The baker broke into her thoughts and asked, “Can you look up on your phone the meaning of worthy?”
She pulled her phone out of her messenger bag, found her Google app, and typed in “meaning of the word worthy.” As she did so, he took one of her notebooks sitting on the table and picked up her pencil.
“From the dictionary online,” she began. “Worthy as an adjective: ‘having qualities that merit some form of recognition.’ Here’s another meaning: ‘deserving effort, attention or respect.’”
He wrote down the definitions she offered and then wrote again. When he finished, he placed the notebook into her messenger bag.
The baker looked down at their shared table.
“The seed of God which lives in everyone, whether they know it or not, merits recognition. For in a specified way, we express the creative expression of our All. You, my daughter, express the creative expression of our All, the very essence of God. And not just in what you do, but in who you are. All of the parts of you.”
The baker rose from his table and glanced at the clock on the far wall. It was well past 5:00 a.m., and it was time to open his shop for business. He walked gingerly to the door, unlocked it, and placed an open sign in the window before stepping behind the counter, awaiting guests to begin their arrival.
Artie was the first to walk in. She placed her order with the baker and eyed Smythe, who sat at her usual table in the back of the shop. Deep in thought, Smythe did not notice Artie’s attempt at gaining her attention. To Artie, Smythe appeared mesmerized, as if in an awakened meditation.
Smythe sat pondering the term unworthiness, and, as if a bubble surfaced from the depths of muddy water, the word privilege emerged. Unworthiness. Privilege.
What the hell?! No, don’t brush it aside. Welcome them in. They are there for a reason. Stay with it.
She allowed herself to relax, and almost immediately, a beautiful memory surfaced—one she held in the innermost sacred spaces of her heart. It was a memory of her visit out of the country with her partner several years ago.
She remembered she had been struck by the appreciativeness of the hotelier, a friendly fellow who smiled warmly at their initial arrival. He had welcomed them in with a joyful greeting, almost as though they were treasured family members whose arrival he had been anticipating. After they were settled into their room, Smythe and her partner returned to ask him where they could go for a drink and a bite to eat. He recommended his favorite tavern and offered them directions, stating it was only a two- or three-minute walk away. Smythe remembered feeling the genuineness of this man and had made a mental note to engage him in a much deeper conversation before she left the country.
The couple followed the hotelier’s instructions, strolling down a snowy, quaint side street. They were teasing each other along the way when, abruptly, Smythe stopped. It had occurred to her that very few brown-skinned individuals were present, but she also noticed she did not seem to hold a sense of fear. She compared it to the ever-present sense of danger she felt in the States.
It’s lacking here.
Nearing the entrance of the pub, she reflexively did the thing she normally did to deflect unwelcome behavior she had come to experience—she tensed her body. So accustomed to having stares and glares darted her way at her mere entrance into a bar or restaurant, she often lowered her head, momentarily steeling herself, as if to remind herself that she had the right to enter.
As she opened the door and walked in, what few people did look up glanced at her and offered her a gracious, welcoming smile. In addition, they nodded in her direction before returning to whatever held their interest before her arrival. She approached the crowded bar and was surprised by the immediate, friendly greeting by the barkeeper and was able to place her order right away.
How is this possible?
At dinner that evening, she and her partner discussed their collective interactions with the locals at length. Her partner, who was of Irish descent, had intimately witnessed the ongoing racism that Smythe lived under every day in the States. On more than one occasion, her partner had become enraged at the insidiousness of racially biased behavior extended toward Smythe—behavior Smythe had no longer noticed, or at least appeared to un-notice. Her partner had secretly cried out in anguish, recognizing how habituated Smythe had become to the behavior to those around her and questioned the implications of that shield in their relationship.
Throughout the week, the couple felt a sense of relief and belonging and relished the freedom where race appeared to play no role in their experience. During one particular encounter, an elderly couple invited them to tour the inlets in and around the coastal waters. Smythe and her partner were thrilled to accept the offer and were treated to a small, private yacht tour. When Smythe broached the subject of racism with her host, his response was one she found of interest.
“We did not have slavery of your people in this country. We did have our own stain of slavery, yes, but it was not of your people.”
“I’m of mixed heritage. African American and Navajo.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he politely said. He looked directly into Smythe’s eyes. “We don’t see color the way your country sees it. All are welcomed. Besides, we’re a very friendly country.”
“Indeed, you are. It just feels so freeing to be here. I really appreciate the tour, but more importantly, this conversation. I forget that not every nation in the world has the same stain toward people of color.
“Well, that is not entirely true. There are countries which are not welcoming of people of color. But, in my country, it seems to be less the case. I remember, as an adult, watching the treatment of African Americans in the States. The water hoses, the dogs…” her guide broke off his speech, his tears caught in his throat.
“Ahem,” he said, clearing his throat. “I remember the brutality,” he choked out. He remained quiet for the rest of the tour, save the occasional explanation of a land or sea mark.
If it weren’t so damn cold here, I might just see about immigrating.
