Yesterday, I Cried

by IYANLA VANZANT

  Iyanla Vanzant

  I took the letter and the pictures outside to the hole my husband had dug with a spoon. After saying a brief prayer for Rhonda, I set each picture on fire in the hole, allowing the smoke to rise. I kissed the letter, placed it on top of the remnants of the burned pictures, and covered the hole. After praying again, I knew that I had brought Rhonda’s life to closure. The only thing left to do was to bring closure to the things she had put in place in my life, her relationship with Karen.

  For three days, I tried to figure out just what to say and how to say it. I wrote it down, thinking I could read it. I practiced it over and over in my mind and out loud. Each time I reached for the telephone, my mouth would go dry and my palms would begin to sweat. I was about to do a new thing, ask for exactly what I wanted. I was prepared to do it in a new way, honestly. I was willing, but I was also scared to death. What do you want? I want to tell this woman—a sister and friend who has served me—that our time together is over. What is your greatest strength? God. What is your greatest weakness? Not trusting God. What is your greatest fear? That God is not home today. No. Just kidding. I have no fear because I know God is with me. Whenever you declare yourself to be a thing, everything unlike you will challenge you! The remnants of fear were definitely challenging me. What am I afraid of? Are you afraid, or are you ashamed? Afraid and ashamed. I think I am ashamed that I did not see this before now. I am ashamed that I stayed in this so long, that I didn’t have the courage to leave before now. What are you afraid of? I am afraid she will get mad at me. I am afraid she will not like me or love me anymore. Are you afraid or is Rhonda afraid?

  It was like a bucket of cold water in my face. This was still about Rhonda. Iyanla was trying to move through Rhonda’s fear and shame. The same fear and shame that had ruled her life. What should I do? Why is she still so ashamed? My body was beginning to tremble. I was fighting the urge to cry. Ken Kizer, one of my teachers and counselors, had once told me, “When you feel the fear coming up in your body, drop your hands to your sides and let it come up. Don’t fight it. Don’t deny it the right to exist. It will probably feel like you are about to die. The only thing you will die to is the fear. You will live long enough to see that it will not kill you.”

  I did exactly what Ken said, I dropped my hands to my sides and let my body shake and tremble. My stomach flipped. Sweat broke out on my brow. What is Rhonda afraid of? What is she so guilty about? The words came from a place in the pit of my stomach. One at a time they entered my brain, “You are guilty because you killed your mother!” What? How did I do that? I was crying out loud now. My brain was stuck on the words. Your guilt comes from the belief that you killed your mother! I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t move. You are guilty of killing your mother! The only thing I could think to do was pray. Hold not thy peace,O Lord of my praise, for the mouth of the wicked and the mouth of the deceitful are opened against me. Have mercy, Lord. Forgive me, Lord. Restore me, Lord. Your grace is my sufficiency. Over and over I said the words out loud until my body stopped trembling. When it did, I put my head down on the desk and cried.

  This was too big for me to do alone. I picked up the telephone and called Ken. His wife, René, answered the telephone.

  “René. I killed my mother. How did I kill my mother?” I was wailing into the telephone. I don’t know how she knew it was me.

  “Just breathe, baby. Come on, breathe with me. Take a breath. Now tell me what happened.”

  I told René about burying Rhonda and trying to release Karen as my agent. I told her about the thought that had popped into my brain and what happened to my body.

  “You know that’s not what really happened. Take a breath and tell me what really happened. Close your eyes and breathe with me.” René and I took several deep breaths together. When I was calm enough to talk, I let the words pour out of my mouth.

  “Everyone said that if my mother had not had me, she would not have died. I’ve heard that most of my life. ‘Your mother should have never had you. She should have had the operation.’ No one ever explained it to me, they just said it. In my mind, I concluded that somehow, because of me being born, my mother died. Then I blocked it out.” René was breathing harder than I was.

  “You know that you and your mother had a soul agreement. You both agreed that she would leave you so that you could learn. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I do know that. I guess I just forgot.”

  “Those bastards! You know they did not say those things in love, right? What did they take from you by saying that? Do you know what they took?”

  “No.”

  “Your innocence. You are innocent, Iyanla. Say that with me, I am innocent. I have innocence.” I repeated the words with René.

  “You are innocent. Please remember that. It is your innocence that allows you to love yourself. You have done nothing wrong. You kept your agreement, and your mother kept hers.”

  As René and I talked, something else came to my mind. I was too shaken to share it with her, so I thanked her and promised to call later. My thoughts were racing. I grabbed my journal out of my bag, a pen from the basket on my desk, and began to write.

  I always thought that Uncle Leroy took my innocence. Now I realize he did not. What he did was misinterpret my cry for love. I was a loveless child, crying out for love and attention. I was willing to do anything to get love and feel love. Uncle Leroy heard my cry, he saw what I needed, but he misinter preted it. He tried to love me the only way he knew how, sexually. He was not trying to hurt me, he was trying to love me. Just like I misinterpreted what they said about my mother, he misinterpreted my thoughts and my energy. I felt guilty, and he acted out my guilt. The truth is, I was innocent, and he was innocent. We were both in the pain of not knowing what to do about what we were feeling. Uncle Leroy did not steal my innocence. Misinterpretation and misjudgment did. Today I know that I am innocent of all things, for all times. I forgive myself for thinking I ever did anything wrong. I forgive myself for thinking Uncle Leroy ever did anything wrong. We both did the best we could do based on what we believed to be true at the time.

