September 2019, I was walking to the bus stop to go to work at the church as the administrative assistant. The day was rough. My body was hurting and I didn’t understand or know why, yet refusing to take the opiates the doctors offered me to mask the pain. Walking with my heavy backpack, my spirit was low and my head was down as I braved the even heavier traffic of Lafayette Road. Walking with my head down, something that growing up in my family and in my neighborhood, was taught not to ever do.
“You don’t ever walk with your head down. It’s a sign of weakness, insecurity or pain. Always walk with your head held high, no matter what or who, you don’t look down unless you are picking up something.” I heard my grandmother’s words with every step I took, chuckling a bit to myself about how crazy I often drove her.
I’d joke and say “But Gaga, I’ve found some good stuff with my head down. Remember that $100 bill I found on our way from the ticket house? I found my favorite stone, a lottery ticket and that sack of weed…”
“Hush!” she’d scream and I’d giggled but straighten my face sure enough out of respect and the fact that I knew that my grandmother was, as always, “speaking the truth.”
Yet that day in September 2019 with Chronic pain, depression, grief and mourning so much loss – my head was down. I was in the midst of several storms and my backpack probably weighed a ton. Midway in the middle of the street, as the cars raced by on every side, on the ground lay a butterfly on its side. Its wings flapped weakly, barely moving and as the cars passed by us both on every side, I walked past it and thought, “how sad, it’s going to die.”
I had got to the bus stop but couldn’t take my mind off that butterfly, so I walked back to the middle of the street, noticed it had stopped moving and picked up the butterfly by its wings. Here I was hurting, going through, in the middle of heavy traffic and afraid of bugs – picking up this butterfly by its wings to take it back to the bus stop, for what, I didn’t know. I placed it among some flowers and weeds, and as I waited on my bus to arrive, the butterfly’s wings began to flap as it moved up higher on the flowers and finally the light pole. As my bus came, I took a picture of the butterfly without understanding how significant that moment truly was or what the purpose of this simple encounter with another of Yah’s wounded creatures, on this particular day, was for. I can tell you that when I got on the bus that day, my spirit was much lighter and my head was held high.
I will never know what happened to the butterfly. It could have dropped dead the minute I was gone, fallen victim to a bird, went back into the streets to be run over or it could have flown to lands unknown. I can’t tell you what happened to that butterfly because that part of its journey was not my assignment. My assignment was a mere simple thing and gesture, to pick up that butterfly and put it in a better position.
In ancient culture the butterfly is a symbol or personification of the soul and rebirth. In fact the Greek word for “butterfly” means “soul” or “mind”
“The butterfly at the bus stop” became my testimony on how we should never be content on walking past something or someone who is afflicted, who needs help, and not do anything. This encounter reminds me that we are all Yah’s butterflies and at some point, we have all been that butterfly in the middle of some road or storm in our lives, where we were or felt weak and The Most High sent someone to pick us up by our wings and put us in a better position in life. Be it physically, emotionally, mentally, spiritually, financially or professionally.
So when we talk about mental health and spiritual health, we have to talk about how 50% of mental health illness is hereditary and 50% environmental. We can not control what we are as far as our heredity but we can control how we help ourselves or others who are afflicted. For those who are commissioned to serve by ministering to others also note that you can’t pick a butterfly up safely by the wings if you are too busy stepping on the body by being judgmental, self absorbed and/or holier than thou attitude. How can you both judge and labor with someone at the same time? Sometimes we call ourselves picking somebody up but because we are either too broken ourselves, ill equipped or too distracted that we end up causing further damage by pulling their wings off.
And if you are the butterfly at any point in your life, it’s ok to have faith and get help too. It’s ok to have therapy and theology, to allow yourself to be picked up and placed in a better position. Don’t let anyone tell you that therapy is a waste of time, especially when they don’t have the time, because it’s not. When we have been all traumatized by a violent American history, an impatient, unemphatic, unjust and harsh world that results in the lives of our children being taken, them taking each other lives and taking their own lives – it’s’ evident that it feels as if there are more butterflies in the middle of the road than they are up flying. Do we truly see each other? Do we not recognize that how we treat or don’t treat our fellow brothers and sisters has such a ‘butterfly effect’ in the world?
We need to seek to always be obedient, use our discernment and be bold in our assignments. That each of us are butterflies, a soul, that as long as we are living may be seen at any given time, in the middle of the road or in mid-flight on this journey called life. The next time you see someone in need of being picked up by their wings, may you not walk by content on that it’s not your assignment or so caught up in your own world that you fail to see the beauty and purpose in another. So as we continue to pick each other up, may we pick up our own wings by doing so and fly to destinations unknown but always felt.

