“Just wakin’ up in the morning, gotta thank God. I don’t know, but today seems kinda odd” is the first rhyme to Ice Cube’s hit track, “It Was a Good Day.” What makes a “good day” to Cube isn’t the same as mine, but I greatly resonate with the power the rapper narrates. In choosing the best way to capture and memorialize this odd joy I’d recently experienced, Cube’s lyrics revisited me. It’s a series of mini episodes of good things that have happened to him at some point in his life that he meshed together as one good day. Unlike Cube, I did not need such fusion as my days were perfectly ordered for me, one behind the other, to bless me with me the perfect week.
Sunday, July 2
About four weeks ago, I started my fourth round of IVF. I scheduled my start so that my egg retrieval procedure would land near or on July’s Full Moon. As a naturalist, I soak the energy of each Full Moon, ready to reflect and release, which was twofold this time—letting go of the burdensome impact that IVF slams on my body while releasing egg follicles from it. IVF is too unpredictable in its timing, so I was uncertain if my effort would land well on the calendar.
That was the plan in my hand. But the hand of the Almighty gave me a redemption song.
My retrieval fell on the day before the July’s Full Moon, ushering in all the release I needed to unlock the creativity block trapped in my sacral root.
With hope for ten, eleven egg follicles exited from my ovaries.
It was a perfect Sunday.
Monday, July 3
About fourteen hours after my retrieval, the anesthesia began to subside, and my mental clarity returned. My creative mind started to vibrate, connecting inquiry to idea to imagination. The trouble that teased me all year resurfaced, and I amazingly possessed the mind-space to spar. There had been a new call from me to reimagine my doctoral research with my brand and coaching practice—some fusion that offered more clout and credibility than before. Previously, I couldn’t make the connection. I had tried but failed and grew impatient with myself as the months passed. During the day, I tucked it away, but it was sure to creep from the crevices and keep me up at night. My April and May crashed, leaving me to only look forward to the joy that is my birthday in June.
Not easily swayed by failure and resistance, I remained true to my work—caring for my family, coaching clients, and launching a podcast. Mama Phylicia Rashad’s words stirred in my mind,” The measure of excellence is judged by your commitment to you work.” Maybe not today, but one day, I shall be excellent, so I kept pressing. I didn’t want to launch the closer I came to the release date, but knew I’d never access the insight that was bubbling inside if I retreated to failure and feelings. In business, I’ve learned that “done is better than perfect.”
It wasn’t pretty, but it was done.
In the spiritual realm, “done” is the part that matters. Pretty is for people. The Creator wants my evolution. The Universe wants my growth. My body wants to keep me alive. None of those are pretty. My less-than-perfect podcast hit unusual milestones, shocking both me and my producer.
500 plays in days. Monetization immediately followed. Interview demand piled in. And more.
When you fail to produce “pretty” and people like it anyway, that’s Spirit—not you or them.
That was the plan in my hand, but the hand of the Almighty gave me a redemption song.
With a renewed sense of faith, I imagined my next season. Sketches and scraps came together, but the whole picture was far from view—until the wee hours of Monday, July 3. The right question bounced off the corners of my mind, giving me the spark I needed to navigate my intellectual-creative process until I arrived at the answer. The answers we seek are already inside of us, it’s just a matter of us being patient, open, and consistent enough for our revelations.
Finally, I had the connect to my disconnect, and all my tensions dissipated. My connection not only solved my research-to-coaching practice conundrum, but also gave birth to the next season of my podcast. Two for one. The Most High really gives beauty for ashes.
With hope for one idea, two manifested.
It was a perfect Monday.
Tuesday, July 4
A few weeks ago, I hired a developmental editor for professional literary insight on my book proposal. I wasn’t expecting to hear from her for another week. While my writing is solid, a book proposal isn’t about that. The writing has to make sales and speak to its readers a certain way; plus, you must have a projection of other books that can follow the one you’re proposing with promise. I’ve never written with the intention of selling, so I didn’t know how my writing would hold up in a literary professional’s hands.
A notification alerted me of a new email—it was my editor. Her first two sentences read:
“Firstly, I wanted to say that what you have so far is well-written and full of great wisdom for women. I particularly love what you did with the introduction.”
My heart leapt. Okay, God, I see You. My book has a chance, I thought.
For context, authors mostly choose between traditional publishing and self-publishing. I want the traditional route, but it’s not that easy. You need an editor or an agent—why not both—to sorta kinda tell you that it’ll be worth your time, then groom you and fight for you all the time. Otherwise, it’s Amazon self-publishing. I want my book deal, so I’m undergoing the process to arrive, and I’m well on my way!
I was simply testing the waters.
That was the plan in my hand, but the hand of the Almighty gave me a redemption song.
With hope for “good enough,” I received my favorite two compliments about my writing—strong and wise—with a “fighting chance” manuscript.
It was a perfect Tuesday.
Wednesday, July 5
Five and a half years ago, my father passed. Later, my grandmother, his mother, followed him in 2022. I had asked my aunt for my father’s belongings, as she was the one who cleared his apartment then, but they never came. When my grandmother passed, I wanted some childhood pictures from her up-for-sale house.
As of July 4, 2023—nothing.
Then, an unexpected package arrived on my doorstep. I immediately recognized the handwriting, and my stomach caved. Was this it? Anxious with anticipation, I carefully cut the package open—and there it was—my coveted childhood photos. A sudden shock of joy ripped through my body. I was more than satisfied. And there was more.
I recognized my grandmother’s belongings—jewelry, military tags, a scarf, and more. My aunt had the scarf tightly packed, that I couldn’t tell what it was, but as I broke the seal, a puff of air hit my nose, filled with my grandmother’s scent. I lost it. Boo-hoo’d right in the middle of my kitchen.
