Couldn't resist ...

After living under a pop-culture rock for much of my life, I discovered who Mr. T was about two years ago. I have the convert's enthusiasm for all things Mr. T now, so without further ado, I share with you this commercial I saw tonight. (This is not an endorsement of the product).

Happy Thanksgiving!

Among the many things I'm grateful for: family, friends, health, my job, my education, my kitty, a place to live, all five senses working (as in, sight, hearing, smell, taste and touch), and freedom (a big thank-you to all the troops sacrificing this time with their families to serve our country).

Not included in that list, but vital to the holiday is ... food! So I share this:

A gripping escape

I finished Kathryn Stockett's debut novel The Help at 4:30 this morning, refusing to spend another night not knowing how the plot would conclude. I will say that I loved quite a few things about it:

• Getting to glimpse 1960s Mississippi from the perspective of three women (two black maids, one white woman) Every few chapters, the narration switches between the women. While the chapter that changes from one woman to the next is named after the woman speaking, the label was really just a gesture because Stockett did an excellent job of distinguishing the three voices.
• Seeing life in those times (shockingly recent) from an under-reported perspective: the non-white view. To quote one of the main characters in the book: "Everyone knows how we white people feel, the glorified Mammy figure who dedicates her whole life to a white family. Margaret Mitchell covered that. But no one ever asked Mammy how she felt about it." 
• Digging into the complex relationships and social conditioning resulting from the absurd idea of segregation.
• Gaining Stockett's insights to human nature, relationships and life that are surfaced periodically in the thoughts and words of one of the three women. She manages to include them without making the narrative feel contrived -- something few authors who wax philosophical do well, in my view.

My critical opinion of the book is shaped by the following three factors:

• Experience: Given that Stockett drew on aspects of her own life as the foundation of this book, she is able to create a much more compelling situation and cast of characters than someone like myself who never lived in the Deep South during that period or who never even had a maid at home. That being said, the novel was still written by a white author putting herself creatively in two black women's shoes. I have to wonder how someone who had been in that situation would assess the characters and the reality conjured by the book. 
• Doubt: Stockett does an excellent job of incorporating real-life figures such as Rosa Parks and Martin Luther King, Jr. and real-life events such as the Birmingham church bombing, Kennedy's assassination, and the march on D.C. as a means of situating the reader within a familiar context. She also uses some of the characteristic violence of organizations like the KKK to reinforce the high-stakes gamble the characters brave in embarking on their communal project. That being said, I was (relieved but) skeptical when I finished the book that we the readers hadn't seen more of that behavior shatter our characters' worlds.
• Oomph: Finally, I felt the book had progressed at such a steady clip, unfolding with such gripping conflict and suspense, that the ending, while logical, underwhelmed me. I had glimpsed Stockett's genius laid bare on the pages leading up to it, I wondered if she couldn't have left the reader with a more dynamic finish.

Overall, though, I found myself fading from my own world's parameters and inhabiting Miss Skeeter's, Aibileen's and Minny's realities with an increasing eagerness as I worked through the book's 464 pages. Having walked with the women through their struggles and triumphs, I closed the book's cover with a renewed faith in humanity's capacity for nobility and absurdity, and a profound love for three women I had had the honor of getting to know in the previous pages.

A favorite commercial ...

Unfortunately, embedding is disabled but if you're interested in checking it out, you can see it here. You go girls! :)

Humanity between two covers

I've always believed that books choose people, and reading Kaye Gibbons' A Virtuous Woman only convinced me of that further.

I picked the book up back in May at a used book sale benefiting a D.C. library. It was one of two dozen that I carried out in a 11" by 15" cardboard box provided by the volunteers when they saw me struggling with my newly purchased loot.

There was a rawness that resonated with me from the back cover's description: 

 "When Blinking Jack Stokes met Ruby Pitt Woodrow, she was twenty and he was forty. She was the carefully raised daughter of Carolina gentry and he was a skinny tenant farmer who had never owned anything in his life. She was newly widowed after a disastrous marriage to a brutal drifter. He had never asked a woman to do more than help him hitch a mule. They didn't fall in love so much as they simply found each other and held on for dear life."

I didn't reach for the book until last night and finished it this morning. Gibbons allocates alternating chapters to Jack and Ruby's reminiscences of their lives before and with each other, told at various points of time -- and in the case of Ruby, from the grave (something the reader discovers on the first page of the first chapter).

Gibbons' book feels less like a novel and more like time spent chatting on the porch with someone you've known most of your life. Her writing in a consistent Carolina dialect, her attention to detail in constructing a believable world, and the complexity of her characters' emotions in the face of life's heartaches allow them to step off the page fully formed.

