CONNECT, a yanasisters publication (Fall 2023)

a yanasisters publication

Fall 2023

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BACK TO SC H O O L CIAL EDIT

Sequoia’s Cry Satisfaction Seeing Bittersweet Misjudged

WRITTEN Photo of Imani Monica McCullough

Fall 2023

WRITTEN CONTRIBUTING WRITERS Brooks Brown is a creative fiction and poetry writer with an MS in Publishing and MFA in Literature. She currently resides in Pearland, Texas with her loving husband, amazing daughter, and two adorable giant furbabies.

FOUNDER & PRESIDENT Connection Coach, Speaker, Retreat Facilitator, Doula, Meditation Teacher, Reiki Master, Author, and Attorney Imani Monica McCullough is a vibrant voice for women worldwide. Through her transformative platform, YANAsisters, she thrives on helping women live more passionate and authentic lives.

Chanell “Neik” Owens is a healer, writer, speaker, and coach. She loves books, the moon, and song lyrics. Neik often spends her playtime cycling or golfing.

Dana Austin is a natural connector and an International keynote speaker. She enjoys travel and coaching writers to become authors; as well as serving as an RN, Global Health Ambassador and as Executive Director for Global Chamber Atlanta.

Gail Tusan Washington is a Senior Superior Court Judge, arbitrator, and mediator with JAMS. She has published two novels and has facilitated the Loving Wisdom anthologies. Gail and her husband enjoy spending time with their four adult children and two grandchildren.

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF A writer since she was 8 years old, a reader since 3, today Kellyn O. McGee’s essence of being a learner and teacher shows up as a law professor, editor, certified yoga teacher, and podcast lover with an ever-growing list of TBR books.

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Malissa Kelsey is a woman who thrives on creating and connecting with others through ministry and art. She is an artist and art instructor, but her first love has always been writing. Malissa is also the mother of a son (who is a college junior) and two furbaby cats.

As a 55-year-old, newly minted grandmother, Latanga Spencer has never felt more at peace than she does now. She has been an educator for 28 years, and fortunately can say that she still loves her job. She resides in Houston and is the mother of two beautiful daughters.

IN THIS ISSUE 10 SEQUOIA’S CRY

by Latanga Spencer A suspenseful tale about a Louisiana girl, her deceased grandmother, a baby that calls to her from the beyond, and the giant sequoia trees that hold the secrets within.

16 SATISFACTION

by Kellyn O. McGee Adrianne and Calvin’s relationship is being put to the ultimate test.

What would you be willing to give – or give up – for love?

22 SEEING

by Brooks Brown Sianna sees things.

These “dreams,” as she liked to call them, are too real to ignore. It all started when she “witnessed” three near death experiences on the day she was born: her mother Juney B., her twin, and herself. How could this be?

POETRY WOMAN

28 BITTERSWEET

by Imani Monica McCullough When readers first met Naomi in When I Was Broken, she was an expectant mother with a loving husband. It was her best friend, Angela, who had problems— but now the scales have tipped. Naomi’s husband, Micah, dies in a tragic accident, leaving her lost, bitter, and alone. But what may feel like the end is only the beginning.

30 MISJUDGED

by Gail Tusan Washington a/k/a Susan Washington Judge Suzanne Vincent was a rising star at her Atlanta law firm when she was tapped to serve on the Atlanta District Court. Bad gets worse when days before she is due to be reelected an eighteen-year-old secret turns her world upside down.

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YANAsisters

by Chanell “Neik” Owens

14 DESERT ROSE

by Malissa Kelsey 26 CANCER FREE

by Dana Austin

UNWRITTEN SPECIAL 12, 20, 32 A book that changed my life...

18 Back-to-School Reading List (exclusively featuring YANA authors) 34 YANA Bookclub Invitation 35 Winter Bookclub Selection

IN EVERY ISSUE 4

Founder’s Letter

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Yoga Is A Prayer

25 What is YANAsisters?

36 YANA Playlist (with Journal Prompts)

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LETTER FROM THE FOUNDER

My sisters, On the day I signed my (then) husband into a psychiatric hospital for a 72-hour hold, I remember doing three things: First, I cried and grieved loss of the life I knew, because although I didn’t want to admit it, I knew deep down that things would never be the same.

Second, I prayed and asked God for strength to get me through, for a future that looked better than I could see in the natural, and for peace in the meantime.

Third, perhaps the oddest thing of all, I took out my journal and I wrote – as if somehow the mere act of recording one of the most tragic moments of my life might help me feel better.

