While planning these events, I consider the purpose, design, venue, linen, floral arrangements, and special touches that guide the guest experience. Community, connection, hospitality, delicious food, and atmosphere are important elements in planning.

As a potential guest- I say potential because I can’t celebrate everything- I think about the way my spirit aligns with the event and how I’ll feel engaging in the gathering. I consider the invite and how I could show up at my best or respectfully decline. Because my spirit still needs to feel settled, even if I decide not to attend. Cherished relationships must stay intact even if I can’t participate.

We are in one of the busiest gathering seasons- summer holidays, birthday parties, family reunions and we’ll soon head into Thanksgiving gatherings, Christmas parties, and other special events, and it could be difficult to decipher what to attend, especially with competing obligations and responsibilities.​

When considering whether to attend an event or celebration, ask yourself the following…

How do I feel about the nature of the event?

What other commitments do I have?

Am I showing up as my best self?

Do I have the capacity to attend the social setting in an edifying way?

Does it align with my morals and values?

Does it interest me, and if it doesn’t, can I be open and push past any discomfort?

Lead with love and kindness if you choose not to participate, communicate your RSVP, or respectfully decline. I may even send a gift or token of appreciation for the invite, even if I don’t attend. It’s a hospitable and kind gesture but never a requirement.

Remember, you don’t have to show up everywhere; you don’t have to celebrate everything. Stand firm on boundaries; your spirit will thank you.

During this session, Rumi guided us through 10 writing prompts over a 45-minute to 1-hour span. (diabolical yet necessary) Those prompts purposefully stretched our creative muscle and allowed us to purge before intentionally tackling our own work.

One prompt placed me at the seat of reflection, because when I can’t write prose or poetry, I index my thoughts and feelings like a grocery list, so as we embark on the first half of 2026, I will use that prompt to help me delight in some of the happenings from this year thus far.

Write and Flow Prompt 9 of what felt like 100: The List.

Write a list of things to remember.

1. Plan but allow for divine whimsy. In 2025, the goals and plans I had for myself and my family were wrecked by illness. At the beginning of 2026, I sat with my Curation planner and knew there were some things I wanted to explore and do, but I couldn’t plan the God-breathed happenings I am experiencing now. I am in awe of what’s taking place, what I’m saying yes to, and the uncanny confirmations that follow. Interestingly, I am more welcoming and open to things I didn’t plan.

   

2. Staycations and quick local trips are necessary. A little getaway to Pigeon Forge brought out my playful side with my mom, sister, son, and nephew. I can spend hours at an arcade with no shame. It was such a joyful occasion, and I need so much more of that. Taking a short trip to Chattanooga with hubby did my soul well. We stayed in a train car at the Hotel Chalet, explored a cute neighborhood with quaint shops and eateries, sipped the most scrumptious dairy-free hot chocolate, visited a book warehouse, and ate some wonderful culinary delights. Listed below are my favorites.

   JJ Fish and Chicken

   The Daily Ration

   Elsie’s Daughter

   I don’t worry about calories, carbs, or sugar on staycations, vacations, excursions, getaways, or trips. I mind my business and my palate.

3. Rest is critical to every element of my being. Hibernating during a snowstorm was the ah-ha moment I needed to reinforce rest practices, especially after illness in 2025.

4. I embarked on Julia Cameron’s Artist Way practice, and although I wasn’t able to complete it entirely, due to priorities and shifting schedules. I found a renewed creativity. I also attended some amazing events, explored new hobbies, and turned my home into a creative hub. Though I am in a rural area, planning this practice allowed me to discover local gems I may not have found otherwise. I will explore my backyard intentionally.

5. My desire to serve has led me to opportunities to give back with my son, lend my skills to church events, adopt a beautiful, joyful high school senior, and encourage volunteer opportunities within my workplace. The glee that I have experienced through giving has shifted my priorities tremendously. Romans 12:10 Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves.

6. When my son’s name was called at his kindergarten graduation, and they began to speak about his future career plans, I gained insight I had never had before. My son wants to be a farmer. I knew that part, but I thought our proximity to farms was what drew him. What I didn’t know until his announcement is that his desire to become a farmer is because he wants to help people who have no access to food. My mama heart smiled. The “Aww, that’s my baby” that I yelled was very much giving embarrassing! But, I digress. Serving with my son to create meal packs must have been more impactful than I thought it would be. Regardless of what he decides to do with his life, he has the soul of a servant leader, and that makes me so proud. Proverbs 22:6 Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old, he will not depart from it.