~ copyright © 2019 TaMara E’Lan G.

The storm, the sun, the people
Gimme shelter

The wars, spiritual or physical
Gimme shelter

Higher Power, Universe, provide it wherever my spirit goes ….. If I seek it, it will show

Just like my glow

These are magical moments we can experience everyday

If we seek we shall find.

march 15 2025
the best day of my life

I want to preface this by saying the title may be slightly misleading-march 15 was not the best day of my life in question (although, it was pretty good).

after spending a couple hours dillydallying about fisherman’s wharf and pier 39 in San Francisco, I decided to take the cable car back to my hotel (only the cable car took us half way, kicked us out, and told us to take the bus, which I opted to walki the mile, I decided I needed to walk that extra scoop of ice cream off). anywho, I was sitting in the cable car, distracting my mind from being present, scrolling through tiktok while also on facetime with my long-distance best friend. i saw a tiktok that nearly stopped me dead in my tracks. he was posing the question of “what was the best day of your life?” and I really thought ‘wow, I can’t pinpoint that’. and of course, the comments were filled with similar thoughts to my own.

what’s even worse, I could immediately think of an exact date that I’d consider the worst day of my life. I can tell you all the details about that day. almost as if I can relive it.

so it had me thinking, what could possibly have been the best day of my life? and a lot of people like to go the route of they haven’t lived it yet, they haven’t gotten to the best day ever yet. but that proves the point.
that proves that we are always just waiting for the next best. that we’re always comparing every good thing to happen to something else. that enough is never actually enough. success isn’t successful enough. happiness isn’t happy enough. every good thing could be better. we have so deeply engrained in us the ideal that the grass is greener on the other side. that’s what drives people to infidelity. because there’s always someone else out there that could be better, right?

it’s the potential we hold onto, the hope that we grasp onto. I think it gives us purpose- knowing the best day ever has yet to come. that we will always have something to look forward to because the best day has yet to happen. (at least, for the glass half full kinda people- optimistically scouring the earth for meaning, searching for the positive in every situation, seeing the world as beautiful and abundant.)

but I don’t think that way. I think when we are asked what the best day of our life has been, it’s conclusive only of what we have so far experienced. it’s a day that’s subjective. and may continue to get replaced as we live on, and value other things and find other events more fulfilling or more joyful.

it’s much easier to pinpoint the worst day ever because we don’t want to top it. we don’t want to one up some really bad shit. we want to leave it in the past. horrible days beg for our acknowledgement because they drain the life out of us. experiencing a day so bad that you were so painfully aware of all of your surroundings down to the smell of the stale air in the brick room of the house that was built in 1812 that you were standing on. down to the sound the floor made when you stepped on the creaky wood on your way out the door for the final time. you’ll remember exact phrases you said, exact ways that you felt. tastes, smells, sights, absolutely consumed you in a moment that left a forever imprint on your being. maybe not everyone’s worst day of their life was a traumatic event, but I think a lot of people have experienced trauma in even smaller scales.

horrible events beg for us to be sucked into them. they are so energetically draining, like a black hole, an energy vacuum. the energy we put towards negativity requires more effort than feelings of joy, which is why negative memories are far easier to remember than those that were joyful. bad things are often synonymous with our uncontrollables in life. because, unfortunately, we are unable to control everything in our life, which can lead to unfavorable things taking place. and, well, that’s life. but it takes a decision, effort, to make a positive thing happen. it takes effort to have the best day ever, and the worst day ever is typically one that happens TO us, rather than for us, perhaps.

