Author: queendinard

I usually get pretty hyped about my birthday because I believe that one’s Day of Gracing this world with his or presence is an awesome day, an honourable day, a day to be cherished and celebrated in a huge, flamboyant way.

This year I determined that I would do a fifty day reflective journal complete with new nuggets of affirmations, encouragement, pictures and a slogan, “Fifties Queen! Not going back there………” This was really for me a way of prompting myself to fully and purposely embrace the emerging mature woman that I was becoming, as I learned to push myself to the next level of wholesomeness, bravery, self-confidence and fearlessness. I also believe that numbers have special meaning and while I am not anywhere versed in numerology, I was always held that the numbers seven, three and ten are pretty significant. Of course 10 being for my date of birth in the sixth month, three because of the trinity as per my spiritual leanings as is seven for a sense of completion.

And so when on June 07th 2022, I noted that there were three days left for my birthday I began feeling even more excited and elated that a sense of accomplishment was achieved and I would be staring down the barrel of attaining the age of Fifty-Seven Years on June the tenth. Imagine then on that very day, the awful heartbreaking news from La Belle Dominique, my lovely Nature Isle, that a young preteen of 12yrs, had allegedly been abducted from her usual place of residence at a vey late hour of the night! What completion could that signify? What exactly had been brewing for God knows how long and had come to a head on June 07th?

Following that bit of horrendous news things seemed to plunge down the falaise of wild speculation, grievous accusations, eyebrow-raising and eye-opening “melee” and “debas`” as everyone tried to piece together what exactly had occurred. An alleged “lunatic/mentally unstable/demon possessed/led young man had been blamed for the cruel abduction. An “adopted” mother and father, the latter being the biological uncle of the abductor were at the centre with mixed versions and dubiously uttered words. The parents of the young man, the biological father of the child as well as her maternal grandmother all produced bits of information that again raised eyebrows and opened eyes.

Three days later on June 10th, I welcomed my birthday with a joyousness and an “Oshaness ” I had long been expecting. I was glad that for one more year I was able to give thanks for blessings, grace and mercy, the strides I’d made in self-growth and development, the many lessons learned from off-putting episodes in my life and look forward to another year of strides and forward movements of positivity. But, but, but the image of the child, Kernisha, kept re-appearing in my mind’s mirror. So having returned home from work, expecting to get into another phase of celebration, I sat outside in my yard for four hours doing nothing. I was gripped and bound with ropes of disbelief, numbness, fright and a whole plethora of emotions that immobilised me in a most depressing manner. Celebratory thoughts and feeling were on the backbench as I struggled to come to terms with the unfortunate situation. Again my eyebrows were raised and my eyes were opening wider as I thought of the many young females within my family. What if it were one of them? What if one of us who had met our demise in that way. Simultaneously I was captivated by a strong sense of irritation from the varying sets of stories that were emerging out of the debacle and kept thinking; trauma, trauma, trauma! sexual abuse, domestic violence, migration, abandonment, legalism, shame, guilt, hurt, self-fulfilling prophecy, mental health awareness, minors and their safety, frustration etc, etc, etc!

Where was I to go with this? How should I respond? I am in no way trained as either a psychologist, counsellor, or therapist. The little psychology and counselling classes I did as apart of my training as an educator and even during my years of completing my University studies do not qualify me to provide expert views. However, as an educator for over thirty-six years, a child witnessing and in some instances experiencing domestic abuse and some measure of sexual impropriety, listening to former and current students provide heart-breaking episodes of untoward home life, I know that there are things I can say. Additionally, as the mother of three young adults, one female and two males, an aunty to countless nieces and nephews, some of whom have undergone their own unfair share of trauma, I can say a few words.

Kernisha’s situation, the “comesse”, “torrie”, “melee”, “zansfaire” and “debas’ that envelopes and stains the alleged abduction seem to have deep roots. Childhood trauma across generational lines is very real. Inconsistent levels of childcare and childrearing, shaky and unhealthy family settings, lack of self-worth, value and srlf-esteem, sexual abuse, domestic abuse, insensitivity to, and, or ignorance of mental health awareness and harsh protocols have continued to wreak havoc among many Caribbean Communities. As more dubious, varying accounts of the harrowing ordeal of her disappearance continued to surface past June 10th, more eyebrows were raised, more eyes began being opened and again I asked myself

“What if it were one of us?”

