I used to hate New Year's. In addition to the outrageous price hikes and getting trampled by the masses vying for your spot in the bar, restaurant or parking lot, it all seemed so forced to decide because the calendar was on this day instead of that day that we were going to decide collectively to improve ourselves. That being said, I'm no fan of St. Valentine's Day for the same reason. The commercial underpinnings and emotional manipulation of consumers makes my stomach turn, but more importantly, the celebration of love and our loved ones should be an intentional *daily* -- not yearly -- act. The world would be a better place if we kept that as a focus.
My dislike for Valentine's Day remains, but my feelings for New Year's have changed. I now see the merit in setting aside time to reflect and resolve to be better. It's far too easy to let each day melt into the next and let inertia root us in the status quo. Setting aside time at regular intervals -- even if it is 365 days -- to pause and hold oneself accountable is a healthy habit that I am sorry I ever criticized. It may be true that most of us fall away from our resolutions temporarily or permanently during the year; but the fact that we don't succeed at a perfect record shouldn't negate the value of the effort and the worthiness of the cause. For that reason, this year I have decided to have New Year's every day: that is, to reflect nightly on what I did right, what I did wrong and what I could do better tomorrow. I've been doing it for the last couple of evenings and noticed a marked improvement in the amount of awareness I bring to each day, the baby steps in growth and the feeling of being more alive. In this way, too, the bite-sized efforts to grow daily allow me to focus on those other habits I might have made a vague resolution to change but felt overwhelmed or unsure of where to start. The structure is the vehicle for change.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Existential crisis -- sort of
"It might be a quarter-life crisis, just a stirrin' in my soul / Either way I wonder sometimes about a still verdict-less life" (John Mayer)
As I look ahead to the new year and the path I'd like to pave for myself, the one thing I know is that I am still committed to fighting injustice, pushing myself to use the blessings God's given me to do that, and to improving our world.
The uncertainty sets in when I look at the various models I can apply to bring about those changes. Do I use the "mightier" pen to report reality and open the door for others to reform broken systems? Do I dive into crafting storylines to move, console and challenge people with plots and characters? OR do I roll up my sleeves and individually help them one by one? Which scenario better fits my skill set and dreams? The artistic freedom to create but remain at an arm's length from problem-solving, or the gratification of being centrally involved in the process of reform but sacrificing the time to write creatively?
As I look ahead to the new year and the path I'd like to pave for myself, the one thing I know is that I am still committed to fighting injustice, pushing myself to use the blessings God's given me to do that, and to improving our world.
The uncertainty sets in when I look at the various models I can apply to bring about those changes. Do I use the "mightier" pen to report reality and open the door for others to reform broken systems? Do I dive into crafting storylines to move, console and challenge people with plots and characters? OR do I roll up my sleeves and individually help them one by one? Which scenario better fits my skill set and dreams? The artistic freedom to create but remain at an arm's length from problem-solving, or the gratification of being centrally involved in the process of reform but sacrificing the time to write creatively?
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Bite-sized inspiration
"The world is full of suffering.
It is also full of overcoming it."
--Helen Keller
It is also full of overcoming it."
--Helen Keller
Friday, December 25, 2009
No room in the inn
A stable would certainly be the last place in the world where one would look for [the Son of God]. The lesson is: divinity is always where you least expect to find it. So the Son of God-Made-Man is invited into his own world through a back door.
--Fulton J. Sheen
--Fulton J. Sheen
Saturday, December 19, 2009
God among us
It must have come as a relief to a pair of overwhelmed parents when their child, Jesus, was born as just a baby. The uncertainty leading up to his birth must have been already much to deal with, and likely included wondering if they were up to the task; if there was anything they could teach him at all or if he would so obviously be God from His first moments on Earth.
It must have come as a shock to a power-hungry ruler when the Messiah he so feared came cloaked in the humblest of forms. Nowhere is it so evident that God is the champion of underdogs as the Christmas story. The nativity is an eye-opening, soul-wrenching glimpse into the psychology of our King. He does not operate as we would (thank goodness); He has no need for flash and fear. He possesses infinite might and His power does not depend on winning over the proud. The ordinary is His vehicle for deliverance and change. Oh sure, His strength stretches beyond 'the ordinary' and cannot be boxed into a label. But often His will is enacted under the radar simply because the humble carry it out. No trumpets sound. No cameras flash. No ceremony takes place. The seeds are planted in the quietest ways. In the least expected places. And the results catch the world by surprise.
It must have come as a shock to a power-hungry ruler when the Messiah he so feared came cloaked in the humblest of forms. Nowhere is it so evident that God is the champion of underdogs as the Christmas story. The nativity is an eye-opening, soul-wrenching glimpse into the psychology of our King. He does not operate as we would (thank goodness); He has no need for flash and fear. He possesses infinite might and His power does not depend on winning over the proud. The ordinary is His vehicle for deliverance and change. Oh sure, His strength stretches beyond 'the ordinary' and cannot be boxed into a label. But often His will is enacted under the radar simply because the humble carry it out. No trumpets sound. No cameras flash. No ceremony takes place. The seeds are planted in the quietest ways. In the least expected places. And the results catch the world by surprise.
Bite-sized inspiration(s)
Some favorite quotations about art:
Any great work of art... revives and readapts time and space, and the measure of its success is the extent to which it makes you an inhabitant of that world - the extent to which it invites you in and lets you breathe its strange, special air. --leonard bernstein
Life beats down and crushes the soul and art reminds you that you have one. --stella adler
All art requires courage. --anne tucker
Everything in creation has its appointed painter or poet and remains in bondage like the princess in the fairy tale 'til its appropriate liberator comes to set it free. --ralph waldo emerson
Art is the stored honey of the human soul, gathered on the wings of misery and travail. --theodore dreiser
Art is when you hear a knocking from your soul -- and you answer. --star riches
Any great work of art... revives and readapts time and space, and the measure of its success is the extent to which it makes you an inhabitant of that world - the extent to which it invites you in and lets you breathe its strange, special air. --leonard bernstein
Life beats down and crushes the soul and art reminds you that you have one. --stella adler
All art requires courage. --anne tucker
Everything in creation has its appointed painter or poet and remains in bondage like the princess in the fairy tale 'til its appropriate liberator comes to set it free. --ralph waldo emerson
Art is the stored honey of the human soul, gathered on the wings of misery and travail. --theodore dreiser
Art is when you hear a knocking from your soul -- and you answer. --star riches
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Detour to Truth
I've struggled this season with letting the joy in. I had difficulty reconciling the airbrushed reality of Christmas carols with the headlines I face each day -- 112 murdered in an instant in Iraq; the vulnerable dying on our streets under our noses. "Peace on Earth," "Goodwill to men" rang hollow to me, as if we've allowed ourselves all a few weeks of denial.
I began to pray, but the words were heavy and clung to my tongue. They felt irritatingly earthbound, unable to defy gravity as I looked up to Heaven frustrated by the perceived distance between my once-faithful heart and God. I asked Him to help me truly "get" the season, to take a detour around the distractions and arrive at the meaning.
My prayer was answered. While reading Advent reflections by Fulton Sheen, I found this: "If there is no peace in the world today, it is not because Christ did not come; it is because we did not let Him in." Twenty hours later, I was driving home from work covered in goosebumps, hearing this song for the first time.
From the haunting piano, string and choral parts to the masterfully written lyrics, the song captivated me. Here was a Christmas song that sprang from zeitgeist, resonating with my struggling soul, but comes to encouraging conclusions. The heavy lifting has been done already. Christ came in the least intimidating form possible: an infant, swaddled in humility, completely dependent upon a human mother. God began His time on earth the way we all do. He came, saw our reality with human eyes (and a divine heart) and then conquered death with incomprehensible love. If there's two things we can take away from this, they're (a) we are so loved, and (b) the awesome power beneath the surface of our fragile lives.
Christmas is not about slipping into denial, but rather awakening to the potential packed into each individual and our ability to impact the world around us. "You must be the change you wish to see in the world," Gandhi said. I don't have the power to deactivate a suicide bomber's vest or to feed and warm every homeless person around the world. But I do have the ability to choose how I react to the people surrounding me and to be loving even in the moments that try my patience.
I've learned that Christmas is about the power of presence (over presents). The thing that has meant the most to me as a growing believer in Christ is the fact that He came in the first place. Any struggle I bring to Him is not a distant reality, but one that He understands with a divine heart and has seen with human eyes. It is up to us to hear the bells ringing and the hopeful message He's brought, and also, to carry that tune to the rest of the world -- whether that be a smile, listening to someone who's hurting, offering our time to serve someone, or speaking truth when someone needs to hear it. Unwrapping this season's trimmings reveals what's inside the box and presents this surprise: Christmas is a time to comfort us, but also to challenge us out of complacency and cowardice. It is up to us to shape the world we live in. To hang back and lose hope because we cannot solve every problem creates a vacuum, leaving space for evil to gain ground. We must beat back daily the decay of our hearts and our society by being that change we wish to see in the world and being content that "I am only one, but still I am one. I cannot do everything, but still I can do something; and because I cannot do everything, I will not refuse to do something that I can do." (Helen Keller)
I began to pray, but the words were heavy and clung to my tongue. They felt irritatingly earthbound, unable to defy gravity as I looked up to Heaven frustrated by the perceived distance between my once-faithful heart and God. I asked Him to help me truly "get" the season, to take a detour around the distractions and arrive at the meaning.
My prayer was answered. While reading Advent reflections by Fulton Sheen, I found this: "If there is no peace in the world today, it is not because Christ did not come; it is because we did not let Him in." Twenty hours later, I was driving home from work covered in goosebumps, hearing this song for the first time.
From the haunting piano, string and choral parts to the masterfully written lyrics, the song captivated me. Here was a Christmas song that sprang from zeitgeist, resonating with my struggling soul, but comes to encouraging conclusions. The heavy lifting has been done already. Christ came in the least intimidating form possible: an infant, swaddled in humility, completely dependent upon a human mother. God began His time on earth the way we all do. He came, saw our reality with human eyes (and a divine heart) and then conquered death with incomprehensible love. If there's two things we can take away from this, they're (a) we are so loved, and (b) the awesome power beneath the surface of our fragile lives.
Christmas is not about slipping into denial, but rather awakening to the potential packed into each individual and our ability to impact the world around us. "You must be the change you wish to see in the world," Gandhi said. I don't have the power to deactivate a suicide bomber's vest or to feed and warm every homeless person around the world. But I do have the ability to choose how I react to the people surrounding me and to be loving even in the moments that try my patience.
