Nora is coming soon. 🍪

When I cracked the egg, TWO yolks dropped into the pan.

I’ve been told that means you’re blessed, so I made a wish.

Don’t ask me what 37 means in numerology or what spiritual portal I’m supposedly entering, because I don’t have a magic answer. What I do have is gratitude. I’m thankful to be here. And when I look back at 36, I feel an unexpected mix: calmness, healthy anxiety, and excitement.

There’s also a darker part of me that wants to zoom in on what hurt. The part that still remembers how to bear burdens. The part that learned to live with one eye open. Trauma can make your mind feel like a smoke alarm that never stops chirping.

But Divine Spirit, You keep turning my face toward what’s been GOOD, and asking me to actually hold onto it. Not rush past it. Not minimize it. Not treat joy like it’s temporary.

So I’m cherishing the evidence.

I travelled to Colombia, the Carolinas, Florida, and New York. I painted. I wrote poetry. I reconnected with my illustrator for my children’s book. After almost five years, I stepped into a church I’m still attending, and it didn’t feel like obligation. I started an interest group with the help of a few faithful others. I danced in the snow with my mother-in-love. I picked up classes. I even made room for a few therapy sessions.

And I’m learning something that feels like a suture closing up an old wound: I can’t expect myself from everybody.

I don’t know what’s coming next. I don’t know what 37 will demand or deliver. I just know I’m trying to live fully, with what I have and what I’ve been given, without punishing myself for being human along the way.

Just like Nora, the main character of my children’s book, I’m finding my way home one way or another. There are lessons tucked inside my big adventure, and I’m meeting beloved friends along the way.

So here’s to an egg yolk of blessing.

I’m Devans Eli. And this is 37 years in the making.

Nora is baking.

Her family is being created as we speak. The kitchen smells of delight. The oven warms. Everyone in the bakery is leaning in, waiting to see her. Nora’s dreams are right at the tip of the jar.

Gayle is getting ready to welcome children through the door, wiping flour from her hands and smiling before the bell even rings.

Dune is chasing his tail again, running in circles, pausing only when the scent of something sweet drifts through the air.

Preston is running too. Running from a place that doesn’t feel like home. Running from someone who’s hungry. Running toward something better, even if he doesn’t know what it looks like yet.

Someone new is also near. He has a quiet presence. He’s hiding behind trees. Ducking behind corners. Waiting. Watching. Ready to leap when the moment is right.

What am I really saying?

The illustrations are almost finished. Just a few more to go. The cover is next, and it will be hot and ready before long. I’m standing at the doorway now, choosing how Nora will enter the world. The publishing path is coming into focus.

If you’re here reading this, thank you for waiting with Nora and me. Thank you for listening for the bell.

Nora is coming. 🍪

I think January arrives without asking for attention.

It’s a month that stretches quietly. It lingers. It lets the world breathe after the rush of so many festivities. The lights are dimmer now. The air is brick. Time feels looser in our hands. We are no longer running around, but we are not settled either. January is a month of movement without urgency. It feels like waiting without worry.

That makes me think about Dune.

Meet Dune, the Yellow Dog

Dune is the yellow dog in Nora Escapes the Bakery, and he carries that same sense of waiting and wandering. He is playful. He is patient. He is perpetually curious. He moves through the world with his tongue out, his tail wagging, and his eyes wide enough to catch everything at once.

A World Full of Invitations

Dune loves attention, not because he needs it, but because he delights in connection. Just about anything will make his ears perk up. A laugh. A call. A cookie waved in the air. Every sound feels like an invitation. Every moment feels new.

He is always looking around, never quite looking ahead. One step forward, two steps sideways. A pause. A pivot. A sudden sprint toward something only he noticed. Time moves differently for him. It stretches when he’s sniffing. It disappears when he’s running. By the time he circles back, the day has already changed.

Like January.

Running Toward Delight

You’ll find Dune charging through playgrounds with sand on his paws and joy in his chest. You’ll find him bounding across beaches where the wind tangles his fur and the seagulls scatter just in time. He doesn’t realize he might be bigger than the birds he greets or the crabs he tries to befriend. He only knows they are there. That feels like reason enough.

Dune runs toward delight. He doesn’t spend much time thinking about destinations.

And cookies. Oh, those are his weakness. The smell alone is enough to stop him mid-step. He will sit, stare, and scheme. If a cookie is within reach, Dune believes it was meant for him. And honestly, who could argue with that kind of faith?

January asks us move like that too.

This is the month where we learn how to wait without freezing. Where wandering becomes its own wisdom. Where patience doesn’t always mean stillness, and movement doesn’t require certainty. Like Dune, we follow what feels warm. What feels curious. What feels alive.

Soft Starts and Open Spaces

In the story, Dune doesn’t know where he’s going next. He just knows he wants to keep going. When I think about Dune, I think about how I’ve been learning to live with more spontaneity. I’m a planner. I’ve been clearing paths my whole life. But I’m learning that joy sometimes arrives through distraction. Through detours. Through moments I didn’t plan for. In 2025, my family signed up for the Baltimore Pride parade without realizing we needed choreography. Also, we were drawn to the beautiful tradition of Día de los Muertos, and chose at the last minute to embrace the celebration as a heartfelt way to honor our loved ones.

If I’m always constrained a plan, I’m not sure I would have the courage to turn around and notice anything new!

Dune reminds me that beginnings don’t have to be loud to be meaningful. That waiting can be playful. That time passing isn’t time wasted.

January is a season of soft starts and open spaces.

Until spring arrives, Dune will keep running. Through parks. Through beaches. Through moments that feel small but matter deeply. He will keep waiting in his own way.

He’s waiting to meet you.

With patience. With presence. With paws ready to move the moment something wonderful appears.

And maybe that’s enough for now.

Wandering Together

December arrives like the gentle bell chime above a bakery door. A sound that is soft, warm, inviting. It brings light into dim corners, sweetness into the air, and a sense of gathering that wraps itself around us like a scarf. The world leans into baking, gift-giving, and small moments with the people who bring us joy.

Gayle, the baker in my upcoming children’s book, carries that same spirit. From the moment she first appeared in my imagination, she felt like December itself: generous, creative, colorful, and full of wonder. She is the warmth inside the bakery when the weather outside cools, the first whiff of something sweet drifting from the oven, and the reminder that joy is made with intention.

Her presence shapes Nora’s entire world.

The Heart Behind the Apron

Long before I knew Gayle’s exact features, I knew her feeling. I felt the presence of a warm, nurturing African American woman with smiling eyes, someone whose spirit could touch a whole neighborhood. I saw hints of her purple apron with playful white polka dots, a soft green blouse, a classic black skirt, and brown curls bouncing whenever she laughed. Her entire look needed to carry the colors of the holidays. She needed to be fun, familiar, and full of comfort.

