Dear Readers,

If you’ve ever been tubing, attached to the back of a speed boat you will know this feeling. You’re on the ridge of the wake, high up, you have to hold on extra tight. You don’t know whether your tube is going to slide to the left or fall to the right but it’s imminent. It’s like waiting for a balloon to pop or that feeling when you’re about to fall into cold water or rip a wax strip off your arm pit. It’s purgatory. The change is pending. This is where I am right now with my writing. I’m on the brink of a change and it’s time to slide left or fall right.

Thank you for being here, whether once or 104 times. The amount of love and support I’ve received for these pieces in the past two years has been incredible. It has buoyed me through immense anxiety at the start and most recently, through familial weirdness and unexpected life-altering sadness, through the forced patience of IVF. It’s helped me to speak things on the computer keyboard I couldn’t figure out how to say out loud, whether to myself, to anyone, to one of my girls. I’ve tried to be funny, I’ve tried to be emotive, I’ve tried to be helpful. I’ve planned how to help my most-challenged girls, I’ve pondered the arrival of my niece, I’ve spoken to family and I’ve spoken to strangers. I’ve attempted to garner more help for my beloved Baltimore. While writing these, I have both laughed at my own thoughts and cried at my own heart.

My next venture is to take some of this writing and to try to self-publish a book. Would you read it, even if you’ve already read it here? This is me, putting this down on paper, that I will work toward a book. Accountability.

Now, I still have this domain (I just paid to re-up for another year) and I want to actively write new things so I will aim to post at least once per month, always on a Friday. If you have a guest blog you’d like to post, please reach out!

So, thank you for your support. Below are some of my favorites in case you were late to the party or are looking for something to do on your work computer, other than work. Please, as always, comment, share, spread! I love having you readers and as humans in this world.

So much love to you,

Amandy

 

Dichotomy (yoga + West Baltimore)

Five Strangers Walk into a Bar (written by Shar)

A Hard Thing We’re Not Supposed to Talk About (IVF)

Ms. Renee Means Peace (Renee Buettner)

Dear Baltimore (a letter to the flawed city I love)

That Karaoke Singer from Hon Bar (about Bobby Ray, astronomer, numerologist, karaoke singer)

Perspective: Baltimore/Amandy (photos)

Anxiety and the Advice I’m Not Legally Qualified to Give (anxiety and healing)

Paint Baltimore Kind (ways to help Baltimore’s peeps and streets)

The Rose that Grew From Concrete (a Dear Young Lady letter)

Dear Niecephew Part II (a letter to Emma, when I didn’t know she was Emma)

Two Months is Not Enough (Dear Young Lady letter)

Humans of Hampden (photos)

A Modest Proposal: Compulsory Teaching (my idea of a societal advancement)

Be a Doer/Dreamer Like Erricka Bridgeford (about leader of Baltimore Ceasefire)

30 for 30 (30 thoughts near my 30th birthday)

Let There BMore Love (ways to help Baltimore)

Dear Young Lady (yes, another one)

Everything I Shouldn’t Have Known When I Was a Kid, I Learned from Seinfeld (implied)

To Gram, Mary Lou Lucskowski Lutz Papa James (a letter to my grandmother)

The World is Too Much With Us (commentary on the absurdity of the 21st century)

The Local’s Guide to Baltimore (what to do in Charm City)

Reinvention (repurposing of all kinds)

Welcome to Hampden, Hon: Old, Weird, Fancy (a present and past guide to my neighborhood)

A Sense of Place (being there, there)

Gratitude (no eye rolls)

An Urban Education Wishlist (what I want for our schools)

A Week in White Girl Hair (when all in one week I had cornrows, let my kids cut my hair in my classroom, and donated 12 inches to Pantene Beautiful Lengths)

 

When you walk through the garden
You gotta watch your back
Well I beg your pardon
Walk the straight and narrow track
If you walk with Jesus
He’s gonna save your soul
You gotta keep the devil
Way down in the hole

“Way Down in the Hole” by Tom Waits, theme song of The Wire

Thank you, Dichotomy. Thank you for the reminder that the world is not all one way. I appreciate the way you show up, just when I need you. Like a shower after a day of sweaty exercise and dusty cleaning, or an email from an uncle who sees the world through a completely different lens, a smoothie after too many French fries, a dark political podcast and followed by an episode of Schitt’s Creek.

