What a blast I had at the recent convention of Black Nurses Rock in Biloxi, Mississippi. I was invited to give a morning welcome address and the conference’s closing keynote, something I have done quite a few times for various organizations. But there were some elements that made this event especially exceptional.
Maybe it was the revelations from the first accusations against Harvey Weinstein, or the release of the president’s “grab ‘em by the pussy” recording. But sometime in the last two years, I decided to write down every time I could remember being sexually assaulted, threatened, or harassed. I started in single digit childhood and counted nearly two dozen instances by the time I stopped counting at age 35.
As soon as I saw the commercials for this new network comedy, Bob Hearts Abishola, I was intrigued. Truth be told, I did not hold out much hope that this sitcom would authentically depict the lives of immigrant Nigerians in America without succumbing to culturally ignorant stereotypes and dumbed-down dialogue. That seems to be the general way of sitcoms.
If you’ve ever taken a dance, exercise or yoga class, you know what is meant by the core. Or perhaps you just think you do. Since the start of 2020 I’ve been taking twice weekly private yoga instruction. 10 sessions in, and I can already see the difference. And it’s not just the yoga. My wellness intention encompasses many other elements – meditation, journaling, massage, acupuncture, eliminating sugar and white flour, taking supplements, and drinking more water on a regular basis.
This morning I was reveling in my morning practice and how it was rescuing me from “the simmer.” What’s that? It’s the slow, low burn of toxic emotions like frustration, discouragement, worry and criticism that I wake up with quite often. It’s not a bonfire, consuming all the air and light. Most days it’s, well, simmering, like a pot of something quietly bubbling on the back burner of the cook top.
It hit me like a dull thud in the chest. Then the sharp thrust at the sudden surprising loss, followed by roiling crescendo of grief for his family. That’s how the news of the deaths of Kobe Bryant and his young daughter Gianna felt. It’s because he was so young, and she was a child. It’s because we could all imagine the moments of terror preceding the crash of the helicopter.
One of the wonderful things about living in New York City is that you can get practically anything delivered. Got home too late to start cooking dinner? Order in. No washing machine in your apartment or laundry room in your building? The laundromat down the street will send someone to pick up your dirty clothes, wash them, fold them, and bring them back.
I LOVE LISTS! l delight in writing down all of the tasks I have to do in the day. It helps relieve my memory and enhances my peace of mind. When I’ve got it together enough to do it the night before, it helps to insure a good night’s sleep. Otherwise I wake up in the middle of the night, fretting about something I don’t want to forget.
I’ll bet you’re already sick of all the talk about resolutions (to keep, or not to keep), and how to strategically plan your week, your year, your business, your life. The diet folks and fitness centers have been gunning for you to sign up since Thanksgiving. They’re literally banking on you to start January with a surge of ambition, only to peter out by March.