I always imagined her bakery as whimsical and cozy, filled with marble shelves and glass jars, each one lined with treats ready to be shared. Apple pie on display, lemon cake cooling on the counter, and the beloved butterscotch cookies resting in their glass jar with the lid ever so slightly tipped. Outside, the bell above the door would ring and purple shingles would glow in the sunlight, with the beach just a few steps away. Gayle’s bakery needed to be a place where imagination rises like dough and dreams feel possible.

But more than any shape or color, Gayle needed to be a baker who makes treats out of both sugar and stories. Someone whose kindness flavors every creation.

How Gayle Took Shape

Gayle didn’t come to life through early sketches like Nora and Preston did. She arrived in pieces of description, voice, and personality of someone I already know and hold close. She is in fact a real life person whom I love very much. So Gayle, the Baker, was a full-grown character waiting patiently for her turn.

She’d be seen as warm and nurturing, creative and intentional, round and comforting like a soft hug. She needed to love her bakery deeply and see potential in every cookie resting in her jars. In my mind, she was the anchor of the bakery. She’s the one who dreamt up the flavors, arranged the shelves, and kept the magic alive. She is the adult many of us needed growing up: steady, bright, imaginative, and full of love. She is essentially a mother. My mother.

When it was time to bring her fully into the world, I passed her into the hands of my illustrator, Brandon D. Gunning, whose talent and sensitivity captured her beautifully.

The Gayle You’ll Meet

Here she is! The baker who is radiant, joyful, and fully alive.

Brandon brought Gayle to life with such intentionality. Her warm brown skin, bright eyes, and purple apron glow with the spirit of December. She stands in a welcoming pose, almost as if she is mid-laughter, inviting you into her bakery with open arms. In her presence, you can almost smell the butterscotch cookies cooling on the counter, the apple pie steaming in the display case, and the lemon cake singing its citrus song. Right now in this moment, her spirit is lighting the Christmas tree.

Gayle feels like Christmas. Her hands are busy, her smile is wide, and her heart is full.

Why Gayle Matters

Gayle unknowingly shapes Nora’s courage. She designs the bakery, fills the jars, decorates the shelves, and creates the world Nora longs to explore. Through her gentle routines and creative spirit, she teaches without ever needing to say a word. Creativity, in her world, is a gift meant to be shared. Kindness makes people brave. Warmth has a way of helping others take their first steps. And joy, when given freely, always multiplies.

Gayle is the reason Nora believes something beautiful waits on the other side of the jar.

The Spirit of Gayle

If Nora represents courage and Preston represents gratitude, Gayle represents wonder that fills December with sparkle and warmth. Through her, I’ve learned that creativity is sacred, generosity leaves gentle ripples, and a sense of home can be crafted with your hands. She reminds me that love can be tasted, especially in something baked with intention.

Gayle is the magic inside the bakery windows. She is the glow that makes Nora dream. She is the steady heartbeat of the story.

Your Turn

What part of Gayle reminds you most of December. The warmth, the color, the creativity, or the sense of home?

I’d love to hear your thoughts below.

November snuck up on us quietly. Softly. The shutdown finally lifted, and many of us felt the breeze and warmth in November’s hands. Gratitude lingered in the air. Days became shorter, the wind cooler. We reached for sweaters, lit candles, and carved out space for quiet moments with people we love.

Preston, the Macadamia cookie in my upcoming children’s book, is the perfect companion for this season. From his first sketched lines to his final form, he reflects the heart of November. Gentleness, connection, and the peaceful joy of community. Through his kindness and steady presence, he reminds me that gratitude is something we embody.

The Birth of a Macadamia Cookie

Preston’s story carries a soft boldness. Where Nora bursts with courage and curiosity, Preston enters as her warm counterbalance. His sweetness lingers instead of shouts.

His macadamia flavor was intentional. Macadamia cookies are rarely the first pick in a bakery, yet they are rich, comforting, and unforgettable. They feel like a hug. They feel like home. That is Preston. He is a soft-spoken, steady friend whose presence brings warmth to every scene.

As I drafted the story, he slowly became the cookie who shows what gratitude looks like in motion. He is baked with small acts of kindness, gentle encouragement, and that unmistakable glow of someone who simply shows up.

From Pencil Lines to Possibility

Before Preston danced through the story, he lived here in the early sketches. Four windows into who he was becoming.

In the top-left sketch, he opens his arms wide, freckles scattered like soft macadamia pieces. His smile says, “I’m happy you are here.” Even without color, Preston already feels like a friend who welcomes everyone. He is full of generosity.

In the top-right sketch, he stands with one arm raised, hat tilted, I gave him a sense of confidence. A cookie at home in the world!

The bottom-left Preston laughs with a radiating joy that spreads wide. With one arm in the air, it’s as if he is mid-story. Like he just met someone new.

And the bottom-right sketch shows him simply poised with a quiet smile. There is no hat or fluff here. He’s just a cookie who knows how to show up.

Every early drawing shows up Preston was always meant to be a cookie baked with gratitude. Any good community would fully welcome him.

The Preston Concept Drawing

Here is Preston stepping into color for the first time. This concept drawing was the moment he walked out of my sketchbook and into his world with arms open.

Standing between two brick walls, arms wide, he looks ready to greet anyone who passes. That welcoming posture is Preston’s entire spirit. Steady. Cheerful. Making space for others without hesitation. His warm browns and soft tones echo the comforting feeling of November, a month held together by gratitude and community.

This concept captured who he is at his core: the friend who says “You’re safe here,” without having to speak.

The Preston You’ll Meet

And here he is! Preston brought to life not just on the page, but right into the room with me. That’s exactly who he is. Always there. In this updated illustration, Brandon D. Gunning, my illustrator, captured Preston’s spirit so vividly! He feels like he could hop right out of the book and join in on the joy. And honestly, that’s exactly what he did.

In this picture, Preston is strutting beside me with that same musical bounce he carries through every scene in Nora Escapes the Bakery. His warm macadamia glow, expressive brows, and bright red shorts shine even brighter when he’s placed next to everyday life. It’s as if his whole presence is saying, “I’m grateful to be here with you. Come dance with me.”

Preston stopped being just a character for me. He became a companion in this path of becoming. His character is a reminder that gratitude shows up in the ordinary moments: dancing in the living room, laughing with people we love, and choosing joy even when life feels heavy.

Brandon captured ALL of that in this final version. Preston hums while he walks. He lifts spirits quietly. His light shines. Bringing him into a real-life moment made me realize how deeply his character was shaped by warmth, belonging, and thankfulness.

We need more Prestons! He belongs in our world just as much as he belongs in the book.

The Heart of Preston

Looking back at these iterations of Preston feels like watching a relationship deepen, from first impressions, to understanding, to love. Each step reveals more of a quiet courage and gentle spirit.

Preston’s presence in the story reminds me that gratitude shows up in these small ways:

• Checking in with a friend

• Sharing a laughter on a cold day

• Calling on a steady friend when life feels heavy

• Hearing a soft hum in the background while you work or cook

We don’t have to make grand gestures to feel a sense of gratitude. Preston teaches that community is built crumb by crumb, moment by moment.

