Many nights that first season, I would return late to my tiny apartment and cry myself to sleep. Had I done the right thing? Had I used the right words? Did I look fat on camera? I was getting rave reviews from back home, and the women in the house seemed to be faring quite well, but remnants of the old, self-doubting Iyanla were creeping back into my consciousness. This nagging sense of inadequacy, not being to contact Niamoja, and Oluwa’s difficulty adjusting to military school all threatened to make my first season on Starting Over a wretched beginning.
Back when I first started my spiritual journey, I recall one of my teachers telling me that prayer and meditation would heal the soul of almost any affliction. The only things, he said, that could not be cured by a daily spiritual practice was failure to have a daily spiritual practice. I have heard the same theory from many modern day spiritual teachers. I had a practice but it was not sustaining me. I needed to go deeper, but I didn’t have the time. I was working 10 to 12 hours, often longer, each day. I missed home, and to cover the pain, I would veg out in front of the television. Then I went home for the Christmas break and everything shifted—forever.
This was my first Christmas without Gemmia and the one-year anniversary of her transition. In my mind, Niamoja needed to be with me and her mother’s side of the family. Of course, her father did not agree. We went back and forth, arguing with sweetness but both, I am sure, calling each other names beneath our breath. He finally gave in and agreed she could spend the holiday with me. She, Oluwa, and I decided we would not stay home that Christmas. We would go skiing and spend the holiday doing something fun. Off we went to Pennsylvania, to a sweet little hotel. We had a lovely time, but it was very clear that we would rather have been home doing what we would have done had Gemmia been alive.
It was almost New Year’s when the telephone rang. I didn’t recognize the number and I did not answer. Within seconds, the telephone rang again. The third time, I answered. It was him. My undivorced husband. Just checking in. Couldn’t reach me on Christmas. How were the kids?
“I see you have a new telephone number,” I said.
“Yes, I changed carriers.”
“Whose name is that? I know that name.”
“Just a friend.”
Something didn’t feel right. I made a few calls of my own until I tracked down the name. It was the widow of his good friend who had died a year earlier, just before Gemmia. I knew her, not well, but I knew her. When her husband was ill, my husband encouraged me to pray with her for him. I did. When we had prayer and healing ceremonies for Gemmia, I invited her. She came. Hey, wait a minute! Are these two together? Was this going on right under my nose? He never had any intention of finding a vision and coming back!
With a few more calls, I discovered that not only were they together, they were open about it with people whom I considered close friends. They attended a spiritual class taught by one of my students, a student who knew that this was my husband sitting in front of her with his girlfriend. And no one, not one single person who prayed with me to save my marriage, not one person who knew how torn up I was about it, ever said a word to me— that is, until I started asking questions. At first I felt betrayed. Then, I was livid!
When you are starting your life over, with a new sense of self, who you once were is going to challenge you. Who you once were is going to dangle old carrots, old wounds and issues, in front of your face. When that happens, you will be tempted to revert to old feelings, old patterns of thought, and old patterns of behavior. When, however, you have made up your mind that the old you is dead and buried, when you have embraced a certain level of clarity about who you are and are not, as well as who you are choosing to be, you have a different response. You recognize that the new you has a different character, a different posture, a different presence than the old you had. You realize that you must regain possession of your mental and emotional faculties, rather than allow them to run amuck with thoughts of right, wrong, fair, and unfair. The old you went first to doubt and then to helplessness. The new you is willing to get up, stand up, and step up for your honor and dignity. The old you may have behaved like a handmaiden, waiting to be told what to do and how to do it. The new you is the queen, ready and willing to take the throne of your life and rule your inner and outer kingdom with dominion, power, and authority. The queen wants to know what is best for the good of the kingdom. She knows that the minds and hearts of the people are at stake. The queen must possess a gracious personality and not bear a grudge against anyone. For if she does, people—perhaps the wrong people— could be beheaded!
I knew where my husband was going to be and when, so I went there too. I talked to her. I talked to him. I talked to the friends who had entertained them together and never thought to mention it to me. On the drive home, I was tempted to stew in anger, true to my old pattern. But I was pleasantly surprised to find that I did not really feel hurt. Stewing would cause me more harm than I was willing to take. Finally, I asked myself: What would Gemmia say if she were here? Her words flooded my mind and heart—Save yourself and leave those people alone!
After transferring Oluwa to another school, a boarding school, I went back to Starting Over with a new sense of self. Sure, there were some lingering memories and a few pangs of sorrow, but for the most part, I felt complete. I recognized this as another pattern of my life coming to a close. I had lived through Aunt Nancy’s physical fight to make her husband honor her. I had watched Nett, my stepmother, shrink in life at the realization that her husband had another family on the other side of town. I had seen good friends move through varying degrees of self-inflicted torture after discovering that they were sharing their bed with more than one person. I had read about Gemmia’s experiences with Jimmy in her journals. I realized that family patterns live on not just in behaviors. They live on in patterns of thought. They live through a certain acquiescence, a belief that things will never change so you must go along in order to get along.
