What I Know For Sure Read online

  I’ve given up scale-watching—no longer will I let a number determine how I see myself and whether I’m worthy of a good day. It was an awakening to recognize how shallow and small that made me. You’re not your body, and for sure you’re not your body image.

  I try not to waste time—because I don’t want to waste myself. I’m working on not letting people with dark energy consume any of my minutes on this earth. I’ve learned that the hard way, after giving up hours of myself and my time, which are synonymous when you think about it. I’ve learned from my experiences of getting sucked into other people’s ego dysfunction that their darkness robs you of your own light—the light you need to be for yourself and for others. What I know for sure is that how you spend your time defines who you are. And I want to shine my light for good.

  Yes, I freely admit it: I have too many shoes. I also have too many jeans, and a designer bonanza of black skirts, size 8 to elastic. Plus tank tops and T-shirts and sweaters. In other words, I have issues with having too much stuff. I’m starting to ask myself this question: Do my things promote joy, beauty, and usefulness, or are they just burdensome?

  I’ve decided to keep only that which delights me or enhances my well-being. Organizational expert Peter Walsh says in his book Enough Already! that our homes are “overwhelmed with stuff and [our] lives littered with the empty promises that the stuff didn’t fulfill.… In buying what we want, we hope to acquire the life we desire.… [But] chasing the life you want by accumulating more stuff is a dead-end street.”

  This I know: More things don’t make you feel more alive. Yet feeling more alive is part of fulfilling your true self. It’s the reason we’re all here.

  Material excess is about so much more than the physical objects themselves. Although we know we need to let things go, doing so causes anxiety. Yet I know that letting go leaves space for more to come. That’s true of our relationship not just to shoes but to all things. Cleaning house—both literally and metaphorically—is a great way to hit the Refresh button.

  There are all kinds of ways to declutter your life—and they have nothing to do with just donating shoes.

  Say good riddance to decisions that don’t support self-care, self-value, and self-worth.

  Ask yourself if the people in your life give you energy and encourage your personal growth, or block that growth with dysfunctional dynamics and outdated scripts. If they don’t support you as a loving, open, free, and spontaneous being, good-bye!

  Put a stop to the stagnant patterns that no longer serve you.

  At work, reduce not only the “clutter” of inefficiency, but also strive to create a balanced workload and make your work invigorating, inspiring, collaborative, and empowering to others.

  I want to be lean and clean for the future, dust off my wings. I know for sure that doing so will make it easier to fly. Enough already with the stuff that doesn’t enhance who we really are. That’s the real deal of decluttering, a process that’s ever evolving as you move closer to the self you were meant to be.

  And saying good-bye to too many shoes is a darn good start.

  Power

  “When you know better, you do better.”

  —Maya Angelou

  Whenever I hear Paul Simon’s song “Born at the Right Time,” I think he must be singing about me. I came into the world in 1954 in Mississippi—a state with more lynchings than any other in the Union—at a time when being a black man walking down the street minding your business could make you subject to any white person’s accusation or whimsy. A time when having a good job meant working for a “nice” white family that at least didn’t call you nigger to your face. A time when Jim Crow reigned, segregation prevailed, and black teachers, themselves scarcely educated, were forced to use ragged textbooks discarded from white schools.

  Yet the same year I was born, a season of change began. In 1954 the Supreme Court ruled in Brown vs. Board of Education that black people had the right to equal education. The ruling created hope that life could be better for black folks everywhere.

  I have always believed free will is a birthright, part of the universe’s design for us. And I know that every soul yearns to be free. In 1997, while I was preparing to play Sethe in the movie Beloved, I arranged a trip along a portion of the Underground Railroad. I wanted to connect with what it felt like to be a slave wandering through the woods, making my way north to a life beyond slavery—a life where being free, at its most basic level, meant not having a master telling you what to do. But when I was blindfolded, taken into the woods, and left alone to contemplate which direction led to the next “safe house,” I understood for the first time that freedom isn’t about not having a master. Freedom is about having a choice.

  In the film, Sethe explains what it was like to make the trek to freedom: “Looked like I loved [my children] more after we got here,” she says. “Or maybe I knew as long as we were in Kentucky … they really weren’t mine to love.… Sometimes I hear my boys, hear ’em laughing a laugh I ain’t never heard. First I get scared, scared somebody might hear ’em and get mad. Then I remember that if they laugh that hard till it hurt, that be the only hurt they have all day.” She also says, “I’d wake up in the mornin’ and decide for myself what to do with the day,” as if thinking: Imagine, me decide.

  During shooting, I said those lines over and over, feeling the force they carried. In the years since, Sethe’s words have remained with me—I rejoice in them daily. Sometimes they’re my very first thought before I get out of bed. I can wake up in the morning and decide for myself what to do with the day—Imagine, me decide. What a gift that is.

  What I know for sure is that we all need to cherish that gift—to revel in it rather than take it for granted. After the hundreds of stories I’ve heard of atrocities around the globe, I know that if you’re a woman born in the United States, you’re one of the luckiest women in the world. Take your good fortune and lift your life to its highest calling. Understand that the right to choose your own path is a sacred privilege. Use it. Dwell in possibility.

