Yesterday I led a gentle 45 minute class at a healing event for all ages. I never go into any class with a predetermined sequence, I like to be mindful of the different abilities of participants. Once I saw that there were two women using canes, I knew I had to keep it accessible. Some people used mats and some sat on chairs, but the overall goal was to provide a space for healing, which I feel like I did.

After the session ended, one person inquired about 1:1 classes and one of the seniors with a cane expressed interest in exploring chair yoga as a consistent practice. I don’t necessarily doubt my ability to create a healing environment, but I genuinely can’t tell if people love or hate my classes until they smile and clap at the end. The reminder that I am being supported not only by God, but by my ancestors, helps to alleviate any doubts when they arise.

Lately, I’ve exploring cartomancy, a deck of playing cards, to commune with my ancestors. Cartomancy is traditionally used in hoodoo and as someone who reads tarot, let me tell yall - the ancestors, at least mine, love a deck playing cards. This isn’t my first time trying this form of divination, but this is the first time I felt called and connected to it.

The strong urge to cartomancy stems from my late paternal grandfather Elbert “Neverfalls” Stinson.

Neverfalls nickname originates from the fact that he never lost a card game, like ever. Neverfalls was a gambling man who ran an underground casino in our hometown. It was often referred to as a “Pool Hall”, but the pool tables were a front for a much larger operation.

I don’t remember my pap, he died when I was three. Most of my memories of him stem from watching VHS home videos from the late 80’s when video cameras became more accessible. A favorite of mine is marked “Down Daddys House Christmas 1989”. Filmed by my dad on December 27, 1989, the day after I was born. The video includes my whole paternal side of the family at my paps two bedroom apartment in the housing projects.

Grandchildren are running around, laughter accompanying them. While their parents voices battle with the Christmas music blaring in the background, declaring directly into the camera how much they love their Daddy. At one point, the whole family does a medley of holiday songs. We almost look like the perfect loving family. Through all of that chaos, my pap sits in a chair, quietly petting his Black cat Satin as she sits on his lap. The loudest one in the video is my now 85 year old Aunt and Paps eldest daughter.

One of my favorite pastimes is visiting my 85 year old Aunt because she tells the best stories, thats the pleasure of coming from a family of storytellers, or better yet, truth tellers. My aunt is a shameless truth teller. Through her, I learned that my Pap always kept a deck of playing cards and it wasn’t a regular deck, it was a marked deck. My Pap would buy a deck of cards, mark the cards, then reseal the pack. I don’t know if I was more upset to find out that Neverfalls never failed because he cheated, or impressed that Neverfalls was so cunning because he got away with it. I don’t look at him any differently and I won’t justify his cheating, but I get it. Neverfalls and Annie Mae had to raise 11 kids in a two bedroom apartment in the projects - he did what most men with no formal education did at the time, whatever he had to do to feed his family.

Neverfalls had charisma and the ability to build community, although through illegal means, his pool hall drew in consistent crowds. With local police officers on the payroll and Jewish lawyers (my Aunts words not mine) on retainer, my paps pool hall lasted for decades. My oldest sister is turning 55 this year. She’ll often tell stories about how our dad (long before he was Bishop Stinson) would take her to Paps pool hall, sit her in a chair, and she would watch our dad play pool. That lowkey sounds like bad parenting, but at the time, that’s what people did. My sister wasn’t the only kid there, my cousins were also there because it was a place where our family gathered.

That ability to create community, without assigning whether they are good or bad places, eventually passed down to my dad. My dad was a Pastor, and if you have church hurt, you might be drawing a conclusion in your head, “Gambling Pap, Pastor Dad, whole family full of swindlers,” but that can’t be further from the truth. My dad had his faults, and a lot of them, but there’s no denying that my dad had the gift of laying hands. You don’t have to believe it or believe IN it, but that doesn’t take away his gifts. If I’m being completely honest, my dads gifts were accepted because he was a preacher. He would mix oils, lay hands on people, and fight literal demons, but if he practiced those gifts outside of religion, he’d be considered a Warlock.

Most Pastors have a bad rep, which is well deserved and I’m not going dive into the harm that the Black church has done to the community, but about my dad - my dad Pastored two ministries in his lifetime while working full time at an Atomic Power Plant. Most Sundays, when “Pastors Offering” was taken, it was just enough to cover gas to travel back and forth to church, which was an hour drive both ways. My dad didn’t Pastor for profit because there was none. The payoff was internal.

He Pastored his first church for 19 years until God called him to start a ministry in his hometown. In his words, his reasoning for starting a new ministry was, “God needed a place for my family to go.” A place where his children, grandchildren, siblings, cousins, nieces/nephews etc could commune with God. In 2009, my dad founded New Beginnings Ministries, which was a non-denominational church located in our hometown of McKeesport, that same city where his dad owned a Pool Hall. Unlike my Paps pool hall, New Beginnings was a church for the people. They held book bag drives, donated school supplies to the local kids, fed and provided free housing in the rectory to those in need, and most money to sustain the church came from tithes, bake sales, rib fests, etc. It was a community sustained church and my dad never saw a dollar in return because that’s how it should be!

The same city where my Pap ran a pool hall, the same city where my dad found his ministry, is the same city that I write this essay from today.

I pulled cards a couple of times this week, and every time I sat in my sacred space, the overall theme has been inheritance. I was thinking surface level and thought inheritance meant someone dying and leaving assets. That thought sent me into a small mental frenzy because WHO IS DYING?!? It wasn’t until I left the healing event yesterday, where I led a yoga practice, that I realized the inheritance isn’t physical, it’s spiritual.

The ability to build community is in my bloodline. The same charisma and cunningness is there too, I know who I come from, but I decided a long time ago that I wanted to use my powers for good. I already received my inheritance, now its time to live off of it.

-Meesh

Ima still write about work though.

Society keeps telling me my worth should be tied to my income, and I’m not here to convince you otherwise, but at my brokest is where I feel the most seen. That’s present tense because ya girl ain’t got no job.

I’m a month into being unemployed, and like for real for real unemployed. It’s been four years since I’ve worked a traditional 9-5, but Misha always keeps a job. In fact, this is the longest I’ve been unemployed in eight years.

