Restore Our Connection To The World

Back to Nature, Building a Strong Inner LIfe through Poetry & Talk, Chronicle the Black Woman's Rise, Empowered Woman, Healing Arts, Monologue, Spiritual Awakening, Womanist Empowerment

Our lives have become disconnected from the source.

People’s well being have been given over for Power and Money.

Looking outside oneself for happiness and pleasure.

Will not suffice.

This hunger grows stronger each day.

Requires more and more.

Until we have gobbled up the earth.

Then we begin to feed upon the Human Soul.

Which has left a sort of Spiritual Poverty.

Which is worst than being poor.

A nation controlled by this force.

Seeks nothing but violence and war.

A machine driving our consciousness.

It is never to late to put on the brakes.

The Womanist Empowerment Network

Has her fingers on the Pulse.

Knows the value of Human Life.

How to restore the Human Spirit.

Breathe life into.

Restore!

Revive!

Bring back from death.

Live life with meaning and purpose.

Restore the Earth.

Fertilize the soil.

The lotus flower blooms.

From the murky waters of life.

 

The Working of Your Unconscious Mind

Building a Strong Inner LIfe through Poetry & Talk, Chronicle the Black Woman's Rise, Empowered Woman, Monologue, My Internal Life, The Great Awakening 2016, Womanist Empowerment
iceberg during daytime

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Like an iceberg, most of what you are is submerged below the surface.

If you look closer through a clear mirror you will see.

I gaze through the crystal blue lake and see the massive ice chunk under the blue.

If you look only at the surface you will never see the beauty of the inner world.

Under the sea, deep in a cavern below is where exotic creature live.

In the unconscious mind, which is summered inside of you houses the mysteries of the world. Like taking an expedition through the many layers of the earth. To reveal the core. The hot molten lava, churning. A fire burns inside of you like a hunger. You feed it many things, but not what it really wants. This unconscious mind wants you to discover its secrets. Take a look and see the brilliance. Like looking at the night sky. Millions of tiny stars twinkle. All universes onto themselves. You are a micro of the great universe. Stop acting small. Understand every thought, deed and word is held in the unconscious, even the events of the world, which is a collective unconscious. Split apart the large mountain into tiny rocks, look at them under a microscope to determine what they are. You have power to remake your life and the world.

How to Make a Slave of the Self

Building a Strong Inner LIfe through Poetry & Talk, Chronicle the Black Woman's Rise, Empowered Woman, Monologue, Spiritual Awakening, The Great Awakening, Womanist Empowerment

This life is for
Winning Freedom back from
The conditioning of making a Slave of the Self.

This nation,
Was built on slavery by
The so called
“ruling elite”.
Who made a slave of itself.

The white man manifested
What he was trying to escape.

He imagined a division between
Black and White.
And lived and perpetrated
This lie,
And made
Humanity believe.

This belief in duality,
Seeped in religion.
Preached on Sunday
Forgotten on Monday.

Is an escape into Personhood
I’ll conceived and toxic to the self.

Come back to the Natural self
Where real experience unfolds
In the “I Am”.

The Psychological Mind

Building a Strong Inner LIfe through Poetry & Talk, Chronicle the Black Woman's Rise, Empowered Woman, Monologue, Spiritual Awakening, Virtual Retreat, Womanist Empowerment

VCAFEThe Psychological Mind
Tries to control life
And how everything should be.

Riding on the wind
Without an anchor
Tossed about
Living life recklessly.

Caught up in the
Personal story
You tell your self
Deriving life from
Your attention
Interest
And belief.

Who is this Mind’s servant
Doing and believing
Everything it tells you,
Who is the mind talking to?

The Psychological Mind can intimidate and be a tyrant to the person
But has no influence on
The True Self.

You must transcend
The personal aspect of mind
If you want to be happy and free

Give little importance to
The Psychological Mind
Just be.

You may ask,
Who will I be?