Strangely enough, it did.

I realize in hindsight that through the good, 4

You Are Not Alone Book Release the bad, and all the rest of my life: writing has always been a way to CONNECT. A way to CONNECT WITH MYSELF – whether I’m journaling to better understand what I’m feeling or doing creative writing prompts to relax my mind. Something about putting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) gives me an outlet to vent, process, and exhale in a way that is unlike any other.

A way to CONNECT WITH GOD – whether it’s to share my prayers and questions with Him, or a way to create biblically-inspired characters like Naomi in my third book, Bittersweet. It’s as if the mere act of writing opens my ears to hear what I otherwise might miss.

Writing is often also a way to CONNECT WITH OTHERS. In fact, it was a love for writing that led me to pen a book of inspirational thoughts called You Are Not Alone, which led to the

When I Was Broken Book Release creation of YANAsisters retreats, which led to the YANAsisters meetups and Facebook group, which led to #theyanamovement.

Writing also led me to reconnect with fellow Howard Alum Kellyn McGee, now our Editorin-Chief, which led to the creation of this beautiful magazine.

My point? Writing – and reading – are universal connectors. A way that people connect with God, themselves, and others. That’s why we decided to create a Back-to-School Special Edition of CONNECT for our writers and readers. And why we’re kicking off our very first YANAsisters Bookclub this month. (If you missed the previous invitation to join our fall discussion, absolutely no worries!!! In this issue, we will share our fall discussion questions and reveal our winter book selection so you can be ready for our “Wine and Words” event on Zoom in early 2024.)

In the pages that follow, we hope you will connect with emotions shared in the creative

Bittersweet Book Release excerpts and poems written by our YANAsisters. We hope you will connect with the favorite books shared in response to our poll, and with books on our Back-to-School Reading List (all authored by YANAsisters).

And, finally, we hope you’ll put on our unWRITTEN playlist, grab a journal, and use our suggested writing prompts to try it for yourself.

Are you ready?

In the words of Natasha Bedingfield, “Today is where your book begins; the rest is still unWRITTEN.”

Happy Connecting,

Imani

P.S. Thank you to all the YANAsisters who contributed to this issue!

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Yoga

IS A PRAYER

by Kellyn McGee I wrote a play when I was in the 3rd grade. I don’t remember the plot or the characters, but I do remember my classmates acting it out and me directing them. And that my teacher complimented me on using the title as the last line of the play.

When I was in the 8th grade, my English teacher told my mother I was a good writer.

In 11th grade, a teacher loved a poem that I’d written in response to a Shakespearean play we’d read in class. I’d 6

written the poem for myself, not as a class assignment or a grade; my teacher found it among other papers I’d turned in.

When I was in college, my boyfriend called me at work to tell me he’d come across a story I was writing. I still remember – still feel – the butterflies in my stomach, fluttering towards my heart in those moments before he said, “you’re a good writer.”

More than a decade later, he emailed me after reading an opinion column I’d published

in the Atlanta paper. “I heard your voice,” he said, even though my name was misspelled.

A few years ago I wrote a short story to submit to a contest. I sent it to an editor friend for comments. After she read it, she texted me asking for my email address.

Immediately, my mind went to “She didn’t like it. If she did, wouldn’t she have said so?” When the email came, I was timid about opening it.

The first part of her message: “it’s SO GOOD!” I exhaled. I

didn’t win the contest, but I still know it’s a good story.

I am a writer. Even when I don’t feel like one.

Even when I shrug off people telling me what I’ve written is good. Writing is my favorite way of creating. I miss it when it’s been days - months - since I’ve put thoughts down to tell a story. The blank page is always waiting, though. Ready.

It’s like my yoga practice. I miss it when I haven’t met myself on the mat in some days.

And I’m a yogi, even when I don’t feel like one.

Even when people tell me they wished I was still teaching. Even when I hear that I am the reason people have started yoga or increased their commitment, as a friend recently shared with me about her own practice. Writing is in me and comes back naturally when I’ve been away, just like being on the mat. Sure, it takes a while to get warmed up again no matter what I’m writing; those first pages after an absence are just as creaky as my body going through a round of sun salutations for the first time in a while. But that musclememory? It works for the creative side of my brain as well as my body.

Writing is like yoga in other ways, too. I have forever gotten caught up in word counts.

How many words have I written? How many words is that writer’s book or article? Will I ever get there? How much closer am I to that pose? Am I practicing enough? Will my body ever do that?