One of my nieces, great or great-grand nieces? What if it were one of my sons, nephews, great or great-grand nephews?

One of my cousins, siblings, daughter, or I myself, being caught up in the swirling currents, swallowing mudslides and terrifying winds of being either the victim, perpertrator, caregiver, parent or other relative? Twenty seven days later there has been no sign of the child, the alleged perpetrator has been killed and the stories from those around, continue to reveal in silent tones, loud, unspoken secrets of vatying shades of grey.

It’s raising eyebrows and opening eyes! As a result, I am offering seven poignant reminders for all of us to pay attention to.

1. Every adult needs to know what takes him/ her over the edge, at the end of the rope and what to do to effectively handle the situation for a positive outcome.

2. Every child needs to be in an environment that is safe, nurturing and healthy for his/her holistic development and progress.

3. Every child MUST be taught, encouraged to learn to determine what is NOT a good, positive vibe for his/her wellbeing.

4. Adults who harm children on account of receiving self-serving gains should NOT be allowed to get away with their actions.

5. Children MUST be able to express themselves when they DO NOT feel safe.

6. Everyone needs to have Strong Support Systems.

7. Every effort must be made to deal with hostile situations humanely, fairly and justly and assist children as well as adults in:

a. Coming to terms with what has occurred with them.

b. Resolving issues and obtaining the necessary help.

c. Providing ongoing support and treatment to provide healing and restoration.

It’s Raising Eyebrows and Opening Eyes! What if it were Us? Any of Us?

Where’s Dad?
Where’s he gone?

Is he hidden in plain sight? Has he taken flight like a careless bird getting away to warmer lands oblivious of the tiny brood left behind?
Is he tending the nest with Mama Bird?
Where’s Dad?
Where’s he Gone?

Is he raising the standard? Has he spoken and taught like the leader he is, ensuring his offsprings have a roadmap to follow?
Is he being that example to his children?
Where’s Dad?
Where’s he gone?

Is he living his life? Has he lost his way inside his head unware, uncertain, of how to retrieve his Staff and re-emerge as the one we remember?
Is he longing to return to his home?
Where’s Dad?
Where’s he gone?

Written by
Rosemond Dinard-Gordon
June 19th 2022 (c)

As if she were placed on an ill-fated train from birth the female has been destined to deal with it…..That Bloody Thing! Coming from a far away place and occurring because of a breakdown in an incomplete process, the Thing showed its face to the unsuspecting pubescent child, whether she were ready or not. If her older kind hadn’t yet schooled her to await its presence and prepare for it with a quiet dignity, the child would have to endure the anxiety of coming to terms with this strange novelty.

And she might have been appropriately forewarned. Yet the Thing had a way of creating a degree of dis- ease, malaise and tension. The girl would undergo the withdrawal phase every time the Thing entered her door, travelling through its tunnel to find an outlet between her legs, while maintaining footage in her head. Her friends, especially the boys often stood as easy target for her mood swings, solitude, dis-interest. The girl very often had to come to terms with herself for almost a week only to have a repetition of the harrowing ordeal the following month and continuing for many years to come.

“Have a Baby,” someone would advise, if the Thing had kept loading piles of incessant pain on her body and burned holes of pressure in her head. Some actually had claimed to see the testament of truth in the advice, while others simply found it to have absolutely no bearing on the burden and remained unimpressed by the suggestion. While the Thing continued to make its appearance dutifully on a monthly basis, it sometimes plunged forward in buckets between her legs as if turned on by an internal pipe with an ever present supply. The result was sometimes Days Off from work, a slowing down of activities, sometimes just staying put or bedding down under the covers.

But for single moms with very little or no support, the Thing could create another set of troubles. Her children needing to be looked after, had to have their mom in workable shape. So there would no escape to bed or slowing down. Exploding head or not, aching body, or continuous flow Mom duties had to be done. Sometimes too, even wedded moms whose spouses had no clue how to or who were uninterested, incapable or unwilling to come to terms with the Thing and its toll on the woman, went under during its passage.