When I resigned from my full time job in 2022, I didn’t have a plan, I just knew I wanted to spend more time with my mom, spend more time outdoors, and grow in my mindfulness practice, and I did just that. I moved back in with my mom, I remembered my ancestral skill of gardening, and earned a 200-hr yoga teacher certification. I did everything I said I was going to do, and I worked while doing it.

This isn’t an essay about me complaining about working. I love to work, and having 5 planets in Capricorn across my 11th and 12th house makes work a big deal. I can’t just work a job, I have to be emerged into a community. I want to be a part of something that is fulfilling to my pockets and my wellbeing.

Subscribe now

“Your coworkers aren’t your friends” exactly, I don’t want co workers. I want collaborators, community, and shared visions. I want to be in spaces where I can co create worlds with like minds. A place where I can share my softness without it being used against me. A community where everyone knows why they’re in the room and the gifts they contribute.

There’s no competition because we celebrate one another, nurture each other, and know that when our neighbor is being blessed, God is in the vicinity.

I’m getting closer to this reality for myself. I can feel it. The past four months have been sprinkled with vivid dreams, spiritual omens, and channeled messages from my gifted friends. I have the confirmations, and this month of unemployment has given me an invitation to rest. Truthfully, I was instructed to rest, and I’m listening with a little bit of resistance.

Around May I was tired, exhausted even. This was after I left my flower gardening job in April, and just wrapped up teaching indoor cycling four days a week for 13 weeks. I remember waking up and asking my mom if she’s ever woken up and felt like her soul needed to integrate back into her body. She looked at me like I was insane, but the following week I had my regular visit with the oncologist. I see him every 4-5 months for the blood clots. Every visit they take up to eight vials of blood to run tests. During my May visit my exhaustion was confirmed:

Dr K: Whoa how are you sitting there right now? How do you feel? You’re not exhausted? I’m surprised you could get out of bed this morning. Your iron is extremely low young lady, we’ve got to get that up, you feel okay?

Me: (forgetting that my soul literally leaves my body every night and I’m a walking corpse) I feel okay.

Dr K: Wow, okay, let’s get that iron up. I’m going to order iron infusions.

Subscribe now

Your girl was tired, and my exhaustion was validated. I was already feeling the nudge to let my fitness instructor contract end. I taught my last indoor cycling class on June 24 and I’m nearing two months post infusions. Now, I wake up rested, ready to hit the gym by 6 am (on most days). I cook breakfast and dinner. I’ve shown up for my community through babysitting, dog sitting, celebrating birthdays etc. Emotionally, I’m at my most regulated. Spiritually, I’m fulfilled and financially…..I’m at my brokest, yet I feel the most seen.

I’m surrounded by love, eating yummy food, dancing, and unintentionally aligning with the type of love I have always desired. My energy is priceless because the sum of my worth can’t be quantified. With or without a job, I’m that girl.

-Meesh

Share

Leave a comment

All of this is being done by my four year old nephew at any simple request.

“Wash your hands.”

“I hate you shut up.”

“Pick up that toy.”

“You’re stupid, I hate you, I don’t have to listen to you.”

I’m stumped trying to figure out where my nephew, learned this language and what’s being done about it at home? Is this how my brother and his wife talk to each other, because we sure don’t talk like this in grandmas house.

I’m child free by choice and live in my childhood home with my mom. I’ve been here going on four years, and it always feels permanent until we have company. It’s her house, so I can’t control who comes and goes and we don’t have random company often, but she leaves me in the unknown when my niece and nephew (8 and 4) come over. I’m usually in the house and I hear feet run across the floor downstairs, or I’m sitting outside with a packed bowl listening to jazz, and I see a jeep pull up, my niece and nephew jump out, then proceed to run in and out the front door upwards to 20 times, always holding it open so every fly in the city can go inside. Next thing you know, I’m babysitting.

My mom is 79 years old and I feel weird saying I’m her caregiver because she showers and wipes her own ass. I make sure she’s fed, in clean clothes, her hairs been looking wild lately, but I wash it in the kitchen sink for her. Sometimes I splash a little extra water in her face as payback from when I was a kid. I do a lot for her, but one thing I can’t do for her, is be a nanny to her grandkids for their visits.

Like I mentioned, she’s 79 her mobility is limited, she has good days and bad days. When my four year old nephew is here, she can’t chase after him. I’ll try to retreat away to my office upstairs, then she’ll call me and text me for help, and why wouldn’t I help her? That’s my mom. The problem is, my nephew isn’t just a child with energy, he’s a child with behavioral issues that everyone is brushing off to him being a four year old boy.

When I ask what’s the solution? What should I do when he starts to hit and spit on my mom and I because we won’t give him four corn dogs etc? Beat him. I don’t hit kids. I wasn’t beat growing up, and my parents never laid a hand on me. If my mom every tried to spank me, my dad would say, “you don’t touch this one”. I don’t know what spankings feel like from a child pov, but I participated in hazing from 2009-2013, physical violence and I know each other real well.

What I’m saying is, the type of beating I know is designed for bigger bodies. I may not know how to beat him with a belt, but I can tell him to bend over, grab is ankles, look straight ahead while I take a wooden paddle wrapped in black masking tape to his ass. That sounds crazy right? Exactly, beating my nephew to address his behavior is crazy, it doesn’t do anything but make him more angry. Hitting and spitting turns into throwing items around the house.

What’s the fucking solution?

‘Misha, you can’t handle a four year old?”

I shouldn’t have to, I don’t have kids.

“Misha, you’re a part of the village, you’re an Aunt, show him who’s boss!”

I’m not his boss, I’m his Aunt and who the fuck wants to do that? Seriously?

The little nigga needs help and everyone’s solution is to beat his ass. I love my nephew, and when he’s sweet, omg he’s so sweet, and wants to be in your skin. Last week I was being riddled by l love yous, this week, I held him down while he was growling, spitting, and whole body contorting and turning red like the little demon he is.

The truth is, I can’t do it anymore, I don’t want to do it. Misha how do you think the parents feel, they deal with it every day? Keyword parents, I’m not a parent, I don’t want to parent and I’ve made a conscious choice not to. Respect it.