  The minute I put the pen down, my body stopped shaking and the tears dried up. I took a deep breath, closed the journal, and went for a walk. I had to be with and integrate this new information.

  The day after my revelation, I was still not ready to speak to Karen, but I knew I had to bring closure to our experience. It was an experience that kept me in the shadows of guilt. My fear was that I was not yet strong enough in Iyanla’s identity to endure the tongue-lashing I believed she would give me. I called Ken to share with him my dilemma. “Don’t call her, write her. You don’t have to be punished. If you really believe she will abuse you verbally, why would you call? The issue here is not how you do it; the issue is that you get it done. Write her.”

  What an absolutely brilliant idea! It doesn’t have to be hard, Iyanla. It doesn’t have to hurt.

  I wrote Karen a five-line letter.

  Dear Karen:

  I got it! Thank you. Our time together has come to an end. I am so grateful to you for all you have done for me. I am grateful for your willingness to participate in my healing. I know that sometime in the future our paths will cross again. Take care of yourself.

  Be Blessed!

  Iyanla

  After I mailed the letter to Karen, I notified everyone who needed to know about the change in our relationship. In the process, I discovered that Karen was away on vacation and would not be back for two weeks. On the day she was scheduled to return, I called her to tell her about the letter. She asked me what it said. When I told her, she said, “Oh. Okay. Did I do something? Are you mad at me about something?”

  “No, Karen. This is not about you. This is about me learning to take care of myself. You have been nothing but a blessing to me.”

  “Okay. Just know that if you ever need me I am here.”

  “I know that, and I thank you.”

>   CHAPTER NINETEEN

  What’s the Lesson When You Do It All Wrong and It Turns Out All Right?

  Eventually, the time of action must come. When this happens, be a winner! Don’t settle for mediocre results. Don’t try to stay even. Go for it all!

  Deng Ming-Dao, in Everyday Tao: Living With Balance and Harmony

  I KNEW THE MOMENT I saw him.

  We were talking on the telephone for the first time in years. I brought him up to speed on the recent events of my life. And he, in turn, told me what was happening in his life. He was ending a five-year relationship. Four months earlier, I had ended a three-year relationship. Now we were talking to each other about all of the things we had learned.

  Adeyemi was still living in Atlanta. He had put three of his sons through high school and was facing an empty nest. He sounded like a mother about to lose her children. Once again, he was turning to me for counseling. I knew this was not going to be a case of me being in his head, but I wasn’t quite sure how to say it.

  He must have known it too, although I think it took him a little longer to catch on than it took me. I was a different person now. Iyanla had been born. She was still growing, but at least she knew who she was and what she wanted. I also knew that no matter what happened, I was going to love this man for the rest of my life. I would love him no matter what he decided to do. I had learned how to love from a distance, and I was just glad that we were talking.

  Over the next few months, we talked a great deal. Every day, in fact. No matter where I was in the country, I would call. He was having a hard time, coming out of one relationship, on the verge of starting another. We talked about patterns. We talked about our unconscious needs. We talked about healing and growth. But rarely did we talk about us. At least not until I laid eyes on him.

  Love will take your breath away. When you really experience the “holy instance” of love, it will rattle your brain and take your breath away. I know. It happened to me when I saw Adeyemi waiting for me at the gate when I got off the plane. A chill ran from the bottom of my feet straight to the top of my head. For a second, my sight blurred and my breathing stopped. I wanted to laugh and cry. I wanted to bite him and lick him. I wanted to rip my clothes off and dance naked in the airport. But I was cool.

  “Hello, Ms. Vanzant.”

  “Hello, Mr. Bandele.”

  “How are you? You look great.”

  “I be fine. Thank you muchly.”

  We made small talk on the way to pick up my car. I was in Atlanta for a speaking engagement the next day and to see Balé, who had relocated there. Adeyemi and I talked about our children, my books, and his latest project. But we never talked about us.

  Several more months went by before I had the courage to approach the subject of us. I had to bring it up because, although we had become intimate, he was considering a relationship with another woman. I wanted him to know that I was not the same person who used to sneak up to Albany to see him. I had too much at stake to be “the other woman.”

  “I was just wondering,” I said, “what it would be like if you and I were to get together again.”

  “You were? That’s interesting, because I’ve been thinking about that, too.” He was trying to hide his excitement.

  “You were? What were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking that you know me better than any other person does. You know me better than my mother. I was thinking about how well we work together and how much we have been through together. It’s funny, but every woman I have ever been involved with knows about you. Some of them have been pretty spooked about it. But they all know that you are the one person in my life who has loved me unconditionally.”

  It was a lot for me to swallow, so I changed the subject to hide my excitement. Later in the week, I got a call from Balé. He said he needed to speak to me, and he wanted to do it in person. He assured me that nothing was wrong, but that he needed to lay his eyes on me. By the end of the next week, I was back in Atlanta.

