Thank You Very Sweet

It was in the town of Bethany that Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead in the Gospel of John, Chapter 11…..

The Raising of Lazarus - John Chapter 11

….and how fitting that Bethany Beach would be the location where the Lord would raise me also.
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I was not back home in Ohio for more than 24 hours before my mom and I headed to Bethany Beach, Delaware for our summer vacation. We were headed to a dear friend’s lake front condo for the week; the next comfortable place were I would stay.

We decided to drive. The nine hour drive to the Delaware shore was a peaceful ride. The scenery was pretty and Hawks swarmed around us every so often as we drove; I felt Kesner’s presence.

In the car, my mother and I began to talk about next steps. “I don’t want to put pressure on you but I think you are going to have to make a decision about next steps soon,” she told me. She was right. I told her about my plan to just ‘show up’ at Rutgers and she thought that was a good idea. I also said: “I don’t know why, but I have a feeling that everything is going to become CLEAR this week..”

Our week in Bethany was absolutely perfect for a few reasons. One of those reasons was that Amanda and her boyfriend, Steve, were also vacationing there. Amanda and I had learned earlier in the summer that we both had a Bethany Beach connection; so we’d purposely arranged to be there at the same time so that we could spend time together; a beautiful plan.

Amanda and Steve 🙂

Amanda and Steve came by the condo mid-morning on Monday with Chocolate Croissants. We sat on the screened in porch by the lake and ate quietly. This was my first time meeting Steve so I decided to put a wig on. I wasn’t ready to explain the dramatic hair cut in that moment, so I wore a little wig. My mom just shook her head; she too was taken aback by my dramatic cut but she handled it well. I promised my mom that I would keep my wig around until we figured out what my plan was with my hair; the uneven afro was definitely not going to work long term.

Steve was great. I liked his spirit immediately and I liked him for Amanda. I felt comfortable around him and I knew that we would have a great day. After breakfast we went to our friend’s beach house and spent a quiet day together on private beach. Steve, Amanda and I sat on a blanket in the sand. We saw dolphins, and a sting ray. we talked about death, and God and church. Amanda swam in the ocean for the first time in years. She’d been afraid before, but Steve made her feel safe.

"Steve made her feel safe..."

I liked them together; it made me happy to see them swimming in the ocean. It gave me hope. Meeting Steve reminded me that there are other great guys out here. Emotionally mature men; like Kesner.

Men that make you feel safe…

Mom and I said goodbye to Amanda and Steve later that day and we spent the next few days alone; just us two. We relaxed together. At one point during the week I had an anxiety attack, however. I became suddenly anxious about forgetting all of my memories with Kesner. I woke up in the middle of the night and I wrote everything down that I could think of. I opened my journal and literally had a brain dump: nicknames, things he said, things we said to each other, places we went, songs we sang, Scriptures we read.. everything.

I’d been waiting for God to send me the perfect person to help me assemble my perfect scrapbook of memories. But that person hadn’t come yet. I didn’t want to forget anything while I waited.

Once I dumped my brain I felt better and went back to sleep. It was only a moment and it passed.

It was a wave.

Grief is like a wave

After several days of lounging around and doing next to nothing, I decided to check my email. I opened my inbox and found this message inside:

“Dear Ms. Copeland,

I understand from my friend and colleague, Stephanie Bush-Baskettte (she is also an alumnus) that you’ll be attending the PhD program here. I am delighted to learn this. Stephanie also tells me that you are looking for financial support.

As you can well imagine, our ability to support students has taken a bit of a hit recently, with budget cuts. But I would like to meet you and talk about your interests, and then see if there is a way that I can work with you on support.

Let me know when you will be around. I am copying Ms. Sandra Wright, who keeps my schedule.

Thanks,

TC

Todd R. Clear
Dean
School of Criminal Justice
Rutgers University”

This was the first communication I’d had with Rutgers all summer and it was coming from a man named DR. CLEAR!! Was this for real??? All summer long I’d been asking God to make it clear. I didn’t want to do another thing on my own; I was only going to move forward if and when I was guided by the hand of God. I said: “God Please make it Clear…?”

and HE did. The man’s name was CLEAR!

Todd Clear - This Man's name was CLEAR!

Mom was also blown away that the new Dean of the School of Criminal Justice was named Dr. Clear. And even more so that he wanted to have a conversation about funding…

I would definitely just show up.

But where would I live?

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Several years prior I met a woman at a Links convention who lived in Princeton. Her husband was the COO of a major Fortune 100 firm at the time. I’d just started seminary in Princeton and she told me that if I ever needed a place to stay I should call her. I never took her up on that offer.

Several years later, when I was considering joining the Junior League of Princeton, I came to her home for an interest meeting. Perhaps its a bit of a stretch to call it a mansion; but let’s just say the house is sprawling and gorgeous. I’d regretted not taking her up on her offer.