The world is so full of contrasts that help illuminate that which is sometimes hard to see. There are times when I can’t see what is right in front of me, until I spot the opposite. For example, I do not appreciate my health, until I get sick. It takes the scary depths of a stomach bug to realize that almost every day I feel absolutely great.

You don’t realize you’re surrounded by noises, until you hear nothing at all. When you drive over a series of steel plates laid out like crooked teeth, you see that most of the roads are paved smooth. Maybe you don’t notice how gray winter was until spring green fills in the skyline.

Running once a week in West Baltimore with Back on My Feet and my team (Bad Ass Penn North) makes this sensation of dichotomy more apparent. The sights in West Baltimore can implode the notion that everyone has it as good as you do. Empty houses and buildings, the intermittent smell of urine, crunching glass underfoot. Street lights out for months, discarded food vessels, construction equipment deposited in front of peoples’ homes, cigarette butts and needle remnants. Black plastic bags and signs of white flight. Splintered window panes and weeds reclaiming sidewalk tiles. Bus fumes swirl past half broken benches. Forgotten cats slink by, tails curled under their skinny bodies, as they dart through peeling retread tires and pieces of an old bike. Red and blue lights bounce off all structures where the Avenue meets North, constantly piercing the end of the night at 5 a.m., a reminder that you are being watched. You may be anonymous but you will not go unseen. A cop under those lights flicks through his phone, his brain in some place other than right here in West Baltimore–a spot large swaths of our city, state, country, and world, have determined is forsaken, for good.

But yes, Dichotomy, you’ve got me again. Today is the fourth anniversary of Freddie Gray’s murder. Has much about West Baltimore changed since then? Since the night of April 27, 2015 when I sat shaking in Aubrey’s living room as we clicked back and forth from the news to The Little Mermaid, attempting to hold the book club meeting we knew couldn’t really happen, what with our city burning? Back then, I wasn’t in the pattern of driving Over West much, unless it was to my mom’s school or to the Mondawmin Target (R.I.P.). I didn’t have kids I picked up and took places, didn’t have my running team, no yoga classes or people I knew. It felt at the same time right down the street and lightyears away. And now that I go to West Baltimore often, I feel more in that memory of her distance–like I’ve added to something that’s from my past. Because in between the despair, the dilapidation, the crumbles and sighs and the lack of investment, I see a collection of neighborhoods teeming with life and loveliness. People mostly doing their best, or what they’ve learned or been told is their best.

Singer Billie Holiday’s open mouth next to an image of writer Ta-Nehisi Coates, intricately layered on a brick wall. Billie’s got a pink flower in her hair. Murals of history and of hope. Tiny gardens inside repurposed Goodyears. Knee-high fences and fresh spring plantings. Rowhouses splashed with crayon colors. Babies and mommas and morning greetings. Bird nests on window sills and hundred-year-old spires topping attic windows. Kids in school uniforms and year-round strings of lights. Basketballs bouncing and “No Shoot Zone #123.” Kids and adults swinging in the playground. Recycling bins, churches, and schools named for figures in civil rights. Parks, green space, and porch lights switched on. Marble stoops preserved for decades adorned with flower pots. I see small businesses, both store front and street corner. Brick and mortar beauty shops and young hands slinging cool bottles of water for a buck at a red light. Spots people forgot and those some are just starting to remember. Pride and careful paintings and people going to work before the sun does. A driver yells a name from car windows to a walker nearby and their faces collapse into matching smiles.