And so throughout the next forty years at least for the average woman, the Thing would continue to press its way between her legs and in her head. Someone had mentioned that as time progressed, the Thing would begin to slow down its pace become pretty infrequent and eventually cease its journey through the woman, leaving her to enjoy a good life. Or so someone thought and even made the woman anticipate with glee. The truth of the matter though is that the Thing, would change its face, flipping the coin to reveal the side that itself would be fraught with a whole new set of challenges.

Yes the sightings and rushing outbursts diminished. For some, the timing became unpredictable, as did the rush and flow. A whole new set of challenges would come to the fore as the Thing was now on a different trajectory. It was as if he was bent on draining the woman down to the bone as he pelted her with several arrows that irritated her and wreaked havoc on her emotional, mental and social wellbeing. Mood swings, hot flushes, vaginal dryness, tiredness and so much more ill-intentioned effects surfaced. The Thing was showing off his other dark side that would haunt the woman for several years to come.

Menstruation and Menopause are The Thing to deal with.

Between her Legs……….. In her Head……… That Bloody Thing is unrelenting.

No one can, or should attempt to dispute what mothers encounter throughout their tenure in their capacity as a mother. From the time the seed has been sown, the development of the foetus begins to occur, the confirmation is had, changes are already taking place within her. In some instances, there is glee, a euphoric excitement, the “cloud nine” moment. In other instances there is the trepidation, an uncertainty, a gripping terror. Still, otherwise, there is an utter rejection, and, or, dismissal of, refusal to embrace, immense anger at the reality. For these varying sentiments, and in such moments there are bound to be tears. The mother might have had to wade through her mind’s waters to determine how to move forward. And so….. the mother cries.

She cries because her many long months, years or trying to conceive has finally materialised. She cries because she may be on to something as she holds the card, or so she thinks, that would finally give that nod of approval to her beau, that would give her the upper hand in “keeping her man.” Whether whatever she believes is the truth about her and her situation, the tears will flow.

She cries on account of an immense level of anxiety brought about by that strange reality of understanding that another whole human is growing inside her, that she must of necessity, make adjustments, some or all of which she may be completely unprepared for, unable to navigate, or unwilling to take on. Her sobs are further fuelled by all the expectations that accompany being a mother from herself, as a result of family traditions and then, of course due to societal norms and moral codes. So yes, some weeping will take place.

She cries since the entire episode, the acts leading up to her pregnant state was not up to her. She had, unfortunately and in the most vile form being cruelly disgraced. Must she not now weep as a result of that imposition, that debauched infraction on her dignity? A mother will cry and be forced to come to terms with what decisions may ensue. The outcome of those decisions will affect her either way, even if the teardrops are slight and short-lived. Or, they may very well linger in another form.

If she continues through the trimesters and somewhere along the way an untimely falling off occurs, the mother will cry. It cannot be denied that a mother losing her baby via miscarriage, abortion or stillbirth is a trauma of great magnitude. While some mothers have not ever disclosed the emotions that waylay them on account of a miscarriage, many have openly expressed their utter hurt, disappointment, inadequacy and sense of helplessness when the child they had been carrying is no more. Many have slumped into depression, developed a hardness and cold glass barrier, or pretend that the entire phenomenon was not a bother. Whatever the display, the mother cries inwardly.

If the loss occurred through forced abortion, the mother will also cry. I myself have known of young women who had to undergo the horror of an abortion without their input because a parent, caregiver or sibling had made the decision. This happened, although the mother was old enough and mental capable of having a say in the matter. Most of those cases, were to “save face” on account of the person making the decision and not in the interest of welfare of the mother herself. Years later that mother still cries as she talks about what had happened to her.

A mother who loses her baby by means of stillbirth, whether that child died in the womb and had to be expelled in the normal labour fashion, or the stillbirth occurred during the labour process, is itself a traumatising event. The myriad of emotions that comes with the process is enough to cause floods of sobs and buckets of tears in huge volumes. Imagine a mother eagerly anticipating the birth of her young one only to be struck the blow of having a stillborn child. Wow! The mother cries!

And lest we forget the mother who cries for her child who has been kidnapped, it must be stated that this wicked act must be mentioned. The blow of it can well be compared to a miscarriage, since one experiences the wrenching away of a loved one not by her doing but from an outside source over which the mother had no control. The effect of this is harsh and persists for many years, causing the tears to be shed over and over again.

