Five year plan label

Healthy musings: in praise of the 5 Year Plan

Several years ago a co-worker introduced me to the concept of “The Five Year Plan”. Her new daughter-in-law vowed not to have children during the first five years of marriage because it was not part of the couple’s Five Year Plan. They wanted to establish their marriage before adding kids to the equation. Hearing that philosophy opened my eyes. I was about to enter my thirties but lived without planning anything more long-term than my impending nuptials. That was the moment I started creating goals for myself. They started small. Now I am moving forward, in the direction every beautiful, strong and powerful Black woman should.

A sorry lie.

October is Domestic Violence Awareness month. Movies like “The Burning Bed” and “What’s Love Got to Do With It?”, an abundance of books and even the O.J.Simpson trial brought this ugly secret out of hiding. Despite these events, domestic violence is still a reality for too many women. As shown in this CNN I-Post from yesterday, some people think the situation is laughable. 40Muse.com contributor Kimberly A. Collins debunks the sorry lie behind domestic violence.

Mardi Gras masks

Wearing the mask, also known as, living with depression.

At one point in my life if you asked people in my circle, “Who is Dori Ray?” you would get a variety of responses: Successful. Excellent mother. Community activist. Dependable daughter. Howard University alumna. Budding entrepreneur. In public I was certainly all of those things. I got dressed each morning, put on one of those personas and left my house tired, broken, depressed and everyone was clueless. I continued this charade for years. However, maintaining the act was exhausting. I started each month with less strength and energy than the one before.

A Muse comes out.

July 17, 1996. That was the night TWA Flight 800 crashed into the Long Island Sound. I did not know any of the 230 passengers aboard the ill-fated jetliner, yet after hearing the reports on television and reading the accounts in the newspapers my tears would not stop. I cried during the bus ride to work. My eyes welled up with tears as I emptied the dehumidifier. I got a lump in my throat when answering the phone at work. It was more than an expression of empathy for the victims and their families. The event seemed to unlock a much deeper sadness within me.