Love as a sacred practice

Reflections on racism and the call for us to free ourselves from the bondage of hate

"I only want to see Black faces, Black bodies, to hear Black voices; I've had enough whiteness!"

These are words I stated emphatically on a podcast-length voice note to my sister, my sounding board, a life partner. I'd returned inside from an afternoon out in the city of Porto, Portugal, having spent time at a café doing the same computer stuff I usually do at my all-purpose dining table at home. It had been almost a week since I'd left the house, and I was ready to stretch that length of time even more, but I'd felt doing so would quickly turn my introvert dial from "enjoying the peace home offers" to "scared to leave the house". So, I'd gone out. Being a traveler for the past decade, I've relied on my legs to take me places. One, because I never wanted the headache of a car, and two, because I'd always experience so much more life at the slower pace of walking. I'd be able to see with my eyes and my body, my highly sensitive energy receptors never betraying me. When I first arrived in Porto, my eyes shone at the texture of the city. Aged, mismatched, buildings somehow all fit together at a distance as a mosaic; a constellation of the old and, perhaps, the new, I was hopeful to discover. In my early days on this adventure, I saw more Black faces than I thought I would — certainly more Black faces than I'd seen during my previous adventures in Mexico and in South Korea. I called this out to my sister in those days as well. People spoke to me in Portuguese upon first interaction, indicating that they maybe thought I was from a Portuguese-speaking country: Angola, Mozambique, Brazil, maybe even Portugal itself. Though the city was old and dark, I thought I might be able to catch my share of belonging. My hopes were high, and my spirit was ready to dig into the city and culture and potentially nestle in.

But the weeks went by, and I found myself on linger at the stage of entry. I'm ready to feel at home here. I'm ready for community. I'm ready for love. The energy of these words resonated from my heart throughout my body and guided me as I made my way throughout the city for excursions here, coffees there, writing workshops and yoga classes. The number of Black faces I saw on first arrival dwindled as though they'd only showed themselves to greet me when I’d touched down. I still saw some of my sisters and brothers, but noticed the few I saw seemed tired, run-down, rushing, overburdened. Where was the radiance of my people? Where was the energy and buoyancy that flows like blood and water through our bodies? It was months later I realized this they would transition to we. I would find myself tired, dull, burdened, worried when walking the streets of Porto, a scenario I wouldn't have expected for myself.

About a month after I arrived in Porto, a month after I'd enjoyed the touristy sights and "must-sees" of the city, I decided to venture to the beach by bus, an hour away from my apartment. I remember making a conscious decision to actually leave my house and take the trip, that long road, to the beach. I usually have no qualms with long trips; the inconsistent but constant undulation of a vehicle lulls my active heart and mind to tranquility. But this trip felt different. After about a month in Porto, I was starting to realize my energy toward the city changing. It was the same feeling I'd begun having towards the city of Abu Dhabi before I finally left after my 3-year stay: being out in the world in a conservative culture so different from my natural, free-flowing internal way, was truly a cost to my peace. I couldn’t quite articulate those sensations and feelings to myself just yet, but that day, I wasn't excited to enter the city; in fact, I had to calm my ready-to-sweat body down before going out. I'd vacillate between staying in and leaving home, thinking I could always go to the ocean another day. Another day, another day. How many times will we push the simple manifestation of our desires to another day? So, it was an active and conscious decision to make my way to the salty and purifying air of the water. I was ready, bundled up on a windy, February morning. I had my e-book reader and journal, water, some fruits and nuts in my backpack. I was prepped for a day in the outside world! The bus rolled up at the stop a few blocks from my apartment and I shyly tapped my card on the machine, letting myself in. All eyes on me, the only Black body around. And my Black body responded without missing a beat: get out of here, now.

“But at what point does the loyalty to survival become a betrayal to love for self? Let's pause and ponder, please. If I am so focused on being loyal to the ways of tradition and engrained beliefs, where is there space for the ever-transformative force of love?”

But I didn't. I instead walked through the echo of those gazes and found a seat at the center of the bus. My legs were facing into the aisle so there would be a natural need to engage with other humans as the bus rolled through its 35 stops to get to mine. Time and again, through each stop, fellow passengers would brush past my long legs without excusing themselves or making eye contact to indicate they realized they were indeed brushing past another human being. I was starting to get in my head. Were people being rude, or was I truly in the way? Were others on the bus really staring at me, or was I just too self-aware? As a human with the gift of high sensitivity, hyper self-awareness is an attribute that can be used, or it can use me. Sometimes in doubt, I teeter on that line. Let me come through these words for a moment and level with you: my heart is dipping, like a fledgling swimmer trying to catch her breath in the shallow end of the water, coming up for air and feeling fine for the moment, only to be engulfed by harmless waves that don't feel so harmless. Why, you ask? Because I hate talking about race. I really do. I tend to avoid race-related conversations because they so often point to division between humans rather than the beauty in our differences. If I look at my friend groups from college until now, they've gotten more and more diverse; I've found my heart feeling at home more and more in these culturally and racially distinct spaces. But the truth remains that I am a Black woman. I am an African indigenous woman. And I am big. And long. I am 6'1", probably a solid 190lbs, and my chocolate skin is as dark and even as mama Earth's fertile soil. I have big, bright eyes and full lips that extend from my face as though I were naturally kissing life. I think, if I were on the outside of my experience of life looking at me, I might want to stare as well.

