Dear Unsealers,
When Carmella and I married each other, we opted to write our own vows. Keeping them under wraps until the big day was both tantalizing and tricky. I found that the more I wrote and the more I homed in on a vision of dedicating my entire energy to building a life with her, the more I wanted to tell her all about it. I would catch myself dabbling into words or phrases from my vows at dinner and quickly reeling them back in, smoothing the moment over with an awkward laugh.
Then, the most beautiful thing happened on our wedding day, when we revealed our written vows. Independently, but remarkably in sync, we both used the same tree metaphor to describe our love, life together, promises, and future hopes. The vows exchanged spoke of tending to this tree- providing shelter, shade, and sunlight to it through our committed acts of love. Our imaginations both visualized working together daily to trim the damaged branches, to tend to the weak spots, to water the roots, and to do all we could to aid that tree in growing to its sky-high potential.
The metaphor felt like a perfect fit then, and in the time since, it’s only grown (pun intended 🤓) even more apt- especially since welcoming two daughters into our lives, both branches and blossoms beautifying this sapling.
Alongside the beauty of the journey, it’s important to note that parenting hasn’t always been a breeze. We’ve weathered our share of storms from sleepless nights to interminable illnesses to the vortex of endless questions about how best to guide, coach, and support without coddling, spoiling, or impeding- and yet, the tree stands stronger for all of this.
Roots provide resilience.
And now, my wife has within her the gift of new life, our son. As we prepare to meet him, I return once again to that tree, reckoning with and reveling in this new bloom. The words below are for him and for us, fertilizer and freedom.
When we met your sisters, we met with new dreams.
The tears from our eyes, flowing in streams.
It’s hard to think of a time when they weren’t here,
And still, despite knowing the beauty of the gift,
I’m tempted at times to give into fear-
To wonder and worry at this frightening fruitful frontier.
Can I truly be trusted to tend to something so dear?
Will I even know which way to steer?
I’m still learning who I am and who I can be…
So how can I start to pioneer possibly?
How can I, a blind man, teach someone to see?
But then those bright eyes and even those cries
Remind me to tell those fears fast to flee.
When I look at our children, and gaze at their faces
Then I see the wonder, the magic, the glorious traces,
And I’m reminded of love and all of its graces,
All of this splendor reminds me to breathe.
And now, I remember.
There’s new fruit on the vine
A new star to shine
In this family constellation of love.
As you come to our home,
And you add to our poem,
We’ll help you to fit like a glove.
And even when it’s tough,
When we’ve all had enough,
We’ll stick together through each push and shove.
We’ll give water and shade and sun each day
Providing what’s right as you grow and you play,
You precious gift from above.
For this tree where you’ll bloom
Will have always have room
For you to become who you are.
We’ll show you the ropes,
All in the hopes
That you’ll find your own way to go far.
We’ll water and weed,
Give you what you need,
Leave the door to our hearts always ajar.
Though the world may be dark,
And the threads may be thin,
We’ll ground in the light that’s within.
We’ll keep our hearts open, and keep these hearts free
For now, my son, it’s you who will be
Another beautiful branch of this bold tree.
So grow, little branch, in your own gentle way.
Let us be the roots who steady each sway.
Through the seasons that change, and the storms that will come
This tree’s where we’ll be, this tree’s where we’re from.

My style score is an 82%.

Dear Unsealers,

“See? I told you he wouldn’t care. Mr. Weatherford’s chill.”

“Chill” may be one of the highest compliments a high school teacher can achieve. And indeed, the label is largely a nod to my patience, my understanding, my compassion, and my empathy. Apologies for tooting my own horn… and more apologies for griping about how this compliment leaves me feeling misunderstood.

It’s just that there’s other connotations with chill- not caring, a lack of passion, that in some way, the word approaches an adjacence to apathy.
I may indeed be placid- like a lake in summer. Not much ruffles my feathers, and even when ruffled, me flying off the handle reaches a Mr. Roger’s level of intensity at most.