While his explanation seemed too good to be true, she simply held the curiosity in her heart and chose to enjoy the moments of freedom along her inlet tour. Even though she got a little seasick as the boat slowly skipped along the water, she reveled in the liberty as her host continued to point out landmarks along the way.
Allowing another thought to form, Smythe slowly looked up from her table at the baker’s shop and then down at her hands, which lightly touched her coffee cup. It occurred to her that she participated in the constructs of unworthiness and privilege as both a victim as well as one who perpetuated oppression. Her exploration was not an indictment, but she believed it held a key.
She thought of all the ways she had been privileged: a two-parent family, raised in middle-to upper-middle-class neighborhoods, college education which opened doors to better jobs than those without college degrees, and no psychological or physical limitations. She examined at length how she had benefited from her privilege and how that privilege had sustained to the oppression of others—of other marginalized people. She also reviewed the ways she had been oppressed.
She thought about the intersectionality of her mixed-race heritage, her sexual orientation, and her gender.
Yet celebrated in the eyes of God.
She smiled at the wonder of all that she was.
The gentle spirit of her Beloved settled in and around her and turned her focus toward all of the ways she had felt unworthy. The haunting lyrics of the song “Ballad of Birmingham” came to mind, and she struggled to hold in her tears, recalling the ache of the story told from a mother’s perspective.
She remembered her own youth and the years living in an upper-middle-class neighborhood of Chicago. She ached at the remembrance—the constant harassment by police officers she endured for simply walking from school to the local library to study. Their disbelief that a child of color could possibly live in such an affluent location and therefore had to be up to no go
od was sobering. The messages they sent were clear. She was not good enough and unworthy to be, do, and have what she wanted out of her life—no matter how hard she would try.
Her Beloved whispered to her. “Your birthright. You are my unique creation.”
Smythe shook her head.
The programming from my birth, not only by my parents, but by my own country. So much need to maintain power. Such fear, yet all people unknowingly are celebrated in the eyes of God. What do you choose? The lies, or your truth?
She shook her head again. In light of her conversation with the baker, as though noticing for the first time the muck that still clung to her mirror, she suddenly had the urge to return home and take a shower.
She glanced up to find Artie standing a couple of feet from her. Smythe smiled warmly, and her heart sang as Artie approached her table.
“Hey there, I didn’t see you come in.”
“Yeah, that’s me—stealth. You complete what you needed to do?”
Smythe gazed at Artie for a moment.
“Yeah, I did. Been thinking a lot about privilege, worthiness, intersectionality, and Spirit.”
“Is there anything that you don’t think about?”
“There probably is,” Smythe said with a smile.
“Want to talk more about them?”
“Yes, but no. I need to sit with it for a bit.”
“Ok then. If you’re ready to leave—”
“Let’s go.”
I Think I Died
SMYTHE CONTINUED TO MORE DEEPLY WORK THROUGH OLD WOUNDS that surfaced during the conference. She dove into old emotional blocks and limiting beliefs and examined them as she would an old pair of running shoes; reflecting on the influence they played in all of her decisions, her thought patterns and accompanying behaviors. Given this ongoing work, professionally, she continued to press forward and expand her business.
Over a few months, by invitation only, she held several half-day workshops working with community members who wanted to shift into more abundant ways of living. On one particular evening, Artie and her team watched as Smythe worked with community members as they began the process of releasing some of their own limiting beliefs. Artie listened intently as Smythe worked with several people who stood to ask questions, only to pour out their sorrow before the audience. As Artie observed Smythe, it seemed to her as if Smythe were reading the very essence of her audience members. Smythe asked the right questions, made connections between their limiting beliefs and their current behavior, and made suggestions for each person who chose vulnerability that night.
“That was impressive,” Artie said, sitting in the back of the SUV with Smythe.
“Thanks. It’s all based on the material I’ve studied. My mentor asked that we immerse ourselves in it and trust it, and I have.”
“It seems beyond that, though. I watched your gaze—you were transfixed on each person, especially that last woman. There seemed to be so many issues that distressed her. I honestly had a hard time figuring out which one of the issues most concerned her. You seemed to be listening to her on a level I don’t understand, and somehow figured it out. Yet, there was something else in the way you understood her.”
“You give me too much credit. Her issues were all connected, so I simply chose the first one. As she continued to speak, it was clear that every example she offered was tied to the first issue.”
“Yeah, I get that, but how did you figure it out?”
“One of the keys my mentor taught us during the conference was that a lot of issues are based on a limiting belief. As she and everyone else spoke, I do what I always do. I pray. I simply asked that I would get out of the way, and that the Universe help me understand and then speak to me, and I in turn to her. So, as she spoke, I could hear my Beloved. It is the sound of a gentle whisper in my ear, and I often get a tingle down my spine.