What I felt on the bus that day on the way to the beach, and what I felt for weeks afterward on the streets of Porto were not the stares of awe and wonder, though. They were the stares of hate. I'd come home from a trip to the grocery store or from a walk around the street emotionally shaken and tired, ready to soothe myself and chalk my experiences up to my projections. Perhaps, having grown up in mostly white spaces in the USA, my internalized racism and self-hatred were more deep-seated than I'd realized, despite all the inner work I'd been doing to free myself from that conditioning. When I'd walk behind a white person on the narrow sidewalk, right in their blind spot where I absolutely hate to be, I'd find myself growing afraid. What if they jump out of fear? What if they attack me as I'm simply trying to move past them? What if they're a woman and think I'm a scary Black man creeping up on them to rape and kill? What if all the manufactured tropes global society fucking shoves down our throats are true and I am not who I am but rather actually a monster? It is in those moments, my soul weeps for my human self, so overly taxed with the heaviness of evil that has entered into the hearts and minds of people around the world about the Black body, the Black soul, the Black experience. When I enter this realm of feeling and thought through writing about the Black experience, it's as though my loving ancestors materialize around me and softly stroke my energy field to soothe me. I then find myself humming into the deepest tenor of my voice, just to feel my vibration. I need this coat of love when in the realm of fear that houses hate, racism, and discrimination.

“I am beginning to learn what is to come when I reach into my reservoir of life force power and speak to god about my evolution. I am met with circumstances to come to terms with the old, shed dead skin, and meet the new.”

"I only want to see Black faces, Black bodies, to hear Black voices; I've had enough whiteness!" I vocalized with more passion than I ever really outwardly expressed concerning race. My sister's response to this commentary was one of exasperated solidarity. She, too, born and raised and living in the USA, has had enough whiteness. Her time at Howard University anchored the magic of the Black experience inside her even more deeply after our upbringing in mostly-white spaces. For me, however, I went to fashion school in NYC, a very queer experience; I've lived and traveled around the world and have coexisted with more surface-level diversity than I ever really imagined. But still, even with all my exposure and interesting relationships, I found myself in shared exasperation with my sister at the state of the perceived Black experience through an external, non-Black lens. After that conversation, a newer, more complex resolve began to stir inside me. I understood that my sentiment of wanting only to be surrounded by everything and everyone Black, and thus rejecting anything white came from a place of deep frustration, which is almost always rooted in sorrow. It's like the fragile glass walls I'd been holding up around me to keep my heart protected from the constant inflow of hate had shattered and I was left feeling, not only the piercing stabs of these glass shards, but the accumulation of hate around me just waiting to make itself known to me. I was overwhelmed and embarrassed at how many times I just stood there and braced myself while insults and threats and jokes were hurled at me without any fucking regard for my humanity. For my divinity. My conditioning and upbringing and freaking survival instinct were holding up that wall. As I write this, I see that my conditioning and upbringing were based on and entrenched in survival instinct. But at what point does the loyalty to survival become a betrayal to love for self? Let's pause and ponder, please. If I am so focused on being loyal to the ways of tradition and ingrained beliefs, where is there space for the ever-transformative force of love?

*******

The weeks and months during my stay in Portugal ambled by, and I began to count down to my departure date, fervently looking forward to a future outside of that low-grade, cancerous orbit. I remember how hard and fast my heart would beat, excited to get the fuck out and push on to greater possibilities. Experiencing life through the potent energy of hatred and discrimination in Porto caused such a disturbance in my soul, it was as though I was forced into another awakening. Before this 3-month excursion, I do recall asking life for more of me — for deeper intimacy and higher states of love. In moments of rawness and void-like solitude, I'd plead to the universe, to a witnessing god, that I receive the truth life wants to share. Looking back on some of my journal entries, I'm surprised at my earnestness and deep belief in something so colloquially ambiguous as "truth". Yet, I know the truth I seek. Perhaps that is what took me to Portugal to begin with, this search for truth. And I am beginning to learn what is to come when I reach into my reservoir of life force power and speak to god about my evolution. I am met with circumstances to come to terms with the old, shed dead skin, and meet the new. The version of me that is bigger and brighter, that keeps me up at night with her unshakable presence, that I can no longer fold up or shut out or leave in the corner while I play my role in life. This is the version of me that woke with an increasing rumbling force as my months in Portugal ran along. And let me not forget the heart-growing love I experienced during my time in Porto, as well. Life is full of such juxtapositions that just make things so… stimulating… don't they?