But as fate would have it, there I was: in Bethany, with an email from a man named CLEAR, and the memory of a gracious offer to stay in a wonderful Princeton home for free..

Could it be that God had not passed me by?

I sent an email to Mrs B., the owner of this beautiful home in Princeton, and I told her my story. I asked her if I could stay in her home while I worked on my PhD…

And then I waited. It was a bold request…

She emailed me back and said “let’s talk on Saturday Morning.”

I spent the rest of the week trying not to be on pins and needles about the whole thing. If I was meant to make this transition then God would make all pathways straight, I’d resolved. Mom’s friend, Gloria, came to join us in Bethany towards the end of the week and the three of us had a good time together.

…and on Saturday morning I spoke to Mrs B.

“yes you can live here! in fact we have a section of the house that’s very private; it’s just past the billiards room… you’ll have your own kitchen and we’ve just had it painted. it’s like it was prepared just for you. Mr. B and I spend eight months out of the year in Florida, so you’ll have the house to yourself most of the time….”

she went on…

I couldn’t believe it. I’d spent one week in Bethany and so much had become CLEAR.

I was going to Rutgers. I was going to get my PhD! I was going back to New Jersey; back to my friends and my community.

and I was going to be living in a mansion!

No, God had not forgotten me.  God was raising ME from the dead…

© Copyright Thank You Very Sweet, 2012

When my sorority sisters and I arrived at Newark airport – just hours before I cut my hair off – I found a very important message in my voice mail. It was Kesner’s mother, Beautiful Simone. I’d made attempts to reach her in the seven weeks since Kesner’s death, but to no avail. It was just beginning to settle in my spirit that I might remain disenfranchised from the family forever.

Beautiful Simone

But then Beautiful Simone called me…

I called her back immediately and talked to her for the entire ride from the airport. It was such a relief. I’d been needing to connect with her and I would soon find out that she needed me also. We made arrangements to meet the following day.

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The next morning – the morning after I cut my hair off –  I went out and bought a new shirt to match my hair cut. I was not comfortable with it yet (my do), so I figured something new would help. I then headed out to Hopewell for my first significant encounter of the day; tea with Mara at her Country House.

Mara was warm and welcoming. She didn’t say anything about my hair right away. Instead we sat together at her wooden table and talked. She asked me about my plans moving forward. By this time I’d applied for the Essence.com opportunity and also for a part-time job in Cleveland at Case Western Reserve University. I’d heard nothing back.”It looks like the PhD program at Rutgers may be my only option,” I told her. “But I don’t have anywhere to live. And I don’t have any funding for the program…”

It was all seeming so unfair. Why wasn’t this easy? Everything that I had already been through had been so difficult, why couldn’t this just be easy?

Then I had an epiphany. I said to Mara:

“I’m just going to show up!”

Having nothing in stone and no plans, I decided in that moment that I was just going to show up on the first day of school and see what happened. Mara agreed that ‘showing up’ was a good idea. Perhaps if I simply showed up, then God would work out the rest. She also told me that I could stay in her daughter Molly’s room for a few weeks while I sorted out my living arrangements. Molly was away in college. I was grateful for that offer.

We finally got around to talking about my hair cut and I told her the story of how I’d chopped it off the night before. “You’re the first person to see it,” I told her. She admitted that she was taken aback when she first saw me and we both agreed that it was most definitely a statement.

After tea, she asked me if I wanted to take a few moments and go see my apple tree, Hope; we’d replanted Hope in Mara’s yard just after Kesner died. I did want to see Hope. I went outside and I sat in front of my tree in the grass. Hope looked so small, but she was a survivor.

It was the beginning of August and Hope had survived the piercing heat – and drought – of summer 2010. She’d also survived the deer that would come around at night and try to eat away at the small shoots growing from her delicate branches. She wasn’t strong yet, but she’d survived. And Pete and Mara were giving her lots of love and care. They’d put a net around her to protect her from the deer. And when it didn’t rain, they watered her.

I sat in front of Hope and I began to cry. I thought about what she’d meant to Kesner and me when we’d first planted her in his yard in April. I thought about how we used to sit on his deck and look at her. And how we prayed over her… And then I thought about what she meant to me now. I realized that my growth would mirror hers. I didnt feel quite strong enough yet, but I had survived; and I was being cared for in the meantime. One day Hope would bear fruit.

And one day I would bear fruit also….

The picture that Mara took that day of Hope and Me. Fragile and tender. ...but one day we would both bear fruit.

After a few minutes passed, Mara came and sat next to me in the grass. We were silent together. She rested her head on my shoulder as we sat. I was not alone. It was a special moment.

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I left Mara that afternoon and headed to the court house in Trenton. Kesner’s mother was there handling some of his legal affairs. We’d agreed to meet there. That afternoon Beautiful Simone and I sat together for hours on a bench in the court building. We laughed and we cried. I needed her. I needed to know more about my beloved. She shared childhood stories. And she told me about his journey with type 1 diabetes. She told me all of the things he hadn’t. And then she told me that he’d talked to her about his plans to marry me.