Subscribe now

After his most recent visit, maybe about three hours in he starts spitting on grandma and telling her he hates her. I called his mom, she talked to him, whatever. I came back downstairs to blow up the air mattress for the kids to sleep on, and my mom asks me if I use the tea kettle to boil the water for hot chocolate.

“Who’s getting hot chocolate?” I asked.

“Your nephew keeps asking for hot chocolate, so I’m just going to give it to him.” Said my mom.

“Mom, so after he spit on you, hit you, and didn’t listen to a word we said all day, you’re giving him, hot chocolate?”

“Misha, I don’t want to hear his mouth.”

“That’s the problem, he can behave like this all day, and still get what he wants. There’s no consequences, just reward after reward”

I walked away because at this point. I was annoyed. While I was adding bedding to the air mattress, I asked the kids to move. For a while, my requests was honored . Then here came the boy.

“Brudder, move I’m making up the bed for yall” I requested.

“No, I need to put on my pajamas”

“Brudder, please move because we both can’t fit over here”

“ You wait until I put on my pajamas”

The heat at the base of my spine begins to rise, I have to remind myself that he’s four. His sister hears the commotion and tries to help.

“Come on, let’s put our pajamas on in the other room” she said.

“No. I want to do it here” he demands.

My mom interjects from the kitchen.

“Misha just call his mom”

A threat that never works. Finally he decides to move, but instead of moving the same way he got there, he gets on the love seat which is holding a picture frame with my dads clergy photo in it, and my moms freshly washed clothes on hangers.

“Hey don’t step on that picture!” Yells his sister . That was it for me, I yanked his little ass off that couch onto the floor, and he went mad.

The next 20 minutes were chaotic. He spun around that house like the Tasmanian devil, trying to, fight me? I don’t know what goes on in his head, why he’s so defiant, why he’s so angry. My mom tried to hold him back, he’s scratching and clawing at her arms, his sister tried to hold him back, everyone’s screaming. I’m telling them to let him go, he can’t hurt me, let’s all be serious.

Once his mom gets here, she takes him into the bathroom to calm him down.

“I don’t know what to do with him he doesn’t listen to me, he’s going to get the belt when we go home.” Said his mom. Ahh the solution that hasn’t worked since he started getting his ass beat at two years old. They leave.

The house is completely silent. My mom and I don’t even say anything to each other. I went to bed.

The next day I told my mom she needs to start letting me know when they come over, so I can make arrangements to leave, it’s really too much for me, she has to be able to handle them on her own. Her response surprised me.

“I’m going to go over their house from now on. He can’t come over here anymore.” She said.

Wait, am I hearing that right? Did my mom just enforce a boundary? I was prepared for her to say, “Misha he’s young, he doesn’t know better” but he does know better, and he knows not to do it in front of his dad or at school when he was in Pre-k. The problem is, his dad is somewhere in the got damn Middle East until February 2027 and pre-k is over. He’s ready to raise hell all summer, because he knows his dad can’t do anything about it. Maybe that’s his issue. A four year old boy who misses his daddy (stay at home, Army reserve dad) and cant conceptualize that they went from spending every day together, to him not understanding when he’s coming back.

My input doesn’t matter though. I’m just the child-free Auntie that lives with her mom. What do I know about raising kids? It’s a village when people need help or a free babysitter, but that’s as far as the village can participate. Setting a boundary, expecting changed behavior, and wanting actionable steps to be taken to address my nephews behavior is overstepping my role. Cool.

I love being an Auntie, but what I’m not is a babysitter or physical disciplinarian, and I will not be watching anyones bad ass kids this summer or ever.

-Meesh

PS. Although my nephew is a menace 90% of the time, the other 10% of the time we share is beautiful. We enjoy listening to music and dancing together.

-Aunt Meesh

I got my first cell phone in 2003, at the age of 13. It was a silver Kyocera with the blue screen, T9 texting, and the only game was snake. Unlike you free after 9PM girlies, my minutes were always free because I had Cricket. Terrible service, but a better price. I couldn’t complain, my dad paid the bill, mind you, he had Nextel service.

Nextel, I bet you haven’t heard that in a while if you’re a millennial or older.

We’ve watched cell phone carriers, come, go, merge, and monopolize and I’m genuinely tired of participating. I don’t want the newest iPhone, I don’t want to pay for more storage, I don’t want to view your menu on the app while I’m sitting down AT the restaurant, give me a got damn menu!

My niece came up to me with a cassette tape the other day, for those of you who are new here, I live in my childhood home with my mom. A house that’s been in our family for over 40 years, and has accumulated a lot of, “stuff”.

“Aunt Misha,” my seven year old niece called for my attention as she walked into the room holding a cassette tape, her four year old brother trailed behind her.

“Aunt Misha, can we see what’s on here?” she asked as she handed me the cassette tape.

“Yes, but not right now, I have to find a cassette player.” I sat the tape on the table.

“A cassette player?! What’s a cassette player?” she asked with her eyebrows scrunched at me.

“This tape you handed me,” pointing to the tape, “it’s a cassette tape, and you listen to cassette tapes, in cassette players.” I explained.

“Listen? So you mean we can’t watch it?” her interest was slowly fading.

“No,” shaking my head, “it’s not a video, it’s just sound.”

“Oh.” she ran off.

Subscribe now

I never saw myself explaining to a child what a cassette tape is. The fact that it never crossed my mind, or that I never noticed media evolved so far from physical tapes to digital forms of everything. All of which can be accessed on our cell phones. The truth is, I’m tired of this phone.

I would never want to discredit the advancement that cellular devices have done for communication, especially when it comes to accessibility, but everything we do revolves around these phones and I’m over it. Let me preface by saying, I do live with a 79 year old woman, and a lot of her disdain for modern technology rubs off on me, but our seniors are a vulnerable community when it comes to internet usage. This is absolutely not to fear monger, but we’ve entered our information on countless apps, uploaded our likeness to platform upon platform, when does it end?

It doesn’t end, its evolves, but one makes the conscious choice to leave.

My divestment from social media started in 2022 with my Facebook account. I found a third party app that allowed me to delete everyone on my friends list, so I deleted everyone except my mom and my German brother.

“Misha, why would you delete all of your Facebook friends?”