But. When I don’t care how many words are there or when I don’t even care if they make sense (in that first draft), when I just let the words flow, that’s when I really connect with them, with me. The sun sets, my dog tells me he needs to eat, my hours-long playlist repeats itself. Similar to when I’m on my mat, letting whatever needs to come out or go in do just that, without my editing or interrupting. That’s when I am a writer, a yogi.

And speaking of writing as connection, writing is how Imani and I re-connected some years after law school. After learning of each other’s love for the craft, we started a writers’ group that resulted in group members publishing books and producing a movie! Which led to us becoming writing partners over the years, and finally led to the creation of CONNECT. All because two southern girls had a love of putting pen to paper and reading words.

I love the poems and stories in this issue. I am grateful the contributors have shared pieces of themselves, including an excerpt from my favorite of Imani’s books and an excerpt from one of two novels I started writing in 2020. I do hope you enjoy these creative works as much as I did.

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Poetry Woman

YANAsisters

by Chanell “Neik” Owens

This exchange of positive energy Is constantly reminding me that there is something better than what I see with my natural eyes...

The things I despise don’t exist here there’s a Spirit induced lift here And I’m suddenly taller Higher...

Like a fire is being lit inside my soul And every “no” Transforms itself into a “GO” When I’m with my Sisters...

My YANAsisters 8

And I’m no longer alone Where ever they are Makes me suddenly feel like I’m home And I’m lifted...

Given gentle reminders That I’ve been gifted With life And light Each exchange feels like A spiritual flight Bringing me closer to my purpose Giving clarity to what this thirst is When I’m with my Sisters...

My YANAsisters There’s a light you can FEEL here Cause the kinship is real here In this sacred space...

Negative thoughts began to erase Themselves And replace themselves with What can still be As I see myself in your struggle And you see yourself in me Cause we’re Sisters...

YANAsisters

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Sequoia s Cry

By Latanga Spencer

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L

ucas had finally wrapped its spindly fingers around my throat. I gasped for air, as I peered down into the coffin.

My beautiful Nana lay there, still trying to conceal that jagged scar across her neck. The dainty silk black dress was no match for its presence.

I’d promised myself that I would never come back here. It never crossed my mind that I would have to – to say goodbye to my Nana.

This was the only funeral I’d ever attended, at least the only one that I could remember.

I was very confused about what I should do.

People who had already “viewed the body,” either made the sign of the cross, stood for a moment and stared, or cried. A few of them had even kissed her. None of those things felt natural. I just stood there, breathing in and out, counting to ten. Nothing worked. I felt my body collapsing. The only woman I ever felt really loved me, even though she couldn’t tell me, who had tried silently to help direct me to my purpose on this Earth was about to be buried — deep beneath its surface. Where would she go? Were there others waiting for her? What about the baby, that has visited me constantly in my dreams, as far back as I can remember, wailing, from beneath the dirt in an unmarked grave, surrounded by trees taller than I’ve ever seen? What did it all mean? The thoughts of that, and Lucas, and Nana’s mysterious scar were all smothering me. It was all too much.

When my thoughts finally stopped swirling, and I opened my eyes, there stood the priest in his embellished costume, smiling that pasted on smile, speaking in a thick African dialect that I found difficult to discern, as he

I’D PROMISED MYSELF THAT I WOULD NEVER COME BACK HERE. IT NEVER CROSSED MY MIND THAT I WOULD HAVE TO – TO SAY GOODBYE TO MY NANA. spewed practiced words. He spouted what was clearly his usual anthem of, “It’s o.k. she’s in a much better place.” Any place is better than this town, I thought. He seemed to sense exactly what I was thinking. Gently, he rubbed my back, as he escorted me back to the first pew, following my embarrassing fainting spell, to sit next to family members, who were mostly strangers to me. I wiped my tears and tried to pull myself together for the service. I seemed to be doing fine, aside from the prickly feeling that sat right on the outside layer of my own skin, my neck, tingling, as though Nana and her scar were present, trying to send me a message.

I began to wonder if I was losing it, and I wondered if the strangers were watching me, which made me become even more paranoid and uncomfortable. I began to focus my attention on the statues in the church.

At one time these images were so familiar, but they now seemed strange as well. Jesus, with his hands stretched out served only as a reminder to me of how lost I had been feeling. The stone melancholy image carved into his face had always intrigued me. I’d always tried to figure out what he was thinking, if a statue could think, ever since I was a small girl. Now I wondered if that was the face that Nana would see, and if she was already there. *This was just a taste of Latanga’s forthcoming novel, Seqoia’s Cry. Stay tuned for details!

