The Goose that Laid the Golden Eggs

There once was a goose that lived on a farm and she had one job to do- lay eggs for the farmer. But sadly, she created the perfect nest and for many years the farmer would come to check and she would have produced nothing.

She was a lover of all things that mattered. She loved Truth. She obeyed commands not out of fear but Love. She loved others with an unfiltered unashamed Love that went beyond anything human. She laid down her life to pick up the life that was offered her. But there was one thing that was elusive to her and that was her sense of true identity.

In Truth, she longed to touch the face of her highest self and of the Devine.

In her beginning stages of life, she was left abandoned, hurt, and detached from. Left alone to find her own way home. With no homing beacon to let her know that she was loved, cared for, and wanted- that she was safe. There was no one to remind her of her original origin and amazing personal power. Or so she believed.

Her spirit knew that she came from the ultimate Source of Love. But as she became tethered to the stories that were being told to her. As she claimed each one as her own and began to retell her self them, her memory began to fade and it became more elusive and distant. As she grew with each passing year fear became her nemesis and her greatest ally, causing her to constantly and consistently feel the game of “tug of war” happening within her.   

Her memory loop kept playing her long playlists of past failures in attempts at depositing doubt, delay, and division. She was daily reminded of the broken thugs and slippery thieves that stole the love that she and her kind were so freely giving away. Returning to her warped forms of selfish love, all because they had become conditioned to believe that love was finite and limited.

In the midst of 7 billion-plus strangers, she hid her true self away and could not re-connect to the higher parts of herself that longed to lift her out of the lowly existence she found herself abiding in. She had allowed disappointment to create and grow an identity of worthlessness.

Until one day the goose laid the golden egg. The farmer became elated and praised her for doing the impossible. He now came to love the goose as a commodity to produce for him.

It was during a time of open windows that unexpectedly undiminished love had begun to grow inside of her and it was such a mythical experience that it often took her out of her comfort and security to become vulnerable and lay down the selfish ambitions she had begun to persistently pursue.

Hope returned to her and she began to believe again and allow the faith of a new journey to strip away the hard, callous wall of debris that she had erected with the lowest level of impulses to protect that which she was commissioned to give away on the day of her heavenly assignment.

As love grew and developed and reached full maturity it carried her with it into the moment of her highest act of courage, bravery, and freedom.

The birth of another spiritual being.

At this moment she knew everything and that truly she knew nothing at all. That day at that moment in and out of time, the veil was so thin that she remembered where she came from and why she was on this low- level planet. This spirit that she was safely transporting into this realm came as a messenger to remind her of her true assignment. And but for a brief moment, all was well as fortune had favored the brave.

Then the goose began to die.

The poison that the farmer used to kill the goose that laid the golden egg was slow-acting and would allow the goose to continue to lay a few more eggs before it would be forced to permanently close its eyes forever. He was afraid and could not risk everyone else finding out about what the goose could do.

With each golden egg, the eyes of her understanding were opened until she was fully awake and understood that she was to transcend beyond the contamination of this moral environment. It was the death of a thousand lifetimes that was now quickening her to become fully alive.

With Matrix-like movement, she began to move outside of the confines of time fully aware of the power of collective consciousness.  

 With renewed fervor, she began with her spirit to plan with full presence and power. She no longer needed permission as she had the keys firmly grasped within her hands.

No more avoiding reality and allowing the movie screen to dictate to her what was supposedly real and was in actuality a well-executed illusion.

She was fully connected to the Source. Love had helped her find her way home; she was ready now for ascension.

So, the goose understood that she was not here to lay golden eggs for a selfish, poor farmer that operated out of greed and fear. Her impending death was more of a victory than a diabolical scheme. It would allow her to shed the skin of limitation and pick up the torch and carry the flame of greatness without cognitive dissonance.   

She was no longer dispassionate and disconnected from the heart. The Source was leading and guiding her into her shining spear of true purpose, away from worrying about yesterday, today, or tomorrow. She now had a vantage point of the highest vibration. She was perfection in progress.

www.423TrainingU.com  Charmaine Hinds 2020

 

 

 

 

Teach me how to love

Just when I think I know how to love I learn another lesson. My life so far has been a series of lessons on how to recognize, receive and give love. I want to believe I am an expert on how to love but even after 51 years of attempts and many hours of practice on multiple people and a myriad of teachings devoted to this very topic I sometimes still feel like a novice.

Love seemed like such an easy word and concept to grasp. Children do it so easily, yet as the lessons and traumas of life set in somehow we unlearn this magical mystical thing that should be as easy as breathing.