“Hurry and get married,” she’d urged.

“No, she wants a big wedding…” He’d told her.

My heart fluttered. He’d spoken about these things with his mother. it was real. I needed that. I needed her and I needed to hear that from her.

And she needed me too.

She needed me to share details with her about Kesner’s last days. “I tried to call him Saturday, and Sunday, and Monday, he didn’t return my calls,” she told me. I realized in that moment that I had information that she wanted and needed desperately. I was with him Saturday, Sunday and Monday. I was with him in his last days.

I shared every detail. What we did, what we ate. Things he said..

I told her about the bag of groceries I’d left on his back porch. “That explains the dream I had,” she told me. She said that she dreamed that she’d left him some food but he didn’t eat it. And she didn’t see him again after that. I told her my theory about the heart attack. “I think he had a heart attack” I told her. She thought about it. “Yes, maybe a heart attack,” she agreed.

We talked about the medicine they’d found in his house. The insulin shots and the high blood pressure medication. I told her that I watched him take his insulin shots. I told her that the pastor at the funeral was wrong.

She told me that Kesner didn’t have health insurance..

He didn’t have health insurance?  I didn’t know that.

Just then I had my second epiphany of the day; I finally understood why there were so many insulin shots in his refrigerator. He’d stocked up.  He’d stocked up before he left Morgan Stanley…

Because he didn’t have health insurance.

Kesner was a broker at Morgan Stanley. But then he got sick – a near death experience. Complications with diabetes. His organs had almost failed. I’d known he was ill, but did not know the severity. This happened before we fell in love; while we were still “just friends.”  When Kesner recovered, he quit his job and started his own investment firm: Dufresne Investment Management. He also decided to run for city council. But in the midst of these transitions he hadn’t signed up for a health insurance plan. And he had type 1 diabetes…

Why didn’t he have health insurance? – I wondered.

Had he given up?  Was it too expensive?  Was he waiting for Obama Care? I didn’t understand.  Understanding would come later…

But at least I understood why he had so many insulin shots. He’d stocked up. But that still didn’t explain the high blood pressure medication. I never saw him take that. Ever. He wasn’t taking that.

Understanding about that would come later…

As we sat, Beautiful Simone asked me about my hair. “You cut your hair Kim … It makes you look like Kesner,” she said. We laughed. I saw Kesner in her too. In the shape of her face I could see him. I just looked at her as we talked. Her cheek bones, they were the same as his.

The time flew by. We hadn’t realized it but Beautiful Simone and I had been on that court bench talking for more that two hours. “Next time we’ll have to have a meal” she told me. “But this was better than food,” she said.

It was better than food. We would stay in touch; we needed to.

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After two great encounters – with Mara and with Beautiful Simone – I had the unfortunate experience of having to return my laptop and keys to the agency I once worked for. Even though I loved the women center, the leadership of the host agency made me uncomfortable. They are ministers, but they hadn’t called me once in the time since Kesner died to inquire if I was ok. And I’d just walked off the job and moved to Ohio…

The encounter was cold.

But even in the midst of coldness, God delivered a message.  The Chief Operating Officer, a Native American woman, said something important to me before I left. She – like everyone- was also taken aback by my dramatic hair cut. But she told me that it is custom for Native American women to cut their hair off when they are grieving. “It’s a symbol of grief,” she told me.

In that moment she helped me open my eyes to see even more meaning in my dramatic change  – this was a symbol.

I was thankful. And with that, I had completed my assignment at the agency.  And I had also done everything that I needed to do during my trip to New Jersey: I’d moved out of my apartment, I’d gone with my sorors to the Delta Convention, I’d cut off all my hair, I’d had two great encounters, and I’d returned my laptop and keys and said goodbye to the women center – officially.

I was now ready to leave. The next day I drove back home to Ohio. I had to get back to the warmth and protective cover of my mother, The Comforter. 

Plus Mom and I were getting ready to go on vacation…

© Copyright Thank You Very Sweet, 2012

During the summer of 2006, my friend Tasha and I would take joy rides through the city of Cleveland singing along to India Arie’s song: “I Am Not My Hair,” while the song played on blast.

At the time we both had full head weaves…

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My relationship with the full head weave began in 2004 when I decided to go natural. By “natural,” I mean that I’d decided to stop using cream relaxer to straighten my hair. I had a stylist in Brooklyn, Yvette, who convinced me that weave would be a good alternative for me while I went through this transition.

She warned me that it could be addictive, however..

my weave, long and luxurious...

and it was.

I finally had the long flowing locks I’d longed for as a little Black American girl. And I had options: bone straight, wet and wavy, curly tendrils, etc.

"wet and wavy" in the pulpit..

Weave allowed me to live into a western cultural beauty ideal and I was completely turned out..  Even though I was technically “going natural.”