though, I believe joy requires more autonomy. it’s like the paralysis of decision. deciding which day we can proclaim as the best feels like too much pressure. there’s where the pressure to be perfect comes into play. the pressure for the best. we have more choice in the decision of the best moments in our life than our worst. as I feel joy is a passive feeling, that is fleeting because it feels good to flow with the emotion of. and experiencing pain or suffering is much more active, as we spend the time in efforts to resist the feeling, rather than sitting in it and going with the flow. it’s easy to get in the boat and flow happily along the river, it feels good, natural, easy. it’s much easier to be joyful and have a happy memory. but you’ll remember the time you had to row upstream in a storm and all of the effort you had to put in to keep moving forward. same way our brain works through memories.

somehow, joy takes effort and happens naturally all at once. that’s the duality of it. it can be easy, and so difficult.

so, I was thinking about my best day. and I think where I’m struggling is that I want to combine a bunch of favorite memories to make the most perfect best day ever. I find something wrong with each day that I start to think is the best I’ve had. nothing is sufficient. it doesn’t help that I’m a happy crier, it doesn’t take much to make me feel emotional in a good way. and every time I feel so encompassed in my emotion, my eyes swell, I feel so deeply. that’s why I’ve been pondering my best day ever, wracking my brain of every positive memory I have ever had in my 24 years of existence thus far.

luckily for us, we’re likely to replace our best day ever time and time again. it just means we experience way more good in life than bad, and thank the Lord for that.

my most recent best day ever was in Belgium.

I arrived in Brussels and decided I wanted to take the train to Ghent. oddly, I have felt an overwhelming sense of comfort every time I’ve been to Belgium, a home-like feeling. this time was no different. on the 40-minute train to Ghent, I sat by the window. put my phone face down on the tray table in front of me, took my airpods out and put them back in their case, and just stared out the window. I do this thing when I’m traveling where I actively try to soak in every single moment, especially the mundane moments. (though I’m realizing I’m a hypocrite based on paragraph two of this.) if you lived in Brussels and took the train to Ghent every weekend, you likely would find ways to distract yourself, you would get used to the ride, bored of it even. not me, this was my first time. and looking out at the countryside, it was so eerily similar to parts of Kentucky where I’m from, and I started tearing up. the small part of myself that misses home was feeling engulfed in this moment. the little girl that was coloring next to me kept looking over at me and I’d like to think it was because she thought I was cool, but she probably actually thought I was ridiculous. I actually thought she was really cool, I was thinking wow, how cool would it have been to grow up here.

after getting dropped off in Ghent, I wandered through the streets, and this is what I have in my note’s app,

“the countryside of belgium, perhaps ‘the burbs’ inbetween brussels & ghent, actually look eerily like kentucky. and i feel weirdly at home.
ok everyone comes out on sunday to buy tulips & other flowers in ghent? thats cute. and the rich people have having bottles of wine & charcuterie in the middle of all of it”

that doesn’t tell you much. but for a moment, I envisioned myself living here, coming out on a Sunday afternoon to buy tulips and have a European brunch with family and friends, and I liked the way I felt a serotonin boost just by picturing that alone.

I decided to take a little touristy boat tour through the canals for 9 euros (where the f is the euro symbol on my keyboard?). I sat down next to a girl who said she’s from Vancouver, who proceeded to tell me about her corporate job that absolutely went over my head. I thought she was cool enough to share a boat seat with for 40 minutes I suppose.

when I took the train back to Brussels after having wine and the best brioche with chocolate chips, I wandered around (clearly I do a lot of that). ate more random little bites and stumbled into my favorite little park in the city where there is always live music and people joined around. by live music, I mean men who pull up with a guitar and sing typically. but it always speaks to my soul. and I get emotional every time. I sat and listened, I watched, I took some deep breaths to take it all in.

later that night, I stumbled into a cool reclining wooden chair looking at the cathedral where I sat to watch as the sun went down, and I felt God smiling at me. I swear. on my walk back, I got mistaken for a local and that made me feel like I belong in a cool girl way. I even got gelato and the man shaped it into a rose for me. I saw more people singing but this time in the Grand Place, and I fell in love with life all over again.

all of that goes to say, maybe that was my most favorite day ever. but then, I can’t help but to think there was probably a day in my life that tops that. part of me feels like the best day ever should have included a cool accomplishment, like when I graduated flight attendant training and was really emotional about it, or ran 20 miles for the first time, or hiked a mountain, my first solo hiking trip, or my first solo international trip, or something. but maybe my silly little 24-hour work trip to Brussels where I took a train to Ghent will sit there for now. and I won’t rush the next best day ever. somehow there is something really awesome about every single day, even the ‘meh’ days.

