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Miracle Fish, Ada Limón

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Dear Trees, Air, Birds...,

I’m not writing to God today, not out of spite. I’m just not. And I think that’s okay? I no longer feel compelled to directly address God in order to feel assured that there is a connection.

Shug explained to me how she believes that God is everything, all that ever is, was, and will be. Her first step from what she calls the “old white man” was the trees. Then the birds. And then other people. She said, with each new observation and connection, she had this feeling of being part of everything rather than separate. Described the feeling as…orgasmic.

She started to rub my thigh and, embarrassed, I yelled, “Shug!”

She continued, telling me about how God loves even those feelings. Desire, sex. That God made them for us and that, by enjoying them, we praise and please it, much unlike many churches would lead one to believe.

She finished by saying, “People think pleasing God is all God cares about, but any fool living in the world can see how it is always trying to please us back.”

And with that, I thought about how God’s way of pleasing me was bringing Shug into my life. Maybe it or he or she or they are speaking through her, at least to some degree. And for that, I am grateful. Beyond definition, I felt more God in that conversation with her than I ever have in a church.

Everything felt gray in that moment, though not dreary or destitute. Simply neutral. Balanced.

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Image from Ariana Grande’s “God Is A Woman” music video. 

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Dear God, or Goddess?

Shug and I talked about you and what you might look like today.

Shug: Celie, tell the truth. Have you ever found God in church?”

Before I could really respond or weave together a sound thought, she continued.

Shug: I never did. I found a bunch of people waiting for him to show up. Any God I ever felt in church I brought in with me. I think all the other church folks did too. They may not realize it yet, but they came to share God, not to find him…

My thoughts, somehow having attached our conversation to Ariana Grande’s “God is a Woman” got hung up on that last word, “him.”

Shug: Tell me what your God looks like Celie…

I hadn’t intentionally thought about God in a few days, so I didn’t immediately know what my next few sentences would reveal.

Me: Okay…well, he’s big and tall with a gray beard and...white? I suppose. And wearing white robes without any shoes or sandals on.

Shug: Mmm…blue eyes?

Me: Yea, I guess so. With white lashes.

I had just described some Viking prince or a Christian Reeve type Superman, but what other image could I have drawn up? Still, that “he” had me hung up for a moment and it was odd because that’s what I always heard God referred to as. Today, it just didn’t feel right.

Shug laughed.

Me: What’s funny? What do you expect him to look like, Kanye?

She continued to laugh and I joined in.

Shug: That wouldn’t be an improvement at all. It’s funny, though, because that white man you just described is the same one I used to see when I prayed. I think it’s because, if you wait to find God in church, that man, a white man, is bound to show up. Because that’s where he lives.

Me: Is that so?

Shug: Yup. Because that’s the white God of white people’s white bible.

I was momentarily incredulous. Interested, but a little scared. How could I completely re-envision God? What would that take? What would that mean? I felt like I was starting from scratch and, though I haven’t prayed to God in a while, he still maintains a fixed image in my mind. What could this new God look like?

When Shug left, I stood dead-center and butt-naked in front of the body length mirror in my bedroom and just stared. Slowly, I rubbed my dark, round belly, squished my boobs together a bit, and fluffed my hair with my fingers.

What could this new God look like?

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Found a picture of her post. The header...

Still on my mind..

Thinking about Sin and Blasphemy again today. Summer Walker posted photos of altars on her Instagram today and a bunch of her Christian followers used you two against her, called her a witch. I personally thought they looked pretty cool. Who's to say God doesn't too?

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Still on my mind..

Thinking about Sin and Blasphemy again today. Summer Walker posted photos of altars on her Instagram today and a bunch of her Christian followers used you two against her, called her a witch. I personally thought they looked pretty cool. Who's to say God doesn't too?