What Preston Teaches Me

This November, Preston is my reminder to be thankful for the people who bring warmth into my world. To be grateful for the ones who stand with me quietly without fanfare. To be glad to have the ones who make space for joy, even in difficult seasons.

Honestly, I have a new definition for gratitude now. It’s not just saying “Thank you.” It’s being present. Sticking around. Listening intentionally. Bringing out the best in others so that they feel that sense of warmth and connection.

Your Turn

How do you plan on being a beacon of gratitude this season? I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Leave a comment

When I think of forty, I think of testing and refinement. I think of those stories where rain doesn’t stop or where someone wanders through a desert searching for what’s next. I think of the prophet Elijah—how he fled into the wilderness, exhausted and afraid, traveling forty days and forty nights to the mountain of God. I think of how he was fed by grace along the way. And how, after the wind, the earthquake, and the fire, God’s voice came not in thunder but in a sound of sheer silence.

That silence wasn’t confusion. It was full of revelation. And maybe ours could be too if we listen.

Lately, the air feels heavy with that horrific sound of silence. That not-knowing. People are tired. People are waiting. Some are counting coins. Many of us are repeating prayers. There’s an ache that sits between us when we talk, like we’re all holding the same invisible weight but pretending it’s light.

Forty days.

That number keeps echoing in my mind.

It feels ancient, sacred even—like a hidden lesson we’re being asked to learn again.

But this silence, for many of us, feels like punishment.

Not divine. Not cosmic. Not some cleansing fire from above.

It feels human. It feels cruel. And it’s too heavy.

The kind of punishment that comes when those in power forget who they serve.

While some try to speak up for the weary, others treat our lives like chess pieces on a board. They move us, delay us, and dismiss us.

And the cost keeps climbing: higher bills, higher fears, higher walls between us.

Even the heavens mirror us. In astronomy and astrology, Venus disappears from the sky for about forty days. The planet of love and connection retreats into shadow, turning inward, reevaluating. They call it retrograde which is time when light bends backward so that we might see what’s been hidden.

Maybe this season is a cosmic reflection of our own pause. A chance to ask: what still shines when everything goes dark?

I’m feeling a stirring in my spirit. Someone. Something. A current of justice waiting to rise. We need a voice. We need a people. We need a power that says, “We’ve had enough.”

Because forty days will come and go.

Eventually, rain stops. Ground dries. Hope breaks through the cracks.

But how we emerge will depend on what we do in the midst of the silence.

Have we only complained but not spoken up for others?

Have we lost so much strength that we are shrinking in our own skin?

Are we so anxious that every day feels like a repeat of the last?

Are we just angry, lashing out for the sake of lashing out?

Or are we being proactive? We are seeking wisdom, seeking guidance, seeking to move with courage and compassion again, right?

Someone needs to rise up.

Maybe it’s one of us. Maybe it’s all of us.

Maybe it’s a divine and undeniable wave rolling in to remind us who we are. And who we are becoming.

I hope that wave comes and ends the forty days of silence. Or however long it may be.

When this is all over, may we look back and say: we grew, we changed, we remembered.

We did not waste the waiting.

Autumn and The Art of Change

The month of October signaled a new season. Leaves are drifting softly. The air is cooling. Jackets and scarves are returning to their rightful places.

Nora, the main character of my upcoming children’s book, is a perfect reflection of fall itself. From her earliest sketch to her final form, she embodies transformation. Through her adventures and little hiccups, she’s taught me how to embrace change and press on with courage.

The Birth of the Butterscotch Cookie

Nora’s story began as a whisper in the springtime during a walk around Lake Artemisia. Her words landed in my notebook like a secret I was meant to keep.

Her butterscotch flavor was intentional. Not the most popular cookie in the jar but soft, sweet, and unforgettable. Butterscotch melts fast and lingers long; it can’t be ignored, even among more decadent aromas.

So my pencil spun the butterscotch chips, flour, and sugar. My breath gave her life, and inspiration brought the heat. When the oven bell rang, Nora the Butterscotch (with a capital B) cookie had risen. I then shared her with a few little friends whose joy lit up the room.

Three years later, she whispered again, asking to be seen by other children. That’s when I knew she needed to become a book filled with illustrations to match her courage.

From Pencil Lines to Possibility

Here she is — the earliest version of Nora, drawn long before she ever escaped the bakery.

She’s round, soft, and full of joy, her dotted surface hinting at the butterscotch chips she’ll one day wear proudly. With her bow perched high and hands on her hips, this Nora radiates confidence and sweetness all at once.

I drew her to capture her spirit: a cookie who already knew she was meant for more. She had her friends, her dreams, and plenty of attitude, even before her world was fully baked. This little sketch became the seed of everything that followed.

The Nora Concept Drawing

For the book, I wanted to work with someone familiar with digital illustration. There had to be someone who could truly understand Nora and all she is. Before I knew it, my cookie had started becoming.

This is the concept I created to help her step out of the sketchbook and into her world. With her golden butterscotch hue, bright blue bow, and joyful expression, I wanted to capture her curiosity and warmth before she was fully realized.

In this version, she stands proudly on her cookie hills, smiling into a wide blue sky. Nora is already beaming with confidence and wonder. I hoped the illustrator could feel her spirit through this drawing. It became the spark that set everything in motion.

So nervous little me reached out to an illustrator. I made my pitch, crossed my fingers, and hoped for the best for Nora. And before I knew it, I was delighted.

The Nora You’ll Meet

Here she is — the Nora you’ll meet in the pages of Nora Escapes the Bakery. This final illustration was beautifully completed by Brandon D. Gunning, a talented artist and illustrator whose vibrant style brought Nora’s spirit to life.

Brandon captured everything I imagined and more. I see her confidence, her warmth, and that spark of curiosity that started it all. From her expressive eyes to the soft glow of butterscotch light, he gave Nora the presence of a true storybook hero.

This is imagination coming full circle. From pencil lines to concept art to this polished illustration, Nora grew alongside me. She was changing, brightening, and finding her voice. Creativity, like fall itself, is full of transformation.

The Seasons of Nora

Looking back at these three versions of Nora feels like watching the seasons change. The first sketch was a quiet winter, full of potential. The concept drawing was colorful spring bursting with possibility. And this final version by Brandon is a golden autumn that is confident and fully alive.

Each version carries its own beauty, and together they remind me that stories grow just like we do. They need patience, revision, and trust in transformation. Nora changed with time, but her heart stayed the same. She’s always hopeful, curious, and ready to leap into the unknown. And maybe that’s the real art of becoming.

What’s on the Other Side of the Jar?

This cookie began as a conversation and turned into a concept. Once I caught the sweet smell of butterscotch determination, I knew Nora had to enter her next stage of becoming as a fully illustrated story ready for the world.