The conclusion of the book, though moving and somewhat satisfying, felt rushed and tacked on to the otherwise thoughtful narrative, however. The entrance of an omniscient narrator who had never appeared before the last chapter was jarring and the last few pages felt as if Gibbons ran out of steam in trying to tie up the loose ends. A reliance on an increased amount of internal dialogue also was introduced in the final chapter, adding to the reader's disorientation. Lastly, the book seems to be set in the peak of 1950s life in the South, which includes allusions to racial inequality and prejudice that offends modern sensibilities. (I understand it was written to reflect realistically that time period).

Those weaknesses aside, A Virtuous Woman is worth reading. The themes of struggling with man's quest for immortality and wrestling with society -- both in trying to conform to its demands and in aiming to beat its expectations -- were portrayed with vulnerability that comes from a compassionate author's alertness to human nature and the world around her.

I'm richer for having been picked by this gem of a book.

Blowing the dust off the blog ...

During my blogging hiatus, I put reading on pause, too. Between giving up writing and reading, well, you can imagine I felt like a stranger in my own body. But sometimes, you get so busy living, thinking and observing that you have to step away from what gives you security in Life and just follow your Self's lead.

The tidal flow of expression in my life is something I long ago had to accept. There are times when my thoughts crash upon the shore with a steadiness and reliability in the rhythm that it's hard to imagine that ever changing; but then, just like that, the waters calm and I know I'm in the resting phase when it's time to go out and seek inspiration in the world around me before my next creative phase comes.

Thank you for not giving up on me. Here's to the past and future.

Retreat from city life

Beauty and peace in a sunrise at Cavas Wine Lodge in Mendoza. 

(Photo by M.G.H.)

Keeping it real

While traveling recently, I had the privilege of flying in business class for a leg of the trip. Thankfully, it came after a flight traveled in coach class, which prompted the following reflection:

I must admit a dichotomy in my senses: awe and appreciation for the feeling of limitlessness and pleasure in the taste of luxury; but also, discomfort and disillusionment at the implications, especially in the stark contrast in treatment between coach and business classes.

It is a reminder in humility and staying grounded that the same person can be treated without significance on one flight and waited on hand and foot 4 hours later. If ever there were evidence that money rules our society, it is this situation. Nothing about me has changed in the last four hours, except perhaps the newly acquired (and much-bemoaned) stain on my shirt. And, if anything, in today's image-conscious world, this would make me less likely to be the subject of groveling.

Note to self: Remember this, should you ever be in situations where others esteem you. Attention is fickle and the only thing that could be more uncomfortable than coach class is facing yourself when others' opinion of you deflates and you realize you bought into the illusion of being more important than you are.

12 months

A year ago today I received the "last word" from my ex-boyfriend via an email. The past twelve months have brought freedom, struggles, independence, sadness, but above all, a renewed sense of self. Today I celebrate my growth, the distance I've traveled and the way Life marches on.

My "last word"? Silence.

Long time no see!

I've been out of the country for the last two weeks. I had hoped to do a setup post beforehand but after pulling two all-nighters before my departure, I realized that wasn't going to happen. I'm back now after a wonderful trip to Argentina (more on that to come), but for now, this is how I feel after traveling for 30 hours and then working a full day.

Happy 'tails'

If Friday's post examined the cruelty and double standards of human treatment of animals, let this one tell the story of redemption and love. Check out the new beginnings of these lovable little ones and the fantastic humans who went to great lengths to save them. Be sure to vote on your favorite dog story and, of course, the kitties' too!

A closing thought from St. Francis of Assisi:

If you have men who will exclude any of God's creatures from the shelter of compassion and pity, you will have men who will deal likewise with their fellow men.

Update 8/23: Voting is now closed.

Questioning Tradition

 When a man wants to murder a tiger he calls it sport; when the tiger wants to murder him he calls it ferocity.  ~George Bernard Shaw

A story out of northern Spain reported today exemplifies this perfectly. Spectators in the stands at a bullfight had the tables turned when the bull jumped the barrier and used his power against them. Let me preface my remarks: My heart and prayers go out to the injured, especially the 10-year-old boy who is in intensive care as a result. Having said that, I can't help but question the senselessness of this situation.

I remember silent tears sliding down my cheeks when I attended a bullfight in Spain more than a decade ago. The injustice of a system entirely stacked against this mighty creature; the indignity of a death wished for and cheered by hundreds who paid to see it (i.e., to bring it about) sickened me.