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A book that changed my life is Women Who Love Too Much by Robin Norwood.

It prompted me to face my childhood traumas and realize that I am the greatest woman to love, sacrifice, and cheer. ‘I choose me.’

YESSENNIA

A book that changed my life is How Not To Die by Michael Greger, M.D. It changed my perspective on the relationship between diet and life itself. Not only did this book change my life, but the lives of many of my loved ones!

KINAYA 12

A book that changed my life is A Course In Miracles, as this book teaches what we are created to be.

It focuses on forgiveness and how forgiving opens the door to truth.

DENISE

A book that changed my life is How to Practice (The Way To a Meaningful Life) by HH Dalai Lama.

I reread it every year as a reminder as to how to live life in a mindful way, navigating all the emotions, trials, and events of the human experience.

DEBORAH 13

Poetry Woman

Desert Rose

by Malissa Kelsey

Desolate.

Barren is my mind, my heart, my spirit.

Scrounging through the desert of our love Left dry and wonton, Empty and cold in the dark, Smoldering and bitter in the day.

My soul, down to the womb, is dust.

Nothing to hold on to Nothing to live for.

I was left to die.

And I died, nearly twice.

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But then I find the oasis for my soul In the form of self-worth In the ways of love Higher than you could ever phantom In your shallow, meager existence.

I was nourished by mother earth Restoring my essence, Refreshing my spirit, Revitalizing my melanin.

The fiery desert heat Stirred in my bowels.

And then I refused the lie.

I refused to cry.

I refused to die. Again.

*To learn more about Malissa’s creative projects (including poetry books and visual art), follow her at https://www. instagram.com/ madebymkonline/ 15

SATISFACTION

by Kellyn O. McGee

She awoke early, naked again. She squinted at the clock in the darkness and made out 3:47. She didn’t wake up due to an overheating of her body. Rather it was the complete lack of fire coming from her body that moved her from under the sheets and into a robe hanging in her closet. As she walked out of the closet and passed the bed on her way to another room, she looked toward the body sleeping comfortably in her bed. She shook her head in frustration as she continued walking out of the room.

After getting a glass of water and curling up on the sofa in her living room, tears came.

Sadness? Anger? She didn’t know. Probably both. It had been eight months since they’d had sex. Eight months of her disrobing whenever they were near the bed. Eight months of her alternating between subtly and bluntness when telling him about her needs.

Eight months of his turning away when she slid beneath the sheets beside him. Eight months of his refusal to take the prescribed Viagra, saying “I want to get it up naturally.

And all this talk isn’t helping!”

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SHE GOT UP AND AS SHE PASSED HIM AS SHE HEADED TO THE STAIRS, HE REACHED FOR HER, PULLED HER INTO AN EMBRACE AND KISSED HER FOREHEAD.

Following his surgery for prostate cancer, Calvin’s doctor said he should try Viagra.

When it didn’t work the first two times about six weeks after he was approved - and encouraged, by the doctor and more eagerly by her — to resume having sex, he decided he didn’t want to try again.

So here Adrianne sat. At almost four in the morning following another night of nothing.

She pulled her robe closer and reached for the blanket next to her to cover her to ward off the chill she felt. Coming from inside out.

Her competing feelings of compassion and undesirability made her happy she was alone down here. How could she explain to the man she loved that she understood that this is difficult for him but what about her? How does one tell a cancer survivor that she has needs too? How heartless would she be to say that, even to think it? But would that be better than ending this relationship? She wanted more, needed more. How much time was she supposed to give someone who wasn’t willing?

She woke again to noise in the kitchen. She didn’t open her eyes but stretched her arms overhead.

“You slept down here?” Calvin was standing

over her. He had showered and was fully dressed.

She kept her eyes closed when she responded. “Couldn’t sleep and came down for a glass of water.”

“Still having trouble sleeping, huh? I thought you were going to try some of those remedies.” His voice trailed off as he walked away back to the kitchen. She opened her eyes and shook her head in disbelief. She did not ask him if he was really questioning whether she was heeding suggestions to remedy her hormonal insomnia.

She got up and as she passed him as she headed to the stairs, he reached for her, pulled her into an embrace and kissed her forehead.

“I have to head out, early meeting. Have a good day.” He released her and left. She stood there a few moments, the tears coming again. She wiped her face, shook her head, and walked upstairs to get on with her “good day.” She wondered what he would say if she bought a vibrator. *This was just a taste of Kellyn’s forthcoming novel, Satisfaction. Stay tuned for details!