7. During a work trip, I traveled to Minneapolis, the home of Prince, and I should revisit it. It was a beautiful city. I didn’t have enough time to really dive in, but the vibe was great, the people were hospitable, and the SkyWay made me think I could live in a colder climate. Just maybe.

   

8. I am building a beautiful community virtually and in person. These spaces allow me to pour into others, be fed spiritually, exercise my creativity, and begin to establish genuine bonds. I look forward to seeing what comes from these communities

9. Spending time by myself, with my husband, and with my son are crucial to deepening the most important and valuable relationships that I have. Creating memories is so important to the life we are curating.

   

10. Spiritually reengaging with faith practices has wrecked me in such a beautiful way. As a believer, I must gather with other believers, get in the Word, meditate on it, and pray without ceasing. Spiritual rest must be a top priority for alignment with myself and the world around me.

11. Bonus….Because I value sustainability, my time, and am beginning to dislike shopping, I bought clothes from Poshmark in bulk for my son and me. (search bundle, bulk, or lot). I am so looking forward to these 30 items arriving at my doorstep in 2 more shipments! I don’t have the capacity for ripping and running in this season! If you know, you know. I may never go into a store again

As I wrote this list, gratitude filled me in a way that settled any grumblings, complaints, or issues that may be surrounding me. This little life of mine is not perfect by any means, but reflecting on the beauty of the last 6 months lets me know that God cares for me even in the tiniest ways, and I am privileged to experience so much goodness.

What’s on your list? Are you taking time to reflect on the first half of the year?

Bonus…Bonus..During the Write & Flow session, I didn’t have time to think about The List, but here are those items, quickly typed, raw, unedited, and the first things that came to mind…

• The beauty of Financial Peace University and what it’s done to my mind

• The birth of my son

• Our wedding

• God’s goodness

• Pray every day

• The grace of my granny

• The feeling I get when I belong

• The feeling when I stand in a new country

• How I felt when I was in the DR and wasn’t in the minority

• How it feels to hold him

Now…What’s on your list?

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I wondered about the Pullman Porter lugging luggage 400 hours a month for pennies, pretty pennies, but pennies nonetheless.

I wonder how it felt to work those long hours in passenger cars; segregation didn’t even allow them to travel in

I wondered about the cities he’d been welcomed in and the cities he was not.

I wondered how racism affected his soul and how his hospitality never wavered.

I wondered how this respected profession disrespected his spirit.

I wondered how the juxtaposition even made sense when he lay down his tired bones to wonder.

I wondered how burdensome it felt to show up in this capacity to provide service with dignity to someone who didn’t believe in their worthiness, to place a meal on their family’s table, and to steamroll them out of poverty.

I wondered.

Though I didn’t stick with ballet, I’ve always loved the creative medium of dance in any style, and when the opportunity to see the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater presented itself, I was delighted. This experience brought together history, dance, music, and theatre, all things I adore, and provided representation and diversity within the creative art form that I didn’t see growing up.

As I sat in the theater watching the movement unfold, I was deeply moved. The little girl within me sat mouth agape in awe and amazement, mesmerized, feeling undone in the best ways. She saw possibilities and wonder wrapped up in that show. She saw dreams denied and dreams come to life.

I was star-struck by this medium. I was enchanted by the beauty of the story told through music and movement. I was spiritually moved. It was like praise and worship after the best-preached sermon during a special occasion church service. The kind of service where you expect a move of God and spiritual enlightenment opens heaven’s doors, Jesus greets you oh so gently, and the Holy Spirit turns your whole life upside down. Yes, it took me there.

I cried the entire time and allowed the tears to freely take up space upon my face, a culmination of joy and gratitude that I was in this moment in time, witnessing legacy and history.

I felt freedom.

I felt goodness.

I felt heart, soul, and spirit.

The storytelling of each piece, open for interpretation, set to the most beautifully curated music, from love and loss to friendship and grief to joy and healing, seeped in Southern roots and power and grace, mixed with legacy and Black cultural heritage. Soul and blues tantalizing to the ear.