I've learned that Christmas is about the power of presence (over presents). The thing that has meant the most to me as a growing believer in Christ is the fact that He came in the first place. Any struggle I bring to Him is not a distant reality, but one that He understands with a divine heart and has seen with human eyes. It is up to us to hear the bells ringing and the hopeful message He's brought, and also, to carry that tune to the rest of the world -- whether that be a smile, listening to someone who's hurting, offering our time to serve someone, or speaking truth when someone needs to hear it. Unwrapping this season's trimmings reveals what's inside the box and presents this surprise: Christmas is a time to comfort us, but also to challenge us out of complacency and cowardice. It is up to us to shape the world we live in. To hang back and lose hope because we cannot solve every problem creates a vacuum, leaving space for evil to gain ground. We must beat back daily the decay of our hearts and our society by being that change we wish to see in the world and being content that "I am only one, but still I am one. I cannot do everything, but still I can do something; and because I cannot do everything, I will not refuse to do something that I can do." (Helen Keller)
Monday, December 7, 2009
I want chicken, I want liver ...
If I had a piano, and if I fed my kitty "Meow Mix," I could definitely see her doing this.
Along the same lines, we finally know what cats do when left to their own devices.
Along the same lines, we finally know what cats do when left to their own devices.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
It's been awhile...
I fell off the blog bandwagon and am caught by surprise when I see the date of my last post. What have I been up to? Searching for new streams of inspiration, infiltrating life as it plays out on the street, and drafting my dreams. I'm suffering from blog-backlog syndrome: having thought of -- but not yet written -- several ideas and not knowing where to begin; sifting through unfinished threads of thought; breaking past the filter I've let hamper the creative process.
I think it's an inevitable part of artistic growth to ride the ebbs and flows of creativity. You take in your surroundings, you let those impressions marinate, and then you produce something new using that experience and insight. I've been challenged a lot in recent weeks for reasons explored and not explored in this space. What I know is this: I see with newly critical eyes assumptions that have carried me into adulthood, that were formed in the unspoken moments in childhood and ultimately shape one's worldview. It's an exciting and vulnerable adventure to dig up and deconstruct or keep these beliefs. I've learned how much we are environmental sponges, and yet, also, how we have the freedom to reinvent ourselves with self-awareness and discipline. My way is this right now: Discern the unspoken attitudes harbored in the heart, analyze where those might come from, decide if they are worth keeping, and then act on that judgment.
Be bold and honest, and the rewards of a more intentional life will push you to new heights.
I think it's an inevitable part of artistic growth to ride the ebbs and flows of creativity. You take in your surroundings, you let those impressions marinate, and then you produce something new using that experience and insight. I've been challenged a lot in recent weeks for reasons explored and not explored in this space. What I know is this: I see with newly critical eyes assumptions that have carried me into adulthood, that were formed in the unspoken moments in childhood and ultimately shape one's worldview. It's an exciting and vulnerable adventure to dig up and deconstruct or keep these beliefs. I've learned how much we are environmental sponges, and yet, also, how we have the freedom to reinvent ourselves with self-awareness and discipline. My way is this right now: Discern the unspoken attitudes harbored in the heart, analyze where those might come from, decide if they are worth keeping, and then act on that judgment.
Be bold and honest, and the rewards of a more intentional life will push you to new heights.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Bite-sized inspiration
"The ship of my life may or may not be sailing on calm and amiable seas. The challenging days of my existence may or may not be bright and promising. Stormy or sunny days, glorious or lonely nights, I maintain an attitude of gratitude. If I insist on being pessimistic, there is always tomorrow. Today I am blessed."
--Maya Angelou
***
Life is short and we do not have too much time to gladden the hearts of those who travel the way with us; so be swift to love, and make haste to be kind, and the blessing of God: whose creativity crafted you, whose love leads and saves you, and whose holy breath sustains you, be ever with you, and all the world, this day and evermore. Amen.
(Author unknown; from my friend's memorial service)
--Maya Angelou
***
Life is short and we do not have too much time to gladden the hearts of those who travel the way with us; so be swift to love, and make haste to be kind, and the blessing of God: whose creativity crafted you, whose love leads and saves you, and whose holy breath sustains you, be ever with you, and all the world, this day and evermore. Amen.
(Author unknown; from my friend's memorial service)
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Tragedy as a teacher
Dear Brooke: We gathered to mourn your absence and celebrate your life today. There were hundreds of people there -- a very full Trinity Church -- witnessing to your warmth and your generous, loving spirit. We cried for the anguish you endured as you bravely fought your illness; we laughed at your joyous approach to living (inspiring 3 weathered climbers to dance to techno music at 4 a.m. on an isolated road in Yosemite Park); we shared your teacher's awe at your brilliance as he marveled at the lessons you learned on the very first try and your capacity to master everything you studied; we smiled at your curiosity and your efforts to problem-solve Apurva's snoring when you shared a room with him on a school trip; we took note of your loyalty and your lasting example to us to live fully in the moment; and, we resolved to go forward carrying you in our hearts -- each day, each moment -- to ensure that your exceptional presence will not get stamped out by an enemy as desperate as the devil.
Today was a journey for us all. We came to the church bereaved, bewildered and yearning for your presence. What we found were countless people touched so deeply by your life that they gathered from all corners of the globe to celebrate you, even in death. I was left to wonder how many would do the same for me. Your life is a challenge to bring greater awareness to each moment and to disconnect from the frenzy I so often invite into each day. I go to bed tonight resolving to awake with the determination to delight in the present, even in trials or discomfort, rather than eagerly await for its departure; to let it teach me something, as you did by admiring the rock surfaces while trying to find your way on a craggy cliff in hand-stiffening cold. We came carrying glimpses of the person we knew, and left with a fuller vision of the richness that dazzled us all. We journeyed from the despair of your suffering to the hope of your legacy.
Forgive me, Brooke, for the frustration I expressed toward you in my last post. I know it wasn't you, but the illness, that pushed you to your final decision. Forgive me for the rawness. I still struggle to comprehend it all but I've resigned myself, as your father said today, to let myself be humbled by that which I don't understand. What I know is this: You were exceptional. You gave much of yourself to others. You were an enthusiast of life and its hidden treasures, possessing a vision and level of awareness that few have. And you were so loved.
You will not be forgotten.
Today was a journey for us all. We came to the church bereaved, bewildered and yearning for your presence. What we found were countless people touched so deeply by your life that they gathered from all corners of the globe to celebrate you, even in death. I was left to wonder how many would do the same for me. Your life is a challenge to bring greater awareness to each moment and to disconnect from the frenzy I so often invite into each day. I go to bed tonight resolving to awake with the determination to delight in the present, even in trials or discomfort, rather than eagerly await for its departure; to let it teach me something, as you did by admiring the rock surfaces while trying to find your way on a craggy cliff in hand-stiffening cold. We came carrying glimpses of the person we knew, and left with a fuller vision of the richness that dazzled us all. We journeyed from the despair of your suffering to the hope of your legacy.
Forgive me, Brooke, for the frustration I expressed toward you in my last post. I know it wasn't you, but the illness, that pushed you to your final decision. Forgive me for the rawness. I still struggle to comprehend it all but I've resigned myself, as your father said today, to let myself be humbled by that which I don't understand. What I know is this: You were exceptional. You gave much of yourself to others. You were an enthusiast of life and its hidden treasures, possessing a vision and level of awareness that few have. And you were so loved.
You will not be forgotten.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Sitting with the questions
Brooke, I woke up with an empty hollow today, filled only by the questions of why you did it. I swing between anger and compassion for you, between frustration and bewilderment.
I can't imagine the exhaustion and isolation you faced as you lived each day not knowing when your high would swing to the lowest of lows, and vice versa. Your illness had already cost you a relationship with someone with whom you shared 7 years of your life, and I imagine peering into the future was daunting for you. If getting through each day was work, the possibility of a stable, lifelong relationship perhaps seemed out of reach. I imagine that felt like insult added to injury.
The fact that this illness exists breaks my heart. It seems like a cross too big to bear. I know it can't be because I take God at his word that He doesn't send us anything that we can't conquer while relying on Him. But I still am saddened by the heavy toll it takes and the complete disruption of life that occurs. I look at every illness or hurtful event as instruments in our distilling process, yet what strikes me about bipolar disorder and extreme depression is how high the stakes are set and how many we hear of losing the battle. It makes me yearn to find those who are living with the disease under control, versus living under control of the disease.
Why did you do it? I know you must have been in a terrible spot to consider it and carry it out, but I think of going forward from this point and each moment of beauty that you'll miss; each milestone with a friend or on your own journey that won't be crossed; each memory your parents and friends won't get with you now. It breaks my heart. I struggle to better understand and to keep your humanity in focus so as not to judge you or lose sight of the person I appreciated, but what a tragic end to a life filled with promise.
I'm left to swallow the words I intended to share with you; to burn down the fences of pride that kept me from reaching out to you; to wonder forever how the heck it got to this point and if there was anything I might have been able to do to make your short life happier, and perhaps a bit longer.
I can't imagine the exhaustion and isolation you faced as you lived each day not knowing when your high would swing to the lowest of lows, and vice versa. Your illness had already cost you a relationship with someone with whom you shared 7 years of your life, and I imagine peering into the future was daunting for you. If getting through each day was work, the possibility of a stable, lifelong relationship perhaps seemed out of reach. I imagine that felt like insult added to injury.
The fact that this illness exists breaks my heart. It seems like a cross too big to bear. I know it can't be because I take God at his word that He doesn't send us anything that we can't conquer while relying on Him. But I still am saddened by the heavy toll it takes and the complete disruption of life that occurs. I look at every illness or hurtful event as instruments in our distilling process, yet what strikes me about bipolar disorder and extreme depression is how high the stakes are set and how many we hear of losing the battle. It makes me yearn to find those who are living with the disease under control, versus living under control of the disease.
Why did you do it? I know you must have been in a terrible spot to consider it and carry it out, but I think of going forward from this point and each moment of beauty that you'll miss; each milestone with a friend or on your own journey that won't be crossed; each memory your parents and friends won't get with you now. It breaks my heart. I struggle to better understand and to keep your humanity in focus so as not to judge you or lose sight of the person I appreciated, but what a tragic end to a life filled with promise.
I'm left to swallow the words I intended to share with you; to burn down the fences of pride that kept me from reaching out to you; to wonder forever how the heck it got to this point and if there was anything I might have been able to do to make your short life happier, and perhaps a bit longer.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
A door shut forever
I lost a friend tonight. Tragically, he gave up on life. He had so much going for him -- a winning smile and a kind heart, lingual skills, a Harvard degree, friends and family who loved him. We studied abroad together 9 years ago. He was the first face I laid eyes on in the Philadelphia airport as our group gathered before boarding our flight to France to become School Year Abroad's Class of 2000-2001. I instantly developed a crush on him. There was something so soulful about his brown eyes, his tousled brown hair, the dimples in his smile and his shy spirit. As a high school junior, I doubted that this dashing post-graduate student would be interested in me. I didn't think I could take the rejection, so I returned the smile he readily gave me and inspected my shoes while I felt his gaze on me.