Then for those mothers who have been fortunate enough to give birth to her child without complications, seeing them through infancy, toddlerhood, childhood, teenage years, young adulthood and maturity, the tears are varied and many.

I can well picture my own mother as she herself would have undoubtedly shed numerous tears throughout her years of being a mother. Although I was nowhere around at the time, I can very well see her through my mind’s eyes. I am seated with her though the curtains are grey and shadowy. I see her weeping as she learns that she is pregnant, while in a foreign land where she migrated to obtain work and make a better living for herself as a young woman in her early twenties. I wonder what she went through, how she navigated the demands, expectations, disdain and insecurity around her and perhaps within her to fit in and be the best mother she could be. I see myself understanding her plight as I, a young “ancette tifille” in my early twenties waded through my own murky waters but with her right there beside me as a strong tower.

I see her some time later leaving that land, but leaving one of her children behind to return home. I see her crying inwardly for the toddler she left behind, wondering if she had made the right choice and if he would ever know what he meant to her. I see her having to deal with the accusations and irritations, annoyance and questions of his relatives, and weep with her because my heart would break to part with my little ones not knowing if I’d ever see them again. I see myself “walking in her shoes” as I appreciated the support she gave me with my little ones as I studied overseas away from them. I see her in another migratory move, getting away from Domestic Abuse and protecting her mental wellness. I seat with her through the slightly tinted curtains and feel the heaviness in her breathing, the lament in her voice as she thinks of her girls. I see her tears that she hides inside and applauds her actions for knowing when enough is enough. I thank her for letting me see that even when a mother cries, and her choices are few, she must know what to do to protect her mental wellness and emotional balance.

As the mother cries, I remember hearing how my mom grappled with the trauma of having a stillbirth. Her voice tells of that horrid day, the hours when she felt the urge and knew that her baby was on it’s way, but no one heeded her plea for help. I feel her agony as relives the encounter of the cord wrapped around his neck, wonders what he would be like and what she did wrong in causing his demise. I hear her message of always remembering the power of prayer even in the worst circumstances and remain grateful to her even among her tears.

Like the many mothers all over this globe who at times shed tears, sob, weep, cry, I can fully relate. We are sometimes overrun by situations, experiences , encounters and episodes. We want the best for our children. We try our best to make the right choices. The truth is that there will be times when we will fail. We are human. and while as women we are strong, purposeful and focused, we do not always escape the vulnerabilities that encompass us as mothers. So yes, it can be soooo much! And the Mother will cry!

The Mother Cries…..!

Mothers encounter a plethora of situations, events, episodes and interactions throughout her journey of being a mom. These may start long before her unborn foetus is brought to our world. For her troubles a mother often sheds multiple tears sometimes in torrents. Other-times quiet silent single tears well up in her eyes, on occasion making their way in single file down her cheeks.

Here in The Garden in April, we are focusing on the theme, “The Mother Cries.” This is in honour of my own mother, aka, Veronique, Miss Veronique, Ma Raymond, Sister Dinard, Ms Dinard, Vay, who celebrates her 95th birthday on April 2th 2022. She was a single mother for most of her life. As such, she became engaged in a number of tasks to ensure that her children had the basic needs and a decent life. By the time I came along and was able to understand what was happening, I saw my mother doing laundry, ironing, sewing and “throwing box hands,” to provide for us. Throughout all this though, she remained a woman of prayer and kept us mindful of the power of prayer.

However, I recount her talking about her pregnancies as an unmarried woman being something shameful and which she thought some of her younger sisters sometimes looked down on, making remarks like, “again?” and how they could determine when they wanted children which she much later realised to be as a result of the use of contraceptives, that she for very long, knew nothing about. She believed that her Catholic Faith had played her role in her bringing forth her fruits since she remarked the saying that abortion was wrong and, “where there is mouth, there will be bread.”

As I reflect on the her words, I too recall that when I grew up, the idea of a girl becoming pregnant was seriously viewed as something shameful and dishonourable. The all too familiar words in our vernacular, “Tifille la ancette,” was spat out with disdain. It was used to insult and tarnish, shun and shut out any girl who met her demise in that manner. No one wanted to have her secondary school tenure ended in that manner. No Christian girl wanted to become trapped in that snare for fear of the untold dishonour she would bring on her congregation and God of course. It was not unheard of that many well-to-do- families would quickly whisk their daughter away to foreign lands when the “Ancette” girl was found out. Sometimes too, mothers raised their grandchildren as their own and the “Ancette” girls were forced to later call their fruits their siblings.