Perhaps, in that silly comparison, lies another clue as to why the label feels off, why it makes me feel so misunderstood. Because, Mr. Rogers, while supremely serene in one sense of the word is also so intentionally intense in his commitment to his values- especially kindness. His passion for promoting the highest of hopes for humanity knows no bounds. He cares sooooo much, so doesn’t chill miss the mark? Now, wait. Am I talking about him or me?

I like to think that my supreme chill factor is similarly born out of my internal sense of and commitment to what truly matters. Sure, I don’t sweat the small stuff. When you’ve buried loved ones (and when you’ve buried your own past self), you get a new sense of what truly matters in this life. It’s a painful price to pay, but the treasure unearthed is beyond price. That golden nugget is the reminder of life’s purpose and remembering it is what creates the chill factor.

I may sound like a broken record at this point, if you’ve been following my letters. It’s the same truth I keep preaching over and over.

The purpose of this life is…

LOVE. Plain and simple. This reminder of committedly placing love at the center of all action, this daily practice of striving to be love’s loyal servant, this grounding through prayer and meditation are key ingredients that compose the tranquil tamale that I am. And much like a tamale, I’m full of spice, but I also remind one of home, mama’s meals. I’m simple in my composition, and yet, my disparate parts work together to unlock the best of each other. I’m conviction and calm intertwined in a beautiful dance.

Each one of us is made to be this way- our own signature recipes, slight variations here and there, but ultimately, designed to allow love to flow in and out of us as easily as the air we breathe. So, my dear reader, take a deep breath, take a step back to remember what most matters and allow yourself to become so chill, you might just be labeled a walking popsicle.

“You’re so chill, Mr. Weatherford.”
It’s a phrase I’ve heard countless times.
And it’s meant with love, a term of endearment,
Yet, it covers all manner of crimes.

I am indeed chill,
Cool, collected, and calm,
The term fits the bill,
With the exception of my one petty qualm.

I care to the depths of this heart that I’ve got.
My passion for people for no price can be bought.
With each rhyme that I weave, you’ll see that my heart’s burnin’ hot.
I’m ardent and fervent, always shootin’ my shot.

I’ve been smacked down by life, and these hard knocks they taught
Me to seize every chance to write my own plot.
They showed me my power lies in each little jot,
The words that I script -each tremendous thought-
Deliver so much, I can’t describe what they’ve brought.
They told me what I was seeking before I even knew that I sought.
These words brought me wind when I thought all was fraught.

So yes, I’m calm,
My words can soothe like a balm.
And yes, I drop wisdom without wind,
Like I’m composing a Psalm.
But don’t get it twisted,
That don’t mean I don’t care.
I pull in each breath, like I’m countin’ the air.
Accuse me of complacency? Oh no, don’t you dare!
My whole heart and soul are wrapped up in this affair.

When it comes to life and love, I literally couldn’t care less.
So, now, you know, you don’t have to guess.
Thanks for attending my Ted Talk- I digress,
It’s just that this label’s been causin’ me stress
Had to write up my feelings to get this weight offa my chest.
Now I will return to praying for you, me, and all that we’re blessed.
May we remember to honor love to stay chill amid life’s stress
May affection at the center lead to compassion and calm in every test.

Dear Hip-hop,

How can I attempt to illuminate and help the world see
What it is that you mean to me?
It seems to me to be
An impossibility,
And yet if there’s any art that’s key
To settin’ the truth free,
It’s this rap game, this word wizardry.

So let me speak clearly–

As you tend to do
Let me paint a picture large enough to show ‘em all what’s true–
‘Bout every last facet of wonderful you.
Your good and your bad both deserve attention,
Here’s me tryin’ to hold them together in beautiful tension.

At 13, you made me feel alive- bumpin’ 50 Cent’s beats and bars while hustlin’ morning newspapers to my middle-class suburban neighborhood. Now, don’t get it twisted, you already know that I was never a gangsta. I grew up in a university town with university parents, chillin’ pretty near the top of ole Maslow’s hierarchy.