Even as my own October brought unexpected change, Nora reminded me that life is never complete without its seasons. She whispers that courage isn’t found in staying still, but in daring to see what’s on the other side of the jar.

Just like the little girl who once inspired this story, I find myself inspired by the character I created. Nora is a manifestation of transformation, and I’m learning to follow her crumbs, one adventure at a time.

So tell me, which version of Nora speaks to you most: the sketch, the concept, or the final?

Leave a comment

This story began during a season when I had to trust my imagination again. In the same way, Nora Escapes the Bakery shares the world of a spunky little cookie who dares to explore her dreams, all with a handful of courage and a heart full of crumbs.

About the Book

When a curious cookie named Nora decides she’s meant for more than life inside a jar, an unexpected adventure begins.

This Butterscotch cookie lives in a cozy seaside bakery where she can hear waves crashing and children laughing. But Nora isn’t one to sit still! She dares to see what lies beyond the sweet shop she calls home.

Fully illustrated and recommended for ages 5 to 9, Nora Escapes the Bakery is perfect for storytime or early readers. It’s also a wonderful resource for parents and educators who want to spark imagination, creativity, and courage through interactive storytelling.

Meet the Cookie Crew

Nora

A curious cookie who a spark of courage and hear full of crumbs and questions. She’s always wondered what lies beyond the bakery door, and she’s just daring enough to find out!

Preston

A clever macadamia cookie who believes in loyalty, laughter, and second chances. He’s the kind of friend who would follow a crumb trail anywhere even into the unknown.

Yellow Dog

A playful puppy with a nose for mischief and a heart as golden as his fur. Wherever he runs, adventure (and a little chaos) are sure to follow.

Gayle (The Baker)

A kind, creative, and warm soul who believes every cookie has a purpose, even the ones who dream too big. The bakery is her world of sugar, stories, and imagination.

The Spark Behind Nora

I began writing Nora Escapes the Bakery in the spring of 2020, during a time when the world felt uncertain. Around that time, I learned that my earlier stories had inspired children at a local daycare including one girl named Nora, whose imagination was boundless.

In her honor, I decided to trust my own inventiveness again. When I read the first draft to a group of children, they couldn’t stop laughing. They thought Nora and her friends were bold and funny. That was my kite-lifting-from-the-ground moment. I realized this was the kind of joy I wanted to bring to life.

Over the next five years, I polished the story and collaborated with an illustrator to help Nora and her world take shape. If you’ve read my last five poems in The Path of Becoming series, you’ve already met her spirit: she dreams, she’s brave, and she’s ready to let the wind take her wherever it pleases.

Nora Escapes the Bakery is ultimately a story about adventure and growth — how taking that first small step can lead us into unexpected lessons about connection, courage, and finding our way home.

A Glimpse Inside Chapter One

Before Nora takes her first step into the unknown, she’s just a cookie in a jar. Curious, restless, and dreaming of something more. Here’s a sneak peek inside Chapter 1 of Nora Escapes the Bakery:

Gayle loved the Butterscotch cookies most. She offered her favorite treats, but all the children answered, “No thank you!” Gayle grinned and packed the desserts each child had chosen into a gift box. They all scampered out the bakery and back to the shore. Gayle tapped the glass jar of Butterscotch cookies and giggled, “You may be trapped here forever.”

All the Butterscotches waited patiently for a child to take them home… well, everyone except one little cookie named Nora.

“I’m tired of sitting in this glassy old jar,” Nora pouted, folding her arms. “Nobody picks us— not near, not far!”

“Nora, sweet cookie, be still and have peace of mind. Butterscotches are chosen at just the right time,” the others chimed.

“That will never happen,” Nora wailed as she threw her arms in the air and wagged her head. “Maybe there is more to life than waiting inside a bakery!”

What Nora doesn’t know is that adventure sometimes begins with a single crack in the lid.

What’s Next on Nora’s Crumb Trail

Subscribe to this Substack to follow Nora’s Crumb Trail, the behind-the-scenes journey to publication! You’ll be the first to know when Nora Escapes the Bakery hits the shelves in Fall 2026.

Each month, I’ll share exclusive sneak peeks:

• Character color reveals

• Early sketches and concept art

• Reflections from my creative process

• Interactive activities and coloring pages for kids

Thank you for being part of this adventure from the very beginning. Nora’s journey is just getting started. Trust me. She can’t wait to meet you.

This past May, my writing took a new direction. You may have noticed that I’ve been exploring a different style. I’ve blended my usual storytelling with more symbolic imagery, concrete language, and lyrical writing. I wanted to grow in this area and share that growth with you through the Path of Becoming series. This change was about expanding my voice, not leaving my old voice behind. It’s been a season of learning and trusting new ways to express myself. That growth is leading me toward the next chapter of my creative journey. I hope this series blessed you.

How We Become Who We’re Meant to Be

Becoming is the lifelong process of growing into who we truly are by learning, discovering new parts of ourselves, and changing. It means allowing life to shape us without losing our curiosity. There are chapters where we let mistakes teach us instead of define us. And in times where we feel unfinished, we trust we are still enough.

Each poem in this series was both personal and universal. They were drawn from my own journey but written for anyone navigating their own “becoming.” I shared my fears, my failures, and my joys. I also explored how creativity, courage, and community lift us higher than we can imagine.

I intentionally never mentioned perfection because it doesn’t have a place here. This isn’t about showing off a pristine version of ourselves. Becoming is about listening, forsaking, stepping out, dancing, and taking in the joy that is ahead of us. Ultimately, the fruits of becoming are shown in our movements, from one path to another.

Listening for the Voice Within

When I wrote, He Had Always Been Afraid to Be a Butterfly, I honed in on the idea of stillness and listening.

There were moments in the poem where the caterpillar realized he had to pause before taking flight:

But when my cocoon formed,

I feared what was on the outside.

Or rather, I feared the worst once I finally emerged…

I waited for a shout from the mountaintops.

But only the wind whispered.

It was mostly stillness

during echoes of chaos,

long pauses that caught my attention...

The sound of my own voice echoed inside the cocoon…

I spoke life into myself inside my own shell.

Looking back on this I realized my worries concerned others’ thoughts instead of my own insight.

Stillness is the space between who we were and who we are becoming. It’s the peace that lets transformation take root. It’s the listening place. It’s the hush of the wind, the hum of our breath, the waiting period before our petals bloom and our wings unfurl.

In stillness, we learn that movement doesn’t always start as motion. It can begin as introspection. It is listening inward.

I understand a lot is happening in the world right now, and it can feel difficult to be contemplative. But maybe it’s time to turn off the news or silence the notifications. It might be a moment to unplug and disconnect, giving myself the opportunity to hear the voice inside me. I spend enough time listening to outside noise. Today, however, I attend to the calm within me for a change.