I went to this show exhausted. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes, but the kind that settles in, dulling your creativity. I was seeking creative rest. The kind that fills instead of drains.

And somehow, in sitting still and watching others move, I was restored.

What I thought would simply be a beautiful experience became the spark I didn’t know I needed. I left that theater stirred. Ideas rushing back. Words found me again. The fog lifted.

Art begets art.
Creativity begets creativity.

I went seeking rest and found inspiration. I went depleted and came home ready to write, with a childlike joy that each of my girlhood endeavors brought me.

Though I’m from Kentucky and had a childhood here, it’s home, but I’ve left pieces of me in other places, and those places have settled inside me, merging cultural characteristics and unique nuances. Island life called to me during my teen years, as I spent time in Hawaii. As a young adult, Washington state held my hand. South Carolina carried me into my 20s and took hold of me in my early 30s, Greenville and Columbia, respectively. Columbia is my home away from home, the place where my life began again, as I met my husband and birthed my baby. I relocated back to Kentucky shortly after my son was born, 5 years ago. My mom had moved back, and my gramby (mom’s mom) was here, and I needed them something fierce, as postpartum depression and anxiety stole from me. Like thieves at the Louvre stealing the French Crown Jewels, honey, it was rough.

So, here I am residing in rural Kentucky, a town or two away from bell hooks’ old Kentucky home. Squeal. There’s writer’s dust in the air; I just feel it.

But like Sofia, my favorite Golden Girl, don’t tell the others, I digress.

But the context matters. Though I do have Southern tendencies (biscuits and gravy, anyone?) and am learning about farm culture through my son and his love for all things farm, I am not a rural farm girl, OK? But it’s teaching me in ways I never expected.

As I pulled up to my mom’s home, 40 acres and a mule greeted me, just kidding, still waiting, 2 acres and no mule, but rabbits, hunting dogs, a mutt, and chickens have the lay of the land partitioned and separated in their respective spaces. So, as I pulled up to my mom’s home to drop off my baby boy, I noticed 5 chickens outside of their enclosure: Tina, Aretha, Etta, Whitney, Aaliyah. See what I did there? (RIP beautiful legends) OK, the hens deserved names, power names, because these hens walked in their power.

Out of their enclosure and foraging freely away from the others and the “confinement” of their spacious enclosure, OK, free range.

As I watched, there was something deeper there that day. See, the girlies flying coop, this is not something foreign to me. My son frequently retells his chicken tales; he and granddad direct the chickens back into the coop like air traffic controllers. I’ve seen the hens explore the yard. Tina, Aretha, Etta, Whitney, Aaliyah aren’t strangers to flying the coop; they escape often. I’ve seen them find freedom regularly, seek independence, explore surroundings, and change atmospheres. The yard is their playground, and they play.

As I observe our girls, Tina, Aretha, Etta, Whitney, Aaliyah, they are individually taking up space by themselves. They are not among the others; the larger group usually huddles up together, following one another until they look like one mass of feathers knitted together as one, like a quilt. Tina, Aretha, Etta, Whitney, and Aaliyah have created a world outside of their norm, free-ranging. They look happier, dare I say. The anxiety of clustered chickens fighting to be seen isn’t there. They are outside of their perimeters, safely, minding their hen business, positioning themselves to roam and to just be, simply for the sake of being. And I focus my eyes on each of them, one by one, as they approach my son and me as we emerge from the car.

Now, I’ve heard my mom say they bid her hello. From my limited—and I do mean limited—research (I’m not about this life), hens do recognize their owners, but they’ve never approached me. This is new-to-me behavior, but I notice each of them: Tina, Aretha, Etta, Whitney, Aaliyah.

They are moving in anticipation and expectation….
No fear.
No anxiety.
No hesitation.
No invitation.

They didn’t see danger, and they simply approached me…

And this was their introduction. They boldly told me who they were, as if that was exactly what they were supposed to do. Tina, Aretha, Etta, Whitney, Aaliyah let me know who they were.

I look at these hens, and I think about writing and life and relationships. How can I think about all those complexities at a time like this?

The hens are at my feet, and I’m watching my baby gleefully understand that their escape means he has farm work to do, but I’m thinking about a culmination of the most profound things. Isn’t it beautiful how that creeps in?