Self-Inquiry

Building a Strong Inner LIfe through Poetry & Talk, Chronicle the Black Woman's Rise, Monologue, My Internal Life, Spiritual Awakening, Womanist Empowerment

Inquiring into the Nature of my being
and the nature of “God”.
One single thing.

I wake to the sounds of the dog
Scratching at the bars of his cage.

For a moment
I lie in darkness
Tiny lights flicker from a statue.
So I can see.

What time is it?
I always wonder
Feeling better if I’ve slept
A full night.

No, it’s three in the morning.

Before I get out of bed
I slink back into myself
Like a turtle back into his shell.

Thoughts flood my mind
Like the moonlight
On a dark starless night.

I’m everything.
The words come from a place
Deep inside of me.

I’m Oprah, Obama,
Dr King,
Daishiki,
Even Trump.
These thoughts lay gently within me.

Into the arena of Inquiry
I ascend.

A search for the truth
As it appears to me,
Raw and naked
Open and unashamed.

This life is one single thing,
Expressed as everything.

The left and the right of my brain merge into a whole.
I see God at work in everything.

I open my eyes
Wake from the hypnosis and conditioning
Let the dog out of his cage.

We step into the crisp morning air
So we both can feel a sense of relief.

A New Year of Joy and Happiness

A Seven Step Personal Transformation, Building a Strong Inner LIfe through Poetry & Talk, Chronicle the Black Woman's Rise, Empowered Woman, Mindfulness, Monologue, Womanist Empowerment

Mindfulness Journal

Joy and Happiness for the New Year1 (8)

2017 passed away as time and so the ways of old…
Of suffering; of worry and doubt.

Cast onto the vast ocean of life.
Drifting into the horizon.

There,
If one would need more of the same.

Thus a new beginning.
A time to reflect,

As a way of passing and moving into a New Year of promise and happiness.
Where each and every one has their dreams fulfilled.

A state of mind that acknowledges the 3,000 realms of existence.
Filled with the knowledge I have amassed in a lifetime.

That unravel into a narrative that explains how we are like a tiny universe onto ourself filled with the substance of our dreams.

Like living in a bubble which makes more tiny bubbles that follow our wake, that suddenly burst right in front of our eyes.

Sprinkling tiny soap suds on our faces, across our lips,
We giggle like a child with the sheer joy and happiness of the moment:

We are in the vortex of happiness, wanting to stretch it to eternity.
Because in that moment, it contains all of eternity.

All you have known and experienced, what you are experiencing and the cause you are making for your future.

Be it of absolute Joy & Happiness
Happy New Year

Building a Thriving Community

Building a Strong Inner LIfe through Poetry & Talk, Chronicle the Black Woman's Rise, Empowered Woman, Manifest 2017, Monologue, The Great Awakening 2016, Womanist Empowerment

We have kissed the feet of Angels.

walked the dark pathway to the Heavens.

sat with the babies!

nursed the sick.

tended to those who have lost their way.

we have stood on the top of the heap!

looking down at the destruction.

saw bodies lying in the streets,

pools of blood collecting at their feet.

i sat looking deeply in a mirror reflection.

at an image that no longer resembles the heart.

a reflection dark and decaying

from a slow death.

i watch as ashes fall to the ground

nourishing the earth.

into fertile ground

that nourishes the soul.

which has taken root.

begins to push through the soil

into bright sunlight.

reaching,

she lives.

her life gives life.

her energy restores,EWLOGO

her community

thrives and flourishes.

her voice heals.

her presence encourages

others in the midst

of theses challenging times.

POINT OF DEPARTURE

Monologue, Readers' Theater, The Great Awakening, Womanist Empowerment

The Pursuit, Capture and Political Persecution of Angela Yvonne Davis.