But stillness doesn’t last forever. Once I begin to hear myself again, that quiet voice often points toward change. That calm gives me the courage to leave the cocoon.

Forsaking What Doesn’t Serve Us

The Girl Who Left the Orchard describes a Buttercup flower intentionally walking away from her home in search of her true self and her tribe.

She left The Orderly Orchard

when the breeze outside the vines

called her name…

…she stepped outside

the straight and narrow path.

She did not pack sorrow

but it still slipped into her bag,

tucked between the need to grow

and the ache for something more.

I’m noticing here that the flower feels both uncertainty and courage. Two opposing emotions. She steps anyway.

What does it mean for her exit to leave her community? Her home. Her things. It means she is choosing to forgo everything she once identified with or was attached to. She is saying goodbye to whomever or whatever belongs to that orchard. She may be unconsciously accepting the grief that will jump inside her duffel bag as she walks away.

Leaving is painful, but I learned that there are times when it is necessary:

She did not return to The Orderly Orchard.

But something sacred met her on the path.

Familiars. Friends.

A grove of courageous Wildflowers kissed by the Sun

and drinking from an ever-moving stream.

I’m seeing that the Buttercup may have looked back prior, but she didn’t turn around. Not even once. With heaviness looming about her, she kept strolling hoping something better was ahead: a source of strength and fountain of affirmation.

One of the biggest hurdles in leaving people, places, or things is the fear of rejection. It hurts— especially if you have spent years building close connections and found meaning. But think of it this way: when the Buttercup exited the orchard, she headed to another destination as the trees flapped closed behind her. It comes to my attention that sometimes rejection is just redirection. That’s becoming.

The Buttercup looked back at the orchard but kept walking until she encountered Bright Mother Sun. It may have felt good to stay behind or bend to the control of others. She had always done so. Doing the same thing over and over can be comfortable. But the flower discovered along the way that it was also stagnant.

Safety isn’t always growth.

Could it be time for you to step out and move on to a new destination in your life? Open the door and see— something brighter… something more plentiful… something more assuring could be waiting for you on the other side.

Leaving often brings fear with it. So, after the orchard, the next challenge is learning to step forward even so.

Stepping Out from Fear

The poems Where the Lily Pad Waited and The Dragon Who Became a Peacock both touch on this idea of actively coming out of hiding and overcoming fear.

She tucked her legs into her warm shell,
in her comfy makeshift home,
away from that cage of a world…

The wind whispered to his soul,
but the armored bug named it danger.
So he stayed still,
mindlessly tracing his questions into bark.

He wore his scales like armor

yet they whispered ‘bout his walk.

He stayed in pose, avoiding suspicion.

Kept his true colors beneath a thick smock.

Rereading these two excerpts, I see that staying away, staying still, and staying beneath were early signs of fear for these three characters.

Why do we hide like the ladybug and the little dragon? Why do we freeze in taking action as the beetle did?

I figured out that fear tells us we are safer if we are small. We are secure when we are are not an inconvenience. It convinces us that staying still means we will not break. It whispers that failure will destroy us, that rejection will define us, that our light will draw too much attention. Fear dresses itself as wisdom. It cosplays as caution. If we’re not careful, fear could even sound like logic. In reality, fear is longing. In our fear, we long to be seen, comforted, and affirmed. The truth is that fear does not protect us from pain. Fear protects us from growth. And when we give it too much attention, we mistake fear for gospel truth.

Becoming often means taking a risk despite what fear whispers. Once we step out, we may begin to find others who are taking the same step, like the ladybug and beetle. We’ll see that stepping off the branch of fear gives us room to fulfill the true longings of our heart. A lily pad of comfort. A fire of protection. Voices of assurance.

Fear doesn’t disappear, but we can still move despite its presence. We can trust and take action, whether that’s a literal step or a drop in the ocean. Maybe the first step away from fear is taking off a mask. Maybe it’s waltzing directly into the fire—with our head held high.

Dancing in the Midst of Shame

Recall both the peacock in The Dragon poem and the “Boy Kite” in my color guard story.

His bright feathered tail spread in full color...

In that holy flame, he started to twirl.

He danced where they expected disgrace.

Finally, he was higher than fear.

…his chest poked out.

A sigh flared from his nostrils.

His mind reassured his heart,

“Step right. Swing left.

I got this part.”

I love how their small strides (when put together) made for a grand display of strength.

The peacock and the boy were hiding to keep their sense of self secure. They hid to reduce shame because their brightness was not accepted. But later, they understood they had to let go of their false sense of security and unfurl the wings they had been keeping from everybody.

To dance in the midst of shame is to remember your body still belongs to you. It’s choosing movement when everything in you wants to hide. It’s the quiet rebellion of joy in a place that once told you to shrink. The fire that circles around you is not something to fear. That light reveals the truth— that you are still here. You’re still worthy. You’re still full of beauty. To dance in shame’s presence is to honor your own journey. Dancing lets grace free you from suppression and control.

Becoming involves twirling in circles that show your brightness; just expect the heat.

What would it look like for you to put your light on display despite the naysayers? How would it feel to let the scales fall and just prance?

When we learn to dance through shame, freedom follows. It’s the kind that lets us look forward with joy.

Taking Joy in What Is to Come

Let’s take a final look at the reflection part of The Boy Kite that Billowed, and focus on the kite imagery.

Each swing of the flag felt like a string pulling me upward…

I was a kite in the air, bright and bold swinging with the pockets of the wind…

I let gusts of wind pick me up knowing if I fell another gale was coming.

Whew… It dawned on me that to trust is to rely on something while not completely knowing the outcome.

To take joy in looking forward is to live with open hands. It means meeting tomorrow not with fear or control, but with curiosity and gratitude for what is still unfolding. The boy and his kite remind us that hope is the wind that lifts us. Perfection does nothing. Even when the string trembles or slips from our grip, something greater carries us onward. Looking forward with joy is an act of trust. It’s like having a vision. We see a celebration of the unseen paths that rise to meet us when we dare to lift our eyes.

Becoming involves listening. It includes trusting. It invites acceptance and the work of de-shaming. But it’s also about movement. When our soul is ready, we move into what’s next.

Closing

So here we are, at the end of this Path of Becoming series. But it’s not the end of the journey.

Every path teaches its own language of becoming. This path I am on taught me to trust what’s still forming. That trust has taken shape as something brand new: a story I can’t wait to share with you the next time we meet.

Until then, may you keep lifting like kites, dancing in fire, and stepping boldly into your own becoming.

Teammate Christina and I getting ready to march! Color Guard. October 20, 2006.

The boy lifted his head

Echoing the director’s rhythm:

“Mark time mark.

Five. Six. Seven. Eight.”

He pumped his thighs.

The shells in his plaits pounced against burning ears.

His toes retraced

The steps orchestrated

On his front lawn

As Hopeless waves

Crashed

Disguised as sweat beads.

Their purple flags

Flopped like birds

Unsteady in the air.

