We Manifested - Parenthood, Motherhood blog - LoveTrips Egypt English

We manifested…

I did not fear the spirits—restless souls, entities and hellhounds—that roamed about our childhood home in my youth, or those that followed me into love. Yet, I feared the makings of my own restless spirit, my demons, my tribe’s maternal traumas, and many attachments—spiritual ones, mental ones and physical ones. Those fears lead me to fear my greatest joy, one I had only spent countless moons and seasons wishing, praying and meditating upon—a chance at motherhood, a chance at carrying love in my womb and baring a child to crown—a chance many said I could and would never have. I feared my consort having to settle for a life with only me—as if that was not the first and only life he had set out to live when we first sat by those October train tracks sipping on Jamaican Me Happy. I had to give up my fears, my worries, my self doubts, my addictions—all of my inhibitions. We had to throw away our futile man-made cares, let our freedom hang out, and look back to our stars, our planets, our moons and our many aspects—those that had first charted our way—and fall back into us.

—♥Su Hena


She is a vision of no priority…

So I’m sitting in my vehicle outside of a busy Starbucks next to a less exciting mall—I’m people watching with my cup of Joe. During my observation of life going in, out and all about the tiny plaza my eyes focus in on a little girl and her father sitting beside the front window inside of Starbucks.

She was cute—in her a little Sunday dress, with her white tights and shoes, and a head full of blonde and bouncy curls.  I smiled as she smiled at her coloring page, sipped from her kid-size drink and then rose up on her knees and leaned across the table to show her daddy her finished masterpiece.

Soon, she retreated—back onto her hindside and twiddled her crayons for a bit as her father barely nods, never even looking up—but continuing his date with his mobile device.

And there I sat, with my own stars crushed, wondering if he went blind that very day would he fall asleep each night to come wishing for one more glimpse of his daughter in the beauty of her Sunday’s best or another scroll down his timeline. . .

Visit Queen Kelley over at Gray Suede to find out what inspired this flashback post…

♥  the only friend we need  ♥

As always, you are loved!




Goodnight My Sweet Song Bird


Buenos noches
mi pájaro de la canción

sé que cuando me despierto
estará durmiendo.
Así pues, otra vez digo a usted buenos noches.

Buenos noches.

[English Translation]

Good night,
my song bird

I know when I wake
you will be sleeping
So I again, to you, I say good night.

Good night.

Continue reading “Goodnight My Sweet Song Bird”

To Paris We Went In Love

To Paris, We went in love

I know it’s only by God’s hands, a ton of ambition and lots of good loving that we haven’t dropped dead from a fatal dose of exhaustion. Life is constantly on a senior year final’s week dopamine rollercoaster of a ride. Some days I don’t even want to see or touch our bedroom floor . . . *extended sigh* and believe it or not it has nothing to do with the mountains of clean, unfolded clothes populating the 5 foot drop cloth in the farthest corner of our bedroom.

The clean clothes pile up in your space.
We’re tired mostly.
But those nights when I climb into bed and I talk to you for hours on end. I really want to tell you how sorry I am for having your space so
crowded with our untidiness.          Beary sits there.        He waits for you. I feel for Him, He sits in Mommy and Daddy’s mess.
A lot of people wait for you.            Some more patiently than others.
Yesterday I bit the head of anger.
She came again.
I wanted to be bitter, but I thought to myself—maybe this is just our first attempt at playing
a good ole game of Hide-N-Go-Seek.
I will find you.      Maybe in a bed of flowers,      if anything less I shall plant for you a bed of many colors. Plush and ever-forgiving.
Like Beary, waiting. He captures me with those cold glassy eyes. Most days I know I see sadness—maybe He hates the busy clutter he guards;
maybe He remembers too much        who knows? but some days I see light and I know it’s the sight of you He catches.
A chance to tell you of the times Mommy ran away, deep into the neighborhood woods with Him,                   the time they got caught in the rain and Maa had to give Him his first washing that same night

and how His stuffing fell out       and Mommy cried and cried until Didd’a made Maa remove Him and His stuffing from the big green trash can in the kitchen.
—or about the time He moved from the countryside and got to stare out the big windows at the cow-topped mountain peeks when Mommy went off to big people’s school . . . .or maybe the stories of Daddy taking Mommy down by the old train tracks that one time, the one where the numbers  found them.
And how Daddy told Mommy of His life, His transitions . . . of how He found Her eyes.
And the first time She wanted to cry      because with His big beautiful brown eyes said He never wanted any children—yet Beary will probably tell you first—of the time Mommy drove Him, Kobe the curious little kitty and a carload of things to the big busycity to visit Daddy
before the long hot summer back home along the countryside.

The summer Daddy and Mommy
decided to bet all their stardust
on You.

Notes for Paris, Scribbled Across the Walls of Our Home in  Crayon
© 2016 E. English Publishing Group

Paris Moreigna Zenaidura

A Blankie for Mi Paris

. . . call me crazy, but know she is my beloved.

I’ve never been one for keeping up with hobbies. Yet lately I’ve found myself interacting with more and more of the Queens who surround me; those who actively immerse themselves in relaxing, mind centering pastimes. Painting, jewelry making, embroidery, holistics, fashion designing, knitting, learning — you name it . . .I probably know a Queen who does it regularly. While I’ve tried my hand at some of those interest and others, aside from painting and occasional jewelry making I give very little thought and energy to any of them. Continue reading “A Blankie for Mi Paris”