My oldest child gassed me up today. GASSED. ME. If you’ve read my work for any length of time, you know I have been on a journey lately. I went from likening forgiveness to washing my hair (I needed to reread this post — maybe you do, too? — since it’s the end of the year again and it’s time to let some things go)…
…to discovering I have Female Pattern Baldness — in less than a year (weee!). I still cry many a wash day because it’s become too easy to section, wash, and condition my coils these days. I miss every follicle.
I took pride in my hair, but it’s leaving now. So, I am recalibrating my self-esteem to my new reality and letting go of a life-long identity marker. You ever had to do that — stop leaning on aspects of your identity because they were expiring and you had to let them go? You ever had to open your hands and feel the windy emptiness and hope something else would fill them again? I think I need to be used to empty hands for a while. Now, I get to appreciate the beauty of my metaphorical palms, prone.
I think I need to be used to empty hands for a while. Now, I get to appreciate the beauty of my metaphorical palms, prone.
This is a brief post, though, so lemme get to it. My eldest saw a picture I took this weekend and posted on Instagram (and I never post so that was weird enough, but the blue was blueing…you’ll see), and said, “hey — that reminds me of another picture of you I saw lying around, Mommy!”
He went and got the photo (and I really need to organize my life because what was this doing lying around?). It was a student ID from seminary. It was from 20 years ago.
GASSED ME ALL THE WAY UP because I actually look like myself, still. But now I am turned up.
The toned down color and small hair (when it could still be big!), the theological praxes of disappearing and diminution and deprecation that l practiced in order to survive then, are unnecessary now. There are doctrines and stances held by 2003 Sharifa that 2023 Sharifa has abandoned or de-emphasized or completely overturned.
I am still practicing assertion and comfort in my experience and skills and the beauty of the voice God gave me (not just to sing but to discern and encourage and exhort) because of so many years of being told my thoughts and tone were too much for a woman. I bet some of you can relate? But my voice, my presence in the world, is an inheritance of indigo and sunshine, not muted grey.
The process of letting go has grown me up over and over again. The breeze of the unknown on my palms. The frightening prospect (and deception) of lack. The freedom to choose. The opportunity to strengthen. The strength to hold that which is more weighty.
In an unexpected way, my son reminded me that I am still me in a season where I feel lost—I am more me, in fact, in tangible ways. I’m taking it as an encouragement to myself and to you: don’t be afraid to let go now, even if it is scary. There’s beauty and strength and knowing on the other side.
1. The blue was blueing, I loooooove wearing blue as a fellow cool undertones sister. 2. 20 years WHERE? 3. Aren't children precious?
Also your writing gives me chills. I could feel "the windy emptiness" even as my palms rest face down on my lap. Thank you for sharing.
Also, the fact that you haven't aged in twenty years?!? You would have never gotten me to guess those pictures were more than a week apart, AT MOST a year!!