READERS’ THEATER – MONOLOGUE

(20-25 minutes) Theatrical Re-Enactment of The Pursuit, Capture and Political Persecution of Angela Yvonne Davis

TITLE: Point of Departure

Producer: VFE Southern ROOTS Cultural Institute

Creative Consultant: Pamala G. Wiley

Writer: Pamala Wiley

Actress: Rochelle McKevie

Originally performed in Louisville, KY 2005

Scene One: Closing In

Back in New York I had been underground for approximately two months, convinced the day would come when many of us would have to live in secrecy. I hated this lifestyle. Staying in unfamiliar places with people I barely knew, going out at night wearing a wig and dark glasses. A glance in the mirror reflected back to me a figure that was unrecognizable.

It was October 13, 1970. A friend and I left Howard Johnson motel. We were going to see a movie. David Poindexter had dropped everything to help me. He and I had become comrades in this final hour. The situation was so desperate. I was tired and hopelessly preoccupied with eluding the police, wondering how much longer I could tolerate isolation, knowing that to contact anyone would be suicide.

Inside the motel, I was gripped by a nagging fear. Every straight-looking American man standing around confirmed my anxiety. I was positive that all these men were agents positioned in a formation that had been previously agreed upon preparing to attack.

I passed my open door. A frail man reached out and grabbed my arm. He said nothing. More agents poured out from behind him. Others streamed from a room across the hall. “Angela Davis?” Are you Angela Davis?” The questions were coming from all directions. I glared at them. During the 10 or 12 seconds, moving between the elevator and the point of confrontation, thoughts tore through my mind like a storm. They forced David into a room on the right and shoved me into another on the left. I turned and took one last look down the long dark passageway. The agents ripped the wig off my head, cuffed my hands behind my back and arrested me on the spot.

Scene Two: House of Detention

The system is poised against us politically, and economically. We live in a socially hostile world. We Black people must contend with this ill-treatment every day of our lives. The Soledad Brothers Case is what caused me to go underground and to be finally put on the FBI 10 Most Wanted List. I was attracted to this case because of the political views of George Jackson who was sentenced to prison for stealing seventy dollars and has been incarcerated over fifteen years.

January 13, 1969, eight white prisoners and seven blacks were “skin searched” for weapons and sent out to a special exercise in Soledad prison, Salinas, California. Within minutes a fight had broken out in the yard. What happened next is a controversial issue. Convict survivors claim the tower guards began to fire into the crowd precisely at the blacks without warning. Four shots were fired and three black prisons were killed. One white prisoner was wounded in the groin. Inmates claimed the guards would not let them assist the wounded.

The dead prisoners lay on the hard, cold pavement for approximately 20 minutes. Thus, one of the prisoners wounded in the leg bled to death. Three days later the Monterey Grand Jury made public their findings.

The guard’s actions were labeled justified. Less than a half-hour after the verdict was announced a guard was found beaten to death. However, he was not the one who committed the shootings. All the prisoners in the unit were put into isolation.

Six days later, three black convicts were accused. Fleta Drumgo, John Clutchette, and George Jackson. The prison system had no concrete evidence that they were guilty, but wanted to use them as an example because they had been previously identified as black militants by the prison authorities.

George was eighteen when he was sentenced from one year to life for stealing $70 from a gas station. He was brought to prison because he couldn’t adjust. All his life he did exactly what he wanted to do, which explains why he had to be jailed. He accepted a deal. He agreed to confess and spare the county court costs in return for a light county jail sentence.

While in prison he read about Marx, Lenin, Trotsky, Engel’s, and Mao. They redeemed him.  He studied economics and military ideas and met Black Guerrillas, George “Big Jake” Lewis, and James Carr W.L. Nolen Torry Gibson and many others. They attempted to transform the black criminal mentality into a black revolutionary mentality. Thus, each of them was subjected to years of the most vicious reactionary violence by the state. Three of them were murdered.

George felt that capture and imprisonment were the closest thing to being dead. He spent years in prison, over half of them in solitary confinement. He faced a mandatory death sentence when he was convicted of the guards’ death.