Brooke seemed to be able to do everything effortlessly. He spoke flawless French, having spent the early years of his life there while his father was headmaster of the school. He was a great soccer player, an avid biker, he had a leading role in the school play we performed while we were there, and he was incredibly smart. I remember seeing him walk into school in the mornings with rosy cheeks and windswept hair, slightly matted at the hairline from his bike ride to the campus. That year we had record amounts of rain but I still remember seeing his arm draped over a muddy soccer ball and his excited grin as he headed outside unfazed by the soggy landscape.
We were divided into four groups based on language. Brooke was in the first group. I was not. But even though I was at a distance from him in the classroom, it was evident that he was an academic force. His thoughtful intellect left an impression on his teachers, and he walked the hallways often lost in thought, seemingly turning over something he had learned that day or perhaps, something that he was still working out to his satisfaction.
He began dating a sweet and sincere girl, gentle by nature, who seemed to bring out the best in him. They were clearly very happy together and seemed to complement each other well. They stayed a couple for seven years, before they went their separate ways amicably. I have always wondered what might have happened had I not inspected my shoes that day in the Philadelphia airport. How my life would be different now. It is my Sliding Doors moment.
He randomly popped into my head this past weekend. I can't say why. I humored myself with the thought of making up for lost time and getting to know the guy I chose to watch from a distance nine years ago. I thought of befriending him on Facebook, but the silly schoolgirl in me again shied away from connecting with him. I told myself that with all that he had going for him, he must have plenty of friends; that even after all these years, we were still in different leagues (best language group vs. not; high school graduate vs. junior; Ivy League vs. not). I let meaningless labels prevent me from reaching out to somebody who made an impact on me, who could have been a new friend, and who needed a friend more than I could have ever imagined when I arrogantly presumed he didn't.
And now I'm left with the sadness of a life cut short way too soon; of great potential vanishing to the grave; of a hole that can never be filled and a family whose pain can never be completely healed.
This news comes on the heels of a recent discovery for me that another great guy with whom I went to high school killed himself last December. I found out via Facebook last week and it got me thinking about the horrible tragedy of mental illness. Both of these guys were such good people and there was something so special about them. Their kindness and giftedness are embedded in my memories of them. They had family and friends who loved them, were proud of them, and tried to reach them in the crippling moments of despair. And yet, tonight, I turn out the lights on a world that is poorer for their absence.
No one is replaceable. Their spot can never be filled.
The damage can never be undone.
Don't let another moment pass before you contact that person who's crossed your mind recently, or the one you sit beside daily. Time cannot be taken for granted. It just might be your last chance.
Brooke seemed to be able to do everything effortlessly. He spoke flawless French, having spent the early years of his life there while his father was headmaster of the school. He was a great soccer player, an avid biker, he had a leading role in the school play we performed while we were there, and he was incredibly smart. I remember seeing him walk into school in the mornings with rosy cheeks and windswept hair, slightly matted at the hairline from his bike ride to the campus. That year we had record amounts of rain but I still remember seeing his arm draped over a muddy soccer ball and his excited grin as he headed outside unfazed by the soggy landscape.
We were divided into four groups based on language. Brooke was in the first group. I was not. But even though I was at a distance from him in the classroom, it was evident that he was an academic force. His thoughtful intellect left an impression on his teachers, and he walked the hallways often lost in thought, seemingly turning over something he had learned that day or perhaps, something that he was still working out to his satisfaction.
He began dating a sweet and sincere girl, gentle by nature, who seemed to bring out the best in him. They were clearly very happy together and seemed to complement each other well. They stayed a couple for seven years, before they went their separate ways amicably. I have always wondered what might have happened had I not inspected my shoes that day in the Philadelphia airport. How my life would be different now. It is my Sliding Doors moment.
He randomly popped into my head this past weekend. I can't say why. I humored myself with the thought of making up for lost time and getting to know the guy I chose to watch from a distance nine years ago. I thought of befriending him on Facebook, but the silly schoolgirl in me again shied away from connecting with him. I told myself that with all that he had going for him, he must have plenty of friends; that even after all these years, we were still in different leagues (best language group vs. not; high school graduate vs. junior; Ivy League vs. not). I let meaningless labels prevent me from reaching out to somebody who made an impact on me, who could have been a new friend, and who needed a friend more than I could have ever imagined when I arrogantly presumed he didn't.
And now I'm left with the sadness of a life cut short way too soon; of great potential vanishing to the grave; of a hole that can never be filled and a family whose pain can never be completely healed.
This news comes on the heels of a recent discovery for me that another great guy with whom I went to high school killed himself last December. I found out via Facebook last week and it got me thinking about the horrible tragedy of mental illness. Both of these guys were such good people and there was something so special about them. Their kindness and giftedness are embedded in my memories of them. They had family and friends who loved them, were proud of them, and tried to reach them in the crippling moments of despair. And yet, tonight, I turn out the lights on a world that is poorer for their absence.
No one is replaceable. Their spot can never be filled.
The damage can never be undone.
Don't let another moment pass before you contact that person who's crossed your mind recently, or the one you sit beside daily. Time cannot be taken for granted. It just might be your last chance.
Bite-sized inspiration
live with intention.
walk to the edge.
listen hard.
practice wellness.
play with abandon.
laugh.
choose with no regret.
continue to learn.
appreciate your friends.
do what you love.
live as if this is all there is.
--mary anne radmacher
walk to the edge.
listen hard.
practice wellness.
play with abandon.
laugh.
choose with no regret.
continue to learn.
appreciate your friends.
do what you love.
live as if this is all there is.
--mary anne radmacher
Witness
Crushed by the pain that only another human can inflict, her voice rose shrilly above the silence in our hallway. My neighbor had just been told over the phone that her husband, the father of her infant, was having an affair. The heartache hung from the uncontrollable shrieks strung together to confront him. How could he, if not in consideration for her than for their child? she asked him.
There is no pain so deeply felt than that inflicted by the carelessness or malice of another human being. I stood in my entrance hall paralyzed by the raw emotion and involuntarily sharing a pivotal, tragic moment in three lives: the breakup of a marriage. "Happily ever after" was ending. Real life had hijacked the fairy tale. My innocence shattered alongside her hope: No matter how much we believe in and plan on an end result (happy marriage, etc.), life offers no guarantees. Unpleasant realities arise without an invitation.
As I stood a silent witness to the demise of this woman's imagined future, I knew that there are few things in the world so ugly as the death of hope -- whether it be in the broken heart of a betrayed spouse, or the glazed eyes of refugees living in limbo.
Hope is that life-substance that helps us look past our current disappointments to have faith in the future. It is the vaccine that gives immunity against the pathogen of despair. It moves us past life at a standstill, past our static selves paralyzed by pain, to open our eyes to the possibilities of finding joy again. Slowly, at first, we learn to trust, to allow ourselves gradually to lose that chapter and be captured by life's goodness again -- the chance to practice our passions, whatever they may be, and to impact positively our world one person at a time. For the truth is this: Just as we can inflict the greatest pain over each other, we also can lift each other up to great heights.
I worried about this woman into whose life I had been pulled without ever having met her. Pain was our common denominator. I worried for her reaction today and for her healing in the future. Would she be one of those bitter colleagues at the office, an "empty-shell" person that Sandra Oh describes in Under the Tuscan Sun? Or would she be like Frances Mayes who grieved, grew and got a new beginning? I sincerely hope it will be the latter for her, the child's and the world's sake. When these huge hurts are overcome, one becomes an ambassador of hope, of which our world is in great need.
I eventually did get to meet her. I worried in her pain and grief, she'd do something regretful. I imagined that she must feel so alone and so I knocked on her door. I asked her if she needed anything and she smiled and calmly apologized for shouting earlier. "I was having an argument," she explained. I reassured her that I understood. She briefly teared up, thanked me and shut the door. Her discretion impressed me. I could relate with her pride.
I prayed that what she truly needs she receives and that she may find and walk the road to healing. My decision today: I will not be a silent witness when faced with despair.
--February 3, 2008
***
Inspired by that encounter I wrote the following two poems:
Phoenix
The news breaks.
The cold shower soaks you to the bone:
You've been betrayed
by the one closest to you.
Reality hijacks the fairy tale.
Castles in the cloud crumble to dust.
All that you knew and took for granted is shattered.
Your life is a blank slate.
Your comfort zone evaporates,
sparing not even the immediate perimeter around you
You are not even at home in yourself.
A monumental task lies before you
as you stand dazed on quivering knees:
Rise phoenix-like from the ashes of your former life
to rediscover yourself beyond
the comforts of the hypnotizing routine
that carried you up to the moment of truth.
Your tears will someday bring life to another in this situation.
You will be a testament to courage,
an ambassador of hope.
For now, grieve
but surround yourself with supportive friends
who will share in your loss
and pull you from despair's quicksand.
***
Untitled
Pain strikes like a snake
at your most vulnerable spot
The venom of despair and anger
burn through your blood,
paralyzing your thoughts
You cry out and collapse
expecting death is near
But you awake the next morning
with the ache
surprised by your body's ability to run
without your participation
Some sit with the venom
as if it were medicine for their pain
It overtakes them and
transforms them
into a poisonous presence
Others spit it out and
detoxify their wound
the scar will always be there
but its power and the pain fade
A very few find they are
strengthened by their wounds
discovering new purpose and drive in their lives.
They are an enviable lot --
seemingly immune to the venom
that swallowed so many
But it is their pain management, not immunity,
that is their secret strength.
They open themselves to the
challenging effects of suffering
and rise above it all.
There is no pain so deeply felt than that inflicted by the carelessness or malice of another human being. I stood in my entrance hall paralyzed by the raw emotion and involuntarily sharing a pivotal, tragic moment in three lives: the breakup of a marriage. "Happily ever after" was ending. Real life had hijacked the fairy tale. My innocence shattered alongside her hope: No matter how much we believe in and plan on an end result (happy marriage, etc.), life offers no guarantees. Unpleasant realities arise without an invitation.
As I stood a silent witness to the demise of this woman's imagined future, I knew that there are few things in the world so ugly as the death of hope -- whether it be in the broken heart of a betrayed spouse, or the glazed eyes of refugees living in limbo.
Hope is that life-substance that helps us look past our current disappointments to have faith in the future. It is the vaccine that gives immunity against the pathogen of despair. It moves us past life at a standstill, past our static selves paralyzed by pain, to open our eyes to the possibilities of finding joy again. Slowly, at first, we learn to trust, to allow ourselves gradually to lose that chapter and be captured by life's goodness again -- the chance to practice our passions, whatever they may be, and to impact positively our world one person at a time. For the truth is this: Just as we can inflict the greatest pain over each other, we also can lift each other up to great heights.