“Tifille la Ancette!” The Girl is Pregnant. Little did I know that several years later , as a young woman in her early twenties, I myself would be found in the category of the “Ancette.” The unmarried “Ancette!” And of course the shame, hurt, guilt were right there with me too. I too felt the shun and alienation that had had befallen many “Ancette,” before me. The silent and verbal disdain from some of my older siblings was deafening and far reaching. The alienation, isolation and cutting off from church dug deep and slashed me in very many pieces. The archaic law doused fiercely on unmarried teachers burned me as I was forced to stay home for six months with no pay, no Social Security benefits for either me or my child and no maternity leave once she was born. Internally, I was shattered! The “Ancette” young woman had met her fate.

Luckily for me though, my mother as much as I felt that she was disappointed in my “ancette” status, remained very supportive of me as I went through my trimesters. Not once did she shun, shame or insult me. And on the eve of me giving birth, she listened keenly to my updates on the contractions and saw me to the hospital to give birth.

“Tifille la Ancette!” Mais mama la tay la eveh zahfah’y!

The girl is pregnant but her mother was right there with her child.

“The Mother cries!”

NB: Box Hands – a form of savings done in the Caribbean where a number of persons come together to save a particular sum of money either weekly, biweekly or monthly. once all the monies are collected, one individual is given all at once and the process continues until everyone had gotten that sum of money. The process may recommence.

Ancette– the Kweyol (creole) word for Pregnant. Kweyol is spoken in countries which had been formerly owned by France during colonial times. These countries include Dominica, St Lucia, Haiti, some parts of Trinidad. It is also spoken to a lesser extent on Guadeloupe and Martinique

It has been said that a woman’s heart has a deep ocean of secrets. I want to take it further to suggest that a woman’s heart harbours a myriad, of emotions, scary tales, hurting visuals, haunting experiences that we are all too terrified of bringing to the fore, airing and revealing. In the center of all our melee, is a being that needs to be rescued. But does the Woman Know who that is?

Does the Woman Know the Girl…….? Well…….. Does She?

Does the woman know the girl who sits way in the back of her cob-webbed thoughts

Teary eyes, trembling hands, dishevelled garb

Tired from a battle she’d fought trying to gain entry yet sure she’s been shut out

From the one who bears her name, the one who knows her pain

Well…. Does She?

Does the woman know the girl who keeps peeking from behind the walls of her mind

Curious gaze, beckoning look, confused state

Discouraged by the non- response she’s had, attempting to be recognised

By the one who lives her story, the one  who professes fame and glory

Well…… Does She?

Does the woman know the girl who remains staring out of the windows of her memory

Fearful spirit, aching heart, guilty emotion

Ashamed of those too many hands that had ravaged her every part, being pushed back

Because the one who remembers her plight wants her to remain out of sight

Well……. Does She?

Does the woman know the girl who runs around wild along the path of her dreams

Broken self, bleeding soul, shaken will

Afraid of the strength that lies in her core, too scared to shout out “No More.”

Since the one who needs to speak, the secrets doesn’t want to leak

Well……. Does She?

Does the woman know the girl hanging around waiting on the doorsteps of her decisions

Eager being, loving soul, expectant child

Determined to come to terms with herself because she knows her worth is her wealth

And that the one she believes in must be willing to go for the win

Well…….. Does She?

I hope She Does for both their sakes

Cause there’s way too much at stake

The time is now, she needs to act

That beast of a burden she needs to sack

The woman needs to meet the girl

The woman needs to save the girl!

Since the woman is the girl!

Written by Rosemond Dinard-Gordon

March 05^th 2022

© 2022

There are so many parts of a woman that make her Herself. They sometimes caress her in joyous, comforting ways and in other instance, they grip her tight with an ominous hold. She can be demure, sweet, caring, supporting and productive. She can also be mean, nasty-nice, a bully, a conniver, manipulator and deceiver. One thing is certain. Her worth will never diminish.