I got tired of everyone’s opinions. Did I really need to know where my 6th grade classmate that I haven’t seen since high school graduation stands on abortion? Do I need to know where my coworker from my first job at 17 works now? Do I even need to know my cousins are fighting through Facebook statuses? Yes, I need to know that, but my sister or best friend will tell me. I really don’t need Facebook to stay connected with my community.

I eventually went on to deactivate my Facebook in 2023, but I later found out it wasn’t deactivated, but the page did sit dormant for three years. Once I learned it was still up, I deactivated it. Next was Instagram.

Instagram’s changed a lot since the app I first installed in 2012. I won’t get into the details of my instagram journey, I’ve deleted pages and deactivated throughout the years. Most recently, my page has been deactivated for about seven months. Then there’s TikTok.

I always say, if I would’ve swallowed my pride and started posting Tiktoks in 2020, ya girl would be a millionaire now. I’m talking Keith Lee, Tabitha Brown numbers. It’s cool though, God got something bigger for me in the pipeline. But, back to TikTok, I recently deactivated the app after they forced AI Remix on all of us. Although I learned that they pulled the AI remix tool and will no longer be using it, I don’t think I’m going back to the app. It’s been a week off of the app, and I’m realizing what I always knew all along.

It’s not me, it’s these damn phones.

Leave a comment

Once upon a time, there was separation between social media platforms and our phones. Our Compaq Presario sat in the corner of our dining room, right off of the kitchen. To avoid the phone line being busy while someone was on the internet, my dad opened up a second phone line. Therefore, we could use the internet AND someone could talk on the house phone at the same time. We still have our home phone number and my mom is adamant on keeping it. She says, “if someone is trying to tap our house phone, they have to climb the telephone pole.” Now, I don’t know what type of stuff she’s getting into to make someone need to tap our phone lines, but I also don’t ask any questions.

With or without the integration of social media to our cell phones, the need for communication is still abundant, but how much of it is necessary to our advancement, and how much of it is useless fluff, poisoning our minds and the planet?

Last month, while casually scrolling TikTok, I came across the Fruit Love Island, controversy. You can read that article to learn more about it. I’m not going to get into a rant about AI, but as humans, its to the point where WE are training AI on our behaviors, habits, and likeness. When you are someone who creates community on the internet, that’s concerning. There’s no guarantee of people being who they say they are. That’s always been a risk while using social media, that’s why classic shows like Catfish exist.

The thing is, those used to be real people behind the fake accounts. Now, you can unknowingly engage with an AI chat bot via social media, one that has been fed prompts on how to respond. It’s feeling real dystopian and pushing me further away from my phone and closer to in person community. Which is a privilege in itself.

Covid changed the way we build community, and some folks don’t have the ability to leave their homes to build in person, they rely on social media as a form of communication to the outside world.

So what’s the point to any of this? What am I trying to say? Well, for me, advancement in my life, career, community, or finances is not dependent on my social media usage. I would love to generate income from my social media, but my life goes on without a Facebook, without an instagram, without a TikTok, and yours will too.

-Meesh

Tip Jar/Love Offering

Leave a comment

-Meesh

Tip Jar/ Love Offering

Subscribe now

Get more from Misha Alexandria in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

Today we flowed through a sequence of movements that invited ease into our breath and body. Together, we found down dogs, warriors, and pigeon poses, as we explored deep stretches in our hips and lower back.

This beginner friendly practice may be challenging for those with limited mobility. As you flow through this practice, listen to your body before you listen to me.

As always, check out the more Mindful Movement with Meesh practices below.

-Meesh

Subscribe now

Get more from Misha Alexandria in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

My celibacy isn’t motivated by religion or some virtuous reason, it was accidental. But, I would be remiss to not mention that my religious upbringing has influenced the ways in which I view sex.

I was born into the Pentecostal church, the daughter of a Pastor…yup I’m a Preachers Kid (PK). If you’re not familiar with the Pentecostal church, its a whole lotta speaking in tongues, shouting, and spending hours in church on a Sunday.

When I was around 13 our church implemented Purity Classes. Every Friday evening while church was happening upstairs, young ladies, ages 11 and up, would go to the kitchen with one of the Evangelist from the church. In the basement kitchen, we would sit around a table and go over Bible based worksheets that preached Purity and why it was important for young women to stay virgins until marriage. I’m pretty sure we presented what we learned in front of the church, then took a vow to be virgins until marriage. A vow that I eventually broke once I began to deconstruct my religious upbringing.

I’m what you call a late bloomer. I’ve been kissing boys since I was seven, but sex?! Absolutely not. The closest I ever came to having sex as a teenager was freshmen year in college. It was Halloween 2008 and I was drunk, but aware. I don’t know what happened to my friends, but somehow I ended up in Kraus Hall with a freshman from the football team. Mind you, this man came to college with a baby at home. It was about to happen, I mean he had the condom on, I was still fully clothed, but as I was getting myself ready, the bedroom door burst open!

It was my two best friends, both drunk as skunks. They instantly started screaming at the sight of what was about to happen and whisked me away. That night in Kraus was a drunk 18 year old making bad decisions, after that incident, I didn’t give much thought to sex. I spent a lot of time in college thinking I was asexual. Staying celibate until marriage wouldn’t be hard after all because I didn’t like anyone. Over the next four of years, I barely developed a crush until I met her.

I wasn’t the best student and by the grace of God I graduated college. During my last summer in undergrad, I worked as a Summer Resident Assistant (SRA). My role as a SRA allowed me to have a meal plan and live in the dorm for free while I took summer classes to finish my degree. It was normal for the Black students who were on campus during the summer to be in community since there weren’t many of us, mostly student staff and athletes. That’s when I started hanging out with…let’s call her D.

D and I were cool before the summer, but summertime is when we really started getting to know one another. D was on campus because she was a student athlete, the star player of our college basketball team. This was summer 2012 when Love & Hip Hop Atlanta (L&HH ATL) was poppin. D was staying in an apartment off campus that didn’t have cable, so she would come to my dorm and we would watch L&HH ATL.