He pleaded and reasoned and even threatened in a desperate effort to make is family understand his life and accept his commitment to total revolutionary change. He wrote to every family member because of a burning need to communicate.

His deepest concern was for his younger brother Jonathan. George poured out everything that he has ever learned about how to survive as a black man in a hostile and degrading society.

My involvement in the Soledad Brothers’ case increased. I traveled throughout California speaking on their behalf. The pressure at the University mounted. They wanted to fire me for being a communist and for my outspokenness.

On the day I delivered one of my more moving speeches in which I included Ronald Reagan himself with participating in and condoning a conspiracy to suppress all radical political activists, particularly those in prison did the Board of Regents make their final decision to fire me.

Tension mounted. People needed a way to shake off the cruelty of the jail and prison systems.  For once they wanted something with which to fight the harsh system that had deceived, mistreated, jailed and imprisoned their brothers and sisters.

We organized a campaign to free the Soledad Brothers. All over the black community buttons were passed out, silk-screen posters made, wherever there were rallies, meetings, concerts or gatherings in the community, a committee of activist passed out literature.

Scene Three: Not My Education Monologue: Speech by A. Davis

The education is an instrument for entrenching Amerikan domination. It prepares the African child for the role of an underdog, a supplier of chief labor who will not identify himself/herself with the aspirations of the oppressed masses for national liberation of all black people.

It is a role of ensuring the privileged position of the Amerikans, insulating the African child from world events and confining him to lies and distortions that are prepared by the Amerikans to retard the intellectual ability of blacks.

The education he/she is given glorifies tribalism. The child is made to except the Amerikan as savior whose divine mission is to dominate the lives of black people and determine how, where and how long each one should live. Indeed, it is and education for servitude.*(Speech from Angela Y. Davis, Women Culture Politics; pp 189-190)

Scene Four: My Education Monologue:

A loud noise interrupted my sleep. I looked out the window, our neighbors the Deyaberts house was in flames. Bombings occurred so frequently we named our neighborhood Dynamite Hill. The whites lived on one side and us blacks on the other. More blacks moved in and the whites moved out. The Deyaberts dared to cross the color line. If we stayed on our side they said we’d be fine.

We moved into the neighborhood when I was about four. I knew something was different about the people across the street. I just didn’t know what. I’d speak to them they would just glare back. My environment became so violent. It filled me with hate. Mother and father wanted their eldest daughter to not be so consumed. They’d ease my distaste by telling me white people had an unnatural disgust towards the black race.

As more children moved into the neighborhood we would nourish our bruised egos by standing and shouting racial slurs at white people passing in cars. We would take off running and laugh at the expressions on their faces. We were the not so poor. Up until going to school. I thought everyone lived the way we did.  Mother and a father both worked. Mother was a teacher and dad owned a service station. We moved into a mixed neighborhood. We had to rent the upstairs to help pay the mortgage.

Mother taught me to read and write before first grade, but what I learned in that first year impressed upon me the need to take care of my fellow human. I learned that just because you’re hungry doesn’t mean you’re going to get a good meal. And if you’re cold doesn’t mean you’ll get warm clothing, if sick is you guaranteed good medical care.

Us children attended Tuggle Elementary, the neighborhood school. An old cluster of wooden dilapidated houses that stood on the side of a grass-less hill. At the bottom was the playground covered with red clay. The school for white children was new, sitting on plush green ferns.

Tuggle was an all-black school, headed up by an all-white board. Their visits always set the teachers scrambling to be at their best. However the teachers commanded little respect from the board. Sometimes the board leader would flaunt his authority by looking us over like a herd of grazing cattle enclosed in the field.

At school, many children couldn’t afford a bag of chips for lunch. For days, I watched my classmates go hungry. I couldn’t be silent any longer. Dad usually brought home a bag of coins every night and lay them out on the kitchen shelf.  Secretly one night I crept into the kitchen and took a few coins, I’m sure dad wouldn’t miss. I weighed my guilt over the need to help feed. I gave those children coins so they could buy a sack lunch.

