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The older I get, the more I’m convinced that there’s nothing a little reading couldn’t cure.

I’m not talking about the omnipresent self-help books – the likes of which constitute a $10+ billion industry in the United States alone. Not at all.

For some reason – maybe for many reasons – most of which I admittedly do not understand, I woke up this morning having dreamed about Shelley’s poem “Ozymandias.”

Knowing the history. And, continuing the work.

I, for one, am committed to carrying this essential wisdom forward – from Black History Month through Women’s History Month to my social justice Seder on Passover and well into the foreseeable future. But, let’s think for a moment about the time we are in – March and Women’s History Month.

Woman to woman. Woman to world. How will we spend our courage? How will we make our way? How will we respond to the day some other way than blind?

I’m not sure if D. Watkins’ The Cook Up: A Crack Rock Memoir was on anyone else’s wish list for Mother’s Day this year, but it was on mine.

Who am I? At the age of 34 years old, I’m still trying to find that out. When I was born, I was someone’s daughter. I had brothers and a sister. So, I was someone’s big sister and little sister.

The forgotten virtue of reverence, as classicist and writer Professor Paul Woodruff suggests, may very well be the mother of all virtues – the virtue that makes all of the other virtues possible.

You are the Angel on every corner

the last choir

life’s deliverer and death’s powdery hand

You are the Man in the Mirror

the jittery birds calling on the fence

You are the breeze that blows in every season

catching up what’s left...

All too often, we feel that we are not living the fullness of our lives because we are not expressing the fullness of our gifts. Elle Luna

You can’t get around it.

You can’t talk around it. You can’t write around it. And, you certainly can’t walk around it. In fact, on any given day, on any given street in Baltimore, you may run right smack into it.