I worried about this woman into whose life I had been pulled without ever having met her. Pain was our common denominator. I worried for her reaction today and for her healing in the future. Would she be one of those bitter colleagues at the office, an "empty-shell" person that Sandra Oh describes in Under the Tuscan Sun? Or would she be like Frances Mayes who grieved, grew and got a new beginning? I sincerely hope it will be the latter for her, the child's and the world's sake. When these huge hurts are overcome, one becomes an ambassador of hope, of which our world is in great need.
I eventually did get to meet her. I worried in her pain and grief, she'd do something regretful. I imagined that she must feel so alone and so I knocked on her door. I asked her if she needed anything and she smiled and calmly apologized for shouting earlier. "I was having an argument," she explained. I reassured her that I understood. She briefly teared up, thanked me and shut the door. Her discretion impressed me. I could relate with her pride.
I prayed that what she truly needs she receives and that she may find and walk the road to healing. My decision today: I will not be a silent witness when faced with despair.
--February 3, 2008
***
Inspired by that encounter I wrote the following two poems:
Phoenix
The news breaks.
The cold shower soaks you to the bone:
You've been betrayed
by the one closest to you.
Reality hijacks the fairy tale.
Castles in the cloud crumble to dust.
All that you knew and took for granted is shattered.
Your life is a blank slate.
Your comfort zone evaporates,
sparing not even the immediate perimeter around you
You are not even at home in yourself.
A monumental task lies before you
as you stand dazed on quivering knees:
Rise phoenix-like from the ashes of your former life
to rediscover yourself beyond
the comforts of the hypnotizing routine
that carried you up to the moment of truth.
Your tears will someday bring life to another in this situation.
You will be a testament to courage,
an ambassador of hope.
For now, grieve
but surround yourself with supportive friends
who will share in your loss
and pull you from despair's quicksand.
***
Untitled
Pain strikes like a snake
at your most vulnerable spot
The venom of despair and anger
burn through your blood,
paralyzing your thoughts
You cry out and collapse
expecting death is near
But you awake the next morning
with the ache
surprised by your body's ability to run
without your participation
Some sit with the venom
as if it were medicine for their pain
It overtakes them and
transforms them
into a poisonous presence
Others spit it out and
detoxify their wound
the scar will always be there
but its power and the pain fade
A very few find they are
strengthened by their wounds
discovering new purpose and drive in their lives.
They are an enviable lot --
seemingly immune to the venom
that swallowed so many
But it is their pain management, not immunity,
that is their secret strength.
They open themselves to the
challenging effects of suffering
and rise above it all.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Just another day?
"If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other." (Mother Teresa)
What is it about normalcy
that allows us to forget that we belong to one another?
Each day in which we're allowed
to sail from dawn to dusk without tragedy,
we ignore
trample upon
and bicker with each other.
We see only obstacles
or time thieves in each other.
We are offended if anyone should think differently than us --
and God forbid they express their opinion!
But when horror strikes --
as it did on September 11 --
we act as if we all breathe from the same pair of lungs.
We forget our petty disagreements
and differences.
We lean upon and
cling to one another
as lifesavers in a stormy sea.
Gone are our annoyances
with the challenges of living together.
We see our kindred spirit,
are reminded of our shared humanity,
and recognize that we do, in fact, belong to one another.
--July 2, 2008
What is it about normalcy
that allows us to forget that we belong to one another?
Each day in which we're allowed
to sail from dawn to dusk without tragedy,
we ignore
trample upon
and bicker with each other.
We see only obstacles
or time thieves in each other.
We are offended if anyone should think differently than us --
and God forbid they express their opinion!
But when horror strikes --
as it did on September 11 --
we act as if we all breathe from the same pair of lungs.
We forget our petty disagreements
and differences.
We lean upon and
cling to one another
as lifesavers in a stormy sea.
Gone are our annoyances
with the challenges of living together.
We see our kindred spirit,
are reminded of our shared humanity,
and recognize that we do, in fact, belong to one another.
--July 2, 2008
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Missed opportunity or understated success?
In this day and age, there's now such a thing as "digital dating abuse." The Family Violence Prevention Fund set up thatsnotcool.com to educate teens about unhealthy texting patterns, violating your partner's email account or social networking page, and/or pressuring said partner to "sext" or take nude pictures. Here's the pitch: Your mobile, IM and online accounts are all a part of you. When someone you're dating is controlling, disrespecting or pressuring you in those spaces, that's not cool.
I think it's a great idea and a laudable cause, but I wonder how many teens will get drawn in by sock puppets. That kind of mascot worked brilliantly for Fandango, but those are movie tickets and this is abuse. Maybe I'm wrong and the lighthearted nature will ultimately hook more teens and increase the viral component. But I think FVPF and the Ad Council missed the full potential of the campaign by packaging it in gauze, and risk alienating themselves from the demographic by trying too hard to be cool or treating them like kids.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Love this ...
"Based on a true story, this poignant moment in a concert hall reminds us how even the most embarrassing situations can be turned around with a little patience and encouragement." (Foundation for a Better Life)
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Third best job in the world?
If being the island caretaker in Queensland, Australia is the Best Job in the World, and going on an international shopping spree is the Second Best Job in the world, what would be the third?
Continuing with the theme, travel and writing would be basic components. But would the job involve sampling cultural fare in a certain tier of restaurants around the world (consider me signed up!)? Or hopscotching globally to follow musical acts (as mentioned by a fellow blogger)? Or dancing in international competitions (another with my name on it :-] )?
Ideas?
Continuing with the theme, travel and writing would be basic components. But would the job involve sampling cultural fare in a certain tier of restaurants around the world (consider me signed up!)? Or hopscotching globally to follow musical acts (as mentioned by a fellow blogger)? Or dancing in international competitions (another with my name on it :-] )?
Ideas?
Bite-sized inspiration
I am only one, but still I am one.
I cannot do everything, but still I can do something;
and because I cannot do everything,
I will not refuse to do the something I can do.
--Helen Keller
I cannot do everything, but still I can do something;
and because I cannot do everything,
I will not refuse to do the something I can do.
--Helen Keller
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Death Row
I can't imagine what it must be like less than 24 hours before your family member is scheduled to die; the current of emotions that must seize you. I can imagine even less what that's like for a victim of domestic violence whose ex-husband is up next.
Mildred Muhammad is in that position now. Emerging from the shadowy years of her marriage to the D.C. sniper, she has used the discussion on her ex-husband's crimes and punishment to draw attention to the millions of families victimized by violence at home. I can understand that she might feel relief at the thought of her greatest threat going to the grave. But with her children about to lose their father -- and, however frightening a character he may be, he still is their dad -- things get more complicated.
I'm at a place now in my healing where I'm beginning to be able to recall the good memories of my nearly five-year relationship without shuddering at the impact of it. But those fleeting moments of remembered emotion -- contentment, joy, affection -- leave me with confusion sometimes and awe that despite having been in grave danger, the mind is still able to preserve and recall positive moments relating to that person.
I wonder if it's like that for women with years of an abusive marriage behind them. Do any positive memories get folded between the PTSD flashbacks and nightmares? Or is it only a steady stream of anger, disillusionment and a desire to erase their spouses from their past? As the clock ticks closer to 9 p.m. Tuesday, will Ms. Muhammad be remembering the good times that brought them together initially? worrying about the impact of his death on her children? or praying for the victims' family and envisioning the world without him?
UPDATE: John Allen Muhammad died Tuesday at 9:11 p.m. in Virginia. Here, his wife mentions how she and the children are dealing with the emotional aftermath of the execution.
Mildred Muhammad is in that position now. Emerging from the shadowy years of her marriage to the D.C. sniper, she has used the discussion on her ex-husband's crimes and punishment to draw attention to the millions of families victimized by violence at home. I can understand that she might feel relief at the thought of her greatest threat going to the grave. But with her children about to lose their father -- and, however frightening a character he may be, he still is their dad -- things get more complicated.
I'm at a place now in my healing where I'm beginning to be able to recall the good memories of my nearly five-year relationship without shuddering at the impact of it. But those fleeting moments of remembered emotion -- contentment, joy, affection -- leave me with confusion sometimes and awe that despite having been in grave danger, the mind is still able to preserve and recall positive moments relating to that person.
I wonder if it's like that for women with years of an abusive marriage behind them. Do any positive memories get folded between the PTSD flashbacks and nightmares? Or is it only a steady stream of anger, disillusionment and a desire to erase their spouses from their past? As the clock ticks closer to 9 p.m. Tuesday, will Ms. Muhammad be remembering the good times that brought them together initially? worrying about the impact of his death on her children? or praying for the victims' family and envisioning the world without him?
UPDATE: John Allen Muhammad died Tuesday at 9:11 p.m. in Virginia. Here, his wife mentions how she and the children are dealing with the emotional aftermath of the execution.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Bite-sized inspiration
If we study the lives of great men and women
carefully and unemotionally
we find that, invariably,
greatness was developed, tested and revealed
through the darker periods of their lives.
One of the largest tributaries of the River of Greatness
is always the Stream of Adversity.
--Cavett Robert
carefully and unemotionally
we find that, invariably,
greatness was developed, tested and revealed
through the darker periods of their lives.
One of the largest tributaries of the River of Greatness
is always the Stream of Adversity.
--Cavett Robert
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Rihanna speaks out
When this story broke in February, I was at work fighting for professional composure to hide the emotional rawness that creeped to the surface as I learned more details. Rihanna's trauma gave me flashbacks of my own, being only seven fragile months (what seemed like seven minutes) into trying to pick up the pieces of my shattered self. I had already tried to walk away at least six times by that point, with one final (successful) attempt awaiting me 7 months in the future. But the only thing I felt that day in February was transported back to the fear and panic of August 2008 -- surviving the verbal abuse, humiliation, intimidation and rage that left a hole in my wall and in my soul.
I never fixed the wall. I made a choice to leave it as a reminder of what I escaped from, what would have been waiting for me in the future. The hardest thing about emotional abuse is that it's experienced in your mind. You don't look in the mirror and see a black eye. There's no police report detailing the ways he's hurt you. As soon as the attack passes, you're weaker but you deny it, you spin it, or you believe his insults. The punctured wall proved my fairy tale had become a nightmare. It was a matter of time before he aimed for my head.
Having said that, I made the same mistake that Rihanna talks about. The wall should have been my wake-up call, and it was for a good 9 months. But I let the lingering feelings of love and his pleas and promises woo me back to lethal ground. It took a death threat for me to come to my senses.
**My favorite quotes from this interview:
"I'll say this to any young girl going through domestic violence: Don't react off of love. F' love. Come out of the situation and look at it third-person and for what it really is and then make your decision. Because love is so blind. It's so blind. "
"I am strong. This happened to me. I didn't cause this. I didn't do it. It happened to me and it can happen to anybody; and I'm glad it happened to me because now I can help young girls as they go through it."