I was an unwilling, albeit ignorant, accomplice. While I knew there would be a man teasing a bull, I had no idea there were two other men assigned to weaken the bull's neck muscles by stabbing it repeatedly (if acrobatically). The punctures are "gentle" enough for the paying public to be satisfied with a drawn-out dramatic event, in which the best case scenario would include the unscathed matador delivering the final blow to the bull and being awarded the animal's ears as a trophy. Not all "fights" unfold that way, as we saw this May when a matador was gored in the throat.

French musician Francis Cabrel wrote a song from the bull's perspective called "La Corrida." Two favorite verses from that song roughly translate as such:

Ils ont frappés fort dans mon coup [They struck my neck hard]
pour que je m'incline [so that I would bow]
Ils sortent d'oú, ces acrobates? [They're coming from where, these acrobats?]
Avec leurs costumes de papier? [With their costumes of paper?]
J'ai jamais appris a me battre  [I never learned to fight]
contre des poupées [against dolls]
...
Je les entends rire comme je rale [I hear them laugh as I groan]
Je les vois danser comme je succombe [I see them dance as I die]
Je ne pensais pas qu'on puisse autant s'amuser [I never thought one could have so much fun]
Autour d'une tombe [around a tomb]

The saddest part of today's story is that the bull was killed for acting on the instincts it was bred to have and for venting its rage at the indignity of its existence.

Who's ferocious now?

***

From beasts we scorn as soulless,
In forest, field and den,
The cry goes up to witness
The soullessness of men.
~M. Frida Hartley

Just learned about ...

... yarnbombing! This NYC image is courtesy of KT Tunstall's Facebook feed and the term tip-off was from her FB friend who encouraged everyone to check out other examples online. I have to admit: I love the concept: "...reclaiming and personalizing sterile or cold public places" (Wikipedia).

I love the sense of play, the non-destructive nature of it and the push to make the urban landscape a little more friendly. Knit on, yarnbombers, knit on!

Coolest pots ever?

Around the corner from one of my most favorite places in D.C. - Busboys and Poets. Next time you're in the area, stop by and have a drink or snack. Sink into one of the couches, bring a good book, or peruse the bookstore's shelves and buy one.

It's a place I would truly miss if I left this town.

And we're back

My apologies for the inactivity on the blog. I just returned from a weekend retreat that proved to be especially restful and fruitful, due to the atmosphere of silence that prevailed. I'll write more on that later, but I just wanted to let you know that I'm here and planning to blow the dust off this page shortly. ;-) Thanks for stopping by!

A tribute to resilience

Despite the sad situation, this story is surprisingly uplifting. I'm so glad this kitty is surrounded by loving caretakers. Here's to the hope of a loving purrrr-manent home in her near future!

Bite-sized inspiration

"Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around."

Dr. Leo Buscaglia
(1924-1998); Professor, Author

Dos años más tarde ...

My mom's got a point. "Even physical wounds would have healed by now," she says, while urging me to fix the two-year-old hole in my wall. When the event first happened, I was too ashamed to go to the leasing office to have them fix it. Then, I thought it served as a powerful reminder of what I left behind; I'd look at it in my moments of weakness.

But now it's just a downer.

We brainstorm ways to beautify it. I could ask the office to fix it, but that creates other complications -- namely raising awareness that I have an undeclared (feline) roommate. I could stick a photo there but that seems pretty random in the general scheme of my apartment's decorations. My mom sent me two pieces of art from Colombia a few months ago that I hadn't hung yet because they had gotten lost when I held them up on other walls. I decided to start with one. Tonight seemed as good as any other to take the bull by the horns and say "Hasta la vista!" to bad memories.

Before:

After:

Much better, no? :)

Some welcome levity ...

This blog fully owns up to taking on some heavy topics, but that's not to say this writer doesn't love the goofy or absurd. Without further ado, I present the most memorable Save the Date ever:

The dark side of a popular tool

CNN reports on the recent shaming of Craigslist for being an avenue for sex trafficking of minors. "Craigslist is like the Wal-Mart of online sex trafficking right now in this country," said Andrea Powell of the anti-trafficking group The FAIR Fund in this CNN interview last week.

Soon after that interview, human rights organization The Rebecca Project  wrote a letter from the perspective of two young women who were sold regularly on Craigslist, urging the website's founder to shut down the "adult services" section. The letter ran as a full-page ad in The Washington Post.