  I’ve always been a homebody. I know that might be hard to believe, given my full schedule, but I usually head home right after work, finish dinner before 7:00, and climb into bed by 9:30. Even on weekends, home is my all-time favorite hangout. Since I’ve spent most of my adult life in the public eye, it’s important for me to carve out a private space. A refuge. A safe house.

  Years ago, Goldie Hawn told me she’d created her own safe haven by declaring her home a gossip-free zone. As part of her work for Words Can Heal, a national campaign to eliminate verbal violence, she and her family pledged to replace words that belittle and do damage with those that encourage and rebuild. Her choice to use language that uplifts is in line with a truth Maya Angelou once passed on to me: “I’m convinced that the negative has power—and if you allow it to perch in your house, in your mind, in your life, it can take you over,” she said. “Those negative words climb into the woodwork, into the furniture, and the next thing you know, they’re on your skin. A negative statement is poison.”

  I know firsthand just how hurtful negative words can be. Early in my career, when the tabloids began printing untruthful things about me, I was devastated. I felt so misunderstood. And I wasted a lot of energy worrying about whether people would believe the falsehoods. I had to fight the urge to get on the phone with anyone who’d maligned me and defend myself.

  That was before I understood what I now know for sure: When someone spreads lies about you, it’s not about you. Ever. Gossip—whether in the form of a rumor that’s sweeping the nation or a gripe session between friends—reflects the insecurity of those who initiate it. Often when we make negative statements about others behind their backs, it’s because we want to feel powerful—and that’s usually because in some way we feel powerless, unworthy, not courageous enough to be forthright.

  Hurtful words send the message—both to ourselves and to those with whom we share them—that we can’t be trusted. If som
eone is willing to tear down one “friend,” why wouldn’t she be willing to disparage another? Gossip means we haven’t emboldened ourselves to talk directly to the people we take issue with, so we belittle them. Playwright Jules Feiffer calls it committing little murders: Gossip is an assassination attempt by a coward.

  We live in a culture obsessed with gossip—who’s wearing what, who’s dating whom, who’s entangled in the latest sex scandal. What would happen if we declared our homes, our relationships, our lives a gossip-free zone? We’d probably be surprised at how much time we’d free up to do the work that’s most significant—building our dreams rather than tearing down others’. We’d fill our homes with a spirit of truth that makes visitors want to kick off their shoes and stay awhile. And we’d remember that while words have the power to destroy, they also have the power to heal.

  Some people might find it ironic that I’ve never been much of a TV watcher. Aside from old reruns of The Andy Griffith Show, I stopped regularly tuning in to sitcoms the night Mary Tyler Moore went off the air. At home, I skip the late-night news because I don’t want to take in all that negative energy right before sleep—and on vacation, I seldom have a TV in my bedroom. On days when I do flip through the channels, it’s almost certain I’ll find at least one show that involves sexual exploitation or violence against women.

  In my early days on-air, I was guilty of doing irresponsible television without even knowing it—all in the name of “entertainment.” One day my staff and I booked a husband who’d been caught in an adulterous sex scandal, and right there on our stage before millions of viewers, the wife heard for the first time that her partner had been unfaithful. It’s a moment I have never forgotten: The humiliation and despair on that woman’s face made me ashamed of myself for putting her in that position. Right then I decided I’d never again be part of a show that demeans, embarrasses, or diminishes another human being.

  I know for sure that what we dwell on is who we become—as a woman thinks, so she is. If we absorb hour upon hour of images and messages that don’t reflect our magnificence, it’s no wonder we walk around feeling drained of our life force. If we tune in to dozens of acts of brutality every week, it shouldn’t surprise us that our children see violence as an acceptable way to resolve conflict.

  Become the change you want to see—those are words I live by. Instead of belittling, uplift. Instead of demolishing, rebuild. Instead of misleading, light the way so that all of us can stand on higher ground.

  There I am, sitting in Mr. Hooper’s fifth-period algebra class, dreading the test we’re about to take, when an announcement over the intercom tells us to go to the auditorium for a special guest speaker. Hooray, I’ve been saved! I say to myself, figuring that’ll be the end of algebra for today.

  My escape is the only thing on my mind as my classmates and I enter the room, single file. I settle into my seat and prepare to be bored to sleep in yet another assembly. But when the speaker is introduced as the Reverend Jesse Jackson, a civil rights leader who was with Dr. King the day he was shot, I sit up a little straighter. What I don’t yet know is that I’m about to hear the speech of a lifetime.

  It was 1969. Because I was an A to B student, I thought I already understood the importance of doing my best. But that day, Reverend Jackson lit a fire in me that changed the way I see life. His speech was about the personal sacrifices that had been made for all of us, regardless of how our ancestors came to be here. He talked about those who’d gone before us, who’d paved the way for us to be sitting in an integrated high school in Nashville. He told us that what we owed ourselves was excellence.