As I begin to re-engage with writing.
As I begin to meet other writers.
As I begin to explore my surroundings outside of the cage I’ve placed myself into.
As I begin to boldly introduce myself as a writer, and draft the introductions that welcome my work.

Like Tina, Aretha, Etta, Whitney, Aaliyah, I will move in anticipation and expectation….

No fear.
No anxiety.
No hesitation.
No invitation.

Never seeing danger in the field or on the page, I’ll just approach it.

I’m living boldly and writing boldly.
I’m living unafraid, writing unafraid.
I’m living to explore and writing to explore.

Because in this season, being confined, even in the most spacious enclosure, is not free enough for me.

I’m writing with free range to simply just be.

Author’s Note:
Tina. Aretha. Etta. Whitney. Aaliyah.
Names chosen in honor of women whose voices were never confined.

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Still, a line keeps returning to me: love thy neighbor as yourself. Not as a preachy Bible quote, but as a practice. An intentional invitation to love. To love yourself and to love others.

I may not have control over the world around me, but I can offer myself love.

I can rest.

I can write.

I can create.

I can connect

I can volunteer.

I can create a safe space.

I can care for my own heart and spirit.

I can ground myself in healing and nourishing practices.

These acts of self-love center me, remind me of my own worth and the goodness of God, and create space to move through the world with love, hospitality, and presence. How powerful.

As we learn to love ourselves more deeply, instinctively, and intentionally, that love naturally reflects outward, and it becomes easier to show kindness and care to others.

And yet, the question lingers: what does the practice of loving thy neighbor as yourself ask of you today, in your home, online, in public spaces, or in moments of disagreement?

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I usually write and closet poetry until I’m triggered to go back to it. I kind of love it and leave it, but once I decide to settle back into the work, I read it silently and out loud to hear the sounds of the words, the cadence—adding punctuation, changing words, defining others, sometimes printing the poem and marking up the pages, settling sentences, and finishing fragments.

After reading this poem out loud, I believe I’m settled on what it is for now. I did mark up the page, but the simplistic power of it moves me as is. It tells me that wherever I met it on the page is where it will stay. I’ll hold space for it to call to me again, and I’ll answer with new words, new sounds, but for now I’ll let it rest.

Loveseat Benediction
Draft 1

The end of weary bones
The beginning of soul rest
The permission to be, here in presence
Restful
Restoring for another day’s journey

I’ll hold space for you
I’ll hold space for you
To rest a while
To sit a spell
To lay down every burden you’ve brought in here

The love seat is waiting
The space is held
The permission is given

Rest your soul
And your weary bones

This is the benediction

Loveseat benediction

Audio: I’m reading Loveseat Benediction aloud for those who prefer to listen—an audio reading of the poem as it sounds in my own voice.

What helps you know when a piece of writing is ready to rest?

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While I am not taking part in the career caricature trend, I am reflecting on my career as a global event planner. This time last year, I was just returning from Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic, and preparing to go to Punta Cana, Dominican Republic. Those trips were ones where I was globally connecting employers with eager students excited to come to the United States to take part in seasonal work, and celebrating those who support students when they arrive in the States by linking them to host families, supporting their needs, and being a resource.

These trips delivered an experience that left me absolutely in awe of the bravery and openness it takes for young adults to explore a new environment—anxious and nervous, yet hoping to gather a small glimpse of the American dream—and, in my case, the excitement of being a small conduit behind the scenes in their story as they arrive here. I explore their home country with an open mind, eager to learn and listen, and they do the same; wide-eyed and open-hearted, they greet their possibilities. Cultural exchange is such a magnifying experience of the beauty of similarity and the curiosity of differences, with the knowing that there is something that centers us in shared experiences.

When I look at the current state of affairs in the United States, in all of its chaotic glory, I wonder how other countries are observing us. I know there is fear there—maybe a disinterest, a safety concern, or perhaps befuddlement—because I am having a hard time looking at the events reflecting back at me, and it is disheartening.

How can we claim to be the greatest country on earth when there is such discord on what is morally, ethically, and fundamentally right? Human rights are always right, and I cannot begin to understand why that is so difficult to grasp.