Every Monday like clock work, D was in my dorm and we would sit on my twin XL bed and watch our show. This time, I guess we were both tired and we fell asleep. When I woke up, we were cuddling, fully holding one another. I quickly jumped up after noticing how close we were. After that, I knew I liked her and I knew I could never act on it because of my religious upbringing. Behind the scenes, D and I grew closer while putting on the facade of a friendship for the public.

D was my first sexual encounter outside of kissing, I was 22 years old. I was 22 years old and the first time I’ve ever been touched below the waist was by a woman, I just knew I was going to hell. At 24, I got back into church heavy, the weight of possibly being a lesbian weighed on me, I didn’t want to go to hell. I cut communication with D, told her what we were doing was a sin. I spent the next year disconnected from my friends, only going to work, church, and making new friends at church. I still considered myself a virgin because I’ve never been penetrated by a man. Then at 25, I started to deconstruct religion.

I’m not going to tell you all the specific moment that pushed me to deconstruct, but something happened, and when it happened my whole outlook on religion changed. I dived in real deep at first, I was on the hotep pipeline for sure. I was still closeted, but since I wasn’t a Christian anymore, there was no need to hold tightly to my virginity.

To move the story along, I had sex with a man for the first time at 25 and since then I’ve been sexually active with men and women. I’m no stranger to celibacy, a couple of months here and there between partners, but this is the first time I’ve hit two years. Two years of celibacy will teach you a lot and here are some things that I’m learning:

1. I love sex, but I’ve never experienced what it feels like to have sex with someone I love.

2. I have a lot of stamina. One of the reasons why I enjoy farming and teaching fitness classes is because of the opportunity to move my body. When I was farming I was getting up to 30k steps a day. I’m a busy body and I need a busy body on my body.

3. Sometimes I want sex without attachments. Now how can I say I want to experience love, but also want sex without attachments? Easy. Sometimes I just want to fuck. It’s easy to go outside and find someone to have sex with, but the problem is finding someone who knows what they’re doing, while also building trust to ensure that you both have a good time.

4. I enjoy self pleasure. Lowkey some of the best orgasms I’ve ever had came from my own hands.

   

5. My hips are so tight and they’ve only gotten tighter since I’ve been celibate. I think about all of the times when I’ve had excruciating hip and lower back pain and it often coincides with my bouts of celibacy. It’s pent up!

   

   Of course my yoga practice has been getting me through the discomfort in my body, but I know if I was laying on my back, with the palms of someones hands pushing under my thigh, just below my knee crease, as they pinned my knees towards my shoulders, my hips would open right up. Basically, I’m trying to work through my stored trauma on my own, instead of releasing it through sex.

So, if you were looking for some deep intellectual reason as to why I’m celibate, you won’t find it here. I want to have mind blowing, spine aligning, SAFE, yet very nasty intercourse with someone and thats worth waiting for.

-Meesh

Tip Jar/Love Offering

I wanted the replay posted tonight so my people on the West Coast can participate before bed tonight. As you do this practice, remember everything I say is a suggestion, please listen to your body before you listen to me.

Happy full moon!

-Meesh

Get more from Misha Alexandria in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

Today we moved slow and with intention, as we found movement from our neck to our lower back. This completely floor practice is perfect to ease into the day or to wind down for the night before bed.

This recording is not recommended for people who are pregnant. As you participate in this practice, please listen to your body before you listen to me.

-Meesh

Subscribe now

Get more from Misha Alexandria in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

-Meesh

Get more from Misha Alexandria in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

 
                             Sunday

The smell first hit me on Sunday, the day the snowstorm rolled in.

“It smells like butt in here.”

I walked down the stairs, a door separates the bottom of the stairs from the back of our house. I swung the doors open, as I always do when I make my grand entrance to see what my mom is doing. I have to keep an eye on her, the grandma is the baby.

As the doors swung open, I caught a whiff of something a little off putting. The smell stopped me in my tracks.

While still standing in the doorway to the stairs, I pointed to the bathroom off of the living room, “You pooped in there?”

“No, I’ve been watching tv,” my mom replied as she sat in her tan recliner, snuggled up in a sherpa robe my sister bought her for Christmas.

I took her word for it. She does lie, but why would she lie about pooping in the bathroom. That’s what bathrooms are for, I just wanted to let her know it stank.

Subscribe now

I went back upstairs. It didn’t smell like butt up there. I spend most of my days upstairs in my “office”. It used to be my older brother Albert’s room. Long after he moved out, my parents decided to foster children, then it became their bedroom. Before I moved back home in 2023, it became a storage room. It felt like everyone who ever lived in this house, dropped their stuff in this room and moved on. So when I moved home, I threw everyone’s stuff away, cleaned up, and made it my office. I practice yoga here, I plan my garden here, it’s my spot, nobody comes in here but me, and the smell stays butt free.

                          Monday

By Monday morning, the snow ceased. I crept into my moms bedroom to see how much snow we got, her windows facing the street. I had already forgotten the horrid odor my nostrils encountered the day before, until I went downstairs again. As soon as I swung the door open to make my way to the kitchen it hit me. What is that smell?!

I went into the bathroom, I smelled it in there, but it was faint.

I went to the kitchen. I smelled it there too, but it was also pretty faint.

I couldn’t chase the smell all morning, I had things to do, like go outside and shovel snow. Shoveling snow is not a job for a lady like me. I try to be progressive, but shoveling snow and taking the trash out is for dudes. After I shoveled a mediocre walkway for the mailman to at least be able to deliver the mail. I went back into the house.

As I was walking into the door, my mom sat on a pink chair wrapped in plastic. Yes, we have chairs wrapped in plastic, my mom is 79 yall. Since I was outside smelling fresh air, the smell was more apparent when I came back in after shoveling.

“Mom you really don’t smell that?”

“Smell what Misha? I don’t smell anything, the house is old, it could be anything, it could be the sewage…….”

I done got her started. Her final guess, it’s the trash and once I take the trash out, everything will be okay. In an attempt to cover the smell, we turn on the wax melt in the sitting room to permeate downstairs.

                           Tuesday

It’s trash day. I could’ve taken the trash bag out yesterday, but I knew it wasn’t the trash, the trash didn’t smell. This was the smell of rot and decay and it hit you as soon as you walked in the front door. After I took the trash out, I came back into the house. I could still smell it. My mom was finally ready to admit that she smelled it too. Thank you!!! I knew I wasn’t tripping.