This week I learned that my go to is selfishness. I think of me first. My ego, my reputation, my wants, my needs, my desires, my motivations, mine. These are the first thing I think of instinctively. My second thought is what does God think and my third is to take a moment to think of the person, place , situation, dilemma and how they will be affected.
True sacrifice is a lifelong pursuit that was shown to me this week.

I was challenged to love someone that I say I love all the time, yet to sacrifice for them took a minute.

It wasn’t anything life shattering or complicated just a battle of my inner self trying to be kind, thinking of someone else other than me, letting go of material possessions in an act of unselfish love.

This should have been instinctive and easy yet there was a battle none the less. I surrendered in the end and when my heart, mind and soul had settled in, then the joy came. But in the process I thought about how I have only ever wanted to be a vessel of the greatest love ever and yet the concept of this love has not yet fully grasped me and taken over yet.

My ego is still winning and “ all flesh must die” is the message I am now embracing.
I began to formulate my ideas and beliefs about love through my childhood family and it was very traumatic. I then went to learn love in a marriage and after 30 plus years, I am still learning.

God gave me 5 amazing spirit beings and they have been some of the best teachers of love for me.

As a world traveller and a missionary I have displayed acts of love to complete strangers.
Family, friends, co workers, strangers and authority figures have all taught me about this intricate word that we apply to so many things that God says He is( love).
When I sit in the love that God is then I realize that I don’t know what love is and I need to allow Him to teach me again.

I once started underlying the word love or heart in the bible as I read it to see how many times it was in the lessons I was gleaning and it showed up quite a lot. Not to mention all the other lessons that originate or lead to love.

They say that we are all in the pursuit of happiness- I wonder what our world would look like if we all began to desire the pursuit of real love?

Charmaine 

Not Here Anymore

My heart aches, when I think about you

My heart aches, I don’t know just what to do

My heart is aching, feels like its breaking

Don’t want to live my life one day without you

 But you’re not here with me… anymore

A tear falls down, with the blinking of my eyes

I wipe it away, but I still hear my heart cry

My head knows that you’re not here, you’ve gone far away

Yet my heart remembers, like it was yesterday

I can’t take this pain much more

I want our life back, back like it was before

My heart aches, when I think about you

My heart aches, I don’t know just what to do

My heart is here aching, feels like its breaking

Don’t want to live my life one day without you

 But you’re not here with me… anymore

Time should have stood still and waited for me to catch my breath

Cause I wasn’t ready to release you to go just yet

Cause you weren’t just here, you were a real part of me

Intertwined within my life in ways I couldn’t see

I know that this is life, I embrace that it’s real

But grasping the truth, doesn’t change how I feel

My heart aches when I think about you

My heart aches, I don’t know just what to do

My heart is here aching, feels like its breaking

Don’t want to live my life one day without you

 But you’re not here with me… anymore

Every morning I wake up knowing “life goes on”

But would somebody please tell me, when will this pain be gone?

I know you`re in a better place,  where you always wanted to be

Yet the thought of being apart from you, is just not consoling me

 I whisper softly … “I want to let you go”,

But my heart screams loudly- NO!

My heart aches when I think about you

My heart aches, I don’t know just what to do

My heart is here aching, feels like its breaking

Don’t want to live my life one day without you

 But you’re not here with me… anymore

For Tony- Charmaine Hinds  November 10, 2009

If You Like Pinacoladas…

One of my biggest lessons in life has been attached to something I have continually shared with people I have worked with for years.
“You can not make Pinacolodas when all you have been given is lemons and water. Your best bet is to just add your own kind of sugar and make the best damn lemonade you possible can!”.

When they begin to tell me about all the expectations that have been placed upon them , whether they are fictional from within their minds or real, placed there by people who have no concept of how, when, where and what it takes to accomplish the task being done, I share emphatically to them to say the following;
“When you get me a coconut and a pineapple, then and only then can I attempt to maybe think about creating a Pinacoloda. but not without a little bit of my special rum”.

I believe my black history teacher in my public school is the one that started teaching me this when he taught me about my circumstances in this world as a young black woman emigrated here from the island of Jamaica. For me the difference was that I also was the first generation in every arena in my family.
People have always asked me to do things and I have wanted to do my best with excellence and go up and above. But unfortunately. I haven’t always had the practical or tangible resources to complete the task at hand.