On Wednesday night I attended a Core Power continuing education training. It was four hours long in a sterile studio with fake wood floors, dim lights, and forty-ish people all white but one black man and two Asian girls. We received a printed packet containing  photos of skeletons and muscles and several grammatical errors. The presenter included messages about how to speak about postures, how to set a universal intention, how to make a shorter surya namaskar B, and several tips the following phrases were repeated (among others): “point your hip tips down,” “filling your diaphragm,” and “the natural curve of your low back.” Some people showed off their knowledge of the sagittal plane or kyphosis or hip dips. We were told not to plan sequences at home–the subtext being, “We will not pay you for work you do outside the studio.” The leader of the workshop called us “team” because “guys,” often a default, sends the wrong message. She rattled off questions to which the answer was always yes. “Does your theme matter?” (Yes.) “Is it important to work the entire core?” (Yes.) “Do you eat spinach?” (I’m kidding…but yes.) I get it. It’s a corporation. It’s a yoga training for a large national company. None of this doesn’t make sense. But, the older I get, the more dichotomy I see, and I am having a harder and harder time with minutia.

On Thursday night, I taught a yoga class to members of my BoMF team. We practiced in a field on a random concrete platform next to a chipping mural of figures from black history. Before we started, we picked up two bags of trash including several pieces of very stale bread which could only be described as rat food at this point. After we cleared our space, we set up my motley crew of yoga mats I’ve gathered by donation. Two elementary aged girls asked if they could join us, which was an emphatic yes and a pair of women who live nearby hopped in too. We were 9 yogis practicing in the sunshine in a field in West Baltimore, across from a community resource center that houses people in recovery. Kids ran the basketball court across the field and the playground was full too. Members of Penn North stood across the street and watched us flow–maybe wanting to join in. Life continued around us, a helicopter circled over head, and people did what they do on Thursday afternoon, arrived home from work, rode by on motorcycles, walked through with a waving toddler.

These two “yoga” experiences offered such a great dichotomy. “Yoga” means to unite–but which night offered the greater example of uniting?

On Thursday night, my breath cues weren’t perfect, you could barely hear the music from my portable speaker, I never mentioned hip tips (I don’t even really know what that means), and the soles of my feet wore dirt socks, but it was beautiful.

Thank you, Dichotomy, for all that you teach me. At the end of both nights, we all said namaste at the end but only on Thursday do I think we all truly agreed that, “The light in me sees the light in you.”

 

 

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. Your playing small does not serve the world.

There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine as children do. It’s not just in some of us; it is in everyone. And as we let our own lights shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.

As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

— Marianne Williamson

Surely you have seen Coach Carter. How about Akeelah and the Bee? In a somewhat strange choice by Samuel L. Jackson in 2005 and another by Laurence Fishburne in 2006, these men starred/co-starred in really what are both children’s movies. Don’t get me wrong–I own AatB. Aside from being kids’ movies, these films have another thing in common: Marianne Williamson (above). While I cannot figure out which version of her quote is the correct one, I choose the one up top. And what this makes me think of, is this blog. Not this one, but this blog, generally.

Having written weekly for nearly two full years, I am almost stunned by myself. I know me. I can clean a tub, three toilets, and weed an entire backyard in two hours if it means I can avoid doing something that advances my personal goals. I could make it through my whole closet, make a pile of give-away clothes, and switch out summer and winter attire, all before submitting a piece to a literary journal. I get some deep-seeded satisfaction from completing tasks that do not directly lead to my self-fulfillment. I’m not here seeking pats on the back. Quite the contrary, I am here to say that if I can do it, you can do it. What “it” is, I’m not sure. It is totally up to you.

I completed my MA in Writing in May 2015 and then did not write again for 23 months. I was scared. I was afraid of myself. What if I mussed up what I had already written? (Not actually possible. It was already written.) What if I got rejected? (I did.) What if they took away my thesis award? (They wouldn’t even know how.) What if I sounded stupid? (I often do.) What if, if?

The writing degree. It says you can…write? But does it say you will write?