When I see a tiny lizard or a gecko on the sidewalk, I see you & smell the softness of pancakes cooking in the kitchen.

When I see a black cat, I see you & instantly smell gingerbread cookies baking in the oven around Christmas time.

When I see a white Chevy truck, I see two young girls sitting in the bed of the truck embracing the moment of the wind blowing amongst their tiny faces after a fun filled day in the snow

When I see elder men wearing their “Veterans” hat, I see you standing before me. I feel the softness in the air. I see the gentleness of your soul standing amongst the crowd. I thank that individual for their service as I walk away.

When I see the color purple out in the world, I see you. When I’m at work & hear similar words from my clients, I think of you standing before me. When I see the card game “Go Fish” being played, I see two younger girls sitting at their grandmother’s table laughing til their tummy hurts.

When I see a yellow tractor, I see a young adult enjoying the time being spent with their grandfather. When I see a blue truck, I see you & start singing those old country songs we’d sing together.

No matter where I go in life, I see you.
I see all of you!
Wherever I go, you are right there guiding the way. The way to clarity. To beautiful blessings. To happiness. To calmness. To love.

No matter the length of missing you, the memories, all of the memories will forever be shared.
Wherever I go in life, I know I have several bodyguards guiding me along my path. Protecting me.

***A Poem for the Fallen Soldiers and Officers**

They rose each day, laced their boots tight,
Stepped into the dark to carry the light.
Not for the glory, not for the fame,
But to answer the call-no matter the name.

Through city streets and quiet towns,
They stood tall when the world broke down.
A shield of honor, a heart so brave,
A promise given, a life they gave.

Their voices echo in whispered wind,
In every life they swore to defend.
Their footsteps linger, though they are gone.
In every dawn, their spirit shines on.

To the families left with empty space,
Love remains-it can’t be erased.
Their sacrifice, a heavy toll,
But love and courage never grow cold.

So we stand today with heads held high,
Saluting those who touched the sky.
Gone too soon, yet never apart,
Forever alive in memory’s heart.

In the quiet embrace of the fog, the world is transformed into a dreamscape; shrouded in mystery and wonder.
It is a sanctuary to God’s creatures who roam and call it home,
and to souls who either melt in the embrace of natures hug, or thrive in it during a hunt in the wilderness, venturing deep into the veil of fog for prey.

Today, I stepped outside to experience the serene air kissing my skin, the fog blanketing the woods in front of me beckoned me with its allure,
my eyes also catching the gold and brown leaves, whispering tales of autumn’s end.

I look to see the bare branches reaching out like fingers yearning to touch the misty air,
and in that fleeting moment, suspended in time, I captured a glimpse of the desire that emanated from the trees.

Its a reflection of my aspiration, to embody that quality in my life, to reach out and languish into the fog, being alive yet one with it would be a dream— as that would mean I would be forever trapped in a state of serenity or peace.

And if dreams become reality, then I implore whoever sees me fading into foggy stillness to keep from reaching out and let me be,
for in that moment I am happy,
I am free.

Grief is a kingdom you never ask to rule.
A place with no stars, no dawn to break.
Endless night.
A place where echoes live longer than voices,
where shadows wear the faces you’ve lost—
but never quite get them right.

It crowns you in silence,
wraps its cloak around your ribs,
tightens until your breath comes in fractured whispers.

I thought I was ready.
I told myself time was mercy—
that knowing would soften the blow.
But grief doesn’t strike like lightning.
It seeps in slowly, like poison in your veins,
until one day you’re gasping,
and you don’t even remember what air felt like.

I try to remember her laugh—
but it’s like chasing smoke.
Somewhere in my mind,
her smile is fading at the edges.
Her voice, just a ghost of a ghost.