If you look on the outward it seems like the playing field is even and the odds are not stacked against me, but in truth there are invisible factors that have continually hindered my progress all of these years. Now don’t get me wrong, I have risen above my circumstances in amazing ways. I swim like my life depends on it, but make no mistake, these are lemonade circumstances and the struggle has been real!

I did not have a generational lineage of wealth, power and prestige that gives me the advantage afforded to so many other people. In our family we didn’t have fancy homes, money for extra curricular activities, well tutored, cultivated education, connections in business and society, a cottage or annual vacation to exotic places, to give us a level up for our next generation.

No, I come from a line of slaves and blue-collar workers, (why do they call them that again?) that had to work twice as hard just to scrape by and make a living. I was never given an example of a married couple making it to their 30th wedding anniversary to pattern my own marriage off of, but I did it. I was a first generation everything, high school graduate, all my children from one marriage, an entrepreneur, an ACE ( adverse Childhood Experiences) overcomer, and all of this came with Pinacolada expectations.

When they ask me how I have gotten the necessary ingredients to make something that slightly resembles a Pinacolda, I let them know about my secret ingredient that makes everything taste good. Faith.

“Now Faith is being sure of what we hope for, and certain of what we do not see”

If I have had an unfair advantage at all, this was it. I have had Faith.

I started out making the best lemonade on the corner, and with some time and experience and with unshakeable Faith I have been blessed with a coconut, a pineapple, and the best rum made from the sugarcane of Jamaica. That’s why “I love me some Pinacoldas”.

So to all you “Lemonaders” out there- let me give you a little hope... just add FAITH and see what happens.

Sense of Direction

I have always had a very uncanny sense of direction. It is a gift and a treasure that is a part of the essence of who I am.

"Sense of direction" is the ability to know one's location and perform wayfinding. It is related to cognitive maps, spatial awareness, and spatial cognition

When I was just a little girl, maybe 6 or 7 years of age, my mother took us on a trip to visit my Aunt (her cousin) in New York City, New Jersey to be exact. One day after feeling cooped up in the house my mother decided to take me and my little sister for a walk. We walked around the streets until we were feeling tired and then my mother verbally told us that we were done and that we would head back now. We walked for a while until I noticed that we had passed the same corner with the shop with the pretty clothes in the window twice. I grabbed my mothers coat and tugged at it and said “mom you are going in the wrong way” she shrugged me off like I was just a little kid who had never traveled anywhere and didn’t have the faintest idea about what I was talking about. So, after we went around the same street with the same markers that I had noticed the first two times we had passed them, I saw my mother become frustrated and go into a shop and say something to the lady at the counter and then come out looking even more worried. I would learn later that my mother didn’t know the address of where my aunt lived. By this time my little sister who was only 4 at the time was complaining that she was tired and I saw my mother get even more frustrated. I was a brave little girl and I took a hold of my mothers’ hand and told her to “come on I know the way home”. Sure, enough I used my little girl memory and within 15 minutes I had followed the photographic pictures that I had stored in my mind and we were home at my aunt’s house. It was brave of my mother to listen to me, but I feel she had no choice but to trust me. She shared this story often to explain to people how special she thought I was.

I would rely on this “special” gift many times through out my life and it would direct me back to places, people and things.

Once when we were on a visit to Israel with a group of worship dancers. We were heading back to the apartment that we had rented and we accidentally got on the wrong bus to go home. When we got off the bus to try to find our way, I recognized a bush type of tree that we had walked by earlier that Sabbath" morning and I instantly knew the way to get us back home.   One woman that we had rented the apartment with said to me that she felt it was in the other direction. She had been to Israel many times before and stayed at this apartment, but I knew she was incorrect. We had a standoff and I decided that I was confident about where we were to go and it was late at night and I didn’t want to get lost in the dark. This posed a problem for the other ladies as they had to choose which one of us to follow. Personally, I think it made no sense to follow after me but I was confident and my sense of direction was something that if you had known me for any amount of time, even though it seemed illogical, you would trust my pattern. All the ladies decided to go with me and the one woman walked in the opposite direction. As we walked the streets of Jerusalem I pointed out in the dark, to the other women land marks that we had passed earlier on that morning on our walk into the old city. The women couldn’t remember but they trusted me very similarly in the way that my mother had that chilly day in Jersey. As we rounded that last street and they saw the lights of the apartment building I could tell that they were stunned that I knew the way and that the other woman was in fact lost. We were right about going in this direction but we made one crucial mistake. The other woman had the key to the apartment so we had to wait outside in the dark for another 2 hours till she found her way back home that evening. Lesson learned.