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Back-to-School YANA

READING LIST *All reading list books are authored by YANAsisters.

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A book that changed my life is Manifesting Things. I always believed that words are things and that things are words, and if you link your mind into what you desire then that energy would be connected to what you seek. It would be in sync with the Universal Law of Attraction. It’s simply mind over matter, as we say. So, whether it’s our thoughts or our verbal vibrations; that is what will be put out and brought forth. I know that is what pulled me through my illness when the hospitals for the first 7 months did not know exactly why I was ill.

Namaste’.

DEBRA

My all-time favorite book is Almond by Won-pyung Sohn. It’s a fictional book about a young boy and his everyday struggles with an amygdala (brain) disorder.

I love it because it sends you on a rollercoaster of emotions - very sad but also heartwarming.

KENNEDY

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One of my all-time favorite books is Red Sea Rules. This book demonstrates how God can carry you through the storm. I’ve tested this a couple of times and this is still my go to book. Ten strategies for difficult times – something we all go through.

STEFANIE

A book that’s on my Fall list is The Garden Within

by Dr. Anita Philips because I welcome a book that recognizes my feminine and spiritual sides and embraces a peace for both. It is a blossoming!

KUAN-YIN

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SEEING

by Brooks Brown

“On the day I was born, May 6, 2007, I witnessed three near death experiences.

My mother Juney B., my twin, and myself.

The entire day was somewhat blurred and frantic and until now, I did not understand what exactly was happening as the living life slowly drained from each of us. And then, like nothing I have ever witnessed again, we were all under bright lights. I could hear screaming and I was so very cold. Why was I so cold? Why was there so much blood? And why was G-Ma screaming and pointing at Mama as two policemen grabbed her and dragged her from the room?”

When I told Mama what I remembered of my birth, her eyes glazed over and her facial expression changed completely, as she looked at me in total disbelief and dropped to her knees and started praying loudly at the top of her lungs. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”

Mama has worked for Sylvie’s Restaurant for 16 years on the island, so practically all of the loyal customers eating in the restaurant know and love her but when

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I looked around the room at their extremely pale faces, I got the distinct feeling they wanted her gone something fierce, as her voice grew louder and louder while they tried to eat their small and terribly overpriced meals.

“He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.” She loudly chanted.

later, Mama was immediately sedated before she was placed on a gurney and wheeled out past the few gawking customers who had stayed after witnessing what everyone in the restaurant was describing to the police, as a complete mental breakdown of Sylvie’s best waitress.

I could tell Ms. Sylvie was not pleased that most of her customers had left so early during the lunch rush, some without even paying for their meals; but she was nonetheless extremely concerned about Mama.

The owner of the hotel and restaurant, Sylvia Bonetti, came running from the kitchen to see what all the commotion was about and was immediately “Sianna, I’m going to follow mortified to see Mama on the ambulance to the the floor sobbing and loudly hospital, you can ride with reciting scripture while me, ok honey?” I nodded customers started shouting, as she unlocked Mama’s IN ALL THE YEARS raising their phones to call locker, handed me her I HAVE KNOWN YOUR purse, and walked in front 911 or video record this awful scene, as she tried of me to the back of the MOTHER, I HAVE desperately to get Mama to the staff NEVER ONCE HEARD restaurant to her feet. Ms. Sylvie was parking lot.

HER RAISE HER VOICE much taller and a lot heavier than Mama, but Mama’s “Do you know what’s going AND SINCE WHEN small frame wouldn’t budge. on Sianna? What made DID SHE BECOME SO Braden, the bartender, Bonnie snap like that? In all slowly came from behind the years I have known your RELIGIOUS? the bar and tried to help Ms. mother, I have never once Sylvie but Mama kept firmly heard her raise her voice planted, as they both decided to just drag her and since when did she become so religious? on her knees toward the kitchen.

I’m a recovering Catholic and I can’t even recite Psalms 23 like Bonnie just did. What “He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the were you talking about before she fell to her paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.” knees; what happened?” Ms. Sylvie asked Her voice now desperately shrill. all of these questions one right after the other, jackhammering her words like she was I could see blood seeping through Mama’s reciting the lyrics of a head banging Metallica black slacks as her knees harshly scraped the song, as we both sprinted to her car. dark hardwood floor as I called out to her, but she didn’t seem to hear me or anyone else for Because everything that had been happening that matter. Crying uncontrollably, I grabbed to me the last few days was so bizarre and my backpack from the bar stool and ran as unexplainable, I didn’t know what or how to quickly as I could behind them. tell Ms. Sylvie what I had just told Mama. So, I just pretended not to know anything, and When the ambulance arrived a few minutes in that very moment, my breath caught, and

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I felt this huge dread cover me like a heavy winter blanket. I knew without a doubt, what I said was real. I had seen my own birth and I realized that what I had blurted out to Mama, as what I had thought was one of my many recurring dreams, I could never share with another living soul, as long as I lived.

