Miles Davis’s Portia, seeing signs and traffic lights of all colors reflecting in puddles and wet pavement. The breeze was cooler than Thalmus Rasulala, or better yet, Bernie Casey; driving is therapeutic and introspective! 

Se7en. Chillaxin’

Photo by Mo from Pexels

I’ve had to tell myself not to confuse rest and procrastination; I used to delay projects quite a bit for reasons of fear, rejection, or laziness. Since I snapped out of stagnation and pedaled the metal regarding soul-based projects, I used to feel guilty whenever I grew tired from completing tasks, even if I spent the entire day on them. 

It took me a while to stop pushing through exhaustion and irritating myself in the process; I identified when I had the most energy in the day and scheduled my tasks accordingly. Sometimes, I am still productive beyond those hours, and other times, I am not. 

But when I sense that butting head and brick wall feeling, I step away or stop altogether. By nightfall, when not driving around, I'll kick back in the Solar System (my room) under string lights with a meal and chill, streaming Netflix, Prime, YouTube, or Hulu. Other times, music, if not old school, genres such as lo-fi, vaporware, synth wave, or retro set the vibemosphere. 

And a little Bob Ross or OG Twilight Zone episodes never fail, either. Just as I permit myself to rise and grind, and I allow myself to recline because it's required, and I earned it. 

Until the next opus,

Black Suede

Reminiscences of my father, Stephen Shon. Happy early birthday, Daddy! I will love you always.

September 4, 1963 - June 7, 2017

Mommy & Daddy’s wedding day; she drew first blood and smeared him in the face with cake.

Don’t worry, he got her back!

Photo by Marvin Mixon [RIP]

June 1994

Five-foot-nine inches, one-hundred-thirty-nine pounds, a size nine and a half shoe, but your feet were bigger. I was so proud when I, too, grew to that number, but later learned that in men's, I was two sizes too small.

I am semi-tall thanks to you; you and that crooked smile peeking through a beard—full, like the moon in a dark sky—color. I had your gap in my teeth until it closed when the baby ones split and took it with them; I was sixteen.

Sixteen on the day, I yelled from the bathroom, asking Mom where the gap had gone; she laughed at me and said, ‘To the mall.’ I never told you. 

A Virgo sunrise, brother number four, you crushed my uncles in looks and was far too bright for books; the bird’s nest on your chest, only-dude-in-the-‘90s-with-a-shag, and slanted neck to match the tipped hat. O, the effortless swag!

Funny. I never smelled the beer in your whiskers nor the smoke on your kisses; you repelled them somehow, breaking science but never a sweat, not even the time you took off and ran with us kids down the driveway in your white Nike socks and fisherman sandals.

We laughed among ourselves, and Mom shook her head; you chased away the monsters hiding under my bed, then let her sleep to spend time with me in the wee small hours. 

At breakfast, you were a thief, snatching bacon from the plate before Mom finished cooking. My stomach groaned like my voice on the mornings you dressed us for school — pulling the stockings around my chest and snapping my chin with coat buttons.

‘Don’t play with the weather,’ you’d say on colder days—tying our scarves like nooses; we were hardly sick. ‘But we wanted to be,’ I thought as I dove from the car, ‘because then, we’d have a reason to wrap up so tightly!’

Kid logic.

You did the darnedest things. While Mommy combed our hair, you raked the fringe on the ends of our floor rug with your fingers, on your hands and knees until each one laid straight. The unorthodox eulogist, you flushed our fish down the toilet without a word when they died in the aquarium. I’d have settled for a hymn and a hole in the backyard where we played hide-and-seek one night.

You were it and counted in the front; your voice bounced like a ball, as big and deep as a waterfall. The fireflies were your guides; I used your heavy feet to hear how far you were from me, hiding in a garage we hardly ever opened.

Silence…

But the crickets lost the memo; your white shirt gleamed—your cigarette burned a hole in the dark…

“…Olly, Olly oxen-free….” you said.

I could barely keep from blowing raspberries and was relieved I didn't have to pee.

Although, at seven, I wasn’t so lucky. Or was I six when the house cracked in two, and I lived here, and you lived there? I’d sit and stare at your reflection heavy on my face, carved ever so deeply no man can erase. In part, you gave me this forehead, these eyebrows, and lips; your left hand to write with and play a guitar upside down as if my last name was Hendrix.

But my feet are prettier; you had talons, yet you danced a hole in every floor and circles around couples with Mommy when you weren’t dancing by yourself in the mirror. You’re so vain, and I’d probably say Carly’s song was about you; only you were nine at the time of its release and didn’t own an apricot scarf.