And by the time I was living in Trenton and dating Kesner, I was somewhere between natural and not. By this time I had fully transitioned from relaxer and I had a full head of natural hair.  My real hair was beautiful, thick and full. I would get it flat ironed and pressed during the cold months, when I didn’t have to worry about humidity.

My real hair was healthy and beautiful...

 And I always reserved the month of August as my afro month; I rocked an afro puff…

But only in August.

In Atlanta with Monet rocking my afro puff... but only in August

 And the rest of the year – or any time that my hair felt dry, brittle, or simply unmanageable- I went back to old trusty.

My beloved weave.

But -if I’m honest- as much as I tried to own it, there was a part of me that never felt fully authentic.  Nor did I feel fully beautiful, because the part of me that made me “pretty” was not real.

It was a covering…

It was a covering...

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I’m not quite sure what happened to me on that airplane ride back from the Delta Convention, but somewhere between New Orleans and New Jersey, I made the decision to chop my hair off. In retrospect, I think it was probably about control. I couldn’t change the way that I felt so I needed to change the way that I looked; I could control that. I also didn’t want to look like Kesner’s girlfriend anymore; I was starting over. This was a marker, a turning point, and I needed to look different. I also thought that in that moment I was just crazy enough to justify doing something drastic; it was now or never.

Against the will of my line sisters, Kim and Talithea, I went to Target on my way home from the airport and I bought hair scissors. I was staying alone at Qiyana’s that night, and when I arrived I didn’t waste any time.

I stood in the mirror of Qiyana’s guest bathroom and I took one last look at myself as I had been. Then I took a clump of hair in my hand and I cut it off.

I cut my hair in chunks. There was no method to my madness, I just cut..

And cut..

And cut..

It felt good. Like a shedding. I was shedding away energy that I’d carried in my hair for years and years. With each chop I felt lighter. I cut my hair in a frenzy until it was all gone; it was all on the floor. And what was left on my head was about two inches long all around – a mini afro.

I could hardly look at myself in the mirror when I was finished.

I felt..

Ugly.

What had I done?

I didn’t look for long. I cleaned up instead. It would take me another hour before I could muster the nerve to get back in that mirror….

The second time around I just stared at myself.   This was me. The real me. Without my covering.

Raw.

Naked.

Could I get to know me like this?  Could I find beauty in it? In me? As I stared at myself in the mirror, I heard Kesner’s voice in my head, saying: “you know I think you’re beautiful, right?” He’d said that to me on the Sunday before he died.

But did I think I was beautiful?

I went to bed not knowing. I would deal with that tomorrow…

Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Incorporated is a sisterhood of college educated Black women committed to public service.

Delta Sigma Theta was founded in 1913 on the campus of Howard University..

Today we have over 950 chapters and we convene nationally every two years. In 2010 the National Convention of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Inc. was in New Orleans, Louisiana; my favorite US city….

The New Orleans assembly was my first national Delta convention –  that’s probably the reason that my line sisters and I mixed up the dates. We arrived on a wednesday and stayed until monday. The convention didn’t actually begin until that saturday and it lasted until the following saturday. As a result, we had three days of down time and only two days of convention. That was fine with me, though; I was happy to have down time in New Orleans with my sorority sisters.

We stayed at the JW Marriott. The hotel was Qiyana’s choice and it was a good one. My favorite amenities were the gym and the roof top swimming pool; we made sure to take advantage.  There were five of us in the room: Qiyana, Talithea, Monica, Kim and myself. I felt comfortable staying with those five; they had been there when I was at my worst. I could be myself with them. No performance.

Around that time I was becoming very particular about who I spent time with; I was concerned about making people uncomfortable. My humor was off (I was making a lot of sarcastic remarks about death by this time), and I remained on the brink of a spontaneous breakdown in every moment. I felt it was best to spend time with people who would not be alarmed by my moods.

We had a good time, the New Orleans JW Marriott was definitely the next comfortable place where I would stay. We worked out, swam, ate, shopped, and laughed a lot. It was great. 

As the week progressed, Delta Sorors began to fill the city. Thousands of Sorors. It was incredible, a sight to behold. My mom (also a soror) arrived on Friday and by saturday it was time for the formal opening ceremony.
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Minutes prior to the opening ceremony, I ran into my mom amidst the crowd of sorors in the convention center. Since she was the newly-elected national president of the Links, she was being escorted into a holding area to greet the national officers of the sorority. I followed her into that room and I was warmly received. Cynthia M. A. Butler-McIntyre, the national president of Delta Sigma Theta, gave me a big hug then looked me directly in the eyes and said, firmly:

“God has something special in store for you!”

Cynthia M.A. Butler McIntyre - National President of Delta Sigma Theta Sorority, Inc.

I’ll never forget the sound of her voice as she said it. She was so confident.  So sure.

I believed her.