I never fixed the wall. I made a choice to leave it as a reminder of what I escaped from, what would have been waiting for me in the future. The hardest thing about emotional abuse is that it's experienced in your mind. You don't look in the mirror and see a black eye. There's no police report detailing the ways he's hurt you. As soon as the attack passes, you're weaker but you deny it, you spin it, or you believe his insults. The punctured wall proved my fairy tale had become a nightmare. It was a matter of time before he aimed for my head.
Having said that, I made the same mistake that Rihanna talks about. The wall should have been my wake-up call, and it was for a good 9 months. But I let the lingering feelings of love and his pleas and promises woo me back to lethal ground. It took a death threat for me to come to my senses.
**My favorite quotes from this interview:
"I'll say this to any young girl going through domestic violence: Don't react off of love. F' love. Come out of the situation and look at it third-person and for what it really is and then make your decision. Because love is so blind. It's so blind. "
"I am strong. This happened to me. I didn't cause this. I didn't do it. It happened to me and it can happen to anybody; and I'm glad it happened to me because now I can help young girls as they go through it."
The green-eyed monster
"Jealousy in romance is like salt in food. A little can enhance the savor, but too much can spoil the pleasure and, under certain circumstances, can be life-threatening."
--Maya Angelou
--Maya Angelou
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Bite-sized inspiration
You have made us for yourself, Lord, and
our hearts are restless until they rest in you.
--St. Augustine of Hippo
our hearts are restless until they rest in you.
--St. Augustine of Hippo
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Time for Power Playlist #2
I've transitioned from "I think I'm leaving" and "I'm leaving" to the next phase of reaping the rewards of reclaiming myself, building a stronger core than before, growing in new ways and having fun.
What would YOU put on the new list? (Please be genre-agnostic. I don't care how the song sounds; I love hearing new ones and if it's got the message, I'm down with it).
Songs that have been suggested or come to mind:
So What? (Pink)
Stronger (old-school Britney)
Hate on Me (Jill Scott or Amber Riley) :)
Stronger (Kanye)
Superwoman (Alicia Keys) **LOVE it!
Stronger (Mary J. Blige)
To avoid repetition, here's Power Playlist #1:
***
Bruised but not broken
Get up, stand up
Stand beside me
My Worst Fear
Spotlight
Take a bow
Stand
Beautiful
There's more to me than you
Ten thousand angels
Remember that
Burn
I'm moving on
A Voice Within
Georgia
Shut Up and Drive
Bye Bye
I Will Survive
Who I Am
Tattoo
Better in Time
Fighter
Breakaway
The Climb
One Day Closer to You
A New Day has Come
Weight of the World
Born to Fly
More Beautiful You
Bless the Broken Road
That's the Way it is
Respect
I Didn't Know My Own Strength
Consider Me Gone
Womanizer
Apologize
***
Email me or post a comment. I'll update the list as I get suggestions. I think we might be able to build the best playlist ever. :)
What would YOU put on the new list? (Please be genre-agnostic. I don't care how the song sounds; I love hearing new ones and if it's got the message, I'm down with it).
Songs that have been suggested or come to mind:
So What? (Pink)
Stronger (old-school Britney)
Hate on Me (Jill Scott or Amber Riley) :)
Stronger (Kanye)
Superwoman (Alicia Keys) **LOVE it!
Stronger (Mary J. Blige)
To avoid repetition, here's Power Playlist #1:
***
Bruised but not broken
Get up, stand up
Stand beside me
My Worst Fear
Spotlight
Take a bow
Stand
Beautiful
There's more to me than you
Ten thousand angels
Remember that
Burn
I'm moving on
A Voice Within
Georgia
Shut Up and Drive
Bye Bye
I Will Survive
Who I Am
Tattoo
Better in Time
Fighter
Breakaway
The Climb
One Day Closer to You
A New Day has Come
Weight of the World
Born to Fly
More Beautiful You
Bless the Broken Road
That's the Way it is
Respect
I Didn't Know My Own Strength
Consider Me Gone
Womanizer
Apologize
***
Email me or post a comment. I'll update the list as I get suggestions. I think we might be able to build the best playlist ever. :)
Monday, November 2, 2009
Living masterpieces
February 28, 2008
Simply existing does not mean that we become the person God intended when He created us. We are the coal that needs to be re-formed into the diamond. Only by inviting Him into our lives and efforts and not shielding ourselves from the pain that distills our essence further can that happen.
If marble had nerve centers, Michelangelo's sculptures would be screaming as he worked. Yet at the end of the process, they would step back and admire their form with awe, thanking him for releasing them from that which obscured their identity.
The same is true for us. We start out as a block of marble -- undefined to the untrained eye, yet God sees what is behind, beneath, within it all. He uses our frustrations, passions, pains and joys to chisel away the parts that obstruct our true selves. The more we invite Him into our lives, the more accurately we reflect His vision of who we are; so that, ultimately, we, too, will step back and thank Him -- despite the painful moments of definition -- for revealing our true selves and bringing us to life.
Simply existing does not mean that we become the person God intended when He created us. We are the coal that needs to be re-formed into the diamond. Only by inviting Him into our lives and efforts and not shielding ourselves from the pain that distills our essence further can that happen.
If marble had nerve centers, Michelangelo's sculptures would be screaming as he worked. Yet at the end of the process, they would step back and admire their form with awe, thanking him for releasing them from that which obscured their identity.
The same is true for us. We start out as a block of marble -- undefined to the untrained eye, yet God sees what is behind, beneath, within it all. He uses our frustrations, passions, pains and joys to chisel away the parts that obstruct our true selves. The more we invite Him into our lives, the more accurately we reflect His vision of who we are; so that, ultimately, we, too, will step back and thank Him -- despite the painful moments of definition -- for revealing our true selves and bringing us to life.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Dance with fire
October 2007
Scattered clothing
stolen kisses
bodies churning
love is missing
Empty passion
fraudulent words
lying actions
unquenching thirst
Vows are broken
trust is shattered
souls imprisoned
hearts are battered
Betrayal tells
a lack of grace
resistance quelled;
a change of pace
Diseases, hurts
self-doubts and pain
can love ever
be whole again?
Feared leaks of truth
clamp down the tongue
a bloom of youth
fades from the sun
Smoke fogs the mind
eyes start to burn
escape desired
nowhere to turn
Wounds are branded
atop the pyre
stealing someone:
a dance with fire.
Scattered clothing
stolen kisses
bodies churning
love is missing
Empty passion
fraudulent words
lying actions
unquenching thirst
Vows are broken
trust is shattered
souls imprisoned
hearts are battered
Betrayal tells
a lack of grace
resistance quelled;
a change of pace
Diseases, hurts
self-doubts and pain
can love ever
be whole again?
Feared leaks of truth
clamp down the tongue
a bloom of youth
fades from the sun
Smoke fogs the mind
eyes start to burn
escape desired
nowhere to turn
Wounds are branded
atop the pyre
stealing someone:
a dance with fire.
Ostrich
Your head is buried in selfish sands
You pine for flight,
convinced that because you are a bird
you are entitled to it.
But your leg muscles are
stronger than your wings
--conditioned by the many times you've run away
from people you've invited into your life
Flight happens with others
but your form of relating carries you away from them
Your wings flap in an impressive span,
having mastered the art of display
and engagement
but they know nothing of
the soaring sensation accompanying a commitment
to live life's best and worst moments with another;
the euphoria of leading the flock for awhile
and then circling back and relaxing in formation.
These you may look at as leashes on your azad ('freedom' in Farsi)
but parvaz (flight) happens with others.
Community unlocks our potential and
pushes us to our perfection.
But you are blind to the reality
driving your loneliness
And you will be for as long as
you smother your senses in selfish sands.
January 8, 2008
You pine for flight,
convinced that because you are a bird
you are entitled to it.
But your leg muscles are
stronger than your wings
--conditioned by the many times you've run away
from people you've invited into your life
Flight happens with others
but your form of relating carries you away from them
Your wings flap in an impressive span,
having mastered the art of display
and engagement
but they know nothing of
the soaring sensation accompanying a commitment
to live life's best and worst moments with another;
the euphoria of leading the flock for awhile
and then circling back and relaxing in formation.
These you may look at as leashes on your azad ('freedom' in Farsi)
but parvaz (flight) happens with others.
Community unlocks our potential and
pushes us to our perfection.
But you are blind to the reality
driving your loneliness
And you will be for as long as
you smother your senses in selfish sands.
January 8, 2008
Bite-sized inspiration
If it is to be, it is up to me. If peace is what we need, I must be the one to plant the seed. If love is what we desire, I must be the one to light the fire. If happiness is what we demand, I must be the one to make and carry out the plans.
--Author unknown
--Author unknown
Saturday, October 31, 2009
The art of being a woman
Excerpted from 'Wouldn't Take Nothing for My Journey Now' (again, from the great Dr. Angelou):
Being a woman is hard work. Not without joy and even ecstasy, but still relentless, unending work. Becoming an old female may require only being born with certain genitalia, inheriting long-living genes and the fortune not to be run over by an out-of-control truck, but to become and remain a woman command the existence and employment of genius.
As profoundly grateful I am for the progress in gender relations and the endless possibilities now open to women, the one thing I miss is the Old World classy feminine ideal. It seems like more and more we slip into the mentality that we're all the same but with different parts. I love that she speaks to that essence that we women are forgetting in selling ourselves short of our potential for class, beauty, subtlety, and mystique.
I've got some work to do -- doctor's orders! :)
Being a woman is hard work. Not without joy and even ecstasy, but still relentless, unending work. Becoming an old female may require only being born with certain genitalia, inheriting long-living genes and the fortune not to be run over by an out-of-control truck, but to become and remain a woman command the existence and employment of genius.
As profoundly grateful I am for the progress in gender relations and the endless possibilities now open to women, the one thing I miss is the Old World classy feminine ideal. It seems like more and more we slip into the mentality that we're all the same but with different parts. I love that she speaks to that essence that we women are forgetting in selling ourselves short of our potential for class, beauty, subtlety, and mystique.
I've got some work to do -- doctor's orders! :)
Friday, October 30, 2009
A spoonful of statistics
Part of my healing process and transition into advocacy has been learning more about abuse, abusive patterns, abuser profiles, and the frequency/results of abuse as captured in statistics.
Most studies or synthesized numbers are from the '90s, which is frustrating, but still offer a glimpse into the wide impact of the destruction.