Velvet rippled,

Edges quivered,

And his misery whispered.

“Flag straight,”

The boy reminded himself.

“Drop spin, drop spin,”

He recited like a prayer.

Smiling wide,

His eyes sought approval.

One teammate tilted her head

As his signal to

Spread his wings,

Swoop the pole downward,

And twist his arms behind

To form the butterfly.

Onlookers snickered at the broken kite whipped by the wind.

But his chest poked out.

A sigh flared from his nostrils.

His mind reassured his heart,

“Step right. Swing left.

I got this part.”


Off the field,

He was still billowing;

Swaying with the wind

Only to crash hard.

Reflections from the Sidelines

As I grew older, it became clear: I was battling depression as a teenager. At Amherst County High, I felt disconnected; out of place, cut off, and missing my old school. I chose isolation over trying to fit in. That stayed true until an opportunity came: color guard.

A tryout poster hung in the hallway when I was in 11th grade. I took a chance and went since I had nothing else going on. I wasn’t a part of any club or group. I remember that hot after-school tryout like it was yesterday. I was the only boy there who auditioned. We were all given a dance number. I was nervous, but a rush of excitement carried me. I followed the instructor’s directions, unsure anything would come of it. Soon after, the names were posted on the bulletin board and somehow, I was chosen along with 10 girls. There I was:

Introverted. Black. Whispering queer.

And I had no idea what I got myself into nor the creativity it would bring out of me.

For one, we built makeshift flags. The bright pink, purple and silver pieces stood out from a pile of heavy, hideous flags. We fastened them with black duct tape at the top and bottom of the poles.

Then, every weekday after school we had to rehearse especially for the first game. Somehow, when I finally got the steps down, my spirit came alive. I wasn’t the fragile Dominique hiding behind baggy jeans, tall t-shirts, and Air Force Ones. I was stripped down to gym shorts and a T-shirt learning flag movements such as the Butterfly. Each swing of the flag felt like tethering myself to the wind as if I was training to be a kite.

We were encouraged to take our flags home and practice. Picture a closeted teenager, spinning a flag in front of the whole neighborhood. I kept at it until I marched on the field with my girls in a bright purple velvet tank, wide-legged black pants, and braids beaded at the ends. I stood out, no question. But each swing of the flag felt like a string pulling me upward.

From day one, I was thrilled about practices, games, and competitions. More of my true self revealed itself in color guard. Sadness turned into satisfaction. That feeling of being left out dissipated. My affiliation with the marching band and my team earned me quite a bit of recognition from peers who would otherwise not acknowledge me.

But the real drastic change came my senior year.

I continued into color guard, but this time the girls elected me as a captain. Once again, the lone boy in a sea of sequins. The band director announced that we will be dancing to Michael Jackson’s Thriller, and the captain was responsible for coming up with the guard choreography. I wasn’t a professional cheerleader or dance coach, but our color guard teacher believed in me, and I was entrusted to the task.

I’ll never forget that day. I came home from school, stepped into the front yard, and blasted the band’s version of Thriller. Within hours, I had the silhouette of a routine. Depression wasn’t gone, but it quieted. I was too busy laughing, too busy moving. By the time we marched it on the field, our team danced to steps I had shaped. It was incredible. Life-giving. I looked forward even more to mornings, practices, and Friday nights. Pepping up classmates, teachers, football players, and my family filled me with pride.

In marching band, it felt like I was floating. I was a kite in the air, bright and bold swinging with the pockets of the wind. The truth that I discovered during joining color guard is that there is joy of what’s ahead in the path to becoming. This freedom didn’t eliminate depression, but the delight gave me something to look forward to. A flag to twirl. A dance number to learn in the hallway. A Friday night to count down. Color guard took the rock inside of me and turned it into soft sand. I let gusts of wind pick me up knowing if I fell another gale was coming.

We are all kites, learning to catch the wind, finding our way into the sky. The Path of Becoming is certainly not easy. But it is open.

guarded, hushed, and watched.

He wore his scales like armor

yet they whispered ‘bout his walk.

He stayed in pose, avoiding suspicion.

Kept his true colors beneath a thick smock.

“Blink slow. Speak timid. So your voice doesn’t shimmer.”

Yet their whispers kindled.

Their scrutiny went ablaze!

Accused

of being what he’d always known…

The pressure ignited

and instead of shrinking, the dragon strutted into the flames.

Better to burn with truth than let the spirit go dim.

As he walked through fire,

his old armor cracked.

One by one, his false selves melted,

oozing like wax.

As fate removed the veil,

he was unmasked. But seen.

That long held secret couldn’t hold water anymore.

His bright feathered tail spread in full color.

From the ashes, a new creation emerged.

Ascended.

Scandalous.

Still sacred.

In that holy flame, he started to twirl.

He danced where they expected disgrace.

The peacock didn’t seek praise.

He didn’t need their forgiveness.

Confidence airborne.

The Sky, his witness.

Finally, he was higher than fear.

Not confined by any image.

They called it sin, but heaven said he soared.

Fear had been relinquished.

His fire, never quenched.

And now, he burns bright in the sky.

He’s been himself ever since.

On Becoming My Brightest Self

“The bearded dragon lived among humans… guarded, hushed, and watched.”

In the summer of 2020, while the world was on lockdown, I sat alone with my own truth. I wasn’t reading a self help book. I didn’t join a support group. I didn’t even text anyone. I just sat in silence. Contemplating. And listening to the call of my heart.

I knew I was different. Queer AND Christian. This was not some new discovery. But those two realities were never allowed in the same room. Until that summer.

That was the first time I truly LET GO.

“Yet they whispered ‘bout his walk.

He stayed in pose, avoiding suspicion.”

Even isolated, I wanted to celebrate the truth that two realities could be one. So, I updated my Facebook cover photo to a Pride flag. I was terrified, anxious, and excited at the same time.

But I didn’t changed my cover photo to prove something. I updated it to honor me.

I was unfurling the feathers I’d spent years hiding, now finally ready to strut.

Of course, the whispers came. The quiet betrayals. The rescinded invites. The sideways glances from people who once called me brother in Christ. There were murmurs and messages exchanged behind closed doors. People talked. Formed prayer circles. And people I thought were in my corner chose silence or kicked me out of Bible study.

“The pressure ignited. And instead of shrinking, the dragon strutted into the flames.”

I waved my flag and felt like I was floating. Nah, I was flying!

Spiritually, emotionally, cosmically I had entered another layer of the atmosphere. This sacred, invisible ozone made for people who could finally stop hiding. I floated through clouds of shame.

To others, it may have looked like a fall from grace. Some would say I left the “straight and narrow” path. The same people who didn’t listen to understand or sat with me in difficult times. Yet my wings unfolded from my spine. From my vantage point, I was airborne. I was FREE.

“As he walked through fire,

his old armor cracked… That long held secret couldn’t hold water anymore.”