On that same trip it was our final days in Israel and we on our second visit back to the wailing wall. We had one more gate to visit and had been unable to locate it and we decided to go back to Sukkot Hallel a 24- hour worship place located on Mt Zion. Again, I told the ladies the way I thought we should go to get there as we were walking, they felt that it was in another direction. We came to an impasse where we discussed that we would just go over the hill and see from a higher place where we were and then decide what to do from there. As we came to the top of the hill, right there to our right was the last gate that we had trouble finding and over the other side was the 24- hour place of worship we were trying to get to. Again, my sense of direction was right and we were right where we needed to be. The ladies asked me how did I know this was where we were supposed to go and to be truthful, I did not have a logical solution, I just knew.

I have used this gift in so many amazing situations. When I think back about it, I realize that I have come to rely on this amazing uncanny sense of direction in every area of my life.

Patois Jamaican Creole Language

I lost my language and have recently retrieved it back as a treasure but there is no place in my life to use it. Though my husband and children understand Patois, they don’t speak Patois, my close friends and work associates don’t speak Patois- where is it appropriate to speak my native language?

The way my ancestors chose to communicate was amazing it was created out of necessity and beauty, innovation and creativity. Patois Is not just like broken English, it is so much more!

They wanted us slaves not to be able to communicate and rebel, they wanted us to assimilate and become civilized like them, they wanted to make themselves superior by dominating us on their terms.

This simple Pidgin language created into creole by the sheer act of being forced to let go and forced to assimilate is Patois.

I was taught Patois like every child that lives in a bilingual household, by hearing it spoken to me and by speaking it back. Unfortunately, I was corrected by white and black teachers in school whenever I used it and laughed at by my brothers and family friends, as I wasn’t immersed in the culture and my accent was a bit more Canadian. So speaking the language, brought shame and hurt with it. There was no pride in speaking Patois- I was praised and rewarded for English. So I excelled at the English language and in the process lost my native tongue.

I remember the language and how to formulate the words but my tongue has been silent for too many years, but then so has the roots of my heritage.

 Patois has the true components of a language and can be taught and understood.

And like many of the things in my culture I have had to redeem it so that I could see the true value and treasure that it is to any Jamaican, even if you live in the diaspora. How is it any different from the language of the Spanish or French? We would never tell a Hispanic or person from another language not to speak their native language. Why is Patois any different. Is it because you don’t like the confidence and attitude that comes when we speak Patois? because you can’t understand what we are saying and don’t want to take the time to learn? The powers to be try to insinuate that we are not speaking the one language that has dominated the world for years, but why should we?- we are Jamaican!

I would love to write a book in Patois to honor the treasured Jamaicans! It would be my ode to the land that I love ... Jamaica.

Me a go duh it yea man!

Paper brown bag girl with the sparkly green eyes

If a color could evoke jealousy then green it was, hazel to be exact
They never saw me, just the color of my fair skin and the unique way my cat eyes glittered with flecks of green and light brown.
I stood tall, but they still looked at me as if I was an oddity, something rare, to google at and to say “ how beautiful you are”                                                                                                                    

As if my one quality was in them trying to figure out what type of mullato breed I was.  

Mixed up and hated for the way I settled in between.                                           

Not black, not white just a mix in between.
But she is paper brown so she is able to toggle between here and there and… nowhere
Brown girl in the ring tra, la, la, la, la,
That was not me
I was the light skin girl in between ha, ha, ha, ha,


Why do you hate my hair so long and thick like a mane that you tug on it till I cry,cut it into a afro to prove that your children are black too.                                                                                                 

Yet it does not equivalate, to validate the entrance fee into the world of black where one drop is enough, as long as you know our history and don’t deny the struggle.                    

Under the railroad she goes to find her heritage lineage and struggle within to settle within her own skin
Pigment that is strong in summer to give her the tan glow that all whites seek and in winter she is the ghost that peers out from behind, behind her greenish hazel eyes.
They sparkle and they shine with light when she is alive, fully living the life that Creator has endowed her with, after she has traveled many moons to get here.
Get here? get where?
What is the destination if life is truly all about living?
No more paper bags we now want the plastic
plastic, fantastic, fake and not real
With the truth of the situation with which we can not deal
All shades of the same color but with blood that is still red, red blood that flows from my veins and still stains the same as the cocoa, chocolate, milk white or Boston tea, paper bag and tan
Spectrum of multi color that makes up light , human struggle, earthly fight, hold my chest tight with breath that is held to see of they will choose me or if I am good enough or if the hatred because of my difference will win again

Half breed

Like the house nigger had a choice whether to be bred or not to be bred

That is the question!