Here are a few that jumped out at me from a summary (PDF) posted on Stanford's Sexual Assault & Relationship Abuse Support & Prevention website: (emphasis mine)
The next month, Redbook happened to highlight emotional abuse ("Invisible Violence") in their October 2008 issue. A loved one recommended I read the article, which hit me profoundly again with the similarities between my situation and other women's relationships. I kept it beside my bed and read it for strength each time I tried to call things off with my ex, only to be talked into staying and convinced that I couldn't trust my perceptions (or loved ones).
Most studies or synthesized numbers are from the '90s, which is frustrating, but still offer a glimpse into the wide impact of the destruction.
Here are a few that jumped out at me from a summary (PDF) posted on Stanford's Sexual Assault & Relationship Abuse Support & Prevention website: (emphasis mine)
- Domestic violence is the leading cause of injury to women between the ages of 15 and 44 in the USA -- more than rapes, muggings and car accidents combined (Surgeon General, United States, 1992)
- A woman is beaten every 9 seconds in the USA (Family Violence Prevention Fund Report, 1994)
- According to the Center for Disease Control, a woman is in nine times more danger of violent attack in her home than on the streets.
- In 1993, 3.9 million American women who were living with their spouse or partner were physically abused, while 20.7 million American women in the same living situation suffered emotional or verbal abuse (The Commonwealth Fund, 1993).
- Over 50% of the women killed in the USA are killed by male intimate partners or ex-partners (Journal of the American Medical Association, 1992)
- Approximately 50% of the homeless women and children in the USA are on the streets because of violence in the home (Joseph Biden, U.S. Senate Committee on the Judiciary, Violence Against Women: Victims of the System, 1991)
The next month, Redbook happened to highlight emotional abuse ("Invisible Violence") in their October 2008 issue. A loved one recommended I read the article, which hit me profoundly again with the similarities between my situation and other women's relationships. I kept it beside my bed and read it for strength each time I tried to call things off with my ex, only to be talked into staying and convinced that I couldn't trust my perceptions (or loved ones).
I found the Power and Control Wheel online in the final days of our relationship and was stunned by how accurately it portrayed -- in all but two of the segments -- my experience. Shocked that a stranger who knew nothing about either my partner or myself could grasp everything that I had known for the last few years, I relinquished my rationalizations. Surrendering to the truth was the next step.
Real estate for a favorite
I know I could just link to it, but I'd like it to have its own space.
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
til the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing
The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom
The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing
The caged bird sings
with a fearfull trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
--Maya Angelou, who was inspired by this poem.
I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
til the current ends
and dips his wings
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing
The caged bird sings
with fearful trill
of the things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom
The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn
and he names the sky his own
But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing
The caged bird sings
with a fearfull trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
--Maya Angelou, who was inspired by this poem.
Bite-sized inspiration
I don't claim anything of the work. It is His work. I am like a little pencil in His hand. That is all. He does the thinking. He does the writing. The pencil has nothing to do with it. The pencil has only to be allowed to be used.
--Mother Teresa, interviewed by TIME magazine
(on a related note of allowing our gifts to be used for what they were intended to maximum efficiency, check out this video.)
--Mother Teresa, interviewed by TIME magazine
(on a related note of allowing our gifts to be used for what they were intended to maximum efficiency, check out this video.)
Caged
August 19, 2008:
Pay attention to the cuss words
and the fist-fractured wall
Don't look past the blame heaped on you
For beneath its weight you'll fall
Have you quickened your response time
to appease and deflect rage?
Is a 'sorry' always on your lips?
Do you feel locked in a cage?
Can you adjust to the idea
of a master puppeteer
who pulls the strings to move your limbs
but makes sure your head is clear?
Have the insults grown more frequent?
Has respect been gagged and choked?
In the dynamics of the moment
have his macho thoughts been stoked?
Do you have the space to think?
Does he listen when you speak?
Or does he degrade your sense of self and pride?
Into your journals does he peek?
How much of you has slipped away?
How much of you is tied in knots?
You've turned yourself inside out
to be a glamorous robot.
How much longer do you have
before your life ends with a blow?
Heed my warning to you now:
Protect your life and go!
Pay attention to the cuss words
and the fist-fractured wall
Don't look past the blame heaped on you
For beneath its weight you'll fall
Have you quickened your response time
to appease and deflect rage?
Is a 'sorry' always on your lips?
Do you feel locked in a cage?
Can you adjust to the idea
of a master puppeteer
who pulls the strings to move your limbs
but makes sure your head is clear?
Have the insults grown more frequent?
Has respect been gagged and choked?
In the dynamics of the moment
have his macho thoughts been stoked?
Do you have the space to think?
Does he listen when you speak?
Or does he degrade your sense of self and pride?
Into your journals does he peek?
How much of you has slipped away?
How much of you is tied in knots?
You've turned yourself inside out
to be a glamorous robot.
How much longer do you have
before your life ends with a blow?
Heed my warning to you now:
Protect your life and go!
Phantom
September 28, 2008:
The slap of his words still stings
like the first time he spoke them
each time I remember
The onslaught of insults, the untold tantrums
leave colorless bruises -- deceptively invisible,
with no shades to gauge my healing.
The violation of space -- both physical and mental --
makes my blood boil anew,
kept in check only by the fear he's trained into me
Repressed anger, constant confusion, severe self-doubt --
these have become my closest friends,
standing in for loved ones who have been pushed away
Each day I awake
my prison walls constrict ever tighter around me
I struggle to break free, aching to use my droopy wings
yet paralyzed by doubts that they will even work
His words -- like puppet strings upon my mind --
coax me to stay and twist the fight out of me
I am limp but for his commands
I float ghostlike through my day,
His criticisms echo in my head
I sit beside you on the subway
I work one cubicle away
I am victimized by senses
I am neither heard nor seen
The abuse is not black and blue
Its essence has no proof
***
I wrote this to capture the turmoil one goes through; the fact that we bump up against victims every day who are hidden in plain sight; but also to speak to the frustration that the severe harm inflicted by emotional abusers is not valued equally as a shove or a punch in the legal system. I recognize the challenge to prosecute without physical evidence but I also feel that society gets the false message that emotional abuse isn't 'that bad.' Piling injustice upon injustice, perpetrators understand that if they don't lift a finger, there are no consequences.
The slap of his words still stings
like the first time he spoke them
each time I remember
The onslaught of insults, the untold tantrums
leave colorless bruises -- deceptively invisible,
with no shades to gauge my healing.
The violation of space -- both physical and mental --
makes my blood boil anew,
kept in check only by the fear he's trained into me
Repressed anger, constant confusion, severe self-doubt --
these have become my closest friends,
standing in for loved ones who have been pushed away
Each day I awake
my prison walls constrict ever tighter around me
I struggle to break free, aching to use my droopy wings
yet paralyzed by doubts that they will even work
His words -- like puppet strings upon my mind --
coax me to stay and twist the fight out of me
I am limp but for his commands
I float ghostlike through my day,
His criticisms echo in my head
I sit beside you on the subway
I work one cubicle away
I am victimized by senses
I am neither heard nor seen
The abuse is not black and blue
Its essence has no proof
***
I wrote this to capture the turmoil one goes through; the fact that we bump up against victims every day who are hidden in plain sight; but also to speak to the frustration that the severe harm inflicted by emotional abusers is not valued equally as a shove or a punch in the legal system. I recognize the challenge to prosecute without physical evidence but I also feel that society gets the false message that emotional abuse isn't 'that bad.' Piling injustice upon injustice, perpetrators understand that if they don't lift a finger, there are no consequences.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Don't worry, friends ...
I know I've posted a lot of the pieces I wrote while processing my last relationship. I appreciate so much those of you who've circled back and sent me your feedback. I also wanted to reassure you that it won't be like this forever. My hope was that in putting this out there now, it would allow me to move forward with other topics and also, that it might help another woman out there in a similar situation. The greatest joy for me would be to know that somebody was helped by something they read here. So, don't go anywhere. I've got some ideas for upcoming features I'd like to start and I'd love for you to be on the journey with me! :)
That said, there will be close attention paid to relational abuse. It's a part of who I am, and this being a chance to own my voice and speak out, I do hope to follow my 'beat' here. But it won't be the only conversation.
Thanks again for joining me here. It means the world to me.
That said, there will be close attention paid to relational abuse. It's a part of who I am, and this being a chance to own my voice and speak out, I do hope to follow my 'beat' here. But it won't be the only conversation.
Thanks again for joining me here. It means the world to me.
Better off without you
Your words and your actions don't line up
I'm sick of the mind games and guilt trips
I've had some fun
I've learned a lot
But I know this now:
I'm better off without you
I've felt so often like I'm tiptoeing through a mine field
Trying to do everything right but you still blow up at me
I'm sick of being scared
And blaming myself for it
I'm better off without you
So I'm packing my bags
With photos and memories
I'll keep the good with the bad
For when I'm feeling shaky without you
Gotta keep my head on straight
And find myself in my own space
This is my declaration of independence.
Life goes on; I can't wait for this next chapter
I've faced stuff in the past
And I've learned my own strength
I'm gonna resurrect that girl again
Who smiles in adversity
And screams to the wind:
Is that all you've got?
You can't keep me down
I'm cutting myself loose
You've made it easy to do
With your lies and abuse
I won't stand for it anymore
I finally know my own worth
And I'm better than that, yea
I'm better off without you.
October 12, 2009
I'm sick of the mind games and guilt trips
I've had some fun
I've learned a lot
But I know this now:
I'm better off without you
I've felt so often like I'm tiptoeing through a mine field
Trying to do everything right but you still blow up at me
I'm sick of being scared
And blaming myself for it
I'm better off without you
So I'm packing my bags
With photos and memories
I'll keep the good with the bad
For when I'm feeling shaky without you
Gotta keep my head on straight
And find myself in my own space
This is my declaration of independence.
Life goes on; I can't wait for this next chapter
I've faced stuff in the past
And I've learned my own strength
I'm gonna resurrect that girl again
Who smiles in adversity
And screams to the wind:
Is that all you've got?
You can't keep me down
I'm cutting myself loose
You've made it easy to do
With your lies and abuse
I won't stand for it anymore
I finally know my own worth
And I'm better than that, yea
I'm better off without you.
October 12, 2009
My Creed
Slow down. Listen more. Serve others. Be generous. Seek wisdom. Discern God's plan. Love more. Rest with God. Love yourself as He loves you. Ask to see yourself through His eyes, with total knowledge of your weaknesses and flaws but with passion, tenderness, and affirmation of your strengths.
September 20, 2009
September 20, 2009
Fading to black
September 21, 2009
You. You who denounces Islam
who clucks his tongue at the treatment of Muslim women
who prides himself on being shaped
by centuries of civility
You are my burqa.
You cover the curves of my spirit
that distinguish and set me apart
those colors of my soul
you black out with your oppression.
How is your misapplied sense of honor
different than the Taliban's?
Your jealous questions and penal code
stifle me like a dark robe in the summer.