I was not willing to tolerate the pattern of self-denial any longer. I was choosing another way for myself. I was going to take the throne in my life, knowing that I had an opportunity to do for Niamoja what I had not done for Gemmia and Nisa: Teach her how to say no, without an explanation. I was protecting the boundaries of my kingdom. The blessing was that I had the opportunity to share on national television what I was learning as I was learning it.
One day I sat down and had a conversation with my brotherfriend Rev. Michael Beckwith. After I shared my story with him and asked him if I was moving in the right direction, he not only supported me, he encouraged me to do it all in the name of Gemmia. He said, follow the Buddhist tradition of taking your sorrow and sadness and doing something positive with it in the name of someone you love. That is exactly what I did for two seasons on Starting Over. Those were the two most productive and healing years of my life. Even so, they were just preparation for what was to come next.
In the morning, when I rise,
I want to rise Holy when I rise.
— Negro Spiritual
CHAPTER 20
STANDING IN GRACE
When have you been through enough? When does who you are, what you have learned, and how you have grown become enough to sustain you? These were the questions on my heart when I returned home to Maryland following my two seasons on Starting Over. I had given all that I knew and all that I had to give. I had learned a lot in the process. Now I just wanted to be left alone to feel what was going on inside of me. I was aching somewhere deep in my bones. It was the ache of being back in my home without my husband or Oluwa. It was the ache of being back in my life without Gemmia. It was the ache of being denied access to my granddaughter. It was the ache of not knowing what to do next in my life. I spent days in my backyard, listening to the birds chirp and the stream flow, and allowed my heart to weep. The tears in my eyes had dried up a long time ago.
Going through the mail, I discovered a series of letters from my mortgage company. I opened the oldest one fi
rst. From the date on the letter, which was 22 days ago, I had 48 days to pay off my mortgage — $378,000. I called my accountant. He explained to me that I had a balloon payment on my mortgage. It was something he and Gemmia had worked out with the intention that I would buy my house outright. It was also the only way I could get a mortgage at the time. I vaguely remembered Gemmia talking about it, but she had handled all the business matters. Buying my house was something we planned to do with my salary from the Iyanla show before its untimely demise. According to my accountant, no one would refinance a mortgage with a balloon payment, which meant I now I had to produce the money or they would foreclose on my home.
Then there was the tax issue. Although I had been given a year of grace, I needed to resume the payments of $30,000 or file for bankruptcy. Bankruptcy! No way! I owed the money and I would pay it! This was my family’s home! I was a first-generation homeowner. My children and grandchildren knew this to be the place we gathered. But Gemmia’s care had depleted my savings. Oluwa’s tuition and my living expenses took me right to the edge each month. I had no family to ask for help, and most of my friends asked me when they were in trouble. My daughter, my marriage, and now my home. When is enough enough?
Filing bankruptcy would help me with the back taxes, but it also meant I would need to sell my house. It was unfathomable. It was devastating. It was embarrassing. I had a law degree, a Master’s degree, and six credits toward my Ph.D. Maybe I could get a job, perhaps go back to practicing law. Maybe I could borrow the money or get someone to buy my house and rent it back to me. I didn’t have time for any of that. It wasn’t fair! It just wasn’t! Then the pathology of guilt surged up from my DNA. Why didn’t I … How come I … I am being punished for … Guilt’s first cousin, shame, followed closely behind. Look what you did now! Everyone is going to know. How can you call yourself a spiritual anything? The internal battle went on for days as I tried everything I knew to stave off the unthinkable. Then it happened.
On a bright and sunny Tuesday afternoon, the bankruptcy trustee, a real estate agent, and an estate appraiser rang my doorbell. They were there to assess my assets. The appraiser put on rubber gloves and methodically went through every room in my home, every closet and dresser drawer. He counted my silverware, my china, my stemware.
“Where’s your jewelry?”
I opened the drawer.
“Do you have a safe?”
“No.”
“Where do you keep your diamonds?”
“I don’t have any.”
“What about your furs?”
“I don’t have any of them either.”
Then he turned to the art hanging on the walls.
“Is Bibbs a friend of yours?”
“No. He is an artist. A black artist.”
Speaking to the realtor as if I wasn’t there, he said, “Interesting. I’ve never heard of him.”
“And who is Fennell?”
“Another black artist.”
“Nice. I’m not sure what they are worth, but they are decorative.”
I followed the appraiser from room to room as he peered and counted. When he reached the front door, he turned to me.
“I am really sorry about this. You have a really beautiful home.” With that, my house went on the market for sale.
On August 15, I was informed that I had until October 1 to leave my home. In the meantime, the realtor needed permission to show the house to prospective buyers. This was an indignity I could not and would not endure and stay sane. With the bankruptcy, my credit was shot. I was not allowed to have any savings and file bankruptcy. The remaining remnants of my life were unraveling. I felt lost, alone, and terrified.