I keep pictures tucked away in drawers.
I can’t look at them for too long.
Each glance is a wound,
each memory a blade turning slow beneath my ribs.
But without them, she slips further from me.
I am caught between needing to remember
and not being able to survive it.

How cruel it is—
to lose her twice.
Once to death, and again to time.

My son was born after she left.
A few fractured weeks between his first breath
and the silence she became.
His due date was her birthday.
As if the universe thought irony was a kindness.

Since I was 18,
I have been carving out a life with trembling hands,
mistaking silence for strength,
mistaking independence for survival.
But I was wrong.

Strength is standing in the ruin
and naming every piece.
It is saying:
This hurt.
This still hurts.
It is learning to breathe in the dark.

They don’t tell you how grief is a thief—
how it steals the good with the bad.
How every sweet memory is chased by regret.
How every second of love feels borrowed.
How guilt hangs on your shoulders like a cloak
you can’t remove.

I should have stayed longer.
I should have loved louder.
I should have grown up faster,
instead of pretending I had all the time in the world.

I still don’t know how to carry this.
Most days, I bury it beneath busy hands and silence.
But it always finds me—
in the quiet, in the stillness,
in the moments when her name rises to my lips
but never makes it past my teeth.

Grief is a kingdom,
and I am its prisoner.
There are no windows, no keys, no doors.
Only the ghosts of what could have been
and the weight of everything I didn’t say.

And yet somehow,
even in this shadowland,
I am still searching for light.

Hush now child, we are going on a journey.
We will be free from turmoil on our home soil.
We will seek asylum in the land of the free,
No worries of war in our far away home.

The waves may rise, the winds may howl,
But hold my hand, we’ll make it somehow.
Through deserts, through forests, we walk unseen,
Chasing the promise of a brighter dream.

Hush now child, don’t cry from the cold,
The road is hard, but our hearts are bold.
The stars above guide our weary souls,
Through shadows and doubt, we chase our goals.

They call it freedom, they call it hope,
A place where we’re given a chance to cope.
But oh, the cost, the burdens we bear,
Strangers in a land that may not care.

Hush now child, keep your head held high,
Even if the questions start to pry.
“Why are you here? What do you seek?”
They don’t see the strength in the tired and meek.

We carry the weight of our stories untold,
Of villages burned, of nights so cold.
Yet still, we rise, through fear and disdain,
Planting new roots in soil laced with pain.

Hush now child, for someday they’ll see,
Our struggle, our fight, our legacy.
We build with hope, with tears, with love,
For a future we dream, as vast as the skies above.

The moment they thought DEI meant Black or queer,
was the moment they lost the war,
so far removed from the struggle,
like history ain’t at their door.

They forget—
they were once as poor,
if not standing beside us, knee-deep in the same war.
Before race, there was class,
before color, there was caste,
yet the blame never lands
on the hands that built the past.

The structure was forged with intent,
inequality chiseled in stone.
Yet the victims bear the weight—
never the architects on their thrones.

We ain’t choose to be here,
displaced, discarded, denied.
And the land? It was never theirs to give,
yet they legislate stolen soil with pride.

And now, the world shakes,
coups play out in real-time,
yet we watch—numb, scrolling,
like history don’t rhyme.

There is no ethical billionaire,
only loopholes and ledgers,
only tax cuts dressed as charity,
only wealth hoarded in hidden treasures.

To be ethical is to see,
to hold every class in your care.
But justice ain’t profitable,
so tell me—who’s really aware?

So last year my mom was diagnosed with AML and immediately our lives changed instantly, we quit looking at 6 months from now and were thankful for the moment, we still planned ahead but new anything could happen, well Thanksgiving came and noticed my mom wasn’t acting like MY MOM, we had planned a Special Thanksgiving with homemade egg rolls and she was sleeping a lot, well we were praying and Trusting God and on Dec 15th we would take her to the hospital.The doctor told us her instines were twisted and asked if the cancer was being treated our hearts sank, We were planning on spending Christmas with my mom, but the 17th of December I had to sign a DNC for my mom, Everyday I spent with my mom was short.Dec 22nd she would pass away.I spend Christmas eve getting her grave site ready, Im STUNNED at what happened.We now cherish EVERY DAY and WILL MAKE HER PROUD.