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Dear Sin and Blasphemy

Shug came out of nowhere and told me she’s a sinner. I asked what she meant. And she said, “Cause I was born. I don’t deny it. But once you find out what’s out there waiting for us, what else can you be?” And for a minute, I was silent and thought about it. I responded, “Sinners have more good times.” “You know why?,” she asked. And I figured it was because sinners don’t care about the opinion of God, don’t feel the love from God, don’t care about going to hell. “Nah,” she said. “That ain’t it. We do worry about God and feel the love, and once we feel loved by God, we do the best we can to reciprocate and the only way to do that is to do what we like.” What? She couldn’t be serious. “So you’re telling me that the God we have been taught to praise loves you even though you’ve never done anything for him? Never gone to church, never stood on the side of the highway holding posters about Jesus and the Second Coming, never prayed before a meal or a sports game?” And she responded, “If God loves me, Celie, I don’t have to do all of that, at least until I want to. I can do other things that I suspect God likes.” I responded, “Like what?” “Oh,” she say. “I can lay back and just admire stuff. Be happy. Have a good time. God doesn’t want us to miss out on Earth waiting for Heaven.” Her response sent a rush of calm through me, regardless of how sinful and blasphemous it might have sounded to a passerby. 

So, Sin and Blasphemy, hearing from Shug I have the freedom to be ‘sinful’ and ‘blasphemous’ and still be alright is the holiest thing I think I’ve heard in a while.

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“But it ain’t easy, trying to do without God. Even if you know he ain’t there, trying to do without him is a strain.”

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Dear Shug,

I don’t write to God anymore; I only write to you. I know you didn’t ask for that, but writing to God hasn’t been doing much for me…I told you this yesterday and the conversation went a little like this:

You: What happened to God?

Me: Who is that? I don’t know him.

You looked at me serious, as if I had just summoned the devil himself and curled up on his lap.

Me: Considering your own sinful behavior, I didn’t think you’d be all that surprised. God seems to be at the very back of your mind, Shug.

You: Celie!

I couldn’t help but cringe at the look of shock on your face. I thought maybe I had said something wrong, something that hurt you. But I was already firm in my stance.

You: He gave you a good life, good health, a good job, and..well, me…

Me: Well yeah, but he also has done nothing for several important parts of me. My blackness, what has he done for that? Other than pit us at the bottom of the social, political, and economic hierarchies around the globe. My womanness, what has he done for that? Except cast it as the reason for sin on Earth. And us…well women like us who like other women…what has he done for us? Other than pit us as “other,” “deviant,” and confused women who are just traumatized, d*ck haters, and everything else but in love. Anyhow, this God I’ve been praying and even writing to is a man. And he acts like the other men I’ve known my entire life. Trifling, forgetful, and neglectful.

As I spewed it all out, part of me wanted to take it all back. The scared part. But it was too late and I think I meant it, at least somewhat. Still..by saying “God,” I wasn't too sure about who I was referring to.

You: Girl, you better hush before God hears you!

Me: No, let him hear me! If he ever listened to the poor, the colored, the queer, and anyone else except straight white men, the world would be a hell of a lot different. At the very least, we sure as hell wouldn't have this damn fool as a president.

For the rest of the day after this, I tried to live without God. Clean up the house and do the laundry without gospel music blasting from my speaker. Refrain from making basic religious references in my speech. Even took my cross necklace off. But I realized, it’s not easy to try living without God. Even though I know he isn’t there, trying to do without him is a strain.

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Dear God,

I have no one else to talk to about this, so I’ll try talking to you (again). Maybe it’ll be like talking to a brick wall. Oh and, in case you forgot, my name is Celie. 

So, the other day, I helped a male friend of mine bathe his ex (odd, I know but she was in an accident and has no close family, so it was up to him to help her and he needed by help), but it was really quite..nice? It was kinda funny because, though they were together for three years, he was squeamish about giving her a bath, maybe because he knew he’d start having perverse thoughts. 

But..what about me? The first time I got the full sight of her long, black body and black plum nipples, I started to question my sexuality, something I’ve always been so sure about (well, at least thought I was sure about...I always viewed it as something you have no say in, something people tell you that you have and that just sorta sticks).

“What are you staring at?,” she spat. Just hateful. Weak as a kitten, but with a mouth packed full of claws. “You never seen a naked woman before?,” she continued. “No,” I responded, like an innocent child. It was true, but also untrue. I had seen a woman’s naked body (of course), but I had never responded this way, so I might as well had never seen one before. 

Once I finally started to wash her, she sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes. Pleasure? Pain? I wasn’t sure, but it unnerved me. As I continued to wash, I began to feel like I was praying; the wash-cloth the rosary, her body the altar. My hands couldn’t stop trembling and my breath shortened. And that is what’s brought me here to you again. Is that sacrilegious? God, you tell me...