When I got my life back together, I figured it out. You simply need to get out of your own way. Which, as this article says, you do not sacrifice who you are, you do not pretend your baggage doesn’t exist, you simply see through it, like a fruit snack, not the milky ones. Your baggage is part of your view but you go on anyway.  You see through the cherry color.

According to Dennis Palumbo writing for Psychology Today,

“From my perspective, a creative artist who invites all of who he or she is into the mix—who sits down to work engulfed in “stuff,” yet doesn’t give these thoughts and feelings a negative connotation; who in fact strives to accept and integrate whatever thoughts and feelings emerge—this artist has truly gotten out of his or her own way.

From this standpoint, it’s only by labeling a thought or feeling as either good or bad, productive or harmful, that you’re actually getting in your own way. Restricting your creative flow.

Getting out of your own way means being with who you are, moment to moment, whether you like it or not. Whether or not it’s easy or comfortable, familiar or disturbing. And then creating from that place.”

It took me putting my own insecurities aside, my own fear, my own self doubt. It doesn’t mean I got rid of those things, they are here. But I go on anyway. I write anyway. Maybe, partially, or entirely, because I told you I would. For some absurd collection of reasons, on April 21, 2017, I said “I will post on Fridays.”

This is the same way I ran a marathon–twice. I signed up…and I told people I’d do it. I created my own accountability partners, by knowing my own shame would be strong enough to keep me going.

So, I pass that to you. What holds you back? Is it a good reason? Is it life-altering? Is that a positive thing? Is your thing good for you, good for the world, good for Baltimore? (You knew I had to plug it.) Do it. Getting out of your way doesn’t mean not being you. It means allowing yourself to be you. If I have 100+ weeks of things to say, surely you have it in you to do your thing, to go to the gym, to try this or that, launch your 501c3 or LLC, start the program, try the class, eat the peach. It’s just a life. “Your playing small does not serve the world.” Get out of your own way.

 

On Wednesday I participated in a leadership conference with 10 of my girls. An interesting layer to the conference was that the middle and high schoolers participated, and facilitators–like me–were able to participate while leading. Teaching is most rewarding when your kids are learning, receiving some intellectual gift, interacting, growing, having fun, building with others, and all the while, you are typically on the sideline. Sometimes, we get to work together, teachers and students. But, for the most part, being a guide on the side makes for a great teacher. Meaning that a chance to learn and grow with the kids, was pretty special. 

The conference was about leadership and purpose and was run by Ross Wehner of World Leadership School, someone I have worked with once in the past, also about purpose. Wehner (who is one of these incredible people who just radiates good things, opportunities, and genius) bases his learning, speaking, and ventures entirely on the huge concept of purpose, and I smell what he is cookin’. Without going down the purpose-rabbit-hole, Wehner talks about how when purpose is central to education, learning increases, applications to the larger world become essential to the learner, life-long scholars are born, and the evils of unhealthy stress, anxiety, and meaninglessness, all decrease. Wehner links stress with meaninglessness, asserting that, and citing others who assert the same, stress is often imposed on those who don’t believe in what they’re doing. This speaks to me in more ways than I can go into.

I also learned that hedonic happiness is happiness that has to do with the self—pursing pleasure, eating pleasure, getting “mine.” Eudaimonic happiness is “based on the premise that people feel happy if they experience life purpose, challenges and growth.”

Throughout the day, using multiple exercises and funneling those results, we came to our own purpose. After what Shar and I thought was an appropriately timed lecture (less so for the teenagers with us), we were able to use these Calling Cards (which I just ordered on Amazon). We narrowed down the activities that most felt true and appealing to us and got down to five–the cards included activities such as “organizing things,” “exploring the way,” “creating dialogue,” “adding humor,” and one that felt very true for me: “making connections.” Short of recounting the entire conference and giving up Wehner’s “aha factor,” from the cards, to a movement activity, to a long conversation with a stranger, and so on, we were able to whittle down a purpose statement. Like a one sentence vision that says: here’s why I am alive.  