  “Excellence is the best deterrent to racism,” he said. “Therefore, be excellent.”

  I took him at his word. That evening I went home, found some construction paper, and made a poster bearing his challenge. I taped that poster to my mirror, where it stayed through my college years. Over time I added my own maxims: “If you want to be successful, be excellent.” “If you want the best the world has to offer, offer the world your best.”

  Those words have helped me over many a hurdle, even when less than my best was evident. To this day, excellence is my intention. To be excellent in giving. In graciousness. In effort. In struggle and in strife. For me, being excellent means always doing my personal best. In Don Miguel Ruiz’s book The Four Agreements, the final agreement is just that: Always do your best. I know for sure that this is the most fulfilling path to personal freedom. Your best varies from day to day, Ruiz says, depending on how you’re feeling. No matter. Give your best in every circumstance so that you have no reason to judge yourself and create guilt and shame. Live so that at the end of each day, you can say, “I did my very best.” That’s what it means to excel at the great work of living your best life.

  My father raised me to believe that being in debt was a terrible thing. In our house, it was almost a character flaw, akin to laziness and what he called “trifling.” So when I moved away from home and was $1,800 in debt within a year, I felt I’d failed. I never told my father, nor would I have dared to borrow money from him.

  Instead, I took out a consolidation loan at 21 percent interest, ate a lot of raisin bran for dinner, and bought the cheapest car I could afford—a bucket on wheels, I used to call it, but it got me to and from work. I tithed 10 percent to the church and shopped for clothes only once a year.

  I paid off the $1,800 and vowed never again to create more bills than I could pay. I just hated the way overspending made me feel.

  My dad saved for everything that mattered—a washer and dryer, a new refrigerator. By the time I left home in Nashville in 1976, he still hadn’t gotten a new TV. He said his “money wasn’t right.” When The Oprah Winfrey Show went national, that’s the first thing I bought him—a color TV, paid for in cash.

  Why anyone chooses to live a life in debt has always been a puzzle to me. I’ll never forget a couple who appeared on my show to talk about their financial plight. They’d been married for only nine months, but their relationship was already buckling beneath the weight of a gigantic expense. They’d charged most of their beach wedding in Mexico, paying for hotel rooms and spa treatments for some of their guests, lobster and filet mignon for the wedding dinner, and an open bar. On the other side of this blessed event were credit card bills for almost $50,000. That didn’t include the $9,000 the husband had borrowed from his 401(k) plan to buy the engagement ring. The pursuit of a fairy-tale weekend had landed them in a nightmare that lasted for years.

  What I know for sure: When you define yourself by the things you can acquire rather than see what you really need to be happy and fulfilled, you’re not just living beyond your means or overextending yourself. You’re living a lie.

  That’s why being burdened with bills feels so awful.

  You are being untrue to yourself. When you free yourself from debt, you create space to purchase with purpose—to add to your life things that are meaningful.

  I still think twice before I buy anything. How will this fit in with what I already have? Am I just caught up in the moment? Can it be of real use to me or is it just something beautiful to have? I still remember the time, years ago, when I was in an antiques store and the dealer showed me a gorgeous eighteenth-century dressing table with mirrors and hidden drawers. It was polished to such a sheen that the cherrywood seemed to be vibrating. But as I stood pondering whether to purchase it, I said to the man, “You’re right—it’s beautiful and I’ve never seen one quite like it—but I don’t really need a dressing table with all that razzle-dazzle.” He took a pretentious breath and replied, “Madam, no one buys anything here because of their needs—these are treasures to be enjoyed.” Indeed. Well, let me get down to the “needs” store, I thought, because what I’m really looking for are fireplace utensils. Not only did I not need a dressing table, I hadn’t the space for it.

  To be fair, Mr. Dealer had a point—some things are just to be treasured and enjoyed.

  But I know for sure that yo
u enjoy everything a lot more when you’re not overreaching. This is how you know you’ve shopped smart: You bring home a purchase, there’s not a tinge of remorse, and whatever you got feels better to you ten days later than it did when you first bought it.

  In 1988 I was in Tiffany’s trying to decide between two china patterns. I was going back and forth, and finally my shopping buddy said, “Why don’t you get both? You can afford to.” I still remember thinking, Oh my God.… I can. I can. I can get both! I started jumping up and down right there in the store like I’d won the lottery.

  Since that time, I’ve had many shopping temptations. But knowing that mindfulness matters in all experiences, I try to remain grounded. Another yellow sweater is going to make me feel … what? If the answer is “nothing,” I’ll put it back or get it for someone whose day it will brighten (like Gayle, who loves yellow the way some people love chocolate).

  I hope the way you spend your money is in line with the truth of who you are and what you care about. I hope that your money brings joy to you and the ones you love. And I hope you use it as a powerful force for good to fulfill your best intentions.

  In my twenties, I attended a prayer breakfast in Washington, D.C., that was sponsored by the National Black Caucus. I had the good fortune to hear a most eloquent preacher from Cleveland: Reverend Otis Moss Jr., a man who would go on to become a mentor and friend.