The shells were gone. The self-protection. The silence. That church-approved dimming of my light…

It all melted away.

And what shimmered underneath was flamboyant. There wasn’t a broken piece apart of me anymore. It was no infirmity…

I was fully me.

“His bright feathered tail spread in full color. From the ashes, a new creation emerged.”

The truth is I am many things. Christian. Queer. Creative. Emotional. Brave. Soft. Reserved. Playful. Powerful.

I am ten colors. Ten adventures. Ten voices. Like Ben 10, I shapeshift into ten divine super strengths. If you know, you know…

I don’t need to shrink into a fragile little dragon just to please others. Ha! I can dance in the fire. I can dance in the middle of anything. And I’m gonna do it every time.

“Confidence airborne. The Sky, his witness. Finally, he was higher than fear. Not confined by any image.”

This poem is about the person who walked through fire to find themselves. It’s about the person who had to shed something old just to breathe something true.

It’s a reminder that becoming isn’t about other people’s approval. It’s about moving forward into the fullness of who you are. With all your FEATHERS, all your FIRE, and all your FABULOUS.

The next time you’re told that your color is too much… whenever you’re pushed to hide your brightness… or held back from dancing, this is your invitation to twirl in the holy flame…

Spin. Float. And soar into becoming.

On the other side of the cabin,
a beetle balanced on a bending branch.
He admired the view of the foggy lake
and wondered if the lake felt cold.
He even peeked down…
but he hated the waiting.
The wind whispered to his soul,
but the armored bug named it danger.
So he stayed still,
mindlessly tracing his questions into bark.

The ladybug began pacing,
from head of the loaf to bay leaf,
staring up at the glass
as a hand cracked the lid open.
Her eyes lit up.

She licked her face thinking,
I’ve never tasted this sky.
She thought all names came from spice jars.

The beetle twitched in place.
A chipmunk jumped.
The branch cracked beneath him.
The sun changed color.
Yellows became gold,
and something inside him said:
You don’t have to be sure.
You just have to move.

The lid slid up.
The branch broke off.
Neither ladybug nor beetle leapt.
But both leaned.
Their wings fluttered in the not-yet,
antennae felt for the maybe,
feelers hanging on to something greater than fear.

They met in the quietest of moments,
where there was room to breathe
and there were no cans or boxes.
No introductions.

Just a look that said,
You too?

They landed on a lily pad
unplanned, but possible.
The pond held them in place.
The sky hummed above.
They didn’t have a name for this experience.
The ladybug just knew she was floating.
The beetle felt that he was being held.
Both bugs embraced that becoming
which had brought them here.

There they sat.
The lily pad breathed.
They watched the waters ripple
and joined in song with the sky.

🌱 Sometimes we all get stuck in our own little lids. We are afraid to move, afraid to leap. But just beyond that fear might be someone else, also trying to find their way. Becoming means trusting that we’re not alone when we take brave steps toward something new. You never know what’s on the other side of fear until you take your first step… even if that step is a fall.

✨This reflection is part of my poetic series: Path of Becoming. One baked adventure is coming soon. 🍪

She left The Orderly Orchard

when the breeze outside the vines

called her name.

Not a shout.

Not a shrill.

Just a quiet shift in the wind.

Something inside her trekked forward,

and she stepped outside

the straight and narrow path.

She did not pack sorrow

but it still slipped into her bag,

tucked between the need to grow

and the ache for something more.

The village she left did not wilt

or deviate from what it built.

But it whispered without her.

And in her chest,

a seed wasn’t being cultivated.

She wasn’t sure if it was the Oughts,

or the Orchard,

or the Order

that she left behind.

Only that she was hiking

with half of herself.

Still, she danced when no one watched.

She laughed louder with strangers.

She stared at the night sky

and the stars blinked back.

Adventure became the medicine.

But even in joy,

even in the wide open fields,

she wondered:

Will I ever be whole again?

And that’s when the Sun came.

Not with answers.

Not with arguments.

Just arms.

Bright Mother Sun wrapped herself around the girl

and whispered:

“I have never left you,

and there is nothing missing.

You can’t be uprooted.”

With that, the girl did not return

to the Orchard she came from.

But she carried affinity within

and it carried her.

Onto new grounds.

Into new gardens.

With new growth.

And with time

and tears

and tender guidance from the Sun who never left,

the girl who once hiked with half of herself

began to bloom into the Buttercup she’d always been.

She found laughter that lingered.

Hands that held without holding her back.

Eyes that saw her, not as she had been,

but as she was becoming.

She did not return to The Orderly Orchard.

But something sacred met her on the path.

Familiars. Friends.

A grove of courageous Wildflowers kissed by the Sun

and drinking from an ever-moving stream.

And in that warmth,

the Buttercup remembered:

She was never lost.

She was always becoming.

That was enough.

More than enough.

That was whole.

✨This reflection is part of my poetic series: Path of Becoming. A certain cookie-sized adventure is coming soon. 🍪

What does it mean to know you’re meant for more and still stay still?

He had always been afraid to be a butterfly

See, he never knew what it was like to touch the sky.

Since he was small, he crawled on all six legs,

content to search the earth for leaves and twigs.

Accustomed to stillness.

Silence.

Stoicism. Stagnation.

But he contemplated change…

some transformation.

Satisfying. Serene.

No metamorphosis, just meditation.

The caterpillar hesitated. He waited.

He contemplated.

He knew it was inevitable,

the growth of his wings,

the brilliance of color,

the transfiguration of his entire being.

He always wondered what it would feel like

to be a butterfly.

To finally soar.

To finally touch the sky.

And yet,

he waited.

I’ve been living in a cocoon for most of my adult life.

It’s not that I didn’t have the awareness that I was growing.

Those ten toes I once walked on gave me away,

skills, talents, gifts, quirks.

Clearly, I was caterpillar at some point,

weaving about, exploring what the world had to offer me.

But when my cocoon formed,

I feared what was on the outside.

Or rather, I feared the worse once I finally emerged.

I waited for a shout from the mountaintops.

But only the wind whispered.

It was mostly stillness

during echoes of chaos,

long pauses that caught my attention.

I expected someone to crack open the shell for me,

to neatly place me into an assigned space.

Just like always.

But it didn’t feel right.

So when someone knocked, I didn’t answer.

I wanted a crowd to rally around me,

to validate how I felt in that cocoon.

But it wasn’t enough

And never had been.

Something much more significant had to occur.

That shift is something I will never forget.

The sound of my own voice echoed inside the cocoon.

“Yes, I am a caterpillar! But now, I’m becoming something greater.”

The words repeated like a song on replay.

“I’m becoming… I’m becoming… I’m becoming.”

Instead of waiting for a shout, a knock, or a gathering,

I spoke life into myself inside my own shell.

Only then did I feel the flamboyant wings

begin to sprout from my spine.

Complete change still didn’t come,

at least not at the rate I wanted or expected.

Yet I noticed a little evolution.

