A while back, I was on a date with a man who thought the idea that we can speak with energies in the other realms to be completely ridiculous.

(In case you’re wondering, the rest of the date went as expected, and he got his ass blocked, but that’s not the point of this story.)

I confess, if I’ve ever thought it was ridiculous, it was only a momentary flutter of doubt. And I’ve had my share — of doubt, that is. I mean, from what I have learned, that’s kind of the point of incarnation: we forget who we are and why we’re here, which seems like a horrible and annoying system if you ask me, but I’m incarnated just like you and also I’m not in charge.

I confess I know nothing about football. To me, it just looks like a bunch of men in funny outfits lining up, running into each other, falling down, and lining up to do it all over again. I wouldn’t know a first down from a badminton birdie and quite frankly, I’m fine with that. Funny how often I end up writing about football, though, what with all the racism that happens around it, and now I have to go and talk about it again.

Longing is a strange beast. Like pain in the body, it often manifests in ways that are mysterious and masked, referring us to something wholly different than what our soul actually wants. It can make us think we are hungry for chocolate when what really crave is something much more nutritious, something mineral and holistic, something genesis and creative.

LONGING CAN MAKE YOU THINK OF A KISS WHEN WHAT YOU WANT IS TO CREATE.

Recently I realized that my soul — which often seems to have a mind of her own — is craving a juicier life. She’s longing to create, to use my hands and get them dirty with the mud, sweat and tears of genesis, of origin, of the creation story. I mean, we all have our own little creation stories, right? We create the narratives that play out in our lives, participate in them like good little actors under the thumb of a horrid little egotistical director who thinks she knows what everyone wants. In reality, though, that ego only knows fear and only craves control, and she’s not always smart about it either.

When I decided to write Good White Racist? I was aware that as a white woman, my presence in anti-racist spaces would be met with some suspicion. With good reason, people of color might distrust my intentions and my ability to do this work well. After all, white people need to learn from the BIPOC community; we need to submit to their leadership in these areas, and white people in anti-racist spaces take up space that should be filled with voices of color. Similarly, white people in these spaces are very good at calling each other out — with good reason — and offer accountability to be sure that my goal is not to center myself and my whiteness. And of course, the good white racists everywhere use the usual justifications: talking about racism only perpetuates it, or that I obviously hate white people, or that I should stop wanting to be Black.

If I were going to tell you a story — to confess something true that I have held in my heart like a secret — I would have to tell you the story about an August night in a hotel bar in Indianapolis, two dear friends, and the angels.