Digno

SEVERAL WEEKS LATER, AFTER RETURNING HOME FROM THE conference, Smythe awoke from a dream. The words, “Made in his image and made in his imagination to be authentically and uniquely ourselves,” played over and over again in her mind. She knew she had either read or heard those words in the recent past.

She lay in her bed and listened to the silence of the night, replaying images of the people in her life who had given her concern; people who had spoken ill of her. In turn, she confessed to herself that she had done the same. She remembered the words, “God spoke over each and every single person. When we devalue someone, we are devaluing what God spoke over. If we devalue their dreams, their creativity, or their unique way of expressing themselves for the higher good of all, we have spit into the face of God. You are celebrated in the eyes of God.”

It was Maya Angelou who spoke it, I think. Celebrated in the eyes of God. I am celebrated, as is everyone else. But how am I the expression of the character of God—the thought of God? I. Celebrated in the eyes of God?

Smythe rose from her bed and dressed quickly and silently, hoping not to disturb Artie. She grabbed her jacket, turned off her bedroom light, opened her door and tiptoed out into the hallway, making her way to the dining room. She stood at the foot of Artie’s air mattress and wondered if she should wake her up. It was then she remembered her promise not to drive.

She tiptoed into the kitchen and turned on a low-beam oven light. Artie sat up and asked her instinctively, “Where are you wanting to go, Smythe?”

“To talk with the baker.”

“Ok, give me a second.”

Artie reached her arms to the ceiling and stretched. She rose from her makeshift bed and grabbed a pair of dark blue khakis and a matching sweatshirt. Quickly dressing, she called her teams before escorting Smythe into the waiting vehicle of Team 1.

The baker unlocked his door and ushered them in with his usual greeting.

“Welcome, please come in. Choose wisely.”

He was in the process of completing his final preparations before opening his shop, placing the last of his pastries into their display cases and removing his chairs from the top of the tables, setting them into place.

Artie checked the restrooms and took a peek into the baker’s kitchen. Once she was satisfied the shop was empty, she asked Smythe to call her when she was ready to leave. Before locking the door behind her, the baker offered her a cup of coffee to go, which she gladly accepted. As Artie turned to leave, he called after her, “I will take good care of her.”

“She is not hungry right now,” Smythe replied.

The baker nodded and smiled. “I enjoy her presence when she is here, my friend.”

Smythe did not reply, feeling grateful for Artie’s absence. She had begun to enjoy Artie’s company, yet there were some conversations with the baker she did not feel Artie needed to be privy to. This, she felt, was one of them. The baker brought Smythe a cup of coffee before returning to the back of his display cases, fiddling with the placement of each pastry.

“I keep dealing with feelings of unworthiness,” Smythe said to the baker, a bit annoyed with herself. It had barely been a month since the conference. Her mentor had spoken about unworthiness, stating unworthiness was a limiting belief and a form of self-sabotage, yet here the feelings were, in all of their glory. She thought about all she wanted to be, do, and have, and noticed thoughts of inadequacy pop into mind, causing her to question herself.

Why hadn’t the information taken hold? What am I missing?

The baker removed his disposable gloves and threw them into a nearby trashcan. Walking over to Smythe’s table, he asked, “What is this unworthiness that you speak of? Americans have such an unusual way of speaking. What do you mean?”

“Um, not feeling deserving of something. Not good enough. Does that make sense?” Smythe asked, knowing that she really didn’t understand the word herself—only the feeling.

“That is ridiculous!” the baker exclaimed. “We are all… how you say… what is the opposite word called unworthiness?”

“Worthy.”

“Worthy! Yes, worthy. My language it is digno. From the word worth, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, it is just the opposite of what you said. That word unworthy should be erased from you. Everybody has merecimento and is digno; everybody has worth and is worthy.”

“I mean,” Smythe began, feeling a bit unsure of herself, “people say, ‘Well, you failed at this, you did this, you did that, you don’t deserve what you hope for. Who do you think you are?’ Or worse yet, you get the look of, ‘Nah, you’re nothing important.’”

“Do people say that to you?”

“I’m sure they have. Often, even if someone hasn’t actually said it directly to me, I can feel what is unspoken. Unfortunately, I am a bit sensitive to the energy of others.”

“Who cares what they think. You are already be-ing. Be-ing to the higher good of all. Your things from your past have no place in your present. Do you believe things from your past make you unworthy?”

“Yes, at times,” Smythe admitted.

The baker began a lengthy explanation of the word worthy, and Smythe pondered the word as he spoke. When she thought of the term worth, it was usually when she was determining whether a thing is worth the money that she was being asked to pay. For example, diamonds have worth, a car, a pair of pants; there is an inherent worth based on the quality of the thing, the material used in its production, and the time to create it.