I knew that there would be more to my life, that I would survive this, that time would heal;  But in that very moment, I began to believe that what God has in store for me WILL be special. That moment in the holding room was a turning point...

By this time it was saturday and our time in New Orleans was coming to an end. The convention would go on, but my line sisters and I would have to leave on monday. Having been inspired, I was almost ready to go; there was just one more thing I had to do…

I had to find Susan Taylor.

Susan..

Susan was also in New Orleans because she received a national award from the Sorority that week. I was hoping that I would bump into her, but by sunday evening I’d had no luck. On Monday, as we were preparing to leave, Talithea and Kim ran into her; she was signing books in the convention center. Knowing how desperate I was to see her, they called me and told me to get there quickly.

I ran from the JW Marriott to the convention center. I brought my books with me, the ones she’d mailed to me a month prior. I scrambled around the convention center until I found her sitting at a table and signing her latest book, “All About Love.”

There was a short line and I stood in it. As I inched closer I began crying. She saw my sadness and hugged me before she knew who I was. I was overwhelmed. I said “I’m Margot’s daughter, Kim… You sent me these books.” I could hardly get it out.

She hugged me again, more tightly this time; she knew immediately who I was. Love emanated from her. “Oh Kim..” she said, “of course.” There were two other women around that she knew, she called them over and she told them what happened. we all hugged.

It was a moment.

During that moment one of the two women kept touching my hair and saying: “aww, you’re so pretty…”

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It was time to go and I was well. I had seen Susan Taylor, this amazing writer that I’d been connecting to in my grief; we’d hugged and shared a moment, she even gave me her cell number. I could leave New Orleans now; seeing her was an emotional high.

and on the plane back to New Jersey, I was about to have an emotional low.

I don’t know what came over me but as we boarded the airplane, I lost it. Kim, Talithea and I flew together and I finally had the breakdown I’d been fearing all week. I sat in the window seat and sobbed and sobbed. They did not react, which I appreciated. They let me cry it out.

When my tears finally subsided I looked up and noticed that Talithea was looking at a natural hair book. In the book, Black women were sharing their accounts of shaving their heads and “going natural.” In that moment I made a decision:

“I’m going to cut all of my hair off tonight” I announced.

Upon hearing this, the two of them looked at me like I was nuts. But I kept insisting, and I was also insisting that I had to do it that night.

“Don’t you at least want to wait until the morning and have a professional do it?” Talithea asked.

Kim started crying. “Just wait Kimmy, go to a stylist..”

But by that point it was too late. I’d made a decision. I would stop by Target on my way back to Princeton and buy some hair scissors. I was definitely cutting my hair off.

And I was not going to wait for tomorrow..

© Copyright Thank You Very Sweet, 2012

It was nearing the end of July and my apartment lease would expire on the 31st; I had to get back to New Jersey and move out. It was time to leave Ohio for a few days and return to Trenton.   All of the healing things that I had done at home  helped me muster the strength to make the trip on my own.  I decided to drive.

When I arrived in New Jersey, I drove straight to Qiyana’s condo.

Qiyana

Qiyana’s  place felt safe; I decided to stay there. Qiyana greeted me warmly with some of my favorite things. It had been over a month since I’d seen her last, so we caught up on her balcony and later I settled in for the night; I would go to my apartment the following day…

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I arrived at my place the next afternoon. I hadn’t been there since the weekend of the funeral and I was apprehensive about the emotional impact of re-entering the space.

It was emotional.

When I walked in I felt the familiarity of home. And Kesner. And I took a moment to pause, sit, look around, breathe and cry. I looked at the chair he used to sit in. I could see him and hear him.

I needed him.

If I was going to pack up my apartment, and our memories, I needed to know his spirit was with me – helping me to be strong.  ‘Kesner –  Help me,’ I breathed through my tears. And within short order, he responded.

Kesner sent me three signs:

The first sign was a balloon. There was a helium balloon floating around in my apartment that said “Thinking of You” on it.

thinking of you...

The balloon had come with a bouquet of flowers that had been delivered a month prior, just after Kesner died. This balloon was significant because Kesner used to text me that every day: “Thinking of You.” It was also significant because the average life span of a helium balloon is 30-60 hours . There is no reason that the balloon should have been full of air and floating for an entire month, except for the fact that Kesner wanted me to know that he was thinking of me…

I found the second sign in my refrigerator: the last bottle of chardonnay that Kesner bought was still there.

I’d cooked dinner the week before he died and he’d brought over this bottle of wine. There was enough left for a single glass, so I poured a glass and relaxed for a moment.  And as I was sipping my glass of wine and watching my balloon float around the room, I saw my third sign:

Edward Hiscox’s Star Book For Ministers.

This was a book that I didn’t realize I owned. Kesner and I had shared a good laugh with Courtney and Cory about the phonetic pronunciation of ‘Hiscox’ over dinner several months prior. In fact, in the photo where Kesner is whispering in my ear and I’m laughing, that is what he was saying to me:

“Hiscox…”

Hiscox..