Your answer that has made her the receiver of the field niggers rage and the pull of the plantation master’s lust, thrusting her paper bag skin into growth as she births the nastiness that happens to anything that He calls good and is defiled by evil.

Yet her paper brown baby is innocent till found guilty. Guilty of being born into a world with standards as unrealistic as plastic that holds in the heat and creates wrinkles that ripple out to affect time yesterday and tomorrow.

So back to the paper bag challenge – Paper brown bag girl with the sparkly green eyes.

My message to her

Here I am at 20 -this is my message to her
Don’t waste time worrying about it- your mom and Bob Marley were right everything’s gonna be alright.
Tell your brothers how much you love them - they won’t be here for you to tell them later. Your family may seem dysfunctional but they are gonna shape, strengthen and mean a lot to you one day.
Listen to your heart, gut and instincts- it’s a gift not a curse
You are going to live a colourful amazing life and have great stories to tell! Keep writing it isn’t all about making money.
Wayne is the one - it won’t be easy but it will be worth it!
You know that crazy dance that you do at the clubs, one day you will get paid to teach it to a lot of people!
You will not be a famous model but your beauty won’t go to waste - you got the black won’t crack blessing!
And girl hold on you will get your wish and have those 5 children you we’re asking God for.
By the way He is real and He’s gonna prove it to you! Again and again and again.

In the Mirror

Something amazing happened a few months ago 

 As an exercise to help me, I began to write using colorful dry erase markers on my bathroom mirror,positive affirmation statements that I needed to begin to believe. I wrote “It is worth it”, “with Me all things are Possible” and “I am a work in Transition” or “ For Such a time as this” and many more.

I looked in the mirror every morning and then would read them as I saw this in me. After a while I felt like I had received these messages into my spirit, so I took some window cleaner and cleaned the mirror. A few months passed and then one morning I took a shower but one thing was different. I forgot to turn on the fan when I entered the shower. So as I came out and went to look in the mirror something awesome was there. 

 Because the steam had stayed on the mirror I could see the words engraved in the mirror as clear as if it had been written with a pen. The words were still there! As I re -read all of the statements that I had been declaring I began to cry and become so grateful for this message. Even though I wasn’t doing the exercise any more the words had been there... invisible.

 I felt God was telling me not to forget these statements and even though I couldn’t see it that it was still written and still true. I watched as the steam whisped away and the mirror in front of me became a clear reflection.

What are you believing today? What statements have you been believing that are invisible but still there. It may be time to do inventory and write some new statement. 

Two Shiny Pennys from Heaven

Today I was touched by two amazing Pennys from Heaven.

The first Penny added value to my life by impacting me to look outside myself and be the change I wanted to see in this world. She was a role model in the way that she continually allows her life to be shared, relevant and impactful . She holds space for you and is full of information and wisdom. Always looking for solutions to the "unanswered" problems. Being a connector for those that have, to help those that have need. When you know better you do better was a mantra that she gifted others with.
She was in the end of the beginning and I had the privileged to tell her that I loved her. When someone makes a difference in the way you live your life its important that you recognize it. She was leaving the place but I knew her presence would still be felt on the planet. To me she was like lightning and thunder, a supernatural natural phenomena that is caused by change and causes change to occur.

My second Penny was a beautiful sensitive soul that I had the honor to bring value to. We bonded our hearts together during a difficult season as she gave birth to her eighth child, a son. As she loved him in adoption, she trusted me and put my name on his birth certificate so he would one day know the story of how he came to be. Now that she was having her ninth and was incarcerated once more, I had the chance to go down memory lane to remind her how strong she was and how HOPE is a choice. My smile was wide and my heart was glowing as we held hands and cried and got caught up. Tomorrow she will be leaving and arriving all at once and my prayer for her was that angels would guide her as she tried to find her way. 

Two shiny Pennys from Heaven have been loaned to me to remind me of the value in things that I sometimes deem worthless. These two Pennys were the sum and value of my fortune today.

Medical Ban

I have been banned and rejected by my family doctor. He said that because I have chosen to not fulfill my prescriptions and his advice, that he would no longer be able to be my “family doctor”. He thought I should find myself a naturopathic doctor. At first I was flabbergasted and even offended at his remarks and then after meditating on it I changed my perspective. I had finally joined many great people before me that had been banned by the healthcare system as a rebel!!!!