I didn’t know gang violence, profound poverty, or the proliferation of drugs. So, why did I, a nerdy, goodie-two-shoes kid fall so hard for you? Why did I risk my parent’s wrath, computer viruses, and legal trouble downloading your tracks off LimeWire? Stealing verses from 50 Cent, Eminem, 2Pac, and Luda? (Hopefully the statute of limitations comes in clutch to save me from this confession of my crimes and hopefully those rap masters forgive me for accessing their art in an illicit manner).

I’ve turned that question over for years. The answer is unfinished, but that’s what makes you powerful- you don’t demand neat explanations. What makes our love beautiful is that it doesn’t have to explain itself; it doesn’t need argumentation and logic to prove its worth; it doesn’t have to be classified or codified; it can just be appreciated for how it feels.

And hip-hop, you make me feel. All the feels- not just the positive ones of inspiration, hype, and connection. Also, discomfort, tension and contradiction.

Because yeah, you’re problematic-misogyny, glorification of violence, hatred, and division to name a few sticky spots. My parents would have clutched their pearls if they knew what lyrics you planted in my young mind. And yet, your tempestuous tracks gave me something real- a voice. A pulse. A reason to listen deeper. A reason to write.

So, when I found myself stumped, stuck in my job, feeling like another cog in the machine, I brought you into my classroom. Not just for the sweet beats, but as a blueprint. For fun, for connection, for opening minds a little wider. And in so doing, you changed me. You changed my students. You taught us how words can build bridges, how they can tear down walls, how they can transform just another boring day into something magical.

One student, quiet as a whisper, came alive as I rapped about the Holocaust, offering to make a music video for the track. A young lady who never saw herself in the pages of a book saw herself in your hard-hitting lines. You helped her to write and write and write- who she is, what she’s seen, and what she dreams of. You taught these students—and me—that resilience isn’t just about survival. It’s about remixing what we’re given- flipping the beat, finding the flow, and making something new.

While there is enough to this love story of ours to fill a whole book, I’d better sign off here. And what better way to do so than with more bars from and about the heart of it all?

Hip-hop’s a nifty tool,
Picked it up, thought it was cool,
I was lost, it’s what I found.
Now, my heart’s no longer bound.
Now, I always keep it poppin’,
Not a second saved for stoppin’
When a tasty beat gets droppin’,
I’ll be set to rock, always ready to resume.
I’ll be makin’ lines from now until I reach the tomb.
You gave me rhythm and a name,
Framed my world and changed my game.
It’s a confounding mystery, something that no words can describe.
The way these words wield powers, the way they build a tribe.
Our words are our strength,
And they go to any length,
To keep fuelin’ up our tank,
So words, it’s you I thank,
And all the masters of the game.
Thanks to you, my life has never been the same.
I will continue to use you, spinnin’ hope out of despair,
Thanks for fillin’ my cup and my classroom, breathin’ your magic in the air.

Oh fear,

You’ve been with me for a long time. First things first, let me thank you for the times you’ve saved me- letting my mom know I was hungry, keeping me away from poisonous spiders, dangerous heights, and sketchy situations. You can be a lifesaver… but you and I both know that you can also be a life sucker. In fact, I think it’s high time we had a chat about that.

You’ve held me back many times, even when I know you are often:

False

Evidence

Appearing

Real

And yet, how easily I can believe you to be true. How easily I can surrender my sanity in the face of your mirage. How quickly I can lose my authenticity in the face of your false ferocity. You know how to get under my skin. You know just how to hijack my best intentions.

Despite all this, I’m committed to making you my friend. I will continue to pray and meditate, so that I, like Scooby and the gang, can remove the terrifying mask you wear.

I will fight to see beneath your facade, gaining a glimpse into the lesson you wish to teach.

I will deliberately choose to breathe in life and love, removing the sting of venom in your bite.

I will remind both of us that you are my coach, not my boss.