The idea of worth as it relates to a human does seem a bit shocking. Makes sense why Joao is so animated. How is it that we place value on a person? And even more so, how is it that we place such low value on ourselves by the mere inference of a word’s usage? Perhaps we might place value on the services that an individual might offer us. There is a value equivalent to someone’s services or something under consideration, but to say that a person—their inherent personhood as a thing—unworthy seems far-fetched.

Smythe, preoccupied by her own thoughts, became acutely aware that the baker had stopped speaking and was staring at her.

“Sorry. I was pondering what you were saying. It does seem a bit ludicrous now that you mention it.”

“You—and everyone coming awake—cannot move into your highest calling in that way of thinking; this unworthiness,” he said with disdain. “You must change your perspective.”

“I know how I might do that, but how do you change your perspective?”

“Many, many ways. Meditate, say prayers, listen to the wind. It changes my mind for the better when I think of a problem I cannot solve and feel badly about it. When people say things of me that are not true, I remember the Universe has a different understanding of my being. I do not listen to what others say. Instead, I listen to who the Universe says I am, and I live into that. Sometimes it just makes me come back to what is here and now. And then I know my problem, whatever it is, will have an answer soon.”

Smythe remained silent for a moment. So many thoughts surfaced. She thought of her audacious dreams, and how she had so often said to herself, “Who do you think you are!” The only thing she could hear was the nagging past list of failure and mediocre effort she had put into most of her work. She wondered if now the feelings of unworthiness resulted in that mediocre effort, creating a kind of self-fulling prophecy.

“You take this course on your calling, no?”

“Yes. I am taking a year-long course, but it’s not really about a calling, although it has useful information. In many ways, it’s about becoming awake. The idea is to have people live more abundantly into every area of their lives.”

“Yes, yes, and what does it say about this thing you call unworthy? Such a coo-coo word, unworthy. Only worthy exists,” the baker chuckled.

“It says that we are all worthy, but that we don’t know we are worthy.”.

“Coo-coo this conversation. We are worthy. You, me; everybody worthy. We do bad things, we must pay for that. There is always a karmic debt. Yet, we are worthy. Of love, of friendship, of our calling. We are worthy. You must remember who you are, Smythe,” the baker implored.

“Then why this nagging persistence?”

“Why do you nag yourself?”

“Well, that’s not what—”

“It is you who give this word dominion over you. The cross you bear is empty, precious one, but its power remains, and it is now alive in you. It is, how you say, a journey of forever which has set upon you. It is a power that you did not ask for but was given because you are you—all of you. Yet you are afraid, no?” the baker asked, somewhat accusingly.

“What do you mean, Joao?”

“What were the whispers of your childhood?” he whispered loudly.

Amidst the whirling of an overhead fan to waft the aroma of pastries, a quiet thought began to emerge within Smythe. She attempted to push it away, believing it was a young child’s blasphemous notion.

The baker sensed she would not answer, but determined, he continued.

“A long time ago, a young carpenter boy believed he was the son of God. He walked amongst his people, doing many miraculous things: healing the sick, raising the dead. Miraculous things, no?”

The baker sighed. “But he was put to death. Why?”

“Because he claimed to be the son of God, as you said.”

“No. That is incorrect. He was put to death because his own people feared him. Because he said if he could do such miracles, so could they. He showed them the way, the way of love. Yet they feared their own power—this power manifested in human form, in ordinary form.”

The baker asked again, “What were the whispers of your childhood?”

“You’re going to think I am crazy coo-coo.”

The baker remained perfectly still, waiting for her to respond. Time seemed to stand still, and she felt pinned against a wall, seemingly unable to utter her memory out loud.

“Joao, I—”

“If you do not speak it, you will deny that which has captured your heart.”

For a brief moment, Smythe closed her eyes.

“I remember thinking that I was Jesus, or kind of like him incarnate. That I had this specific power, only I didn’t know what it was. But I sensed I had the same power as Jesus. I shoved it deep down inside, never to think of it again. But at times, it surfaces.” Tears began to fill her eyes.

“What does it surface with you, my daughter?”

“What?”

“What did you then long for?”

“I dunno. By the time I remembered it, I was working. Climbing the corporate ladder.”

“What brings you great joy, my daughter—that which is effortless?” the baker pressed.

“Writing. I can get lost in writing. I could write all day. Mostly I write lesson scripts for courses that I teach. And even at that, I can get lost all day writing out a script and planning the course. I can visualize it in my head, so I capture it on paper.”

“What is the feeling that drives you to write?”

“Compassion. There are so many people in pain.”

In a sudden moment of clarity, the baker understood. He stood up from the booth and walked to the back of his kitchen. When he returned to Smythe, he held a small seed in his hand.