Below is a picture of all of the prescriptions and medications that have been prescribed to either myself or my family. I made the decision after much research to go a more natural method such as food, essential oils or even just time and patience to let the body heal naturally.

I kept these to remind myself and others that I share my stories with that medical advice is just that, advice. Each person needs to do their research and remember that God has created our bodies with an amazing immune system that can be aided to allow healing to take place naturally. My children were never vaccinated and have amazing immune systems to fight off disease and illnesses.

I still go to the doctor for confirmation of diagnosis and for more serious issues that need to be addressed. This is using the advancement of technology to my advantage. 
But I have also rejected surgeries, recommended procedures, abortions and many other courses of action that I was not comfortable with.

I am in great health and love being in charge of my well being and the decisions that accompany that right and privilege. 
I encourage each person to listen to your gut and follow the advice that resonates with your heart. Use wisdom, knowledge, get a second and even third opinion and remember you have to live or die by your choices.

Lynching

Lynching 

Looking up with tears I remember

But who can ever forget?

The many bodies on those trees

that were hung up by their necks

Lynch mob gathering

With evil intentions, hearts grown cold

Noose in hand swung over a tree

Will the truth ever be told?

From standing upon a selling box

Their final journey ended here

Hanging in visual terror

For all to see and fear

Dear White People I am asking you

How can we reconstruct

And build trust from silent oppression

When your legacy of lynching has gone untouched

These victims cry out from the grave

Like branches on a willow tree

A memorial we must build unto them

 And to all affected by slavery

Breaking the cycle for future generations

Yet around and around we go

Modern day lynching still occurring

You will never change what you don’t know

When will you exonerate the innocent victims?

Strung up for violating the racial hierarchy

Multiple sites of horror on land

What a vicious racial history

Hangman’s knot wrapped around ragged rope

Leaving photo stain of racial violence

Exhibits of artistic brutality

This strange act made no sense

 If we published the complex list of names

What would the inventory of time say?

Are we dreaming about equal justice?

Is it even possible today?

Meet me at the hanging tree

Where the fruit suspended there is important to me

There a dead man is calling thee

To right the wrongs of history

Happy Mothers Day

As I reflect on my relationship over the many years with my own mother, I have many mixed emotions.

To me she was the beautiful stranger at 4 years old that picked me up at the airport, when I came from Jamaica to Canada. In my confusion I tried to understand and bond to the word “mother” when relating to her.

She was the woman that was often unpredictable, who believed in corporate punishment, that came out more as unleashed rage. Many bandages, visits to emergency, wounded parts in my soul and meaningless “I am sorry”, would store in my memory bank until I withdrew them one day and let them all go.

She was the 22-year-old pregnant girl that failed twice to abort me and decided to have her 4^th baby, because God must want this one to live.

She was the woman that first taught me about God in hard times by watching her read through the Psalms and believing like a true Jamaican “don’t worry about a thing, cause every little thing is gonna be alright”. Forcing me to go to church to pray for her would one day build the foundation for a true relationship with the God that loved me.

She taught me about my culture through soul food and Bob Marley music on Saturday mornings while we cleaned the house. It was here that I learned how to dance my troubles away as I “shot the sheriff” and “listened to the three little bird sitting on my doorstep”.

She spoke to me that black is beautiful as she helped to establish the first black history after school program with the only black teacher in our school in Toronto in 1977 so I could have black pride in who I was.

She was also one of my best teachers as she modeled to me what not to do as she told me what not to do. The double warning stayed with me and unfortunately caused me to embrace the “super mom syndrome” as I vowed never to be a mom like her.

She was the pair of arms that wrapped around me when I was hurting, even if she was the cause of the pain. She whispered in my ears words of love that kept me calm during my multiple illness and sicknesses. She always wiped away my tears and told me to be strong.

She was the little girl that had been left alone in Jamaica by her mother, who moved to England and had no one to show her how to love a daughter. But she would try her best, it just came from a place of trauma and brokenness.

She was the abuser that abused, the hurt that hurt and the broken mesh of a person crumpled on the floor trying to make it all better.

She was the voice that was louder than any other sound I had ever heard that raised the decibels in every message that I tried to convey. Screaming was a way of life in our household.

She was my champion in every arena when someone was trying to push me into a corner and she taught me how to be a fighter, for myself and for others. Her pushing me has given me the resilience that has helped me navigate my way in this world as a black woman.

She was my road map to finding true love as I watched her with her husband move to her boyfriend after boyfriend, after boyfriend… looking for a man to just love her.