Ms. Sylvie looked intently at me for a moment, rubbed my left shoulder and said very matter of fact, “Don’t you worry, everything will be alright, sweetheart.”

As she drove rather recklessly behind the ambulance, she touched my hand and I began crying even more uncontrollably, as my mind’s eye saw a flash of an older Ms. Sylvie lying in a casket wearing a beautiful purple dress as her son, Justin, kissed her cheek before the lid was gently closed as he walked away sobbing with his father by his side.

Again, my ability to understand what I was seeing, was impossible and frightening. Justin Farina Bonetti had not been born yet. *This was just a taste of Brooks Brown’s forthcoming novel, Seeing. Stay tuned for details!

MS. SYLVIE LOOKED INTENTLY AT ME FOR A MOMENT, RUBBED MY LEFT SHOULDER AND SAID VERY MATTER OF FACT, “DON’T YOU WORRY, EVERYTHING WILL BE ALRIGHT, SWEETHEART.” 24

YANASISTERS is an intergenerational wisdom circle for women — like you.

We’ve created this safe space, this spiritual space, to celebrate our womanhood. Here, with us, you will find healing.

You will find happiness.

You will find hope.

And most importantly, you will find a new you.

WHAT IS YANASISTERS? Connection is the essence of our community.

Whether through our intimate online group, coaching programs, local meetups or one of our transformative destination retreats, we are here to support you in this season of your awakening. We share our stories, our pasts and our pain—lovingly and openly—to show one another that we are more alike than we are different.

We defy the notion that differences divide us.

We are women who are all shapes, sizes, skin tones and swag. But our spirits—our souls— are every bit the same. And we only have one rule. Leave all judgment at the door.

You arrived here today, not by coincidence, but because you know existing isn’t enough.

We believe that too, and we want to support you to manifest something meaningful in your life—whether that something is more joy,

more freedom, more confidence and selflove, a more fulfilling profession or a better relationship. YANA is as much about recovery as it discovery. As you exhale your pain and inhale your passion and purpose, you will find you can do—and be—anything. But first, Superwoman, you must take off the cape.

When you need love, we’re here.

When you need an embrace for your body or your soul, we’re here.

When you need the freedom to explore those hidden, but treasured, parts of yourself, we’re here.

When you need to free yourself to be yourself, we’re here.

We, your sisters, welcome you with warm, open arms.

BECAUSE YOU ARE NOT ALONE. 25

Poetry Woman

Cancer Free!

by Dana Austin

So, Cancer, You Think You Have A Grip On Me! Invading My Body To Hold In Captivity But What You Don’t Know Is That I AM FREE Free To Live Each Moment In Peace And Serenity Free To Choose Love Over Fear Free To Hold Loved Ones Ever So Near Free To See Every Nano Second As The Great Prize Free To Celebrate Each Moment That I AM ALIVE Free To Loose A Few Battles, But Win The Race Free To Keep A Song In My Heart And A Smile On My Face

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Free To Recognize Each Moment As A Gift Free To Be Encouraged By Family And Friends When I Need A Lift Free To Be Still In Early Mornings’ Peace Free To Honor Those Who Are Suffering In Grief Free To Praise God For The Gift Of Another Day Free To Forgive And Live My Life, On My Terms, My Way Free To Let Go Of Things That No Longer Serve Me Well Free To Choose Joy And Draw From Its Well Free In My Mind From Worry Or Care Free To Admit That My Diagnosis Was A Scare Free To Find Joy In The Little Things Free To Look Forward To Another Season, Summer, Fall, Winter Or Spring I Don’t Have To Wait Until That Bell Rings To Claim The Victory.

For In Christ Jesus, I Am Here And, In My Mind, I Am Cancer Free!

*For more information on Dana and on her Transformational Writers Conference, go to www.TransformationalWritersConference.com

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BITTER SWEET

By Imani Monica McCullough

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“Naomi?”

