When the Turtle City Remembered Its Own Heart Again. A Reflection on Stubborn Souls, Unexpected Healing, and the Strange Magic of Letting Go – Part 2 By Kateb Shunnar Turtle City in 1426 was alive in ways that felt deliberate, loud, and occasionally ridiculous. Hàoyú Mei Cheng and Fen Zhōu Liú had survived one Lantern Festival of verbal swordplay, and the city itself seemed to sigh in relief, as if thinking, finally, these two will stop turning minor grievances into epic dram

When the Turtle City Breathed Again A Reflection on Rebirth, Release, and the Soft Undoing of the Heart Part 1. By Kateb Shunnar Pingyao in 1425 had a way of moving that made time feel slow, deliberate, and just a touch smug, like it knew something you didn’t yet. Lanterns swayed in the streets, heavy with stories, and cobblestones carried the memory of everyone who had ever walked them gossips, lovers, merchants, the occasional thief, and probably one or two overzealous phi

STOP RUNNIN’, CHER : WHEN THE CREATOR CALLS YOUR NAME, DON’T MAKE HIM LEAVE A VOICEMAIL. A Reflection on Surrenderin’ to Your Gifts, Your Purpose, and the Goodness You Keep Dodgin’ By Kateb Shunnar I been running for so long that if the Olympics had a category for “Spiritual Duck-and-Dodge,” I woulda brought home gold for the whole 7th Ward. I ain’t lying I didn’t want to write, I didn’t want to speak, I didn’t want nobody askin’ me about purpose, calling, none of that. I w

By Kateb Shunnar Hikari Chō never asked to be a mountain climber. Honestly, she barely asked to be awake most days. Yet, life has a bold way of tossing responsibilities into someone’s lap, like an overeager shopkeeper insisting you take leftovers home. She lived in Edo around 1850, long before it transformed into the restless giant we now call Tokyo. Back then, things were simpler—at least that’s what people like to say. But if you had asked Hikari, she probably would have to

🌙 When the Bayou Whispers Back🌙 ✨ A Soul-Shaking Reflection on Shifa, Dis-Ease, and the Creator’s Unpredictable Mercy By Kateb Shunnar You know, sometimes I think the Creator be looking at us like, “Lord have mercy, these children done lost they everlasting minds again,” because we walk around like we’re self-healing superheroes while we’re actually just patched-up humans trying to outsmart our own dis-ease. And every time I say “dis-ease,” I mean exactly that discomfort, d

✨ LOOKING BEYOND OUR FAULTS ✨ Cher Dont Trip Over Dollars Tryna Pick Up Dimes The Creator Aint Droppin Blessings for Decoration By Kateb Shunnar Down by the Mississippi early in the morning, when the fog hangs low like it had a long night and aint fully awake yet, thats when good news likes to sneak in. It moves quiet, tiptoeing like somebody trying not to wake a cranky toddler. And honestly, that is probably wise, because most of us wake up already irritated by life, traff

✨Laissez le bon temps rouler … Even When the Bon Temps Ain’t Rollin’ ✨ Written by Kateb Shunnar Lemme tell you something, baby, life ain’t always Mardi Gras parades and zydeco bands playing under the live oaks. Sometimes life is just a busted trumpet on Bourbon Street, blowing notes nobody asked for, and you gotta shake your head, sip your chicory coffee, and laugh anyway because crying won’t fix the horn and neither will complaining. I been through my share of Katrina level

Frozen Cups and Grace: A New Orleans Reflection on Gratitude How a Garage Freezer, Porch Talk, and Three Wise Souls Taught Me the Sweetness of Thankfulness By Kateb Shunnar Gratitude—let me tell you, it ain’t something you stock up in a closet and dust off on Thanksgiving, thinking you done your part. No, gratitude is more like a drink you sip on the porch when the air’s thick and sticky and you’re sweating buckets, but you realize you feel alive anyway. Growing up at 2688 Jo

A Front Porch Reflection on Guilt, Grace, and Gettin’ Free By Kateb Shunnar Now let me tell you somethin’, friend if guilt had a smell, it’d probably be that thick burnt roux that sat on the stove too long when you turned your head to answer the phone. You know the kind looks good at first, then poof, gone wrong in a blink. That’s what guilt do to you. It sneaks in quiet, sets up camp in your chest, and burns everything that used to taste like peace. And the wild part? Most