Okay, God. Why do You always have to show out until I’m undone with gratitude and joy? Undone, I was.
As I repacked her belongings, I saw that there was more.
My father is one of the most talented men I have ever known. He could create any type of art, from musical to visual to written to graphic, but I fancied his poems the most because I had inherited his creativity. I wanted his poems, especially anything in his handwriting or with his signature. Days after his passing, my aunt told me she threw most of his stuff away and only saved some personal keepsakes for my brother. Of course, I was crushed, believing they were forever gone. But that old man had stashed them at his mama’s house. So, as I uncovered the last extra-wrapped item, all my father’s poems crept out on my kitchen island—some in his handwriting and all with his signature!
Air temporarily left my body, and I felt its absence deep in my being. I didn’t know if I should wait to breath restoration or vomit.
Mostly restored, I called my mama to share that I’d received another ancestral message—the old man had visited from the grave!
Upon noticing my aunt’s handwriting, I was only expecting old photos.
That was the plan in my hand, but the hand of the Almighty gave me a redemption song.
With the hope of possibility, I received all my new gifts.
It was a perfect Wednesday.
Thursday, July 6
About four days ago, I attended a private art show. I also had my first Energy Reading scheduled, so I was expecting a really good day.
As the time to leave neared, I felt less like going.
I know this feeling.
I’m keenly aware of my “avoid this” I-don’t-feel-like-it feeling, and this one. This is the one where you succumb to your temporary comfort in exchange for where you know you should be or said you would be. For me, the greater the blessing for me on the other side, the more I feel like not going outta nowhere as time closes.
I confessed my mood to my husband and declared I was going anyway. We arrived, and the show was impressive! I shook some hands, networked, and maybe even scored a client. The event waned down, and we had mentally prepared to leave, giving each other the “you ready to be out” look well before our actual walkout.
I had prepared myself to leave. Then, a friend of my husband’s walks in and immediately delays our departure for at least a half hour, I’m sure. I find a seat on a beautifully embroidered couch and perused the artbook on display.
Entertaining myself for the past 15 minutes or so, my husband’s friend approaches me, motioning to share a whisper in my ear. He says his mom is on the phone and that he’s been meaning to connect us. He wanted to know if he could pass me his phone to give the introduction.
I accepted.
The arthouse was noisy, so I stepped outside to hear that direct yet kind voice that so many older Black women have. We chatted over the next 15 minutes, and I learned about her academic career as she offered ways to help me as a doctoral student and support my transition postdoc. I left that show with a mentor in the Academy.
My God, my God! We’ve already done Beauty for Ashes for this week. My cup running over was an understatement at this point. I believe we’ve arrived at “more than you can think or ask” right now.
I didn’t even want to leave my house by lunchtime that day.
That was the plan in my hand, but the hand of the Almighty gave me a redemption song.
With faith in my future, I accepted my role as her mentee.
It was a perfect Thursday.
Friday, July 7
About four years ago, I dreamt about the day July 7 would happen. In hindsight, I should have expected this day to be as magical as it was—after all, it was the 7th day of the 7th month.
I rose with strong creative power and spent the day idea-jotting as my hand attempted to keep pace with my running mind—so much content.
I reserved the day to unload with a quick nap, but not to create. First, I knew I’d never gain the quiet I needed on a work-from-home workday in my house. Second, the night belongs to creatives and women, and I am both. So, I waited the day out, patiently waiting on the magic—the quiet night. My husband had an event that I knew would keep him for more hours than usual, and our son was living his best life as a teenager on a Friday night. The house would be calm, clear, and quiet.
Giddy with glee, I grabbed my writing materials, curled up on my bed, and unleashed the brewing brilliance in my mind onto paper.
You’ll learn soon enough what I gave birth to, but I must say that I impressed my damn self. I designed an entire series and wrote the first two episodes. I thought it to be a regular ole’ Friday.
That was the plan in my hand, but the hand of the Almighty gave me a redemption song.
With excitement, I had sight of why my efforts had been delayed and denied all year.
It was a perfect Friday.
Saturday, July 8
I rose with more creative power than the day before. Leaving REM and into the wake-of-day fog, an idea whispered in my mind and pushed me into the day. I rushed to grab my journal and pen.
By 8A, I had a solid piece ready to be workshopped. At that moment, I remembered I had a writing workshop group that morning. Checking the clock to note my time, I had just enough time to polish my piece before workshop began at 10A. We were tasked with writing a piece that connected identity to society. Unintentionally, my piece fit beautifully!
Look.At.God. Again.
By 9:50A, I had something worthy of sharing. At the top class, my writing coach asks who wants to go first. I don’t think I let her finish her sentences before I unmuted to yell, “me!”
I read my piece and received the virtual equivalent of a standing ovation. Most everyone unmuted to give me the most touching feedback. Then, my last writing peer said: I have three suggestions: 1) Publish it. 2) Record it. 3) Perform it—and go to an open mic to do it.
I had a hit, ladies and gentlemen! I had been hot all week, really. *Swoops hair behind ear.*
I dialed my girlfriend to read my piece, and she adored it. From that, we had the conversation that wrote the first episode for my second season. As the stars would have it, our idea came to be at the most perfect time as she was due to visit that next week, and it just made sense to record the show together during her visit.
I assumed it would be a lazy Saturday.
That was the plan in my hand, but the hand of the Almighty gave me a redemption song.
With confidence, I walked into all my genius and all the Most High’s glory on me.
It was a perfect Saturday.
No, it was the perfect week.
We grow as we go®️,