This mention of love is not an aside; it is the foundation of my whole experience in Porto. You see, the hate and disconnection I experienced, first energetically and then physically, highlighted with a force the dire need for love. Love in my own life with myself, my heart, and love around me. The stronger the dissonance between my internal selves or between myself and others external to me, the more my heart would cry out. She was calling for the grand tonic to dissolve all pain and end all wars: love. It wasn't until I became romantically engaged with someone along my path that I realized just how sharp the contrast between love and hate feels in the body; this is the contrast between love and fear. With this person, my heart — this higher, bigger version of me — could finally stop and breathe. She could shed her old layers of shame and smallness, finding hope and light in the warmth of the greens and yellows of the eyes of another. It was incredible. And exhausting. And painful. And enlightening.

“It is so clear that any instance of hate is a call back to love. It is the sharpest, loudest, most reverberant signal.”

Through that experience of realizing love, I came to observe myself through the eyes of love, and I couldn't get enough of what I saw — how I experienced me in this light. And then I would exit my apartment for some thing or another and be whipped with the belt of fear and hate. It was dizzying and awful. Had I been living like this from time? Had I really just been existing within a shell that kept me safe but also kept me small and shamed? I hate to think that that was my experience of life, but I know that it's not the full story, so I must be compassionate with myself and all of what needed to occur, internally and externally, before I could arrive here, now. And here I am, reminiscing on my final weeks in Porto and how sad I finally felt for those who held hatred in their gazes when I would pass by. I'd gone through the emotions, and through the process came to respect my own essence and presence. By the end, it had become clear that the virus was hate, stemming from fear. And how incredibly uncomfortable is it to exist with fear lacing your blood? I think we all know what it feels like, fear embodied. All embodiment practices need in order to set are intention and repetition. When we assume the worst in someone (even and especially ourselves), there's the intention. When we are loyal to our commitment to seeing them as their worst potential, there is the repetition. And like wildfire, this embodiment becomes autonomous, blazing through generation after society after country after culture. Who wins here? The game of fear is not a winning game, not in any substantial way. The transmission of hate momentarily pacifies the hater's raging heart, begging, pleading, desperate to be loved. That's all that does. It's like giving a teething baby a piece of aluminum foil to chew on. Seems like it will do the job, but makes things infinitely worse with jolts of pain like never before. I am so careful in where I place humans in relation to blame. We are divinely powerful creatures, but when in an unaware state, the destruction we can cause by channeling fear, sometimes feels beyond god. Where this fear seems like a system to keep us safe in this multifaceted and uncertain world by separating “us” from “them”, it actually serves as a bonding through fear itself. But even then, it seems we still cannot see how we are the same. I have separate thoughts about fear and how it is a neutral attribute of humanness, but in the case in question, the fear has metastasized and created a system of self-destruction.

I am a champion of love, if you have not already gleaned. I have always been, though not always so loud and proud as to express it in words. This experience with hate (certainly not the first and likely not the last) shook me so deeply that I cannot see the world, this life, as the same. It is so clear that any instance of hate is a call back to love. It is the sharpest, loudest, most reverberant signal. And there is always a reverberation. The hate towards self, the fear of Self, is the first relationship to be present with, and, if you ask me, it is really always the only relationship that requires such a deep love and presence. From that love, all other love flourishes in health, nurturance, joy, and prosperity. Meeting our divinity. That is what it takes to truly and fully love the fleshy self of the here and now. And so, we can look to techniques we already use to engage with self and with life. In the practice of fear, if we assume the worst and are committed to manifesting that assumption, perhaps we can assume the best and become devoted to allowing the best to be manifest. This would be the practice of love. Not the four-letter-word, or the romantic gestures, but an all-knowing, all-seeing look into our own beckoning hearts. And it can be a sacred practice that we use to channel divine light into our hearts and out through our eyes as we gaze upon life. Once we truly see ourselves, we can't not see others. And once we know others as ourselves, through the lens of love, the potential of the world to soften becomes a reality so close, it’s like the very skin we wear. Surely, on some level, I find it a shame that I was made to experience such deep hurt and pain to remember my true divinity as a Black woman, a Black human. But on another, larger, level, it is what needed to be experienced for me to feel my fullness – that is, feel the light continuously radiating from my heart, alerting me to opportunities to wake up, become present, and return to love.

Love was, is, and will always be the only way.