They isolate me and leave eye contact
as my only connection to the world.
You. You who denounces Islam
who clucks his tongue at the treatment of Muslim women
who prides himself on being shaped
by centuries of civility
You are my burqa.
You cover the curves of my spirit
that distinguish and set me apart
those colors of my soul
you black out with your oppression.
How is your misapplied sense of honor
different than the Taliban's?
Your jealous questions and penal code
stifle me like a dark robe in the summer.
They isolate me and leave eye contact
as my only connection to the world.
Learning to love myself again
Written as lyrics with no melody in mind. Any artists out there with ideas, let's chat.
It's been awhile now
that I give your words
more weight than mine.
But I've reset the scale
and I'm walking away with
tears I won't be cryin'
I need to protect myself
Respect myself
Learn again who I want to be
It's been so long that
you've had control
I've redrafted dreams
and tried to edit my soul
It just won't work (and)
now it's time for me
to love myself again
I gaze in the mirror
and try to see
the girl long ago
that used to be me
the confidence, sparkle
and firm sense of mind
I've taken back my life,
it's a matter of time
'til I love myself again.
-September 25, 2008
It's been awhile now
that I give your words
more weight than mine.
But I've reset the scale
and I'm walking away with
tears I won't be cryin'
I need to protect myself
Respect myself
Learn again who I want to be
It's been so long that
you've had control
I've redrafted dreams
and tried to edit my soul
It just won't work (and)
now it's time for me
to love myself again
I gaze in the mirror
and try to see
the girl long ago
that used to be me
the confidence, sparkle
and firm sense of mind
I've taken back my life,
it's a matter of time
'til I love myself again.
-September 25, 2008
But the greatest of these is love
Just because I haven't found my lifelong mate doesn't mean I haven't dreamed of him or imagined the joy of time shared together. To all of you that have your soulmates, cherish them even in the difficult times. For those of us who are waiting to turn the corner and find them, keep the faith alive! :)
With tender strength
you hold me tight
I feel safe, secure
throughout the night
Nestled in your embrace
I'm lulled to dream
of a future spoken of,
not yet redeemed
In this ethereal place
I see before me
a blissful union --
love set free
from past mistakes
and future fears
instead abiding in
the present dear
A man and woman
with similar tastes
who savor the moment
and see in their faces
Devotion and fidelity's
flames abound
defining a love
reborn and refound
With childlike fervor
the man and his mate play
recognizing the precious
value of a day
that they share together
having spent time apart
one entity alive
uniting two hearts
No ocean or obstacle
can quench their fire
whose flames first burned slowly
but then leapt higher
as their consummated passion
allowed their souls to rest
having found -- at last!
the object of their quest
The road was sometimes rocky
a path paved by tears
from the result of insecurity,
immaturity and fears
but patience, forgiveness
and resolute pluck
lifted them up when
they were mired in muck
You stir in your sleep
and my revelrie fades
as I return to the present
and stroke your moonlit face
I cling tightly to you
and thank Heaven above
for guiding us together
and planting a seed of love.
-August 22, 2009
With tender strength
you hold me tight
I feel safe, secure
throughout the night
Nestled in your embrace
I'm lulled to dream
of a future spoken of,
not yet redeemed
In this ethereal place
I see before me
a blissful union --
love set free
from past mistakes
and future fears
instead abiding in
the present dear
A man and woman
with similar tastes
who savor the moment
and see in their faces
Devotion and fidelity's
flames abound
defining a love
reborn and refound
With childlike fervor
the man and his mate play
recognizing the precious
value of a day
that they share together
having spent time apart
one entity alive
uniting two hearts
No ocean or obstacle
can quench their fire
whose flames first burned slowly
but then leapt higher
as their consummated passion
allowed their souls to rest
having found -- at last!
the object of their quest
The road was sometimes rocky
a path paved by tears
from the result of insecurity,
immaturity and fears
but patience, forgiveness
and resolute pluck
lifted them up when
they were mired in muck
You stir in your sleep
and my revelrie fades
as I return to the present
and stroke your moonlit face
I cling tightly to you
and thank Heaven above
for guiding us together
and planting a seed of love.
-August 22, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Bite-sized inspiration
You will find as you look back upon your life that
the moments when you have truly lived
are the moments when you have done things in the spirit of love.
--Mother Teresa
the moments when you have truly lived
are the moments when you have done things in the spirit of love.
--Mother Teresa
Bienvenu Theo
For the Francophiles out there, this was written to welcome my French host sister's first child who was born while I was studying in Rennes, France and living with the family.
Le ciel est gris
On ne pouvait pas deviner
qu'un rayon de soleil viendrait aujourd'hui
Apres une longue journee
Tu commences la deuxieme phase de la vie
Cette journee, t'as choisi de venir
pour commencer ton chemin
que nous prions a Dieu sera long et plein de joie
T'es reste' neuf longs mois
dans le ventre de ta Maman affectueuse
Ta maman ne t'a pas encore vu
mais elle se repose
apres votre journee fatigante
Aujourd'hui tu as traverse l'autre cote
Nous te voyons te nicher dans les ailes de Papa
qui a commence de te proteger de tout ce qui est mal
et te diriger tendrement tes annees de grandissement
Pendant que tu es dans ses bras,
On peut voir facilement ton esprit
non faconne, et innocent
Une creation parfaite
qui est venue de Dieu
On remarque la paix et la confiance
auxquelles tu commence ta vie
Tu es la fleur du printemps
qui apporte un parfum celeste et doux
aux deux familles qui t'accueillent en unite
Tu ne connais pas encore les gens
qui ont parle de toi souvent
pendant les derniers neuf mois
mais nous te regardons maintenant
avec les yeux grand-ouverts
en essayant d'apprendre par coeur
toutes tes caracteristiques
Ta magnifique beaute
evoque les larmes d'etonnement
pendant que je m'emerveille
de la beaute, le mystere et la miracle
les mots ne pouvent pas exprimer
tous les sentiments de la vie
que me saisissent maintenant.
Bienvenu Theo
Nous t'aimons
-March 3, 2001
Monday, October 26, 2009
Flamenco
May 10, 2007:
Staccato steps tap on the wooden stage
Ruffles twirl from trimmed bodices
Flamboyant wrist twists exude passion
As the beats pick up
And her heels kick up
The music explodes from her body,
Her instrument, her rhythm-keeper
Propelled by claps and chords
And tapping toes, “Ole!”
This is flamenco.
The dance of desire
Where music captivates
And movements titillate
Perhaps
Those susceptible to Carmen’s charm
Who become puppets drawn
By snaking arms, and a flash in her eyes
As it has been for centuries
Iberia and Africa harmoniously blended
In feminine wile, seductive steps
The flower in her hair, the beads of sweat
That slide down gleaming muscles defined
By the jumps and bends, twists and turns
The staccato hops, the pops and blurs
A soul enlivened, unrestrained, set on fire
Passionate for life, engulfed by desire
Staccato steps tap on the wooden stage
Ruffles twirl from trimmed bodices
Flamboyant wrist twists exude passion
As the beats pick up
And her heels kick up
The music explodes from her body,
Her instrument, her rhythm-keeper
Propelled by claps and chords
And tapping toes, “Ole!”
This is flamenco.
The dance of desire
Where music captivates
And movements titillate
Perhaps
Those susceptible to Carmen’s charm
Who become puppets drawn
By snaking arms, and a flash in her eyes
As it has been for centuries
Iberia and Africa harmoniously blended
In feminine wile, seductive steps
The flower in her hair, the beads of sweat
That slide down gleaming muscles defined
By the jumps and bends, twists and turns
The staccato hops, the pops and blurs
A soul enlivened, unrestrained, set on fire
Passionate for life, engulfed by desire
Bite-sized inspiration
One comes to appreciate the reality that there can be no "wes" and "theys" in our lives, but only brothers and sisters -- all children of God -- all sacred and dignified. Destruction of any one of these God-gifts means a certain destruction of oneself and a mystery that is gone forever from this small fragile world.
--Martin Luther King, Jr.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Rome
It's the sinewy streetsthat let you stumble upon
The legacy of greatness carried
within the proud hearts of her citizens, yet stepped upon and inhabited by scrappy, stray cats
Might it be the jaw-dropping size of St. Peter's Basilica? The heart-wrenching scene of La Pieta? The bright clothes and serious stares of Swiss Guards outside the Vatican?
the Pantheon, penny-filled Fontana di Trevi or the Spanish Steps
Or is it the way your heels click
on carriage-carved cobblestones
Or is it the way your heels click
on carriage-carved cobblestones
that conjure up images of
centurions and tribunes?
Might it be the sensuality of dishes 
so balanced in texture and flavor
that tears spring to your eyes
as the food slips onto your tongue?
What is it about this city that gets under one's skin and allows it so easily to set up permanent residence in your soul?
Perhaps it's the melodic language,
the unfiltered emotions and
life lived out dramatically in the streets.
the unfiltered emotions and
life lived out dramatically in the streets.
The art of a well-foamed cappuccino,
for their proportional perfection.
The legacy of greatness carriedwithin the proud hearts of her citizens, yet stepped upon and inhabited by scrappy, stray cats
The unsung mosaics on street corners
passed over with the casualness
passed over with the casualness
Might it be the smoothness of her gelato? the curve of her cuppole? the roundness of the 'o' when a phone is answered -- 'Pronto?'
The sharply-dressed but oft-mocked carabinieri strolling around? Or the rougher polizia forces badgering frustrated drivers amid the chaos of whimsical motorists?
Is it the sizzle of sophisticated men in tailored suits and shoes?
Or perhaps the production behind pouty women in designer shades and fur coats in mild weather?
Take note of the spicyness in casual encounters that start and finish with flirtation, and the way a woman's attractiveness is never left unnoticed by men.
Perhaps it's the snappy Vespas lined up
along the Lungotevere on weekend nights,
Perhaps it's the snappy Vespas lined up
along the Lungotevere on weekend nights,
the frenzy of Campo de Fiori
the stillness of Piazza Navona
the charm of Via Giulia's ivy-hugged archway,
or the white-knuckled thrill of guarding your wallet in crowded Termini Station.
Might it be the jaw-dropping size of St. Peter's Basilica? The heart-wrenching scene of La Pieta? The bright clothes and serious stares of Swiss Guards outside the Vatican? Riding the bus with nuns returning from their grocery-shopping?
Or standing in St. Peter's Square
hugged by the curved arms of Bernini's colonnade,
knowing Nero spilled martyrs' blood on that very spot.
The hush that cloaks you as you tunnel the catacombs
where persecuted believers finally rest in peace.
The wonder reflected in other visitors' eyes
The wonder reflected in other visitors' eyes
as they take in the soft colors and elegant wrinkles of the Eternal City? 