She was the person I hated one day and loved the next. My emotions so twisted as my mind kept telling me “you have to love her she is your mother”

She was the mother that left me home at nights with a grown man that she knew wasn’t my father, to go and party with her friends. She would miss read my messages to her that I was being sexually abused and wanted a mother to rescue me.

She was the secret keeper of the lies she told to me to give me a better existence. She would also be the revealer of the truth that I would seek to regain my identity.

She was the dividing wall between me and my true biological father, hindering me from knowing the source of my heritage.

She was the mother of my half sister, 2 dead brothers before their time and a brother I never knew growing up.

But then came God.

Today I recognize her as the tool used to sharpen and strengthen me to learn to love.

The vessel that carried me for 9 months and gave me the greatest gift of life.

The woman that resisted all stereotypes and boundaries to allow me the freedom to reach for anything I desired.

The imperfect being that had a heart of gold trying to give me something from nothing.

My commitment to my husband of 32 years as I broke the pattern and linked a different chain.

The reason I loved my own children so fiercely and unconditionally

The force that gave me a mothering spirit that allowed me to have so many spiritual daughters and sons.

The sound in my message that says I have a voice and I have something worth saying.

The well of grief that understands loss and learns to live again.

The dreamer that taught me to believe in myself and to think just maybe… anything is possible.

She is my mother and I have such love for her and gratefulness that God knew who I needed to be my mother to make me the woman I am today.

I am proud to say I am my mothers daughter

Happy Mothers Day Mom.

Cup of Generational Blessing

The Gift of Your Faults

The Gift of Your Faults

Rise up oh daughter of mine

Bow your head low no more

For you have been strengthened from the inside out

And the ceiling has become your floor

Look now at your chosen pathway

The journey you have been on

See the sum of all your mistakes

The miscalculations of all you have done

Know that I will not erase even one!

For this is the gift of your faults

The gift of adversity, tenacity, perseverance and patience with many tries

Wrapped in a package of plain brown paper that you simply did not recognize

So, you ran, resisted, cried out for Me to come and save you

Unaware that this was Me answering with what you need to be the brave you

The mind being released from the thoughts that enslaved you

The flesh dying to the evil that craves you

This is the gift of your faults

For within creation there exists a sweet tension that keeps it all in place

So too there is within you, the wrestle you must face

The gift of a treasure yet still not embraced

The gift of your faults is not a mistake!

Lessons learned, evil spurned, flesh burned, treasures yearned, jury adjourned, intent discerned, fear overturned, victories earned,  no more concern, you have returned.

This is the gift of your faults

So, as you continue remove the lenses that call a thing good or bad

If you surrender it all to me it becomes good in the end

This is the gift of your faults

For with true authenticity

In humble vulnerability

The passion of your intensity

All the parts of you a wanted necessity

Just always take responsibility

For every failed opportunity

To increase your capacity

Of growth in human personality

spiritual identity and God given destiny

This will be the gift of your faults

Charmaine  Hinds December 2018

  

Tale of two marriages- "till death do us part"

I literally heard the story of two marriages and the death of two husbands in two days.

I encountered an old acquaintance that I knew long ago in a church I used to attend. She quickly told me the story of how her husband had just died. In the process of her sharing she asked me if I had known they were divorced as if she felt everyone somehow knew this information. Considering I hadn’t seen or spoke to her for over 16 years I found this question/statement a bit odd. As she told me the story of the breakdown and demise of her marriage with this man I once knew, in truth I have to say I was silent and could only listen. She then shared how he had moved away to another city away from his family and that he had a heart attack in his small apartment all alone and after no one had heard from him for a few days- she had gone to his apartment and found him dead. She had a funeral for him the previous week and as she communicated this sad story to me I could feel and sense the regret and sorrow she was experiencing over the path and outcome of her marriage to this man during her season of grief. She told me that if they had still been together that he would have never died like that- alone and forgotten.

Then I attended a funeral the next day of a good friends father. I listened intently as this man's daughter did the most amazing eulogy with her 5 adult siblings lovingly standing beside her for moral support. Then as the service portion was closing the wife of the man that had passed away from a weakened heart condition shared the following words that I will never forget.