“But, still, it all requires that I just stand there with an open heart, without judgement. If I did that, I just knew the Universe would reveal the right questions to ask in order to assist her in shifting her perspective. Or I’d remembered a passage in the material I studied or the supplemental reading I’ve done to support my mentor’s material and had a knowing it fit in. The idea is to offer a different perspective to any given situation and allow each person to mine their thoughts and dig up and confront their own limiting beliefs.”
“Well, I’m all the better for witnessing what took place. I think she will be, too.”
“I hope so. I remember a quote I once read. Something to the effect that God cannot be held to the earthly traditions of man and uses ordinary people to do extraordinary things. If I can help someone else, it’s what makes all of this worth it.”
Smythe was beginning to flourish, and she felt like she was in her element. The more workshops she offered, the more confident she became. Yet, with her constant external companions always surrounding her, she began to sense areas of emotional constriction within her spirit.
Her biggest constriction was the constriction of her heart. It was taking up a considerable amount of her time as of late, reminding her daily of love. It told her while she had agape love for friends and family, she still needed romantic love and a willing belonging to another. It was there that her heart told her she would grow and, one morning while studying, she had enough.
There is an uneasiness I have about Artie. What am I not facing?
She began to recollect all of the books she had come across on the construct of attraction and love. Those books had all but scared her away from the idea of relationships, and her ego pattern confirmed the fear through its own brand of torture that roared into her consciousness.
You’re simply not good in relationships. People disappoint you. Besides, she’ll want you to change. You’ll change and won’t be your authentic self. Just be single; it’s easier.
Yet, her heart continued to sing… and it was singing of Artie. To her consternation, she found herself inextricably, soulfully attracted to her. Hoping to side with her ego and tuck the growing feelings for Artie safely away, Smythe decided she needed to write out her thoughts in her journal.
There is a tendency when we find ourselves romantically attracted to another to begin to visualize the ideal relationship with that other. We place our needs, wants, and desires onto them. If we are not careful, it becomes an expectation that the other could never completely fulfill. I wonder if it is possible to simply be attracted and be mindful of what I am needing. If I need to be protected and safe, can I create that protection and safety within myself, without seeking to have her fulfill that? If I need her to demonstrate a deep sense of love for me, can I provide that deep sense of love in myself rather than searching for it from her? If I need strength, do I not possess that within myself? If I need vulnerability, am I not capable of demonstrating that to myself? Whatever I seek in another is the pointer to offer that to myself. Am I willing to express my needs to her?
Smythe continued to write, and as she did, she continued to dissect her thoughts. She was hoping not to inch toward love, but instead to put away any tangible movement toward it.
So, what is the glimmer? What in Artie am I attracted to? Certainly, her strength of character. Yes, her tenderness and insightfulness as well. I must admit, I am embarrassed at my weak—
Smythe abruptly stopped her line of thought.
There it is.
“Weakness,” she murmured.
She caught herself thinking she was learning to become more vulnerable in front of Artie. Struck by her slip of the thought, she immediately recognized her subconscious gave her insight into her own limiting belief.
Do you really see your display of vulnerability as weakness?
She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, listening intently to her ego. It told her it had been bruised, battered, and taken advantage of. It told her that it was afraid to be vulnerable for fear of being hurt again.
Her heart, however, also spoke. It told her that it des
perately wanted to love again. And it said that it wanted to try with Artie.
Smythe opened her eyes, allowing herself to drift her gaze into the living room. Sitting on the sofa, bent over her own laptop, was the person of her affection. Sensing Smythe had quieted her thoughts for a moment, Artie looked toward her.
“Hey, you want to grab something to eat? We’ve been at this for a while. It’s now 2:00. I need a break. How about you?”
Smythe gazed deeply into Artie’s eyes, still transfixed in thought.
“Hellooo, Artie to Smythe?”
“It hit me just now, like a ton of bricks. Years ago, I think I died.”
“What?!” Artie exclaimed, her mouth agape.
“Yeah, I did.” Smythe frowned and wondered why that thought burped from her mouth.
“Well, aren’t you full of surprise and adventure,” Artie said as she walked to the dining room table. She took a seat across from Smythe and waited in rapt silence for a more robust explanation of the event.
“I had gone in for routine surgery. Unfortunately, I had a thyroid condition, and for some reason, during the procedure, my lungs started to fill with liquid. According to the anesthesiologist, I was drowning. What I remember was, at some point, I was looking down on my body, which was inverted—my head was pointed toward the floor, and my legs were higher than my heart.”
Smythe demonstrated by holding her hand in front of her and pointing her fingers toward the floor at an angle, indicating her fingertips as her head and the top of her hand as her body.
“Everyone in the surgery room worked quietly but quickly. I could sense their feelings. There was a sense of surprise and panic, as if there was nothing in my chart which would indicate this should have happened.
“The next thing I remember, I was no longer in the operating room. I didn’t seem to have a body, but I was conscious that at one time, I did have a body. It was completely dark, just blackness. I couldn’t see, but I was aware of a presence that was just out of reach of my sight. It—it terrified me. I remember being there, wondering if I was in a Christian version of hell.”
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