“We all have a seed of God/Universe/Source/All—you choose the name—within each of us. I choose God, Universe, or All—they are the same to me,” he began.

“That seed of God has the power of God and it lives within us, and that, my daughter, makes us worthy. You have been given a gift, placed in you at birth to do miraculous things for others. You denied it for so many long and arduous years, and you suffered. Yet, the gift in you remains. And no one is ever too young or too old to expand their gift. You must know that this path is your path. As with all paths, it will challenge you, including your own worthiness.

“It is not an uncommon thing to doubt your worth. But you must discount the opposite meaning, and simply replace it with worth. For you are of more worth than the heavens above. The thing you thought as a young child was our Universe letting you know who you are in a way that was hoped you would understand. You simply became afraid of the power you knew was in you.”

Tears rolled down Smythe’s face. It was a far cry from his “hooray that her life was in danger” reaction several months ago. She mulled over that day—the day when she told him that she was afraid, and she uncovered she was learning and leaning into courage. She thought of their bracing conversation where he said she would never be enough until she knew she was enough. And now this. To confide in him her young “blasphemous thoughts” in the light of what he just uttered made perfect, clarifying sense.

She wondered if her Beloved was attempting, back then, in those initial conversations, to awaken her. That, much like Jesus, she was a seed of her Beloved. She wondered if perhaps the seed in her had grown restless as she walked in her own rebellious energy. She wondered if the seed—still wishing to express itself through her—had created opportunities to express the gift within her. The gift of writing, in any form which would offer connection.

She smiled and thought of Artie, who, on several occasions, would bring her water because so much time had passed as she sat fixated before her computer screen. In addition to all of her other business tasks, she would write for up to seven hours a day, nuancing her current novel, developing articles, or crafting lesson plans for future teaching or speaking engagements.

The baker broke into her thoughts and asked, “Can you look up on your phone the meaning of worthy?”

She pulled her phone out of her messenger bag, found her Google app, and typed in “meaning of the word worthy.” As she did so, he took one of her notebooks sitting on the table and picked up her pencil.

“From the dictionary online,” she began. “Worthy as an adjective: ‘having qualities that merit some form of recognition.’ Here’s another meaning: ‘deserving effort, attention or respect.’”

He wrote down the definitions she offered and then wrote again. When he finished, he placed the notebook into her messenger bag.

The baker looked down at their shared table.

“The seed of God which lives in everyone, whether they know it or not, merits recognition. For in a specified way, we express the creative expression of our All. You, my daughter, express the creative expression of our All, the very essence of God. And not just in what you do, but in who you are. All of the parts of you.”

The baker rose from his table and glanced at the clock on the far wall. It was well past 5:00 a.m., and it was time to open his shop for business. He walked gingerly to the door, unlocked it, and placed an open sign in the window before stepping behind the counter, awaiting guests to begin their arrival.

Artie was the first to walk in. She placed her order with the baker and eyed Smythe, who sat at her usual table in the back of the shop. Deep in thought, Smythe did not notice Artie’s attempt at gaining her attention. To Artie, Smythe appeared mesmerized, as if in an awakened meditation.

Smythe sat pondering the term unworthiness, and, as if a bubble surfaced from the depths of muddy water, the word privilege emerged. Unworthiness. Privilege.

What the hell?! No, don’t brush it aside. Welcome them in. They are there for a reason. Stay with it.

She allowed herself to relax, and almost immediately, a beautiful memory surfaced—one she held in the innermost sacred spaces of her heart. It was a memory of her visit out of the country with her partner several years ago.

She remembered she had been struck by the appreciativeness of the hotelier, a friendly fellow who smiled warmly at their initial arrival. He had welcomed them in with a joyful greeting, almost as though they were treasured family members whose arrival he had been anticipating. After they were settled into their room, Smythe and her partner returned to ask him where they could go for a drink and a bite to eat. He recommended his favorite tavern and offered them directions, stating it was only a two- or three-minute walk away. Smythe remembered feeling the genuineness of this man and had made a mental note to engage him in a much deeper conversation before she left the country.

The couple followed the hotelier’s instructions, strolling down a snowy, quaint side street. They were teasing each other along the way when, abruptly, Smythe stopped. It had occurred to her that very few brown-skinned individuals were present, but she also noticed she did not seem to hold a sense of fear. She compared it to the ever-present sense of danger she felt in the States.

It’s lacking here.

Nearing the entrance of the pub, she reflexively did the thing she normally did to deflect unwelcome behavior she had come to experience—she tensed her body. So accustomed to having stares and glares darted her way at her mere entrance into a bar or restaurant, she often lowered her head, momentarily steeling herself, as if to remind herself that she had the right to enter.