My community family was watching me and praying for me. Some of them just shook their heads, like me, saying, “Enough already!” Others encouraged me, saying, “You know what to do.” And I did. I knew what to do. I was too weary to do it, but too afraid not to do it. So I prayed and praised. I cried out with my whole heart. I was glued to my prayer partners, Shaheerah and Raina. I held onto my right hand, Almasi, and my left hand, Lydia. I learned quickly to let people help me. I learned how to ask for help. I had 45 days to leave my home. I needed to pack. Two of my students, Deborah and Laura, helped me do that. But where the heck was I going?
One morning it all came together. I went into my prayer room to meditate. After lighting my favorite incense, I sat in my favorite chair and read my favorite Psalm, Gemmia’s favorite too. Psalm 27 begins, “The Lord is my light and my salvation.” I had read it over several times when I started to feel the cool breeze. I closed my eyes and surrendered to it. I could smell her. I could feel her. Gemmia’s presence was in the room. I felt the warmth of my tears falling across my cheeks. “Whom shall I fear?” I could hear my heart beating, and my entire body began to pulse. “For in the day of trouble he will keep me safe in his dwelling.” I wanted to open my eyes to see if I could see her, but they would not, could not open. “Hear my voice when I call, O LORD; be merciful to me and answer me.”
All I could feel in that moment was love. I wasn’t sure if it was Gemmia’s love or God’s love, or maybe they were one and the same. I wondered if I were imagining the experience or totally losing my mind. But I had felt like this before, and, no matter what anyone else thought, it was real for me.
I remembered the times Grandma told me that I was a heathen. Maybe I was. I remembered all of the times my deeply Christian friends had warned me that dabbling in the spirit world was dangerous. Maybe it was. On this day, however, I was in my home, in my prayer sanctuary, where the energy was clean and the intention was clear. I needed guidance. If it had to come from the other side of life, so be it. “Do not turn your servant away in anger; you have been my helper.”
Then I heard a woman’s voice. I listened with every fiber of my being.
“You haven’t done anything wrong.”
My body crumpled forward and I wept as I heard it again.
“You haven’t done anything wrong.”
I wanted to believe that so much. I needed to know that I was not the reason Gemmia died; that I was not the reason my marriage failed. I needed to know that I hadn’t messed up my life or my children’s lives and that I was not losing my home as some sort of divine punishment. I needed somebody, anybody, living or dead, to let me know that the deepest desires of my heart were not fraudulent. Then I got the message that I believe will govern the remainder of my life.
“You are a bridge. A bridge between lands, times, cultures, and people. Your life is an anointed one. You have work to do and gifts to give. Your daughter was born to assist you. She was a shorttimer. She came with one mission—to take away 17 generations of anger over women being abused by men. She took it on so that you would not have to, so that you could complete your work. She gave her life so that yours would be spared. It was her agreement.”
Then I heard the names of the 17 generations. Sahara, my mother; Elizabeth, her mother; Rachel, Ruby, Celia, Pheobe, Annice, Zola, Fanta; and then names I could not make out. They sounded like Lebedi, Okani, Yapanni, Ecruda, Ela, and Yohuri. At some point I picked up my journal and began to write what I was hearing.
The tears had stopped and so had the voice. I closed my eyes again. “Teach me your way, O LORD; lead me in a straight path because of my oppressors.”
Then I heard, “Some of these women were beaten. Most of them were raped. Men they loved betrayed them. Men they did not know violated them. They carried sickness in their bodies. They carried sickness in their hearts. That sickness was due to be passed on to you. Your daughter has lifted the line and healed all generations. The purity of her heart has cleared all the women for 17 generations. You are opening the way for the next 17.”
In that moment I remembered something that I said when I learned that my mother had died of cancer: I’m not going out like that. I am not going to die of cancer! Just not! I also remembered that I forgot to include my children in my proclamation.
“Yo
u haven’t done anything wrong.” It was as if someone was reading my mind. “All things are as they need to be.”
I sat for a while longer, at peace with myself and everything else. “Though my father and mother forsake me, the LORD will receive me.”
A sister-friend who knew of my situation called to tell me she had just seen a house for rent. Could I be there in 40 minutes to meet the owner?
I decided to take the back roads to see a house that was located about ten minutes from where I lived. I love those back country roads. As I was driving, an ocean full of tears welled up inside of me. Doing 25 miles an hour, I decided to let them fall; goodness knows, I had enough to cry about. I was determined not to be defeated, but the depletion of my heart and mind could not, would not be denied. My silent tears quickly erupted into a noisy ugly cry which, within seconds, became an all-out weeping fest. But something was different. I suddenly felt my heart opening and expanding. I had slowed down to about ten miles an hour before I realized I needed to pull over or run into one of the beautiful trees that lined the road.
Peace From Broken Pieces: How to Get Through What You're Going Through Page 30