                            Wednesday

Sometimes my mom likes to sleep in the recliner. Tuesday night into Wednesday morning, she decided to sleep there to make sure the pipes didn’t freeze, don’t ask me how that works. I usually peek into her room every morning, but she wasn’t in the bed, I knew she was already downstairs. I walked downstairs as I normally do, opened the door to the back of the house, and more horrid than the day before, the smell hit me.

Subscribe now

I looked at my mom sleep, snuggled in her recliner. How could she sleep so peacefully when something has possibly crawled into our home and died? Then the thought crossed my mom…does my mom smell like butt?

Y’all ever go to a nursing home or assisted living facility? There’s a smell. I call it old people smell, but that’s not nice. It’s usually a mix between broccoli and someone needing their diaper changed. That’s what it smelled like. My mom will be 79 on Friday, does the smell come with age? My mind raced, I felt defeated. Our home would smell like butt forever.

My mom took it upon herself to do some investigating. This time she thought it was a bucket of water in the basement that is catching a leak. That wasn’t it.

Then she called me on my cellphone from downstairs.

“Misha, I think there’s a dead mouse in the hallway, that’s why it smells when you walk into the house.”

The dead mouse in question? A dusty plug behind the curio in the hallway. Why was she moving furniture in the first place? That’s is why she needs to be watched.

                         Today

At this point, I’ve accepted defeat. I went downstairs, the smell didn’t even hit me. I’ve grown accustomed to it. I forgot about it, until I left and came home again. Since my car was shoveled out of the snow, I needed to get out of the house and get a donut! I was cooped up in here during a snowstorm with no sweet snacks. When I got home, I opened up the door to my mom sitting in the hallway in the pink plastic covered chair once again, and I smelled it. Not going to lie yall, my final conclusion, it was her.

How am I going to tell my mom that she’s starting to smell old? What does that mean moving forward? Does she need help in the shower? You know, I can’t have my mom out here smelling like butt. When I came back downstairs, she was still sitting in the hallway watching youtube videos. We talked about what’s for dinner. She sparked off the conversation.

“You said there’s baked potatoes in the package of Omaha Steaks your uncle sent?”

“No, I didn’t say that. It’s all meat.”

“ Are you sure you didn’t say that?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s all meat. You don’t know what he sent you, Mom?”

“Misha, how am I supposed to remember?”

Last week, on Friday, while my mom sat in her recliner, I went through the deep freezer to tell her everything my uncle sent in her Omaha Steaks delivery. The deep freezer sits in a small mudroom off of the living room, it’s our access to the back door. A wood sliding door separates the mudroom from the living room. I asked my mom if she needed me to go through the meat in the deep freezer again, she said yes. This time she was still sitting in the pink plastic covered chair in the hallway. I kept the door open that separates the stairs from the back of the house, so she could hear me yell everything that was in the deep freezer.

I slid the door to the mudroom open. There it was, that putrid smell, the smell my nose had been hunting all week. This is where it originated, but what is it?!

Subscribe now

“Mom! This is where the butts coming from!”

“Oh Misha, did something crawl back there and die?”

“I don’t know, I’m looking around.”

I didn’t need to turn the light on. It’s a small room, but it’s a mess back there and not an easy task getting to the deep freezer. I let my nose guide me and it led me to the culprit.

A moldy bag a broccoli. I lifted the bag up, my face scrunched and my breathing became shallow. I was up close and personal with the smell that tormented my nostrils for almost a week! Now, how did a bag of broccoli get on the floor? Well, the last time I was going through the deep freezer to tell my mom what meat we had…the broccoli must have fell on the floor and I missed it. Since the storm was coming, we never needed to go in the mudroom for anything. Plus, it stays cold back there, so we keep the door shut unless it’s summer and the back door is open.

It’s been around 4 hours since I made the discovery. The moldy broccoli has been transferred to the trash can outside. We can breathe again and most importantly, my soon to be 79 year old mom, doesn’t smell like old people.

-Meesh

Subscribe now

In today’s practice, we stayed close to the ground and moved slowly through poses that would invite ease into our hips and lower back.

We spent a lot of time on hands and knees, so remember to bring a blanket or double your mat, to add cushion under your knees. Also remember to bring pillows, blocks (if you don’t have blocks you can use books or boxes), and straps if you have them. Bring anything that you feel will offer you additional support throughout this practice, like water or tea.

In this video, everything that I say is a suggestion. Please listen to your body before you listen to me.

February’s Mindful Movement Series will be subscriber only, subscribe below and let’s continue our wellness practice together.

-Meesh

Subscribe now

Get more from Misha Alexandria in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

Personally, this new moon traveled through my 12th house. The 12th house rules dreams, rest, things you keep hidden (secrets), the unconscious mind and other topics that relate to mystery. I didn’t think this new moon would hit me as hard as it did, but once I let go of resistance, the 12th house themes appeared throughout my day.

My mom and I made plans to get dinner Sunday evening. Whenever we make plans, her first question is, “Can Kalece come?” Kalece is my seven year old niece, and I’ve come to the conclusion that we cannot do anything without her. My mom loves her grandkids, and at my big age of 36, it’s time for me to accept that I’m not her baby anymore.

Every Sunday I soak in the tub, I’ve named the ritual my Sunday Soak. My Sunday Soaks began in 2023 when I started flower farming. The extensive work in the fields took a toll on my body, epsom salt baths and yoga gave my body the relief it craved. After my Sunday Soak, I went downstairs to see if my niece was coming to dinner. That’s when my mom shared that my niece wasn’t coming, because she had other plans. They already planned to go to Texas Roadhouse - my four year old nephew claimed he, “needed those rolls.” With that being said, my mom ditched our Sunday dinner plans and wanted to go to dinner with my brother, his wife, and the kids.

I’m used to being put on the back burner when it comes to my brother and his kids, instead of being upset about it, I invited myself to Texas Roadhouse too! While at dinner, my brother and sister in law were asking my mom about my brothers behavior as a child. Mainly because my nephew exhibits peculiar behaviors, I don’t want to give them a name, because I don’t have the credentials to diagnose anyone, but he’s different, he reminds me of me when I was a child. That’s also something that is mentioned a lot in my family by my mom and siblings. How much Brudder (I call my nephew Brudder/Brother) and I are alike. It’s also not lost on me, when my brother refers to my nephew as, “slow”. Of course he doesn’t say that in front of him, and if he did, it would go right over my nephews head.