I laughed.

Kesner was definitely there; with a message, a glass of wine and a laugh. I felt strong.

I could get to work.

Packing was easy. In fact I’d never had a move that went that smoothly. This was due, in part, to the fact that I had organized my apartment several weeks before I left town:

I’d gotten everything organized in April: It was the last week of April and I decided to take a vacation from work. I was preparing to preach that sunday and I was waiting on a WORD from the Lord. The only WORD that came that week was ‘Get Your House in Order’. So I decided that God wanted me to clean my apartment. I threw away many bags of unnecessary stuff that week, and I now understood why. God told me to get my house in order because HE knew that I would have to move soon… 

GOD was making it easy for me.

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I got most of the packing done that afternoon. Felicia and Talithea came over that evening to help me wrap my dishes and valuables in newspaper and bubble wrap.

Felicia and Talithea

It was good to see them. They caught me up on everything that had gone on in Trenton while I was away. I’d missed them.

The following day was moving day and 6 amazing Kappas came to help us move my things. This included the Polemarch, the Vice Polemarch and Drew/Angel. Kesner had dispatched his fraternity brothers to help me.

He was definitely there.

We moved all of my belongings into a storage unit at my church; God had paved the way for me to have free storage space. We packed the remainder of my belongings into my car, including the large box of my orange protest tee-shirts; I still had about 250 of them left. And with that it was finished. I returned my keys and said goodbye to Trenton.

The following day Klay hosted a small party for me at his apartment in Harlem. Talithea and Felicia came with me; it was a beautiful night. Klay served a delicious meal. Andrea recited some of her amazing poetry. And Michelle, a friend from my Spelman College Glee Club days, serenaded us with a beautiful rendition of Ave Maria. It was awesome; a wonderful night.

Talithea, Felicia and I spent the night in New York that night and headed back to New Jersey early the following morning. We had to get back; Talithea and I had an early flight to New Orleans the following morning…

We were headed to the National Convention of our beloved sorority, Delta Sigma Theta…

© Copyright Thank You Very Sweet, 2012

In addition to one-on-one grief counseling, I joined a support group.…

This was a monthly grief and recovery group for people under the age of 35 who’d experienced loss. “The Man” agreed to go with me to my first meeting…     for support.

My Brother - "The Man"

We met in a dimly lit space at a bereavement center; it was decorated like a living room. There were about six of us in that first meeting, Mike was the only man. We had pizza and soda and before long Diana, the group leader, opened the meeting.

She asked us all to go around the room and introduce ourselves by talking about our loss. One woman was grieving her mother, another her brother, another her sister and another her sister and mother who died separately and within one year of each other. Three had lost loved ones to cancer, two experienced sudden death, and one of those saw the dead body immediately after death – a sister who died suddenly on a basketball court at a routine practice. It was a sad room and there were many tears and tissue boxes and stories about how “I suppressed the pain until I had a breakdown; that’s when I knew I needed support and to talk about it…”

There was solidarity and shared pain in the room.

When it was my turn to talk, I told my story: the love, the shock of finding that love dead, the drama of being detained by the police, the experience of disenfranchised grief… There were audible gasps as I spoke.

Did I still have the worst story in the room?

I later decided it wasn’t “the worst story” (we’re advised not to compare grief or the ways that people grieve) but the story is unique. I wished there was a support group just for women under 35 who found their men dead and were then detained by the police for seven hours; we’d have lots to talk about.

I didn’t think The Man would have much to say. But when the time came for him to speak, he put his pizza down and began rattling off the names of everyone who had ever died in our family. And in our extended family. And in our church. He went on. And on. And on. Soon I didn’t know if he was there to support me or me him. I hadn’t realized that all this time he’d had no one to talk to; and that night in group, he talked the longest. He said it felt so good to get this all off of his chest. It made me wonder about cultural norms and expectations for men and how they may limit opportunities for therapy and healing from trauma. Mike was the only man in the room; but there are millions of men who grieve.

In group we talked about visitations and symbols in nature that reminded us of our loved one. When we see these signs it makes our loved one feel near. One woman talked about how her mother loved yellow finches, she would sometimes see them outside of her bedroom window and know that her mother was close. I told the group about the yellow flowers that I was seeing everywhere, and about the Hawks.

“I’m like a Hawk,” Kesner told me one afternoon at his house. We were talking about his pursuit of me. “A hawk will fly into a group of birds with his eye on one bird and nobody knows which bird it is until the hawk swoops in.”  In other words, hawks stalk their prey.

And now not only was I seeing yellow flowers everywhere but I was seeing Hawks as well. Kesner was definitely around…

"I'm Like A Hawk..."

We ended the two hour group with an alpha poem. To create an alpha poem, you take the letters of a word and think of different words that come to mind that begin with each letter. The words we used that night were “yellow finch” but I later did one for Kesner as a homework assignment:

K- kind, kinetic, kiss
E- energetic, eternally etched
S- sincere, sad, sick, solid
N- new, new love, nice
E- elevate, evolve
R- rest.