Do you remember how you drove me to avoid letting people down? That palpable compulsion to say yes to every request anyone asked? I would do anything to please people with you at the wheel. More and more, I’m putting my hands at 10 & 2 on the helm. Time, practice, and my partner in crime led me to see your roots.

At your root was a little boy who feared that love had to be earned. A boy who saw love as a one-dimensional thing equivalent to a boat that never rocked. As a man, I have seen abundant evidence that true love remains in turbulent waters. In fact, genuine love can only bloom in the face of such obstacles. As a man, I know that love’s abundance means I don’t have to earn it. I know I am loved, and that truth has set me free. Free to say no when it’s what I mean. Free to save enough of that love for myself rather than spending every last penny for others. Free to walk my path and disregard sideways glances cast upon me. Free to be.

We also need to talk about how you inspire me to live with purpose and intention. I worry about losing the people I love in a tragic and unexpected fashion. Contemplating the fact that they could disappear is paralyzing. And yet, I want to meet you rather than push you away or let you consume me. I thank you for reminding me to live fully present with my loves while they’re here. I thank you for making me see in the wild works of nature how the cycle of birth and death is a beautiful dance, both elements necessary and magnificent. You remind me that I have indelible marks on my heart and soul made by the ones I love, and in that way, they will live in me as long as I draw breath. In this way, you have become fuel for me to make a more purposeful life.

So, fear, my multifaceted friend, let’s keep this conversation going. I will keep asking you who you really are, so we can make a habit of seeing each other eye to eye.

**My style score is a 72%, and the achiever in me hurts a little in accepting a “C.” But I have good reason for it. The thing bringing me down in that category is my use of repeated words/phrases at the start of sentences. I am a big believer in anaphora, as I see its power to drive home a message and bring my voice through the page. I really enjoyed using this tool though, and I see how I can create my own style rubric. I will have to continue to play around with it. Thanks for the opportunity to use this resource and to share my writing once again!**

Start of the new year, time to set some new goals,

What do I want? Most of all to be whole:

Being wholly holy, tending to my soul.

Choosing to engage instead of to scroll,

Stepping more wholeheartedly into this role,

As a beam of bright stardust, wonderfully made,

As a light in the darkness, dispersing the shade,

As a brilliant blade of grass, yet part of the glade,

Rising and dying, and never afraid,

Finding my center while the wheels spin around,

Saving space for silence amidst all of the sound.

Speaking to my maker with each morning sun,

Giving praise likewise when each day is done.

Knowing I’ve come far yet only begun,

Knowing I’ve fallen, and also, I’ve won.

Remembering my weakness is what makes me strong,

Minding my missteps while moving along,

Being a being so wondrous and bold,

Willing my blood to turn my heart into gold,

Remembering the hurts that I bear and I give,

Believing that love and forgiveness always outlive

The sorrow, the shame, the fear blocking joy

Those demons and dangers who drive to destroy

Our peace, our connection, the sameness we share,

Our communities, closeness, and hearts full of care.

This is the call, that’s the bar, and it’s set high,

But I can do it, yes, I believe I can fly.

So long as I’m strong, and remember my why,

So long as I give this livin’ a try,

I can get past all falls and visit the sky,

Get there real high, where all wonders I’ll spy,

Posted above, view like the bird’s eye.

That’s the place
where I’ll see all of space,
And I’ll remind myself…

To bring healing to my wounds, and tend other’s hearts,

To strive continually to play my small part,

To speak, to write, to sharpen my arts,

To create, to play, take it back to the start,

To remember the wonder, of life as it dawns,

To make my young self into my icon.

To soak it all in, each moment I get,

To remember where I come from, never forget,

To fully and freely release my regret,

To put all my money on myself for a bet,

Not to gain profit, but to be sure to set

My eyes on the horizons, and also to let

Myself know my worth, so I can give it to others,

To sacrifice self for these sisters and brothers.

To recognize the gift that is the druthers.

All in all, I anticipate with hope all this year may bring,

And with this poem, I throw my hat in the ring!