So, as I continue to do my small part in my attempt to connect globally as an event planner, to be a part of invitations to experience America, I hope those I connect with experience the best parts of our nation, the hospitality, the joy, the love, the kindness, the culture, a phenomenal melting pot, and not become jaded by the worst parts, because that is not the complete picture.

The caricature trends are cute and fun, but I am ready to lean into work that amplifies voices and creates space for those of us committed to diversity, equity, and inclusion—building environments of connection and belonging, no matter someone’s home country or the place they call home while away from home.

Where do you find yourself holding care for a place while also grappling with its chaotic glory?

The perspectives shared here are my own and are offered in a personal capacity, rooted in my experiences and values as I continue to practice hospitality through my work and writing.

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I went to Columbia, SC, to visit my Deacon and his wife—my family away from my ole’ Kentucky home, advice givers, life affirmers. Sunday dinner invitations always had our family’s name on them. We’d shared holiday dinners together. I’d served alongside them in church ministry. They loved me as a daughter. They loved my husband and son as their own. They kept us fed regularly and diapered our baby boy for a year, dropping off diapers at our doorstep during the pandemic. They are humans walking this earth doing the work of Jesus.

When I walked into their home on Sunday—after a long drive and a celebration honoring my sister and the upcoming arrival of my first nephew (insert squeal)—their home felt familiar, safe, comforting. But I was burdened. The weight of the world was anchored to my back, my toddler towed to my hip, their honorary grandson. I was navigating an unspoken health concern that had recently shown itself, and the possible logistical coordination required to visit another loved one complicated my soul. I was weary.

In all the joy and celebration of the weekend, I was tired—tired as the ancestors who sat a spell to rest their eyes after perilous days in the field; tired as a colicky baby fighting sleep; tired as a mama navigating a colicky baby fighting sleep. My capacity was low, and I needed care—deep-down soul care.

I started with the simple words I’m tired, and a soliloquy, frustrated in nature, followed—but only momentarily. Mama J. stopped me. She showed me where to lie down with my baby to rest.

She knew.
She saw.
She felt
the weary I had brought into her home.

Even after a year of being absent from their space, she knew what I needed and gave me permission—permission to rest.

As someone who does the absolute most to pile on and add to my plate, that permission was necessary for every part of my being. Mama J. does what she does best, providing care and love most gently and monumentally. The simplicity of rest and refresh was granted to me. Though our time together was limited, she forwent the catch-up of life’s happenings to simply allow me to rest.

I was lovingly banished to lie down. I was given a time-out. A flag was on the play, and I was benched from the conversation. My desire to help cook—even as a guest—was null and void that day. I was in awe.

I placed my sleepy son upon my chest and stretched out on their loveseat, making myself comfortable as the football game hummed in the background. My Deacon reclined acrossed the room and provided a synopsis of ongoing church matters, matter-of-factly—both of us longing for the church days of the past—before we drifted off to sleep.

I reflected on that day and thought about community—the kind of community that truly welcomes you: to be present, to be tired, to be seen, to show up as you are, without expectations and with great flexibility; to receive and provide love and care that looks like Jesus in human form.

I am so blessed to know a beautiful community and divine hospitality.

Where do you feel most welcome?

Loveseat Benediction

Draft 1

The end of weary bones
The beginning of soul rest
The permission to be, here in presence
Restful
Restoring for another day’s journey

I’ll hold space for you
I’ll hold space for you
To rest a while
To sit a spell
To lay down every burden you’ve brought in here

The love seat is waiting
The space is held
The permission is given

Rest your soul
And your weary bones

This is the benediction

Loveseat benediction

May these words hold a place for you to rest a while.

I write to share hospitality, to welcome people into my soul, to share a voice that has been quieted and has found the audacity to write anyhow. My goal through writing is to share my human experience, lived, observed, imagined, and remembered, to provide a glimpse of family, love, humanity, and life’s complexities intersecting faith and Black womanhood while living in the rural South.

I write with grace and gratitude for the divine presence that pours onto the page, mindful that this work is not just for me but is to connect people to themselves, one another, or something greater than themselves.

I center reflection, journaling, and faith while navigating authenticity, self-awareness, and divine alignment. I strive to draw out emotions that invite readers to journey to where vulnerability lives, creating space to linger and reflect on the shared space of our interconnectedness.

Linger with me a little longer, tell me, why do you write?