Read together the poem sounds like this: KESNER- kind, kinetic, kiss, energetic, eternally etched, sincere, sad, solid, new, new love, nice, elevate, evolve, rest. Meaning can be found for the person who selects the words.

We were also given handouts with news about other grief recovery activities: painting classes and quilting, making things out of our loved ones old belongings. ‘Maybe I’ll make a pillow out of Kesner’s tee shirt and shorts that I have,’ I thought.

I would put the heart inside.

My friend Marcella had given me a stone in the shape of a heart when I saw her at the Links convention. She told me to wear it close and think about Kesner; I hadn’t figured it out yet, but that meant wear it in my bra and close to my own heart – when I needed too. She also gave me a beautiful cross and a large pair of gold hoop earrings with small rhinestones on them.

The earrings would come in handy shortly…

© Copyright Thank You Very Sweet, 2012

When I returned from visiting Kristen in Maryland, I had lots to do. I had to email the director at Camp Dudley about Yanni, I had to update my resume and bio for the essence.com opportunity and I had to file for unemloyment. I also thought I might submit a writing sample to essence; after all, how could I expect essence.com to hire me if they dont know my writing?

I took my laptop to Dewey’s coffee shop and I decided to write.

…about being a writer.

This is what I wrote that day at Dewey’s:

“I’m a writer.” This was my response to the stranger I met in Georgetown on Sunday who asked me what I did. I said it a second time on the airplane, to George, as I was traveling back home from Maryland to Cleveland on Monday morning. George and I will become friends, I suspect. He is a mid-forties Italian-American financial consultant from Connecticut. George is working in Cleveland to shut down operations for a local bank that was unable to survive the economic crisis. This is a welcomed assignment for George, as he is going through a “messy divorce.”  Somehow seeing many people loosing their jobs is less stressful than going home to what must feel like a loosing situation with his wife and children. George shared his pain and fears of loneliness with me on the plane and I shared mine with him…

But back to me being a writer… Why not? This is who I am deciding to be. Mostly this is a response to an urgency and need to share. My experiences over the last few months have been incredible. My life has actually been pretty incredible, but these lasts few months have been extraordinary. “My people” (that circle that I hold most dear) have encouraged me to write. And then I got a call from a friend who has a friend at Essence. Essence-dot-com is looking for a columnist on spirituality and faith and of all people this friend-of-a-friend called me…   and at just such a time as this.

The Universe is responding.

So having no formal experience at this, I have decided that I will begin by altering my perception. I will tell people that I am a writer until I believe it. I said this to my grief counselor, Monica, today and she suggested that I go a step further and actually start writing. “Brilliant,” I thought. So now here I sit at Dewey’s Coffee Shop (my new home away from home) and I write, with a chi tea latte by my side (every writer needs a good companion drink).

I am a writer!

And what better to write about than my new identity?

Professionally I have been a banker, a headhunter, a minister, a social worker and an activist, and that’s just in the last 8 years. I’m 30. Apparently these transitions are consistent with the trend of my generation (Y); we work to live while our parents’ generation (Boomers) live to work. The Boomers often criticize us Ys, but I think we’re on to something.

Do we really need just one title, one stagnant career path, or does that restrict creativity? If I look at my work history as a series of titles, I feel unfocused and all over the place. However If I consider the collection of experiences (working on the NYSE trading floor, helping to facilitate life transitions, advocating on behalf of incarcerated men and women, MINISTRY..) it feels incredible. And I don’t cease to be the things I have been; I just continually grow to become more.

I feel that I have been responding to a series of assignments from God. All of my assignments have had meaning and purpose for me and for others. All of my assignments have forced me to grow.

My last assignment ended abruptly. For two years I was the director of a women center in Trenton, NJ. My staff and I worked to help spiritually, emotionally and financially impoverished women facilitate lifestyle changes meant to lead to greater stability. We made a difference in the lives of many women. But alas.. with the loss of funding, the loss of staff, the ending of my apartment lease and yes, the sudden death of my beautiful partner (hence, grief counseling) , I can’t think of a clearer sign that an assignment is over!

And what about my PhD plans?… I have no plans. I am choosing, rather, to embrace life’s open question mark. I have my Soul Friend, Jessie, to thank for giving me permission to be open. I am still in conversation with Rutgers and others about funding and housing but nothing is solid. Things will need to be solid and very CLEAR if I am meant to return to New Jersey this fall.

For now the only thing that is clear is that I am a writer. And I know this how? Because in this very moment I am writing, and this very moment is the only thing that is real.

God is here; God is in this very moment and I am in it with God…

writing.