I wasn’t a butterfly yet,

but I began to leave rooms that made me smaller.

I said no for the first time,

and didn’t make any apologies.

I stopped asking for permission to be whole.

Only then did I see for myself a change was occurring before my eyes.

It’s happening now,

even as I write this.

I’m only just realizing

I never finished the poem about becoming a butterfly

because I am becoming a butterfly.

This moment is sacred.

No matter what waits for me out there once the shell breaks,

the moment is mine.

Maybe you’re still in the shell.

Maybe your wings are already forming.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s your time to stop waiting.

I don’t know.

All I can say is I hope that you choose yourself first,

and see the changes happening around you.

Your growth, your brilliance,

your transfiguration—

that’s what makes you who you are, little caterpillar.

This reflection is part of a series on becoming. I’ll be sharing more soon about a story I’ve been baking for young hearts.

If you’re reading this, you’ve probably walked with me for a while—through erasure poems, odes, short fiction, and soft places between the lines. This space, once devanseli.substack.com, has grown into its next form:

🌐 www.devanseli.com

That’s right. We are elevating, expanding, and etching ourselves into the fabric of published literature. So please update your bookmarks, and if you're new here, welcome to the fold.

Don’t worry—this is still a home for poetry, reflection, and story.
This place is still a cloak, the perfectly wrapped warm blanket of kindness to self and grace.

But in the quiet moments, something new has been rising—not quite what you’re used to from me.

Let’s just say:
There’s a cookie.
There’s wonder.
And there’s a different kind of magic coming soon.

I’ve been working on a project for younger readers—something playful, heart-filled, and full of life. It’s very different from what you’ll find in the archives here. But it still carries my voice, my rhythm, and my love for the downtrodden.

I can’t wait to share more when the time is right. Until then, thank you for continuing to read, dream, and imagine with me.

With deep gratitude,
Devans

embraced his touch

…when I had the chance.

My father,

gently wiping my ears of wax,

and smudging my face

to make sure it wasn’t dirty.

Nowadays, when I smell cigarettes

I can feel his hands

rub across my cheeks.

He brushed my hair

and straightened out the wrinkles

in my shirt.

Only dads do such things.

The intimate charismatic,

yet firm handle of affection

that fathers offer –

because they are paternal beings –

yes,

I should have

embraced his touch

…when I had the chance.

Written by Devans Eli. Copyright 2024 by Devans Eli. All rights reserved.

The birth is free 

This water, this land 

This earth is free 

Freedom is a will 

Freedom is a choice 

The quest, the answer 

Freedom is the voice 

This second is free 

This hour is free 

This vote, this ruler 

This power is free 

Freedom is the judge 

Freedom is the state 

The proof, the truth 

Freedom is the hate 

This teacher is free 

This learner is free 

This steel, this lead 

This murder is free 

Freedom is provoked 

Freedom is denied 

Freedom is ignored 

Whatever's free is a lie.

Written by Devans Eli. Copyright 2024 by Devans Eli. All rights reserved.

The boy who’s kryptonite is rejection.

The one who finally escaped abandonment.

Only to find his soul once again tortured.

I want you to know, Little Dominique.

You are not the sum of any misfortunes.

You are worthy. You are lovable. You are able to belong.

You are seen by a God who is all and in all.

He knew exactly what He was doing.

When He stood around all that existed

And realized someone intrinsic was missing.

My love, it was you He envisioned.

With His Breath, He chose to breathe.

With His Words, He chose to speak.

He perfectly designed your very essence.

From the crown of your head to the sole of your feet.

He broadcasted his Work of Art to all of Earth and Heaven.

He put you on display as He was proud of who manifested.

He declared that, “You are good. You are sublime.”

You are Purity, Beauty, and Excellence intertwined.

Twin, You are even The Splitting Image of the Divine.

I might even say The Apple of His Eye.

Anything else you have heard was a lie.

You have been Adorned by God before inception.

You were born with purpose and you are a message.

You and the Most High have always been connected.

If God is good, then you are the evidence.

Anything contrary to this is just a misconception.

Your quest to find meaning in life was your own decision.

You looked for your Creator before anyone introduced you to religion.

You were always led to seek divine answers.

When you were met with unfavorable circumstances.

You were directed to New Hope Baptist Church in Virginia.

But you opened your own mouth to read the scriptures.

In front of the entire congregation, you shared your gifts.

As words of prophecy and blessing spilled from your lips.

You saw everyone drink of the wine and eat of the bread.

You may have been nine. But your soul desired to be fed.

You immersed your body in the cold rigid waters.

Because you were already one with the Father.

You highlighted verses in the King James Version.

Words that you couldn’t pronounce

But one day, would be apart of your own sermon.

Nobody directed you to read or pray

Or ask God to save you from secrets you faced.

It was of your own volition that

You took steps in faith.

Whether the Mount Caramel Shuttle or Uncle George’s van,

You found a way into Sunday School.

The Lord had you in His Hand.

You are His child and He never looked at you any differently.

No matter what was said about your propensities.

Your feminine tendencies. Your high pitched melodies.

Your playing with Barbies. Your artistic remedies.

Your academic excellency. And your reserved personality.

Inner Child, God is in all those things.

God is a single mother working two jobs, looking after her young.

God is a cancer survivor dancing and singing at the top of her lungs.

God is a toddler drawing pictures to distract himself from abuse.

God is a teenager becoming a man without a father in view.

Some people have pulled at your fabric and caused many tears.

Some have intentionally ripped the garment of praise you wear.

You may only see strands of brokenness and unloose braids.

But you are crocheted by a Creator whose love is threaded in your DNA.

You didn’t ask to be taken apart… to be unfastened.

And I’m sorry you had to hide everything that happened.

It’s all buried deep in the crevices of your subconscious.

You were protecting yourself which is why I’ve proceeded with caution.

Dominique, You shouldn’t have been forced to give a performance.

You didn’t have to adjust your speech for others to be at ease.

I’m sorry you had to alter your appearance

And accept terms and conditions of a corrupted creed.

You were meant to be loved by a family.

Not just selected for membership.

You were meant to have a clear head.

Not a brain filled with emptiness.

You were meant to believe freely.

Not be a slave to religion’s curse.

You were built with healing properties

To prepare you for the absolute worst.

I know childhood is something you prefer to forget.

Because of the pain and what it cost.

I agree the spiritual trauma is best left suppressed.

Because of the heartache. And actions of the flock.

But Dominique, I am forever. Forever indebted

To you to do the work and recover what was lost.

We will triumph side by side. Through blood, tears, and sweat.

Like the criminal, thief, and Son on the cross.

Rejection may be your kryptonite

But resilience is your super strength.

I will be a witness to your victory!

I will see your redemption come through.

Little Dominique, it’s going to be okay.

You are safe with me, and I love you.

Written by Devans Eli. Copyright 2024 by Devans Eli. All rights reserved.