Teachers would teach us about Negroes that the School Board did not see as a danger to their way of life. A favorite time was Negro history week. Special events were planned for assembly.  Each child would be responsible for a project to present. This gave us a strong positive identification with our people and the history we grew to know.

We never learned about Nat Turner or Malcolm X those whom weren’t accepted by the Amerikan. A definite pattern of submission and silence set the stage for us to overlook the racist and oppressive ways we experienced growing up. Teachers taught us to live with this misery and to pull ourselves up using our own bootstraps. Be a doctor, be a teacher, it must be your individual effort.

Once a Black teacher fought back. A white man called him “Jessie” in front of his class. He replied, “in case you’ve forgotten, my name is Mr. Champion”. Days later he was fired for his act of refusal.  Nothing in the world made me angrier than inaction and silent acceptance of the distressing ways whites treated blacks.

Scene Five: Heroes Emerge – Monologue:

Jonathan, George’s younger brother spent all is time and energy in the campaign to free his brothers. It had been 10 long years since Jonathan had seen his brother as a free man. George was proud of Jonathan and respected his loyalty. In George’s letters to Jonathan, he described the brutal treatment he and other prisoners received. Those letters heighten Jonathan’s involvemen to work more diligently to set the Soledad Brothers free.

August 7, 1970, our heroes emerged. Years of frustrations and decades of frame-ups had left Jonathan helpless and impotent. Jonathan decided to act. He single-handedly, with a satchel full of handguns, an assault rifle and a shotgun hidden in his raincoat entered the courtroom of judge Haley. Jonathan armed three convicts then shouted, “Free the Soledad Brothers, “free all political prisoner”. A gun was taped to the judge’s neck. The jurors, District Attorney and prosecutor were led out of the courtroom into an awaiting van.

Outside a guard fired the first shot, and then a barrage of gunshots tore into the van. When the smoke cleared all except one person had been killed or wounded. Judge Haley was dead. Jonathan at seventeen lay lifeless on the cold pavement. I couldn’t believe he was dead. The news made me angry. He was so full of life.I was charged with murder, kidnapping, and conspiracy. The guns used in the killings were traced back to me. The charges are all false, waged against me because of my revolutionary political views.

Scene six: Jail Life

Everything around me was unfamiliar. My cell had become the only thing recognizable in the darkness. Loud screams continued throughout the night. The cries so close I could feel the tears.  Lying helpless, darkness lay on me like the bars that now imprison me.

I lived in this wasteland, housed with the sick, drugged and a woman who screamed into the night. She had lost all contact with reality. Her vile language filled the air. She used the most vulgar language and graphic description of some imagined black figure that she says was raping her. I am sure the guards placed her beside me to provoke me.

I would spend sixteen months in jail awaiting my trial alongside women in prison. They tried to isolate me, said my life would be in danger. But what I found were women who embraced and supported my cause.

The prosecutor tried to paint a picture of my case as a crime of passion, sighting women as emotional, overlooking the fact that George and myself were political prisoners put on trial because of our political view. August 21, 1971. I awoke with emptiness from behind bars in this thoughtless and disconnected place. A darkness that filled my every waking moment. I thought about George in San Quentin.

Margaret and Howard walked in. They had been instrumental in helping with my case. By the look on Margaret’s face I knew something was wrong. I had witnessed that look once before when bad news came of Jonathan’s death. Tears welled in the corner of Margaret’s eyes. She reached out for me. We held on. I was numb and unable to speak. Howard shouted, “They killed him, Angela, they shot George in the back.

Epilogue:

Angela Yvonne Davis was acquitted of all charges. A year and a half later she formed the National Alliance Against Racist and Political Repression, which has chapters in twenty-one state including Louisville, Kentucky which is the only one still active.