The  Woman……..her Worry, her War, her Wisdom, her Words, her Womb, her Worth

It floats along the walls of her mind; it hovers for a place to find

Its rest for a child burning up with heat

For a trusted space her thoughts to emit

Her Worry!

It armours up on the battlefield of her soul; it rages under the covers of her world

To erase the scars of a wretched life

The highs and lows of existing as a wife

Her War!

It slides over the pages of her words; it imprints within the marrows so bold

To embed its sense on an ill planned error

The folly of a Sister fleeing from terror

Her Wisdom!

It sears and burns the gentlest ones; it bites with sharp incisors teeth

The trembling flesh of an ill-fated foe

An opposer she’s not afraid to bring low

Her Words!

|It cries and weeps with silent tears; it cowers, closes up, closes tight

Hangs low, overburdened with shame of a painful past

Whose memories confront like an icy blast

Her Womb!

It screams and shouts at the top of its lungs; its pages burn with an oldtime song

To echo the story known for too long

The message that can Never be wrong

Its Strong, It’s Strong!

Her Worth!

Written by: Rosemond Dinard-Gordon

February 28^th 2022

© 2022

In the next ten days worldwide we will recognise International women’s Day. May of us are still to come to term with the myriad of emotions flooding the inner walls of our soul. Few of us are seeing the turning of the tides while a minute portion of us have gotten over our hurdles. We, as womenfolk, in large degree are doubting ourselves even when the evidence of potential, achievement, success are clearly seen. It is time, now more than ever to embrace the notion, the fact that we are certainly enough. We have always been enough you know! Yes we have. So to my Mother Ma Veronique, Older sister, Sister Vel and her daughter Deidre, Younger sister, Babe and her daughter Tiana, my first-fruit daughter Princess Roselle, to Deidre’s daughters, Princesses Jeanique and Jahleah, my daughter-in-law Jerrisa, step-daughters, all my numerous other Queen and Princess nieces, cousins, colleagues, students, sisters out there, You were ALWAYS enough.

She was Always Enough!

So she loved long and hard and deep and strong

Drew from her core, her being, her soul

Adjusting her script, changing her own song

Completely confident in attaining their goal

Or so she thought…. not knowing it wasn’t enough

And she laughed and posed and stood and cheered

Gave of her all, her worth, her soul

Supporting the cause, bending low her own head

Faithfully certain that the torch she could hold

Or so she thought….. not knowing it wasn’t enough

Oh she tried and laboured and struggled and won

Wrenched out her failures, her doubts, bared her soul

Tweaking her settings, improving her own run

Positively sure of breaking through the mould

Or so she thought…… not knowing it wasn’t enough

As she climbed up and fell down and got up and rethread

Took out her swords, choked her hurts, opened her soul

Remodelling her landscape, discarding her own bed

Assertively pursuant in acing that leading role

Or so she thought……. not knowing it wasn’t enough

Yet she fought and gained and lost and slumped down

Lay in her corner, pulled herself up, dared to redeem her soul

Taking back her ground, replacing her own queenly crown

Proudly claiming her real position out of his self-engrossed world

Because she now knows she was ALWAYS enough!

Enough to bolt with a sprinter’s speed, enough to pace and jog with calming ease

Enough to sit alone yet not lonely, enough to mingle in, yet not lost

Enough to be vulnerable in her own skin, enough to burst forth and claim that big win

Enough to not be validated by another’s word of so-called care, enough to find her place out a lover’s lair

Enough to pivot with immaculate balance, enough to settle in with quiet assurance

Enough to tear out a page yet be ok, enough to colour again yet not be left behind

Enough to walk around in her own skin, despite the colour, the size, the scars, the hurts, the bruises, a Woman is simply Enough!

Enough to strive and thrive and zoom and vault taking on the world, enough to do the same caring for her precious little brood, a Woman is simply Enough!

SHE WAS ALWAYS ENOUGH!

Rosemond Dinard-Gordon

February 26^th 2022

© 2022

Many of us are looking forward to Valentine’s Day within the next two days. Sure it has been highly commercialised and the meaning for many is obscured, inconsequential and bears no weight on how they live their lives. However there still remains a large sector of the population worldwide who still pay homage to Valentine’s Day. The flowers, chocolate, candlelight dinners, music, stolen and, or hushed rendezvous, unbridled copulation, regular hook-ups et al are being highly anticipated. But…. but is the heart in any condition to receive any of these? How is your heart…? Just how is it?