If I had enough energy to move, I would have jumped at the sound of the voice whispering my name. But my body feels so heavy I can’t even open my eyes, let alone respond.

“Naomi,” he says, this time a little louder, “just stay still until you’re ready, okay?”

I try to will my heartbeat back to normal, as I process that this man sounds eerily like my dead husband – even down to the slight southern drawl that he swore didn’t exist, and the way he makes my name sound like a Will Downing song.

“I’m going to sit here until you catch your breath,” he says. “You really scared me.”

My first thought is to lie as still as possible in hopes that he’ll keep talking while I pretend he’s Micah. But I quickly refocus. I need to figure out where I am and why I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. Was I in some kind of an accident? How did I scare him? More importantly, who is he?

I stretch my mind to try to remember but come up with only fragments. Micah’s funeral five weeks ago. Me getting off the plane in Aruba, where I’d come to try to find my peace. Me having a few drinks, then staring at the ocean, wondering if I’d ever feel whole again. And finally, me walking into the water…

Oh my God. Had I tried to kill myself?

“Wha happ?” I ask, followed by a fit of coughing. I try again to open my eyes, but only manage a quick flutter before closing them.

“Sweetpea, just relax,” he says, his mouth so close that the words tickle my eardrum.

A small moan escapes my lips as I experience a flurry of heart palpitations.

Sweetpea? Micah was the only one to use that nickname. Am I dreaming?

Then, he touches me. The back of his knuckles rub lightly up and down my chin, caressing my face. It was the way Micah had awoken me almost every day for the past decade. The way he soothed me when I’d had a bad day. And the way he loved on me.

I feel a tear roll down the side of my face, but I clinch my eyes tight, not ready to open them. I’m scared – no make that terrified – to see what will greet me when I do. There’s no way it can be Micah, and yet, I already know there is no way a stranger can make me feel like this as he continues to touch me softly. I barely dare to breathe, as if the mere motion might cause this moment to end.

Finally, unable to keep denying whatever is happening, I open my eyes and look at the man before me.

I stare at the same smooth, chocolate skin I fell in love with. The shoulder-length locs I loved to play in because I never knew hair – especially loc’d hair – could be so soft. The broad nose that he thought too wide, but I thought perfect to complement the fullness of his lips. And finally, those light brown eyes that seemed to stare into my soul.

The ones that at times seemed to know me better than I knew myself.

Although it defies everything I know to be true, I can no longer deny what I see and feel.

It really is Micah. *Want to read more? Imani’s three published works, You Are Not Alone, When I Was Broken, and Bittersweet can be purchased through Amazon or yanasisters.com.

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Misjudged GAIL TUSAN WASHINGTON A/K/A SUSAN WASHINGTON

S

uzanne tried to focus on her last Spanish exam question: Why would Florentino, a self-proclaimed virgin, bury himself in mindless sex as a weapon against the pain of separation from his true love, Fermina? Five hundred Spanish words and her tenure at Wayne County Community College would be history. Still, her mind was empty and overflowing simultaneously.

Her four years of high school Spanish were of no use.

Neither were the three times she had read the Spanish novel, Love in the Time of Cholera, by Gabriel GarciaMarquez. Este impossible!

No puedo pensar ahora! She couldn’t formulate anything to write down. I might as well add my teacher to the growing list of people I’ve let down this miserable year. Only fifty minutes remained before Professor Carlos Mora would collect the exam booklets.

The atmosphere was all wrong. Instead of pulling an all-nighter cramming for the exam with her UCLA roommate, Tammy, the one who spoke fluent Spanish and

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had aced her high school AP World Literature test, Suzanne had stayed up past midnight by herself. Alone, in her grandparents’ guest room three thousand miles away, she had sat paralyzed with pain from the sharp kicks by the restless fetus nestled inside of her womb.

She had selected the Spanish course to give her something to do during the final trimester of the pregnancy. The class was challenging, yet interesting. Suzanne loved the story and its premise of unrequited love. She rubbed the curve of her very round stomach in a useless attempt to calm the baby. Will any guy ever love me as deeply as Florentino loved Fermina? I wonder when Keith did it for the first time. No way was I his first, not the way he kept telling me he’d be gentle and not to worry.

Suzanne looked at the clock on the wall of the classroom. Twenty-two minutes remained.

Suzanne opened her notebook and started to write. Ten words into her essay she felt the long anticipated warm fluid gush down her pant leg and form an embarrassing puddle under her chair. Suzanne did not move anything other than her yellow Converse sneakers to keep them from getting wet. She waited until the bell sounded and the last student handed in his exam booklet before budging.

