Inhale...

Trapped.

And afraid to breathe.

The room is filled with it 

 and 

one sip of those sweet, sweet fumes 

will be the beginning of the end for me.

But,

I am alone, 

the only one terrified of losing myself.

the only one haunted by the idea of being consumed  with poison.

Everyone else  ingest these toxic fumes with no fear...

May it be, they are not aware? 

 It is odorless.

 It is tasteless.

But. 

But all I see is smoke, 

All I see is death.

All  I see

they collapse.

left and right.

But I must breathe.

And there is no where I flee to.

This is all I know.

All I have ever wanted to know ,  

until now..

      I inhale.

Letters to my Grandma ...

=

 And that is the mystery that is my grandmother...Born on the dawn of the war that was to end all wars on November 11, 1938.

When ever my grandmother comes to mind, a tinge of guilt follows. Simply put, I wish we were buds. Ever since before I can remember I've always associated my grandma with food. Through out my childhood we would customarily go to my grandmother's home after school and 95% of the time  our brief conversation would revolve around food. Usually inquiring if I was hungry, not necessarily considering if I was or not because before I knew it the maid,  Yollete, would serve hot plates of food for my siblings and I. So we grew accustomed to nodding our heads as she made sure our stomachs were filled to the brim. But upon consideration , I'm guessing she has  probably however detected that the gift of a simple plate of food has always brought joy and contentment in her world where one hot meal a day is rare and few between. But other then our conservative exchanges, she spoke very little of herself and has remained a mystery.

I have always been intrigued by my grandmother. I have been blessed with the good fortune of carrying her name the 'Victorious one.' From what my mother tells me, my grandmother was born into a very wealthy in the small commune of Maniche but never was granted the gift of a scholastic education.  It was said that in the area where she had resided as a child if she bore an education  she could have possibly been murdered; my great grandmother, her mother: Mme Julienne, weighed her odds and her preference was in favor of having her only child alive.Especially given the fact that her other two sons had been brutally murdered for contending to acquire an education. Who could blame her?

As I continued to extract tantalizing bits of information from my mother of this mysterious woman I came up with a glorious idea! How could I further my understanding of this matron who intimately mothered 10 children, a renown seamstress, managed a myriad of succesfull (magazines) businesses in Maniche, Les Cayes and Port-au-Prince, acquired  various plots of land  all over the country, etc...
Maybe, just ask her myself.

I know this task will not be easy, especially given the limited exchanges we've had in the past.  But delving into such intimate conversations will be valuable.

To begin my journey I have written her a letter...

Dear Grandma,

I primarily wanted to let you know how much I admire you.I'm not sure how I lucked out and got a grandma as extraordinary as you, you are the epitome of a  woman, strong, elegant, wise,etc..

From what your children have recounted:

You are an amazing wife, and loving mother: trustworthy, rare, and kind. You were also a disciplined,enterprising, and one of the most hardworking women they all have ever known.

 If God permits: I would love to learn more about you, your experiences,your trials & your hopes and dreams, ...

I love you.

Your grand-daughter,

Victoria

Moving on...

What does it actually mean to move on?
What steps are we to take to move forward?
Is it a state of mind? Is it outwardly visible to those who take part of ours surroundings?

I was in Haiti this spring break and through out that time I felt unraveled in contradictions.

The streets were busy with merchants, selling fresh water and cola or fruits and vegetables. The taptaps were filled to the brim, transporting dozens of people from one location to another. Everything and was moving along…

Upon entrance into the country my chauffeur Sergo, came to get me and his warm smile enthusiasm, kind words of how much he had been looking forward to seeing me reminded me of why and how dearly I love my country, and the people of my country .

We quickly got into conversation, I was curious about how he had been doing and he was eager to share. Sergo recounted how January 12th had transformed his life, what he had lived, how what he had saw torments him everyday. His life, had been that of a movie witnessing thousands of people lives flash before his eyes. (An unimaginable reality to grasp)
He told me how shortly after witnessing a 5 story apartment crumble into rubble right before his very eyes, one of his neighbors came along and exclaimed that My grandfather house is underground, Sergo’s home had collapsed the earthquake had brought it down and my grandmother was still inside.

I’m not sure about me, but how do you think you might respond in this situation?

Sergo told me, it took him what seemed hours but actually minutes to take in that his home had also been brought to its knees and the remarkable lady, my grandma whom had accepted him with open arms was also buried under the rubble.
This was unacceptable! And he immediately ran to back his house and tried to see what
He could do. And quickly noticed that she, My grandma was alive! He told me in the midst of such immense sorrow, hearing her whisper: Help me.. Was the most comforting thing he had ever heard…
And what I loved about this story is that Sergo never gave up until the job was complete. After 2 long days of isolating where she was and after hammering away for 5+ hours eventually pulling her out from her neck because he was the only one who could fit in the hole without causing more damage to my grandmother. Sergo rescued my grandmother. He is a hero.

The funny thing about this story, is that this was one of the dozens of remarkably heroic stories I heard while home last week. And I am proud to say I am from a country of heroes. Heroes with no awards, no acclamation This is the story of thousands of people living in uncertainty, turmoil and distress.

What does it actually mean to move on for the people of Haiti?
Maybe it small efforts like these, where we gather together to celebrate a people, embrace their stories, embrace our essence. Maybe it’s people like you?

Welcome to my world...

I wanted to invite a select few into my world, my ambitions, my hopes, my insecurities,my love,my peace,my prayers,my discoveries, my observations, my voice,my integrity, my core.. I have found that this art form, in my aspirations of self-mastery is one that awakens something within, allows me to connect to others, with who I am created to be.