My mom said my brother did exhibit a lot of the same behaviors his son exhibits now. My brother asked her why she never got him psychiatric help, I chuckled. My brother then said to me, “you did weird stuff too as a kid.” Obviously, I know that, and as an adult, I'm aware of how harmful it was for my parents to attempt to “pray behaviors away” instead of getting us the help we needed as children. We grew up to be dysregulated adults, my brother and I especially. I don’t think his military tours in Afghanistan helped either.

Often, my brother and I would turn this emotional dysregulation towards each other as adults, arguing with each other until our heads nearly explode. The conflicts have simmered down a lot, mostly because I took the initiative to get the help I didn’t receive as a child. My family isn’t aware of any of this, that’s where the 12th house secrets come in. I have a therapist, psychiatrist, and I’m on selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRI’s) to treat my major depressive episodes.

For a long time, I thought a yoga practice alone, was enough to ease the thoughts in my subconscious mind, but the reality of the situation is, I’m uncovering deep seated wounds that stem all the way from childhood. The yoga helps to process how those emotions feel in my body, and the medication helps me identify the thoughts that are stored deep in my memory.

With that being said, for this new moon in Capricorn, my intention is to continue to share my journey of how I’m finding stability in my mind, not from a place of fear or secrets, but from a place of hope.

-Meesh

Get more from Misha Alexandria in the Substack app

Available for iOS and Android

Get the app

Click here for photo reference

“Happy birthday Queen!” It’s January 10th, my birthday is December 26th. I got a new phone and most of my numbers didn’t transfer over. So who’s finna get cussed out for telling me happy birthday two weeks later?

I plug the number into cash app. Checking cash app first, instead of asking “who is this?”, has saved me from plenty of, “oh you ain’t got my number saved” conversations. I’m glad I checked first, because it was Dawn.

Dawn is my old sugar mama, she’s not that much older than me. Im 36, she’ll be 43 in February. Dawn and I met the summer of 2021. This was my first summer back in Pennsylvania, after living in Illinois for three years. We were introduced through mutual friends at a kickball game, they all played kickball together. They asked me to play, but I’m not into team sports, I’m more of a spectator. Plus, a few boys in high school would refer to me as, “Tall for Nothing.” I never took offense to the nickname, because having my height and not being good at sports, should be criminalized.

But back to Dawn. We started dating in June 2021 and in true lesbian fashion, it moved fast, too fast. Next thing you know, we’re talking on the phone every night before bed, seeing each other every weekend. It was a lot, and as fast as it begun, was as fast as it ended.

Moving too fast, clouded the realization that we weren’t compatible in the first place. Dawn wants marriage, I want marriage one day, but I’d prefer that day to be 10 years from now. She wants to cohabitate with a partner, I never want to live with a partner. They can stay the night, but they can’t STAY here. Those are some things we discussed yesterday when we met up.

Subscribe now

“Thank you Dawn, you gone treat me to wings for my present?”, I replied to her happy birthday text. I was fully prepared for her to tell me no. Ever since I broke up with her, she’s hung it over my head that she had to cancel the birthday trip she bought for me, while only being able to receive a partial refund. I know, I folded, but I was depressed and it was bad. The weather was changing, seasonal depression on top of actual depression seeped in, by late November 2021, I became more distant. I should’ve communicated to her what I was feeling, but back then, I didn’t have words to articulate what I now know as depression.

We still communicated sparingly after parting ways. I would jokingly ask her when she’s taking me out again, and she would remind me of the money she lost. Prepared for her to say no to my wings request, she replied, “Lol yeah when you want it?” Have I finally made it to Dawns good side? I guess I could’ve aimed higher than wings, huh?

We decided on Hysyde, it’s a pretty popular bar, and it’s Black owned. On Saturdays, the DJ is spinning tunes from the late 60s to early 90’s. It’s age appropriate for the both of us. Dawn is still as sweet as I remember, I refer to her as a Gentle Lady. She’s shorter than me, around 5’6”, brown skin. Wearing her round framed glasses, camouflage pants, earth tone jacket, and a green beanie that covers up her locs that hang past her shoulder bone. When we first met, her locs were so short and barely fit into a ponytail. I playfully tell her that she’s grown up, to which she replies, “I always been grown.”

We embraced, it was a warm hug, the type of hug you give a friend you haven’t seen in a while. Once inside, we order our food at the bar, then find a table in the back room. It’s quieter in the back room. The sounds of the music are muffled, and college basketball plays on the big screen tv, don’t ask me what teams are playing.

We take our seats and begin to catch up. “How’s your family, or this random friend I remember, your random coworker?” We both run through an exhaustive list of people to ask about, until it’s time to ask about each other. Work feels like the safest thing to share first. Then we get into more personal conversations, like dating.

The acceptance that we aren’t compatible shows up through the dating topic. I already knew we weren’t compatible, but I don’t think Dawn fully understood it until recently. She’s dated since we broke up, as expected, so have I. This is where our differences become more evident. She thinks when two people vibe, they should move fast, because they know they want the same things.

I’ve found that for me, I’m more of a slow burn type of girl. I’m actually planning to shoot my shot at someone in eight years, they don’t know it yet. Eight years might sound like a long time to you, but for me, I think about eight years ago. Eight years ago was 2018, it literally feels like yesterday. The next eight years will fly by. By that time, I’ll have enough money saved up to spend on a partner in the ways that they deserve. Basically, I gotta get this money by tomorrow, to feel secure in a relationship.

Dawn and I also discovered something else about our incompatibility. We’re “not each other’s types”, but we were willing to be open. We find each other attractive, but with her mars in Scorpio and mine in Sagittarius, physical attraction is necessary to ignite our passions. Dawn borders between stud/stem and dates feminine women. Sometimes I’m feminine, sometimes I’m dressed like Adam Sandler, there’s really no in between. Also, I too, love me a feminine Queen.