I am still somewhat workshopping mine but the best I have right now is something like “Using creativity and connection so that we can become better.” The we, in this case, is everyone, anyone, my girls, me, you, Baltimore, the world. A concept that feels very present to me is connection. If I wrote my own version of “My Favorite Things” from The Sound of Music it would contain a line something like, and imagine the tune in your head as you read this,

“Trader Joe’s flowers and whiskers on puppies,

bright social justice murals and Emma’s fleece mittens,

Connecting people I care about, and sometimes complete strangers,

with helpful resources around Baltimore or anywhere I can find them,”

or something more or less broad.

I love making connections among people, among ideas, among opportunities and nonprofits and jobs and yoga studios, long form nonfiction articles, podcasts, my book club, and things I haven’t even thought of yet. I have this narrative in my head that I know and have the best of everything, but rather than a “false narrative,” it’s more of a half naive/half true narrative. 

In Malcolm Gladwell’s The Tipping Point, Gladwell starts chapter two, “The Law of the Few” with the story of Paul Revere, and his lesser known fellow revolutionary, William Dawes. Dawes essentially took actions similar to that of Paul Revere, but lacked Revere’s “rare set of social gifts” (p. 33). Revere was what Gladwell calls, a Connector, with a capital C. Revere had a large social network, he was gregarious, and as Gladwell says, his funeral was attended by “troops of people.” He had a slew of hobbies and interests including fishing, hunting, card playing, theatre-going, drinking, business, and he was active in the local Masonic Lodge. History knows Paul Revere. There are poems about him, stories, he’s in history books. We all know, “One if by land, two if by sea.” And who is William Dawes? I know as well as you do. In history, he’s a nobody. Revere caused what Gladwell calls “a word-of-mouth epidemic.” His role as a Connector became essential when, the British were coming.

I feel like I have a few traits in common with Paul Revere–and I’m not talking about the fact that we both have long brown hair, generous cheeks, and a penchant to rest our chins in our right hands.  I think what I have in common with Paul Revere is partially due to the fact that I’ve lived in Baltimore City my entire life and continue to milk it for all it’s worth. I have a lot of people here, and I have a lot of hobbies here. Gladwell says, “In the case of Connectors, their ability to span many different worlds is a function of something intrinsic to their personality, some combination of curiosity, self-confidence, sociability, and energy.” While I do think at my core, I am an introvert who recharges alone and gets irrationally angry at the drivers of luxury vehicles, this speaks to me. And what’s crystalizing in my head following Wednesday’s conference (see the post from April 3), is that my role in the world is that of a Connector. I feel a jolt of the truest joy any time I think of, make, carry out a helpful connection. I love when people turn to me for ideas, people, advice, and that’s increased when or if I can help.

Generally, I think most people really enjoy helping others. In other words, this does not make me unique. From a completely selfish perspective, helping others, making a connection, launching someone into something, recommending a job, giving away a free gym pass, passing along an email address, these things feel good for the helper or connector. I am glad we are wired this way–it’s truly helpful to society, and I urge you to look for ways you can connect and lift up others. There’s a high to be had. Baltimore is a great place for it because we are a small city. We’re insular. Everyone knows everyone. Scary, but also incredibly helpful. It’s easy to connect here. And maybe that’s another reason I fell into this role so easily. I live in an incubator for connection.

Knowing some semblance of my purpose in this world is helpful. It’s funny that Gladwell’s book, which came out in 2000 and which I read more than a decade ago, popped into my head when thinking about this concept of connection. Somewhere in the deep parts of my brain Gladwell’s idea and the description of the “Connector” lived for all these years ready to pop out and take hold. It’s like I knew to remember the concept for when I was ready to be who I really am. Like I knew I would be a Connector.

I was never a die-hard Sex and the City person but I like this summation in the form of a quote from the show: “Enjoy yourself…that’s what your 20s are for. Your 30s are to learn the lessons. Your 40s are to pay for the drinks.” While I’m only 31 and I know I have umpteen more realizations to make, I think I have learned a few lessons already.

Know who you are. Know your purpose. Mine is to use creativity and connection so that we can become better.