As she opened the door and walked in, what few people did look up glanced at her and offered her a gracious, welcoming smile. In addition, they nodded in her direction before returning to whatever held their interest before her arrival. She approached the crowded bar and was surprised by the immediate, friendly greeting by the barkeeper and was able to place her order right away.

How is this possible?

At dinner that evening, she and her partner discussed their collective interactions with the locals at length. Her partner, who was of Irish descent, had intimately witnessed the ongoing racism that Smythe lived under every day in the States. On more than one occasion, her partner had become enraged at the insidiousness of racially biased behavior extended toward Smythe—behavior Smythe had no longer noticed, or at least appeared to un-notice. Her partner had secretly cried out in anguish, recognizing how habituated Smythe had become to the behavior to those around her and questioned the implications of that shield in their relationship.

Throughout the week, the couple felt a sense of relief and belonging and relished the freedom where race appeared to play no role in their experience. During one particular encounter, an elderly couple invited them to tour the inlets in and around the coastal waters. Smythe and her partner were thrilled to accept the offer and were treated to a small, private yacht tour. When Smythe broached the subject of racism with her host, his response was one she found of interest.

“We did not have slavery of your people in this country. We did have our own stain of slavery, yes, but it was not of your people.”

“I’m of mixed heritage. African American and Navajo.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he politely said. He looked directly into Smythe’s eyes. “We don’t see color the way your country sees it. All are welcomed. Besides, we’re a very friendly country.”

“Indeed, you are. It just feels so freeing to be here. I really appreciate the tour, but more importantly, this conversation. I forget that not every nation in the world has the same stain toward people of color.

“Well, that is not entirely true. There are countries which are not welcoming of people of color. But, in my country, it seems to be less the case. I remember, as an adult, watching the treatment of African Americans in the States. The water hoses, the dogs…” her guide broke off his speech, his tears caught in his throat.

“Ahem,” he said, clearing his throat. “I remember the brutality,” he choked out. He remained quiet for the rest of the tour, save the occasional explanation of a land or sea mark.

If it weren’t so damn cold here, I might just see about immigrating.

While his explanation seemed too good to be true, she simply held the curiosity in her heart and chose to enjoy the moments of freedom along her inlet tour. Even though she got a little seasick as the boat slowly skipped along the water, she reveled in the liberty as her host continued to point out landmarks along the way.

Allowing another thought to form, Smythe slowly looked up from her table at the baker’s shop and then down at her hands, which lightly touched her coffee cup. It occurred to her that she participated in the constructs of unworthiness and privilege as both a victim as well as one who perpetuated oppression. Her exploration was not an indictment, but she believed it held a key.

She thought of all the ways she had been privileged: a two-parent family, raised in middle-to upper-middle-class neighborhoods, college education which opened doors to better jobs than those without college degrees, and no psychological or physical limitations. She examined at length how she had benefited from her privilege and how that privilege had sustained to the oppression of others—of other marginalized people. She also reviewed the ways she had been oppressed.

She thought about the intersectionality of her mixed-race heritage, her sexual orientation, and her gender.

Yet celebrated in the eyes of God.

She smiled at the wonder of all that she was.

The gentle spirit of her Beloved settled in and around her and turned her focus toward all of the ways she had felt unworthy. The haunting lyrics of the song “Ballad of Birmingham” came to mind, and she struggled to hold in her tears, recalling the ache of the story told from a mother’s perspective.

She remembered her own youth and the years living in an upper-middle-class neighborhood of Chicago. She ached at the remembrance—the constant harassment by police officers she endured for simply walking from school to the local library to study. Their disbelief that a child of color could possibly live in such an affluent location and therefore had to be up to no good was sobering. The messages they sent were clear. She was not good enough and unworthy to be, do, and have what she wanted out of her life—no matter how hard she would try.

Her Beloved whispered to her. “Your birthright. You are my unique creation.”

Smythe shook her head.

The programming from my birth, not only by my parents, but by my own country. So much need to maintain power. Such fear, yet all people unknowingly are celebrated in the eyes of God. What do you choose? The lies, or your truth?

She shook her head again. In light of her conversation with the baker, as though noticing for the first time the muck that still clung to her mirror, she suddenly had the urge to return home and take a shower.

She glanced up to find Artie standing a couple of feet from her. Smythe smiled warmly, and her heart sang as Artie approached her table.

“Hey there, I didn’t see you come in.”

“Yeah, that’s me—stealth. You complete what you needed to do?”

Smythe gazed at Artie for a moment.

“Yeah, I did. Been thinking a lot about privilege, worthiness, intersectionality, and Spirit.”

“Is there anything that you don’t think about?”

“There probably is,” Smythe said with a smile.

“Want to talk more about them?”

“Yes, but no. I need to sit with it for a bit.”

“Ok then. If you’re ready to leave—”

“Let’s go.”