Click here for photo reference

It’s not all incompatibility between us though. We both value family, home, and safety. She’s very involved with her family like I am, she owns her home, her car, and invests into the upkeep of it. I don’t own a home, but I live in my family home with my mom. A six bedroom, four bathroom home that I’ll inherit one day. I did pay off my car two years ago though. As my finances grow, my goal is to pour back into my home, so that it can withstand generations to come.

Lastly, we both value safety. When I say safety, I mean being a safe person for others. I see the type of friend Dawn is and how she shows up for the people she loves. I think about how she showed up for me when we were together. Whether it was cooking for me, helping me move, or washing my back in the shower, you know that one spot on your back that’s a little too hard for you to reach by yourself?

Dawn is a gem and she deserves the world. I know she’ll make a great partner for someone, but that person isn’t me. I’d like to say we can be friends, but I never saw myself being the girl that remains friends with exes. We’ll see what happens.

-Meesh

I don’t spend too much time dwelling on how people perceive me, to be honest, I don’t spend much time thinking about other people at all. I hate to be so blunt about it, but I genuinely don’t think people spend too much time thinking about me either. The world is…

Read more

During my first season of flower farming, I was tasked with harvesting cosmos, zinnias, statice, nicotiana, and a plethora of other flowers. I remember the first day I cut a flower, my mind raced with thoughts of, “am I doing this right” “is this stem long enough” “is the flower even ready for harvesting?” I was shown how to do it, but the process was still nerve wracking in the beginning. Although challenging, I was always mindful of the most important aspects of harvesting a flower: protect the stem from bending or snapping, what I refer to as “protect ya neck!”

The stem, much like your neck, is a vulnerable space that connects your head to your body. I know you remember granny saying “you better hold that babies head!” It’s a reminder that the infants neck isn’t strong enough to hold their head, they need gentle support.

If you’re reading this, it’s safe to assume you’re no longer an infant and you’re likely holding your head up on your own, but that doesn’t mean you can’t offer yourself gentle support, the support granny knew you needed.

I invite you to notice your head, neck, and shoulders. Allow your awareness to settle there. Sitting upright, relax your shoulders down. On your next exhale, gently let your right ear fall towards your right shoulder. Pause, breathe. Inhale your head back up to front and center. Exhale let your left ear fall towards your left shoulder. Inhale back up to front and center when you feel complete.

I invite you to continue that movement at your own pace, on your own time, you don’t have to do it right now. Maybe you find this movement as you sit down at your desk to write your next publication, or while you’re relaxing at home, cozied up diving into your next read.

This is simply an invitation to remember, that just like the delicate stem of a flower, your neck is vulnerable and worth protecting. It’s the bridge that allows your roots to flow all the way up from the bottoms of your feet, to the crown of your head. Inviting more mobility into your neck, makes you less prone to injuries and invites ease into spaces of our bodies that we often ignore.

If you found this offering useful and are looking for more opportunities to protect your neck and find ease throughout your whole body, check out my latest post, Beginner Friendly Yoga with Meesh. This full body experience, is a complete floor practice that focuses on finding ease in our neck, shoulders all the way to our hips. Its an invitation to slow down and move mindfully.

-Meesh

Subscribe now

“Never stop writing," were the words my 7th grade english teacher, Ms Gallo told me after reading my journal entries. Ms Gallo made us write journal entries every single day. We would write reflections on our current readings or how we felt about the class in general. I loved to write, and being the daughter of an english teacher, who also happens to be a semi hoarder, my mom has managed to keep everything I’ve ever written since I could spell my name. I wish I could say I listened to Ms Gallos words, to never stop writing and to share my stories with the world, but unfortunately, I did stop writing. I stopped writing for a long time with no intentions to write again anytime soon, but alignment brought me back.

Like most millenials, I’m a social media girl, with my app of choice being Tiktok. As I was scrolling through the app, I saw a post from my mutual Jacquie Verbal, the creator of Blackstack. Jacquie was speaking on a 10-Day Build Your Book Community workshop that she was launching in December. I left a comment expressing interest in the workshop and went about my day. I genuinely forgot that I left a comment, until Jacquie reached out before the workshop to invite me to join. I was a little hesitant, because I was not expressing interest for myself, but for my mom. My mom is 78 and on most days, she sits in front of her iPad with the notes app open, saying “I’m working on my book.” The workshop sounded like a great opportunity for my mom because she was composing a manuscript almost daily.

After receiving the details of the workshop, it made more sense for me to attend than my mom. Thinking about my mom waking up by 10 am, then logging into zoom by herself, it wasn’t going to happen. In my head, I would attend this workshop, learn all of the information, then share it with my mom, I had zero intentions on writing a book. The first day of the workshop, I realized that everyone in attendance was already on Substack, and most of them had already built a community here. I’m not going to lie, I felt a little bit like an imposter. Everyone had been writing, working on their manuscript, published writers, then there’s me, here for the vibe.

On day one, Jacquie gave us a writing prompt to help us identify our why, by asking the question, “What change will your book create for your reader?” I opened my notes app to respond to the prompt and the words flowed onto the page with ease.

This book will ignite hope and faith in oneself, to trust their journey and to take action towards one’s dreams. Dreams are not just dreams, but a reality that we are simultaneously living and accessing subconsciously during sleep. I believe that with intention, dedication and personal willpower, we have the ability to bridge our subconscious dreams, with our conscious mind and make our dreams a reality. I’m going to share with you exactly how I did it.

Thats my book, my first one at least. My dreams have taken me to places that my subconscious mind envisioned. From those dreams, I received guidance on my next steps, mostly from my ancestors, but more specifically my dad. We’ll talk more about that later.

What brings me to Substack? I was told I should make one, so there’s that. When I’m offered guidance, especially by someone that I feel is knowledgable and living in their purpose, I listen. So I’m here with an intention to share pieces of me, that will allow me to connect with the believers, the dreamers, the seers, the black sheeps, the risk takers, the winners. Those who continue to strive, despite the barriers that have been placed on your path, knowing that the barriers placed in your way are not blocks, but opportunities to reach higher. Let’s reach higher together.

If you made it this far, drop a “welcome back” in the comments, share, and subscribe Your girl is writing again and that’s something to celebrate.

-Meesh

Leave a comment

Subscribe now