Professor Mora looked inquisitively over the top of his glasses at his star student and in a rare moment, spoke English. “Suzanne, time is up. Even my best students must abide by the rules.”

She stood up with all her might, stuck her pencil in her book bag and walked slowly toward his desk, squeezing her sticky thighs together, trying to keep everything in place until she could call her grandmother to come

save her from the nightmare unfolding.

Suzanne really wanted her mother, but she was not due to arrive in Detroit until the next day. There was no way the pregnant teenager would be able to take the bus home as planned. Suzanne handed Professor Mora her exam.

“Suzanne, you’re perspiring. Are you not feeling well, muchacha?”

She looked blankly at her professor. She had misjudged her ability to pretend any longer.

Nothing about the previous nine months was okay. Not Keith or his reaction to learning was pregnant, nor her mother shooing her out of Southern California until she had to come home. In fact, if anyone cared to know, as far as Suzanne was concerned, the entire situation sucked. The sad thing was if anyone did care, nobody bothered to ask.

Suddenly, everything was blurry. The exam questions written in Spanish on the chalkboard behind his desk began to shift.

And so did Suzanne. Before she could answer him, all went dark in Suzanne’s world.

She passed out. When the quiet girl from California came to, her life as she once knew it might well have been a misplaced black and white photograph. *Under the pen name Susan Washington, Gail has published two novels, Misjudged and Riley, The Judge’s Son; and has facilitated the Loving Wisdom anthologies.

Purchase a copy of her books and learn more about Gail on her website, www.gailtusanwashington. com.

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A book that changed my life is Charlotte’s Web. This may seem strange, but Charlotte’s Web is the book that catapulted me into the love of reading I have today.

It is the first book I remember reading (mostly) by myself. After I finished reading it, not only did I want to read it again, but I wanted to read... period! To this day, it’s still one of the best books I’ve ever read. And to this day, I am an avid reader.

COZETTE

One book I would recommend to my sisters is Better Than Chocolate by Simon Reynolds because it’s a self-help book and it helped me through a tough time. Happiness is a choice and sometimes it’s hard to choose. The book has prompts, and small affirmations or exercises that help the mind feel better if a person takes the activities/exercises seriously.

TAMIKA

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One book that I would recommend to my sisters is Knowing by Simran. I normally fly through books. Like finding a loose thread on a knitted blanket, I pull and tug as the story and information unfolds (or in this analogy unknits). I’ve used books to pull and tug and unknit the parts of me that were wounded or felt separated from God Universe. As I read Knowing, I realized the difference between this and other spiritual books — Knowing i­s the guide to knitting the threads I’ve pulled all my life back into ME! REBA

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YANA unWritten Playlist We created a playlist that’s perfect to write to, so use the QR Code below to enjoy it on Spotify.

Beach Vacay (Pink Beaches) Vintage Café de Luxe (Metropolitan Jazz Affair) Here Comes the Sun (Brooklyn Duo) Le Sud (L’Inde’cis) Unwind (Saib) September (Simant Duo, Arturo Sandoval) Trampin’ (Regina Carter) Mo Better Blues (Jacky Terrasson) Come On feat. Dave Ghetto (DJ Jazzy Jeff) What U Want, What U Need (Jarez) Unwritten – Instrumental (Simone Del Freo) Poetry Man (Jeesy J) Always In My Head (Piano Dreamers) Retrograde – Instrumental (The Fretless) Thinking Out Loud – Instrumental (La Vid Violin) Best Part - Acoustic Instrumental (JustAcoustic) You – Instrumental (Theodore Frederickson) Perfect – Acoustic Instrumental (JustAcoustic) Thank you, Next – Acoustic Instrumental (JustAcoustic) Purple Rain – Piano Version – Andrea Carri

All content in Connect is for informational purposes only and should not be considered to be advice or counseling. Always seek professional help in connection with any questions or issues you may have regarding your health or the health of others. © You Are Not Alone 2023 www.yanasisters.com For requests or questions, email to info@yanasisters.com

JOURNAL PROMPTS Ready to try some writing of your own?

Put on the YANA unWRITTEN playlist, then use the prompts below to journal whatever comes to mind: • I am…

• I love my…

• I wish I could…

• I believe…

• I’m afraid…

• I feel…

• I connect when / by / with / to…

• I am happiest when…

• I hope in the future…

• I want…

• I pray…

• I find joy in…

• I create by…

• I shine when…

• I am grateful for…

• I forgive...