  Adeyemi picked me up at the airport, I went to his house, and we went to Balé’s together. Balé called me into his meeting room. We talked for a few moments before he called Adeyemi. I had said to Adeyemi that the only way we could be together was if we did it the right way, with the blessings of our elders and in public view. I was not going to repeat the same mistakes I had made before. He agreed. But we both knew that Balé was the key. He was very unhappy about the way Adeyemi and I had carried on in the past and spared few words in letting us know his displeasure about the way we ended our relationship the last time. When he called Adeyemi into the room, I expected to be scolded and whipped.

  I am not sure who spoke first. I was too busy trying not to wet myself. Balé was saying something. I was trying not to look at him or Adeyemi. Before I knew what was really going on, Adeyemi was on his knees in front of me, asking my godfather for permission to marry me. My heart stopped. I think Balé knew and was trying to give his response before I keeled over and died. As if he were ordering lunch from a menu, he said, “I believe I could give my blessing to a union between the two of you.”

  I rested my head on Adeyemi’s head, which was in my lap. Together, we sighed deeply with relief. The next stop was the home of my surrogate mother and mentor, Dr. Barbara Lewis King.

  We didn’t announce our coming. I knew she would be home because it was just after church. When she opened the door and saw us standing there, she said, “What did you come to tell me? Are you two getting married?” We all laughed.

  Dr. King had been my eyes and ears when I had none. She has nurtured, and guided me in a way that brings my heart peace. She never tells me what to do. She always asks me questions framed in a way that lets me know exactly what I’d better do. When I first began speaking, very few churches opened their doors to me. People were confused about my being a Yoruba priestess. Through ignorance and fear, some people assumed that being a Yoruba priestess was anti-God and anti-Christ. “Dr. Barbara” was the first minister of a large, well-known church to put me in the pulpit. Years later, she also ordained me.

  On this day, I sat before her as her daughter, with my beau, asking her to bless our marriage. She spoke just like a mother. It was a side of her that I had never seen. She spoke to Adeyemi first.

  “What is your vision?”

  “I want to support Iyanla in the work that she does. I believe in her, and I know what she does is very important. I am blessed to be a part of that.”

  “No. That is not what I asked you. I asked what is your vision? Your vision for yourself.” I was getting a little nervous. I had never heard Dr. Barbara speak so sternly. Adeyemi’s response made me even more nervous.

  “I have never thought about it. I’m not sure I have a vision. Right now, I feel so blessed that God has given me another chance to be with this woman whom I love so much. I wasn’t thinking about my own vision, I want to help her build her vision. I can’t answer your question right now because I’m not sure what my vision is.”

  “Well, you better get sure. Your vision and Iyanla’s vision are not the same thing. That doesn’t mean that the two of you cannot work together or be together. I’m not saying that at all. I am saying that it is important for you to have your own vision, because God has your wife on a particular path.” I was relieved to hear her say, “your wife,” but she wasn’t finished.

  “You seem to me to be a very nice man. I don’t really know you, but I have never heard anything but good things about you. This is what I want you to understand. God has placed Iyanla in the world to do something very special. She is doing God’s work. She doesn’t have time to cook and clean, and she will not be taken off her path. I know you want to be a part of her vision, but until you have a vision of your own, you must do everything you can to make sure she stays on the path. Can you do that?”

  “Yes. I want to do that.”

  “Okay. Let’s pray.”

  There are few things that I know for sure about me. One of them is that I am m
arried. I am so married that I will probably be married until the earth no longer exists. I am so married that if I ever thought about not being married, I would probably be struck by lightning.

  The wedding ceremony was three hours long. Adeyemi’s mentor and godfather officiated. Dr. Barbara offered the prayers. Balé and Ray sat in the front row and had to give nods of approval before each part of the ceremony was concluded. The two hundred guests also participated, answering questions and giving their sanction to everything. My marriage was a sacred community affair that reinforced spiritual principles most of us never consider when we get married. I was the bride, and I had not considered most of them.

  Baba Ishangi, the minister who married us, is a master teacher and cultural custodian. He wanted to make sure that Adeyemi and I, and all of the witnesses were completely clear about every aspect of the ceremony and what we expected from the marriage. The first ceremony was “tasting the tides of life.” Baba presented us with a plate that contained salt, pepper, and honey. He explained to us that life is not always going to be sweet; that as you move through life, you must be prepared to dance your way through whatever comes your way. He placed a spoonful of salt in my mouth. He talked about the bitterness of life and the bitterness that often comes into a relationship as time passes. He talked about the need to know how to move beyond bitterness by dancing over and around the things that really do not matter. With the mouthful of salt, I had to dance around Adeyemi, then he around me. By the time we were both done, my lips were puckered.

  Next, Baba placed a pinch of hot, African red pepper in my mouth. While he was talking, I was choking. He talked about anger and fear and things that could make us angry and frightened. I swear he said more when I had that pepper in my mouth than he has ever said to me in my life. He ended his soliloquy by asking me if I understood. I didn’t respond. I just started dancing. Adeyemi, who had more pepper in his mouth than I did, repeated the same process.