Is that heart of yours adrift, anchored, poised, sunken………blue, red, green, white…..? how is it? If that heart of yours is adrift, I sympathise with you. For as I look way over the waters, I see the slow moving artifact being carelessly strung along the waves that couldn’t care less. I see it being wildly tossed by those currents in any manner they wish because love has left the shores and your heart has taken after it in hopeless pursuit. Or is it? Is it being carried along to that place where some solace will be found? Is your heart adrift? Has sense left all sensibility and blind amour taken over? Is it even amour or is it an obsession over a phenomenon that had at some point in time appeared full of potential, but now has simmered down into mere vapour quickly escaping? Is it a fear of being left alone with no crutch to hold on to because you’re afraid to be alone. Is your heart adrift?

Is your heart anchored? Do I see a firmly attached solid fixture of wholesome positivity because parties have taken time to work, mend, build and reconfigure? Or do I see a grounding into an idea or unrealistic expectation, a shaky and pliable facade of strength because you are too rosy-eyed? Have you ensured that your hold is worthy of being cherished and protected lest you find yourself being ripped from your moorings and thrown out into the deep to be devoured? Is your heart anchored and in what?

If your heart is poised, I see an anticipation of take off to a higher level where new developments look promising and rich. I see it taking normal beats of character and assurance because the foundation was laid for sturdiness and courage. But could there be any inclination that your heart is poised without knowing where the journey’s headed? Could there be any small doubt that you had been misinformed, or had misjudged, or even had set off knowing fully well that the unknown was not what you really wanted? Could the latter be because you were tired of waiting, watching others take flight while your heart lay cold and yearning for that warmth you so desire? Is your heart poised?

What if your heart is sunken? What if you had given up and had thrown away all hopes of ever been stirred, lit or set ablaze with desire and fire? Is your heart sunken? Do I see a dejected version of a once throbbing muscle, completely faint and hidden under barrages of heaviness and unrequited, rejected or hopeless amour? Have you thrown in the towel because the dryness in it has turned into thorns and thistles that stab at you too often and too hard. Who has pierced the dagger in too deep and has all of Cupid’s arrows completely missed the mark in your courtyard? Is your heart sunken?

As the heart conditions vary, I can’t help but notice that the shades, hues and colours do too. From my vantage point I notice the blues, reds, green and white. I see the heart of disappointment and tears and I am saddened for you if your heart is blue. I wish and hope that the dolor will be lifted and you can smile again. I see your rage in your heart of red and hope that your anger will subside and be contained as you find your healing from your malaise. I empathise with your heart of green as that envy and jealousy grip you hard such that you are yet to come to terms with what is actually happening and pray that you find your resolution and your bonheur returns. I really care for that white heart of yours that sits timidly and frail in the shadows because you are struggling to emerge into the light. I long to see your bulbs turn on bright is your heart is white. So how is your heart…..? just how is it?

Come Valentine’s Day, I hope that we all will be clear on the condition of our heart. And way past that date, I pray that our heart, the seat of our emotions, will and indeed the very core of our being will be in such a state that whatever life throws at us, skilful manoeuvrings will ensue. It is vital that we take care of our heart. The Bible itself talks about “Guarding one’s heart.” since from it flows waht defines who we really are. So regardless of whether you are into Valentine’s Day or not you must, of necessity, know How’s your Heart!

There are a number of expressions associated with hands.

Among them are “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.” “One hand can’t clap.” “Empty-handed.” “Having dirty hands.” “Hands on.” “Handy.” “My hands are tied.” “Hands Down.” They each have their unique meanings and help bring clarity to, and, or, enhance our utterances.

Our own physical hands are themselves useful in a variety of ways to include our own personal hygiene. One can only imagine the difficulty encountered if and when the loss of a hand or hands is experienced, and taking a bath or brushing one’s teeth would then become a major chore. Our hands are also used in adding colour to our verbal and non-verbal communication. Our expressions are made so much more forceful, particularly we West Indians, since we just can’t help ourselves gesticulating, having hands akimbo, or pointing vigorously to drive home our point.