I heard the analogy once that God is like a song that has been played throughout eternity and it is our responsibility to remain present with God and to sing in harmony with God’s song. I have asked myself how I can sing along with God’s song if I choose to be bound by a single label or title. I think one must choose to be bound or be free. I choose to be free. I choose to be present and to sing. And apparently there is something that I am meant to sing in this season of being a writer. I hope that it is helpful. So I humbly assume this new assignment, peacefully resting in the uncertainty of this moment with the hope for incredible experiences to come.

Sincerely,

Kimberley S. Copeland -Writer

© Copyright Thank You Very Sweet, 2012

I was somewhere between the past and the present. Some days I would sit in the park and live into my memories. I smiled through my tears. My romance with Kesner had all been so beautiful, like nothing I’d experienced.  I remembered not trusting it. ‘This can’t be real,’ I thought. ‘This can’t possibly last.’ I picked small quarrels for no reason, just to be heard.

And to test if he really loved me.

I was waiting for one of my flaws to surface and ruin everything; ‘I’m not who he thinks I am’– I thought. ‘Do I deserve this?‘

As I sat in the park and reflected on these things, I realized how silly I had been to doubt Kesner’s love. I realized that my greatest flaw was my own insecurity. This would have been the sabotaging flaw. Insecurity can make you so self-aware and self-obsessed that you can’t see the other person in a relationship. You see them only through blinders of self-perception.

Had I done this to Kesner? Had I been so self-involved that I couldn’t see that his were the gestures of a man facing his mortality?

How?

‘I will love again and I will love differently,’ I promised myself. ‘I will love unselfishly.’

To love a dying man was a gift because he seemed to know what was important. Kesner taught me how to love. Often when I would bicker with him he would not argue back, but simply say “I understand.”

What did he understand? – I wondered.

Perhaps his ‘understanding’ was a preference for harmony over the need to be right.

I wanted this understanding. Meditation would help me get there…

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

I was introduced to the practice of Tonglen in one of the books that Susan Taylor sent to me. Tonglen is a prcatice of meditation found in Tibetan Budhism. This is how the practice is described by Pema Chodron:

Pema Chodron, A Western Buddhist Monk

“The tonglen practice is a method for connecting with suffering —ours and that which is all around us— everywhere we go. It is a method for overcoming fear of suffering and for dissolving the tightness of our heart. Primarily it is a method for awakening the compassion that is inherent in all of us …. one’s whole attitude toward pain can change. Instead of fending it off and hiding from it, one could open one’s heart and allow oneself to feel that pain, feel it as something that will soften and purify us and make us far more loving and kind.” (“When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times,” Pema Chodron – and http://www.shambhala.org/teachers/pema/tonglen1.php)

Basically tonglen is a breathing excercise:   I would connect with my pain, feel it, and then I would think about everyone who was feeling the exact same way in that moment, all around the world. I would take a deep inhale and breathe in the pain and sorrow of  all humanity. Then I would exhale and breath out LOVE, peace and compassion for everyone; prayers of healing for myself and the world. This breathing excercise made me feel connected and not so alone in my sadness. It helped a lot.

I began to practice tonglen regularly and to reflect on matters of understanding, acceptance and growth. How could I use this experience? How has it softened and purified me? – I reflected on these things also.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Kristen (Haystacks and Sisterhood) was my second friend to send for me over the summer.

Kristen

 The week after I returned from Camp Dudley and the day after my father’s wedding, I flew to see Kristern in Maryland.  There is a winery in Maryland that hosts pretty fantastic reggae wine festivals throughout the summer. Kristen sent me a plane ticket to come in for this event.  She’d planned everything. She had a portable tent and chairs, and a plethora of snacks with which to enjoy our wine. All I had to do was show up.

When I arrived on Saturday morning, we didn’t waste time in getting to the festival. Carrying the tent and chairs and putting it all together was more strenuous than we both imagined, but once we were settled in our spot in the grass we had a beautiful time together. We enjoyed cheese and crackers, fresh fruit, fried chicken and wine, while listening to the musical renderings of a live reggae band. It was a beautiful day with my sister-friend, Kristen.

Later we came back to Kristen’s place and spent time together with no agenda or plan. Kristen has a spacious two bedroom/two bath condo with an open kitchen, living, dining, and den area. The colors in her place are warm and she has a great kitchen; it’s very large, with stainless steel appliances and granite counter tops. Her’s was the next comfortable place where I would stay.

Being there with her and spending down time, reminded me of our days living together as roommates in brooklyn; it was a comfort.

The following day we went to DC and visited the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial. It was a beautiful sunny afternoon and we decided to sit on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and relax for a bit. As we sat, out of nowhere, I began to sing “Let there be peace on earth and let it begin with me..”

Without question, Kristen began to sing with me.  The two of us sat side by side on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and we sang the familiar song from our childhood days:

“…with God as our Father, brothers all are we. Let me walk with my brother in perfect harmony…”

Harmony, I thought.

I Understand.

© Copyright Thank You Very Sweet, 2011