She shared her beautiful relationship with this man and why she was at such peace during all that had happened. She said that she had cared for her husband during the seven months of his palliative care at home with every last bit of love that she had to give to him. She gave him her everything during her last few months with him.
She said she had to do everything for him and it was as if he had gone from being her husband taking care of her to being like her child. She shared as everyone listening laughed out loud about how she had reassured him that when she had to leave him even for 15 minutes to go to the store that she wasn’t thinking about anyone else but him. Her heart was still fully his.
She did not seem resentful about having to do this in any way but quite the opposite, on her beautiful regal face there was a serene sense of peace and joy.
This man had his last days spent with what he treasured the most his family, they were all present when he took his last breath. He was surrounded with the treasures that he had invested in with all his life and they held him as he left this world and crossed over happily into eternity.
This marriage story made me cry and made my heart smile.

When I was pondering these two stories I was watching a Facebook post from a friend as he proposed to his girlfriend and future wife and it dawned on me the significance of these two tales of two marriages.

The investment to share your life with another is not just in the good times. Most wedding vows say something like “till death do us part”. This is a spiritual understanding that says that nothing but death can separate us. Marriage is forever. In a world and time where we have disposable promises and vows can easily be broken. Where honor and respect and love rarely ever intertwine, the covenant of marriage should result in the statement this woman that had been married to her best friend for so many years said, "I poured out all the love I had for him on him and in the end there was nothing more to give". She gave it all.

Wow! In an age where many men don’t honor or love their wives when they aren’t meeting their needs and some women are exerting their rights to be independent. When the fiber of marriage is being torn apart by the unraveling of a single interwoven thread, I received a message of “ till death do us part”.

I heard the message loud and clear and having gone through my share of difficulties in my own marriage through the 29 years, I renewed in my heart to love the man I made a covenant with 3 times ( we have renewed our vows twice) "till death us do part" no matter what the circumstance or situation. And most important to pour out all the love I have for him so in the end I can say "It is well with my soul"

If this story has impacted you like it impacted me then take a moment and pray for two marriages

today.

Black and Loud!

This is for the ones that say black people are so loud, they are vulgar, angry, aggressive, demanding and uncivilized. Why wont they assimilate and become more like us.

I am black and loud

Loud and proud

Yes, I have always been so emotional

Cause my cup ain’t  half empty, it’s a cup that’s full

A woman they say should remain silent

Yes massah, no massah your voice is not your own

Make sure you have permission to talk

Time to speak up- to speak the truth, your truth

Your history, your victory, your message

I be livin loud, livin large

I don’t whisper when I talk

I say it hard

 I don’t say it soft

If your dreams and tomorrow had been suppressed

If you had been cursed and found out you was blessed   

When you finally opened your mouth

I’m sure a scream would come out

The monster you made from an experiment gone bad

Now you wonder why we be so mad

You thought we’d stay broken, downcast and sad

Do I embarrass you with my shout from across the room

Why does what I do reflect back to you?

My laugh so out loud that it makes you uncomfortable

Seeing my sound makes you feel so vulnerable

The intensity of the energy I bring, into your life, into everything

My spirit is strong, rising up from where I belong

But wait, hold up …ain’t you black too?

You ask again, is that anger you hear when I speak?

Chile, maybe just the release of the warrior in me

No need to be in fear

My words are my weapon, lets make it clear

I have made the choice for you to hear my voice

My grammar ain’t off, my intellect intact

I know what I am doing, this be my method for fighting back

In the Silence much has happened, I have seen with my eyes

And the words within me lets out a cry

Saying here am I

Can you see me, feel me, my presence is undeniable

And what has been done has made you liable

My soul has been incarcerated for far too long

Tired of trying to prove I belong

I am created by the same Creator

They hate us because we are so loud

They love us because we are so proud

Loud and proud

Proud to be created with passion, fire, and courage  

Our voice makes a difference in the pilgrimage

As we state our case before the only Judge  

The stereotype made real

 Rappers, spoken word, singers, debaters, word creators

We are the original media masters, using our words so the message is loud

Don’t you love our sound? Vibrations trickling down

The drumbeat, the heartbeat this is our song

Am I disturbing your peace?

Just by being me

Or is that I am unafraid to say what’s on my mind

Seemingly unaware of the place or time

Allowing words to vibrate and ripple throughout the atmosphere

Without hesitation, without fear

I may look like just another angry black woman to you

 But this ain’t  true

Cause I choose to refuse to let myself remain abused

What you hear in my voice is my ancestors echoing what I say

So God can hear his child when she pray

Its time for a change

Amen! Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!

The words come from within and my brain forgets about etiquette,

The right spoon to use or correct place to sit

My mother’s tongue has created a sound

Resounding in my ears and coming to my mouth

I can’t hold it back so I release it out

Hear when I say I am black and loud

I am loud and proud!

Wooo!  WOW