Additionally, our hands take us places, are sometimes the sole source in maintaining our livelihoods. Our hands do an excellent job in showing others we care. They reach out in passionate embrace, they hug tightly with warmth, they reach out in a tender touch that signals good old amour.

Alternately, our hands can be that harsh weapon to inflict horrendous , cruel pain on an unsuspecting or knowledgeable victim or even that dangerous tool wielded calculatingly to injure another’s reputation and take jabs at their character.

I am of the firm view though, that hands represent potential and capability, hence a favourite quote of mine,

“What have you got in your hands?”

It seeks to cause persons to think about innate, personal, professional or environmental resources that are readily available or present to any individual if he or she only looks hard enough to notice what’s there. So with 2022 now facing us directly and steadfastly, it would do some good in thinking about HANDS.

As such, I am proposing a firm focus on HANDS using the acronym with the emphasis on Hope, Act, Never…, Discern, Sit. Whether we believe it or not, everyone possesses some measure of hope. Others are well endowed with gallons, while others are barely holding on to a pint or quart. Whatever the amount, it is prudent that in 2022, we all hope for success. as we take on new projects attempt at attaining new goals or launch forward into new situations. Whatever it is, it is even more prudent to hope for clarity of mind and sensibility of will to see those ventures to fruition. This is because decisions are sometimes difficult to come to terms with and in other instances, one many encounter a situation that requires a snap determination that is practical and wholesome.

Further it is inadvertent that as we hope we will need to take action. In this vein, we should act swiftly to enact positive changes both professionally and personally as well as in the best interest of those we love or even another human who many require our assistance. In acting to effect change we must also be mindful that some persons may not be in our corner. And while we cannot and should not bow to every word, feel overwhelmed or extra sensitive to every ill-utterance we must be willing to act to disappoint those naysayers. They will come in different forms. Some will be downright nosy and inquisitive just for the “going and tell.” Others will be uncaring and malevolent because they are jealous of your progress, while others will simply want you to disappear from the scene only for them to be in the spotlight. The actions that you take in this regard must be aimed at disappointing and nullifying their desires.

To this end, it behoves you to never doubt that you have the ability, potential and capability in being the champion you are. As a result you should never be complacent about getting to your goals and aspirations. Along the way, however, you should never forget where you’ve come from or where you’ve been. This is important in minimising the chances of repeating errors or even become puffed up and arrogant as you progress. The latter is a strong ingredient in the recipe for a great downfall.

Even as you exude positivity and squash the negatives, it is paramount that discernment is employed. For it is sometimes possible that “Little foxes.” will appear. They are great in causing incremental damage overtime so that confidence is eroded. They sometimes show up or remain hidden as nagging negative thoughts from childhood , purposeful labels and stereotypes, past failures or taunting. Being able to determine your setbacks will serve well for improvement. In addition to that the intentions of others must be discerned. It may not be in a manner to make you overly paranoid but to make you aware of “Blockers.” They may joke or tease, critique or move wilily. Their actions may cause you to miss your mark so you must be able to discern the open frontiers and fields that are before you waiting to be conquered. Discernment therefore, is a key part of HANDS.

Ultimately as you forge ahead, there will be moments for you to be able to Sit. As much as you may be extroverted and crave the presence of others, time alone is necessary. Sitting is a need to bring about balance. It encompasses quiet alone time to self-reflect or have “Time Away.” It cannot be overemphasised since it will provide the strength required to press on. I myself enjoy the quiet green space, where wind, sky, birds, flowers or plants envelope me into a peaceful warmth. It will do you good to determine where best suits you for your “Alone Time.”

Finally, but not at all least, sitting in the presence of God either receiving instructions, communing or offering praise is most vital tor your balance and grounding. As a faith-based believer I have found numerous promises, that saves me from downward turns and going over the edge. The world can be a cruel place and other humans are not always who we hope them to be. Covid-19 has been wrenching us back and forth in and out and we are tired of the anxiety, confusion, discord associated with variants, vaccines, restrictions, protocols, mandates and fear of death.

As a result it will make perfect sense sitting alone and with God in order to be refreshed and relieved. So while you use your physical hands if you are able and even if you aren’t. the other HANDS are yours and yours alone. Focus on HANDS and see where it takes you in 2022.