I Fry My Fish in Cornmeal A 7th Ward Story About Fellowship, Fish Grease, and the Flavor of Community By Kateb Shunnar Now, let me start by tellin’ y’all right off the bat this story is fictional but factual, in the way only a New Orleans fish fry can make sense of truth. You see, there’s a certain kind of magic that happens when you fry a catfish in cornmeal on a Friday evening, grease poppin’ and cracklin’ like the brass band down the street, and the smell waltzin’ through

He Wore Mismatched Socks A Reflection on the Beauty of Being Unmatched Written by Kateb Shunnar Man, lemme tell you how this morning started. It was around 6:45 a.m. in New Orleans, that crisp autumn kinda morning that sneaks up on you, gentle but stubborn like it’s sayin’, “Time to get up, sugar, whether you ready or not.” And me? I was wiped. Flat-out, dog-tired, eyes burnin’ like two candles somebody forgot to blow out. I’d been up all night, swearin’ under my breath, swe

Yip yip Yip yip yeh yeh Uh-huh Uh-huh I love my gift from the Creator it’s my passion, it’s my passport to higher realms. Written by Kateb Shunnar Now, this story I’m about to tell is fictional, but ever so factual is set in New Orleans, where the air itself hums a rhythm you can’t ignore. Walk down Claiborne or Basin, and even if your mind’s heavy with worry, your foot starts tapping, your soul starts listening. Music leaks from the cracks in the sidewalks, shadows hum betw

The Detour How a Single Turn Can Spin Your Soul and Stretch Your Patience By Kateb Shunnar I was heading to work this morning, windows cracked just a bit to let in the crisp autumn air, the kind that wakes your lungs up like a brass band hitting a big note. New Orleans in fall smells like toasted pecans, damp leaves, and just a whisper of the Mississippi drifting over the streets. Leaves twirled along the sidewalks like they were rehearsing for a second line, squirrels darted

The Ghost That Played Jazz on Basin Street A Spiritual Reflection Drenched in Smoke, Mystery, and Southern Truth By Kateb Shunnar New Orleans 1947. Fictional but Factual. Now, lemme tell ya somethin’, cher. Basin Street she don’t sleep like the rest of the world. Naw. She breathes, slow and steady, like an old lady hummin’ a hymn after midnight. You can smell her too a mix of magnolia, fried catfish, and trouble. Folks round here say the air itself remembers. Every laugh,

Prayer Ain’t No ATM by Kateb Shunnar Now let me tell you somethin’, baby prayer ain’t no ATM, and The Creator sure ain’t runnin’ no 24-hour express window for folks who only show up when they short on blessings. It tickles me sometimes how people treat prayer like a vending machine you put in a few nice words, press “amen,” and expect peace to pop out like a bag of chips. But prayer ain’t about askin’ The Creator for stuff; it’s about talkin’, listenin’, and sometimes just si

And He Waited: A Reflection on Patience and The Creator’s Timing By Kateb Shunnar Patience. Folks throw that word around like it’s cayenne on gumbo sprinkle a little, and suddenly life’s supposed to taste right. Truth is, patience usually feels like waitin’ on a roux to thicken smell that rich aroma, know it’ll be good, but itch to dip your spoon anyway. I done wrote about patience before, and I know I sound like a scratched record. But if I had to sum up all my words, it’d

The Spirit of the Horse By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar Now, I ain’t one to get overly poetic unless the mood or the gumbo calls for it, but I gotta tell you the horse, that creature right there, might just be one of The Creator’s slickest reminders that life ain’t meant to be tamed too tight. You ever look at a horse and feel like you’re staring at something that remembers secrets older than Sunday? They carry themselves like they’ve had a few conversations with The Creator dire

The Claiborne Avenue Blues: A Harmonica, A Hole in the Wall, and My Grandmother Celestine By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar You ain’t really lived in New Orleans till you done heard the blues played by a man in an electric blue suit with a harmonica that sounded like it could make the moon cry. And you ain’t really understood family until you’ve been the designated grown-up for your grandparents. See, I was the youngest of all my Grandmother Celestine's grandbabies, and Lord have me

Normally the Book Is Better Than the Movie By Kateb Shunnar My friend, lemme tell you somethin’ life ain’t meant to be rushed. You can’t just sit back, hit play, and think you understand it. Most folks? They try. They watch the loud scenes, clap at the highlights, then scratch their heads when the story don’t make sense. Life is a book, not a movie. A real book. Messy chapters, whispered lessons between the lines, a rhythm that don’t always follow logic. You gotta read it. Yo

Do Not Be the Aggressor By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar I’ve seen it enough times to know: being the aggressor don’t do nobody any favors,...