But you dressed in white with Black Suede notes sprinkled on your clothes. I loved your hugs—not only for the embrace, but the trace of your cologne in my heart of hearts was home.

You never knew, but amid squeezes, I’d inhale deeply with my head nestled in your chest followed by a smile with closed eyes—like the last time I saw you.

And when I opened them again,

you were gone…

Until the next opus,

Venus’s Top Se7en: Songs to Start My Day

1. Sun Goddess - Ramsey Lewis feat. Earth, Wind, & Fire

DIVINE: this is the only word I can think of to describe Sun Goddess; written by the incomparable Maurice White of Earth, Wind & Fire, this flawless composition is how I imagine Heaven sounding. Known for their eclecticism and spirituality, EWF were kings of wordless, catchy vocals; one of the many reasons I adore Sun Goddess is because the "lyrics" sound like chanting or some sacred language only the divine and ascended masters understand. It's like a prayer or a call to the Creator, and the last long note sung by Philip Bailey is a reaction to His response to us, His children. This song makes me feel like the sun is penetrating and overwhelming me, or it's clothing me in its splendor and glory, much like being in the presence of God Himself.

2. Today - Erykah Badu

Praise our Most High God for Jill Scott and Erykah Badu's VERZUZ "battle" for a multitude of reasons, one of which is that I probably would have died without hearing Badu's Today otherwise. Immediately, I wondered where the hell I was in 2001 when she initially recorded this gem, but then when I didn't see it among the list of songs on any Erykah CDs I did have at the time, I became less hard on myself. Today is very much a vibe; I often lay flat on my back, let my legs and Timberlands hang over my head, and get lost in the imagery. Badu's voice is a morning whisper that welcomes and appeals to familiar and unacquainted ears.

3. SULA (paperback) - Jamila Woods

I've been on the Jamila train ever since discovering her debut album HEAVN; she's a kindred soul, although we don't know each other. I love her ability to speak about historical events and people in an original way; I can't recall which version of Sula I heard first, but there's a softness in my heart for the paperback; the other is known as the hardcover. Initially, Justin Canavan's trickling guitar and Jamila's poetry entwined themselves around me as fervently as the hot honey water I sipped on the many mornings I listen to this song.

Sula [paperback] reminds me of the healing each new day grants us; it reminds me of moving onward in whatever way one must. Although Toni Morrison's novel of the same name inspired Jamila's works, in this case, I have yet to read Sula, and my thoughts on what she means could be mistaken. I do have the book on my shelf; however, one dope, Black author at a time; right now, I am rereading Baldwin. Below, I’ve included both versions of Sula just because.

4. Everybody Loves the Sunshine - Roy Ayers

If I could securely sit on my rooftop, head to toe in yellow, with a stereo and companion at any given moment the sun is out, Everybody Loves the Sunshine would be one of the first songs I'd play. This is a subtle head-nodding, sipping on soda or something heavier, sunflower seed, potato chip, or rib-eating, kickback groove. I’d like to pause for the cause and give the living legend, Roy Ayers, his“bees and thangs and flowers.” I love your music.

5. Feeling Good - Nina Simone

I feel especially fiery when Nina's voice creeps into my ears, as it did one morning after prayer and meditation. Feeling Good often reminds me of a day similar to the iconic tangerine sky book cover for Dr. Maya Angelou's I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. I envision that I am, in fact, that blackbird on the surface, or free bird, "dipping its wing in the orange sun rays, daring to claim to the sky." An alacrity awakens when I hear this song, and our energies feed off each other; it's like Nina's voice crescendos the entire time and is the sun, and when she rises, so do I. When she's ready, I'm ready, and I can take on anything. In the end, when she says, 'freedom is mine,' and begins to scat and riff, she puts autonomy in her pocket and owns herself without apology, which is empowering, inspiring, and very much my attitude.

6. Tomorrow - The Brothers Johnson

One morning last year, I threw a random playlist together and went for a walk in a sauna suit, as one often does in Florida; eventually, Tomorrow began to play, which I recognized from Quincy Jones's '89 classic album, Back On The Block. However, this original wordless track was written and performed by The Brothers Johnson thirteen years before, and I couldn't believe I wasn't familiar with it until that day. Q produced the original, but his cover consisted of a children's choir and featured vocalist Tevin Campbell, who angelically articulated the exceptional lyrics composed by Siedah Garrett. While Q's Tomorrow is indisputable, I enjoy the original best because it is just as effective at its bare-bones. The nuances are candied and vibrant; the flute is like a friend leading me by the hand to dream in which I experience all of what tomorrow could be, not just for me but for everybody. RIP Thunder Thumbs [Louis Johnson!]