I will be forever haunted
by her beauty, grace and sensuality,
unable to forget my newfound appreciation of human potential;
being touched by divinity
and hedonism in the same stroke
each breath history-infused,
each step on sacred ground.
--photographs by M.G.H.
The hangman isn't supposed to say 'Ti amo'
October 13, 2008:
Your fist never hit me
and yet your words
left stab wounds in my soul
as you twisted the blade
in every sacred corner
in every hope and dream
without mercy.
I did not know it at the time
but you had employed me
to build my own gallows
You had a noose around my soul;
I had only to build the platform and frame
from which I'd hang
I came close to laying
the finishing touches
of the structure
that would kill my spirit
that you had designed
and packaged in words of love
and I had naively trusted
handing over the keys to my heart
For years you whittled down
my scrappy resolve
Did you choose me because I was strong
and challenged you?
Or was my strength
an accessory you hadn't ordered
but accepted as part of the package?
I underestimated your hypnotic power
and overestimated my ability
to protect what was sacred,
to survive the siege on my soul
to keep track of how I was changing,
dying slowly.
Your "guidance" brainwashed me
Your expectations drained me
Your mockery humiliated me
Your anger frightened me
into a wide-eyed schoolgirl.
For a minute, I believed
the fault was all mine.
That you were all good
and I was all bad.
I passed over the ways
you had wronged me
because you had convinced me that
I had lost the right to speak up.
But since when is a relationship
only one person's criticisms toward the other?
There are times I've wondered
if there's not some way to work it out or save it
but then I ask myself:
Aren't you more alive now than before?
Aren't you more 'you' than before?
Aren't you less scared than before?
Aren't you more at peace than before?
Would you want to live with
the noise in your head?
the fear in your heart?
the insecurity and emptiness in your soul?
shuffling your feet to his drum beat
instead of dancing freely to your melody?
Your fist never hit me
and yet your words
left stab wounds in my soul
as you twisted the blade
in every sacred corner
in every hope and dream
without mercy.
I did not know it at the time
but you had employed me
to build my own gallows
You had a noose around my soul;
I had only to build the platform and frame
from which I'd hang
I came close to laying
the finishing touches
of the structure
that would kill my spirit
that you had designed
and packaged in words of love
and I had naively trusted
handing over the keys to my heart
For years you whittled down
my scrappy resolve
Did you choose me because I was strong
and challenged you?
Or was my strength
an accessory you hadn't ordered
but accepted as part of the package?
I underestimated your hypnotic power
and overestimated my ability
to protect what was sacred,
to survive the siege on my soul
to keep track of how I was changing,
dying slowly.
Your "guidance" brainwashed me
Your expectations drained me
Your mockery humiliated me
Your anger frightened me
into a wide-eyed schoolgirl.
For a minute, I believed
the fault was all mine.
That you were all good
and I was all bad.
I passed over the ways
you had wronged me
because you had convinced me that
I had lost the right to speak up.
But since when is a relationship
only one person's criticisms toward the other?
There are times I've wondered
if there's not some way to work it out or save it
but then I ask myself:
Aren't you more alive now than before?
Aren't you more 'you' than before?
Aren't you less scared than before?
Aren't you more at peace than before?
Would you want to live with
the noise in your head?
the fear in your heart?
the insecurity and emptiness in your soul?
shuffling your feet to his drum beat
instead of dancing freely to your melody?
This frame I live in
A trip to the lighter side ... written October 15, 2008. In no way comparable, but inspired by a favorite work crafted by a hero of mine-- the great Maya Angelou, a phenomenal woman.
It's the way you fit so snugly around my soul
The way I'm able to wiggle my fingers and tap my toes
It's the feel of the hair brushing my face in the wind
It's how my soul takes flight when I open my mouth and sing!
This synthesis of synapses
that enlivens my five senses
breathes new life into muscle fibers and bone --
but a playful nature and a spunky disposition
is what makes this
house become a home.
It's the way you fit so snugly around my soul
The way I'm able to wiggle my fingers and tap my toes
It's the feel of the hair brushing my face in the wind
It's how my soul takes flight when I open my mouth and sing!
This synthesis of synapses
that enlivens my five senses
breathes new life into muscle fibers and bone --
but a playful nature and a spunky disposition
is what makes this
house become a home.
Breaking Free
Written September 29, 2009:
Jealousy was the guard dog that kept me in your cage.
You said it was there for my protection;
I knew better.
Fear was my prison diet -- flavorless but substantive;
enough to sustain me but not to give me the strength to escape.
Fits of rage were the prison wardens you sent to discipline me --
if I stepped too close to the bars or gazed too long out the window.
Guilt trips you used to clip the wings of my free spirit.
It's hard to fly when you're looking down all the time.
Isolation was my cellmate.
How else could I have believed that nobody could be trusted?
that nobody cared enough to come for me?
Lies were the shackles that kept me chained to your blame.
In my distorted sense of reality, I welcomed the chance for 'penance.' Only later I realized I shouldn't have carried the load in the first place.
But your penal system imploded from within.
The prison break was on your watch, beneath your nose.
Carried by family and friends, the truth set me free.
Jealousy was the guard dog that kept me in your cage.
You said it was there for my protection;
I knew better.
Fear was my prison diet -- flavorless but substantive;
enough to sustain me but not to give me the strength to escape.
Fits of rage were the prison wardens you sent to discipline me --
if I stepped too close to the bars or gazed too long out the window.
Guilt trips you used to clip the wings of my free spirit.
It's hard to fly when you're looking down all the time.
Isolation was my cellmate.
How else could I have believed that nobody could be trusted?
that nobody cared enough to come for me?
Lies were the shackles that kept me chained to your blame.
In my distorted sense of reality, I welcomed the chance for 'penance.' Only later I realized I shouldn't have carried the load in the first place.
But your penal system imploded from within.
The prison break was on your watch, beneath your nose.
Carried by family and friends, the truth set me free.
Being a voice for the voiceless
A primary reason I pursued journalism was to be a voice for the voiceless, to be an instrument of representing those viewpoints that are not held by officials or agencies but are the reflection of daily life that gets swept under the rug. A hope, too, was that in holding up the mirror to society that glimpsing our reflection would spur needed changes and shed injustice layer by layer.
One of those areas that I feel is routinely undervalued but unfortunately widely experienced is domestic violence. Having just finished a fantastic read -- A Thousand Splendid Suns, which I highly recommend to everyone, I was left with this thought:
Tragedy is when a child's heart must be broken so his mother's body isn't. Tragedy is the malice and neglect that break and defeat too many women across the globe.
More on this in future posts.
One of those areas that I feel is routinely undervalued but unfortunately widely experienced is domestic violence. Having just finished a fantastic read -- A Thousand Splendid Suns, which I highly recommend to everyone, I was left with this thought:
Tragedy is when a child's heart must be broken so his mother's body isn't. Tragedy is the malice and neglect that break and defeat too many women across the globe.
More on this in future posts.
The Artistic Soul
I'd like to gradually fold in some of my work stretching back over time. This was written in October 2007.
Centuries of warfare
have torn down the world
The rape of humanity:
Hatred unfurled
With widespread suffering
and desperate lament,
Hope is beaten down;
vengeance spent
But within caustic clashes
holding hostage countless lives
the artist selects his canvas
and with colors, hope revives
In a charred and smoking landscape
he swirls shades to uplift souls
his stream of inspiration restores:
shattered spirits become whole.
In no way do I wish to oversimplify the healing process after traumatic experiences, but I do want to speak to the power of artists as healers, whether they be painters, musicians, photographers, writers or sculptors. Their work brings sense back into chaos or simply allows us to sit with the questions, knowing we are not alone and feeling connected to a humanity that has triumphed over suffering.
Centuries of warfare
have torn down the world
The rape of humanity:
Hatred unfurled
With widespread suffering
and desperate lament,
Hope is beaten down;
vengeance spent
But within caustic clashes
holding hostage countless lives
the artist selects his canvas
and with colors, hope revives
In a charred and smoking landscape
he swirls shades to uplift souls
his stream of inspiration restores:
shattered spirits become whole.
In no way do I wish to oversimplify the healing process after traumatic experiences, but I do want to speak to the power of artists as healers, whether they be painters, musicians, photographers, writers or sculptors. Their work brings sense back into chaos or simply allows us to sit with the questions, knowing we are not alone and feeling connected to a humanity that has triumphed over suffering.
Why this name?
I remember being struck by the simplicity and artistic power of the pose when I saw Rodin's sculpture in Paris. The name 'Le Penseur' (The Thinker) resonated with me as well. Deep in my memory archives, I remember being a child that was prone to pensiveness (as well as great playfulness), but one who wrestled with questions that were beyond her age. Having older sisters and feeling more at peace with adults than peers undoubtedly contributed to this, but the image never left my mind after seeing it.(Reluctantly) I cite Wikipedia for context (taking my journalist hat off and swapping it with my blogger 'chapeau'): "[Le Penseur] depicts a man in sober meditation battling with a powerful internal struggle." In every milestone of my life, I can relate to this piece. And this being no less a milestone right now, I return to be comforted and challenged.
A final reason for my cyber-namesake is that Rodin's sculpture was initially named The Poet. Given that I process my emotions with poetry, this fits well with the overall aims of this space. Here's to finding freedom in vulnerability and sailing into uncharted artistic territory!
Saturday, October 24, 2009
The journey has begun!
Creating a cybercorner for myself is no insignificant feat. I have a few friends to thank for encouraging and challenging me to break out of the protective shell of privacy I've hid in all these years. Inertia and fear have kept me rooted in the mentality, up to this point, that I write, but without risk of baring my soul to the world. But, as any artist who's been broken along life's path knows, perhaps the most frightening feeling is closure of one's expressive outlet and creative censorship.
A friend tonight put into clarity a question I've wrestled with since entering this period of artistic dryness and apparent 'voicelessness.'
"You can't ever be disconnected from your voice -- even in real life," he reassured me. "When a boy's voice gets deeper, he's not disconnected from his voice; it's just changing. (The) writing voice is the same. It may feel disconnected but its just changing, like everything else. Everything and (every)one evolves and feels lost while evolving."
Here's to the growth journey -- personally, professionally, and artistically -- of embracing my evolution. From shy writer to empowered artist, are you in?
A friend tonight put into clarity a question I've wrestled with since entering this period of artistic dryness and apparent 'voicelessness.'
"You can't ever be disconnected from your voice -- even in real life," he reassured me. "When a boy's voice gets deeper, he's not disconnected from his voice; it's just changing. (The) writing voice is the same. It may feel disconnected but its just changing, like everything else. Everything and (every)one evolves and feels lost while evolving."
Here's to the growth journey -- personally, professionally, and artistically -- of embracing my evolution. From shy writer to empowered artist, are you in?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)