Se7en. I Can See Clearly Now - Johnny Nash

A universal pick, I can't ever recall a time where this song did not lift my heart and spirit; even in the face of cloudy days, I Can See Clearly Now is like a quick shot of serotonin or the wind in my sails that push my arms side to side like branches. It brings tears to my eyes, especially toward the end when Johnny holds that long note, 'nothing but blue skies!' I was sad to learn he died a few months ago; I hope he's encircled by endless bright, sunshiny days and just as much blue sky on the other side.

Until the Next Opus,

To Be or Not to Be Me…

To be or not to be me? That is the question; self-doubt pulled up a chair and made itself at home in my life during sixth grade. Sporting sweatsuits, jersey dresses, and sneakers most days, I was in the crosshairs of a few classmates and loyal customers of Babyphat. The hairs on their heads, relaxed and flat-ironed, while mine defied gravity with twist-outs and Bantu knots, unknowingly making my egun proud. I was quiet, played basketball, got recognition for my academic achievements, and had occasional acne; apparently, I was a perfect candidate for the Ridiculed Every Day Award.

In a year’s long hail of verbal gunfire, I developed amnesia and lost my sense of self. All there was to know was that my peers were right about me, so I thought; I was an ugly, awkward, weird nerd with nappy hair, and I didn't care to fight back a lot because it hurt too much, and the internal bleeding left me critical in thinking and condition. When I wasn’t avoiding mirrors or contemplating suicide, I wondered what it was like to be somebody else...anybody else; a natural daydreamer, I envisioned being in the shoes of notable people that inspired me.

For a time, I felt better but knew this wasn’t a remedy, although it seemed to be the only way to happiness. The further I ventured in my imagination, the longer I remained at square one in reality. But deep down, I knew I was anything but square, and that average is my antithesis; there was much burning inside me that had to come out, yet I continued suppressing myself out of fear of rejection. Then I had an epiphany: to be someone else is not to be yourself; it sounds so simple, right?

But at the time, it was complex for me, and it took years of self-suffocation to realize I was the only one hurting because I adamantly denied myself the right to be who I had been all along. I am different from, not better than, everybody else, and I love it! I must admit that a few things my peers said in those days were correct: I am nerdy, an anomaly among Black people, proudly atypical, and only awkward in awkward situations. Sixth grade was certainly an awkward situation, but in the years that followed, I flourished with the faithful and made allies who were also eccentric and off the wall.

These days, I’m mostly flying solo because of life and propinquities, which have my dear friends and me in different seasons and paths; I will always love and support those with whom I grew closest but refuse to count the days between conversations and meet-ups. Instead, I practice self-care with prayer, meditation, reading, writing, and all other fun, healing, and creative pursuits in which I partake that don’t necessarily require the company of others. Although companionship is a necessity, I do not regret the time spent alone; it was there when I realized that everything I wanted to be was already inside of me, awaiting the moment I reached discovery.

Denying oneself is a slap in the face of our Creator because, in essence, we are telling Him that He made a mistake in our forming when really, our self-perceptions are amiss. No one can tell us what we are when we see ourselves the way we are supposed to, which is how God intended.

To be or not to be me?

Without question!

Until the next opus,

Lost

Photo by Johannes Plenio

While people do not agree on everything, I think we can unanimously admit that life is full of ambiguities. We are not always clear on where we should go or what we should do, and our uncertainties engender lostness. “Where do I go from here,” you ask; my answer is quite simple, and that is, NOWHERE!

This was a revelation Most High gave me this past Sunday, and the more I pondered, the more sense it made. When one is doubtful, one must stand still. That confusion comes not from God but ourselves; we are not listening to the Divine when we lack clarity, and we must be clear to see. In other words, it is possible to have vision without sight.

Imagine wanting to go somewhere without direction; how on Earth will you reach your destination? There’s always driving around, hoping to get there on a whim, which can happen, but not nearly enough to take that chance each time. Now, not only are you angry and wandering, but you are wasting time and energy. The alternative is to remain where you are until you are sure of how to arrive at your goal. Consider this metaphor the next time you feel lost.

Recall situations you could have avoided had you just stayed where you were or waited. Sometimes we travel far longer than we have to because we are so anxious to move, without realizing that not all movement is productive. The next question we should ask ourselves is, are we going in the right direction at all?

Where we want to go is not always where we are supposed to be, and therefore, we tire ourselves between the hard knocks, roadblocks, and detours. Meanwhile, God waits for us to remove our feet from the pedal and heed His signals for proper instruction and direction. It isn't always easy, and no, we, including me, have not always stopped and listened, but the braking is inevitable when we get enervated and run out of gas.

It is much better to slow to a stop on your own than collide with avoidable circumstances due to slapdash behavior. Life is a journey, not a race; what is for you belongs only to you. You needn’t run, only proceed purposefully.

Until the next opus,

The Leonine Lyricist

Father Daze

Another day, another replay

of your death;

punch one-thousand-

four hundred-sixty has landed

and I don't feel a thing.

I know that I love you,

but half of my heart no

longer bleeds because the

need is gone;

upon departure,

you took the dawn.

Lights out.

I shout internally,

four years is an eternity;

this storm is the norm and

I see no end nor a rainbow bend

above me.

You said you loved me

at the end of each call,

now I don't recollect

the last time I heard you tell me;

punch a thousand-

four hundred-sixty-one.

And by the way, June hates me

because every year, I forget its third

Sunday and demand it repeals

the seventh day, but it arrives

anyway like an unwanted guest,

or death itself.

So, I stumble each 24 hours

with power only to lie in

the darkness of my bed where the

new summer sun

can't find or comfort me;

and I refrain from burdening those

children and their families

celebrating fathers while

I mourn mine

and wonder how long before

my flesh falls from me that

our spirits embrace

and meet again,

never to depart...

this time.

© Copyright Venus Se7en

Until the next opus,

Water Walkers

Photo by Venus Se7en

I ended Memorial Day weekend on the nearest beach with my favorite travel companion: Mommy. We broke a record lying seaside for sixteen hours in two days, warming our cocoa beaned bodies in the morning sun. The breeze, a kiss from Mother Nature herself as our sanded toes ambled to the tide. I love that 'edge of the earth' sense I get when visiting beaches. My curious mind questions the propinquity of Poseidon in the awaiting ocean or how far beyond the horizon would one see the hand of Atlas cupping this microcosm. We mistake Earth to be larger than it is, just as we sometimes overinflate our existence. Still, we are two-legged critters compared to the Divine and Ascended Masters, no different in their eyes from those smaller beings we often crush on the soles of our shoes. We are all God's creations.

There are only two fish in our immediate family, and my mother and I are neither one. This girl, in particular, can seasonally float, but I love the water, go as deep as my shoulders, and jump as many waves that come. Mommy and I verbalized our gratefulness for life, love, kinship, health, and gifts between us amid high tides and laughter. I remarked how clear the water was that day before noticing a peculiar shape at my feet: the first step in a series of stairs. Yes, stairs in the ocean, not of wood, concrete, or steel, but sand.

I couldn’t see the end of this irregular structure, so I began ascending it; I pointed it out to my mother, who hadn't yet looked below her waist to see what I did. She insisted that she wouldn't follow behind me but changed her mind as I got further away; I heard a gasp over my shoulder, and when I turned around, Mommy looked me square in my eyes, saying only two words: “Old Souls.” The book cover of my first poetry collection depicts a female painted in my likeness in all white walking on water, reflecting starlight, symbolizing her ancestors. And there I was on Memorial Day: shin-deep in an ocean, elevated by soil in the form of stairs. I might also add that my bathing suit was white; this was unplanned!

I faced the ocean once more, opened my arms, and proceeded ahead; eventually, Mommy caught up with me, and in astonishment, the pair of us looked in each direction as far as we could see and noticed no other people standing ankle-high on the water. We fell to our knees and gave thanks to the Creator, who has many names and appearances, one of which was a carpenter that said He was the way, the truth, and the life. The "Son-Shine" that watches us like the sparrow we sang about in Sunday school as children, never to forsake or leave us alone.

We believed this to be an anomaly yet designed for us to discover, so we immersed ourselves in the sea, holding hands; once above the surface again, my vision was a kaleidoscope of saltwater and sunlight. For the first time in nearly a year, I was unhappy with my phone upgrade. Unlike my previous device, this 90s Zenith TV remote control-looking receiver was not water-friendly, and I wouldn't dare risk running to the sand and back for my phone and get massacred by a wave upon arrival. Besides, by then, our fingers pruned like raisins, and Mother Nature's kiss in the wind was now a slap, so we wandered to the nearest restaurant for brunch and warmth.

At high noon, we unraveled the coral from our legs in the brine that billowed with celerity; our anchored limbs and lead bellies made leaping impossible, borderline nauseating. We were close enough to the sandbar, yet the sea level clambered; we couldn't go far this time, because although we entered the water from the same direction as before, that stairway to heaven washed away, and we knew we wouldn't see it again...at least not for a while.

Until the next opus,