"According to the most recent Department of Justice statistics, an estimated 100,000 to 300,000 children are sold for sex every year in the United States. Most are from 11 and 14 years old," writes Malika Saada Saar, founder of the Rebecca Project, in the August 4th opinion piece for CNN Craigslist's shame: Child sex ads. "Try for a moment to imagine your fifth-grade child, niece or sister sold for sex."



At the 3:38 mark in the video segment of CNN's story, journalist Amber Lyon confronts "the Craig of 'Craigslist'" and asks "what are you guys doing to protect these girls?" He stands speechless and motionless, unable or unwilling to say anything. He then tries to put the onus on Lyon to report the inappropriate ads, to which she points out that his site is the one publishing and promising to take action against such pitches. He gets so uncomfortable he paces in front of the camera for an awkward 30 seconds before ultimately walking away in silence.

Craigslist responds to criticism in this opinion piece.

Just finished ...

A childhood classic that was a favorite of mine in both the book and movie format. I hadn't read Charlotte's Web in at least 15 years but I thought I'd revisit it when I serendipitously happened upon it in a used bookstore the other day. The timeless tale of friendship and self-sacrifice moved me as it had so many years before. Themes I didn't remember: respecting animals and growing up. The tender illustrations paired with the lively descriptions were a riveting combination. Tip of the hat to author E.B. White and illustrator Garth Williams.

Unexpectedly, I read the book more as a writer this time and less as a reader. I still was completely absorbed by the descriptions and the characters, but I viewed it from the lens of an aspiring children's book author. What I learned was that when a book comes from an authentic place, the author can draw in any type of reader. Reading about the rhythms and tasks of farm life is a topic that I am unlikely to feel connected to, having grown up in urban landscape my whole life. And yet, I felt fully present with Fern and her "best friends," the animals, and was drawn in by the narrator's knowledge. Ultimately, the book reminded me that no matter what our life experiences are or how simple an idea we have, the right combination of skill and heart can produce a poignant classic.

Summer's last gasp*

August is a melancholic month, haunted by memories of poisoned love. Romantic beach vacations gone awry. Threats uttered as his fist broke the wall. Terror, humiliation, the death of a relationship that has become my all. The heartbreak of his departure.

Trapped in my fractured reality, I've come to dread the way the sunbeams slant across my wall. They are the bars of my emotional prison. No other time of year do they cut into my apartment so drastically as in August.

His presence hangs in the air like stale cigarette smoke. Everywhere I look there are reminders that it wasn't just a bad dream: his ticket stub from Rome to D.C.; the can of men's shaving cream in the bathroom; a forgotten sock in the corner; the coffee-can-lid-turned-ashtray choked with cigarette butts.

Echoes of his words taunt me daily, sadistic remnants of the past. How long will they be my roommates? How many more sun-triggered flashbacks of despair? How much longer will I walk zombie-like in limbo between the hell of being with him and the ache of being without him?

*Time warp: I'd thought about writing this before but I needed distance to capture the emotions. It was written present-day but it's set in 2008 or 2009.

A thought to live by ...

What would you do if you knew you could not fail?

Bite-sized inspiration

True love is not a feeling by which we are overwhelmed. It is a committed, thoughtful decision.

--M. Scott Peck

Jar of Hearts

A shout-out and thank you to Miss K-Ro for introducing me to this haunting ballad. I love the rawness in Christina Perri's voice.



This song's awesome backstory: A L.A. waitress/singer-songwriter whose luck was changed by a reality TV show she wasn't a part of. Her success occurred before she ever stepped in front of the camera.

Hugely disappointed

I consider myself an enthusiastic fan of Rihanna for her musical abilities and for the role she's embraced in speaking out about abuse in the wake of last year's assault. Additionally, she devoted a number of tracks from her latest album to the subject of relationship abuse. Having said that, I'm left speechless and confused by her latest musical collaboration with Eminem. The melody is catchy but the lyrics are horrific -- doubly so when she is the one singing them, given her real-life experience with this issue. Read the lyrics here.



Like the athlete who bemoans the behavioral expectations that come with celebrity, Rihanna may not want to accept that every project she'll work on in years to come will be assessed with the assault in mind. I am sympathetic to not wanting to be defined by an unpleasant situation; but it's part of the responsibility she accepted by leaving and speaking out. She needs to consider what kind of message this is sending to the very girls she hoped to lead out of unhealthy situations.

Update 8/9/10: Buzz has built over the video as analysts and experts have broken down the underlying messages and complicated dynamics of not only the songwriting but also the pairing of Eminem and Rihanna.

From Women's Media Center:

Rihanna explained her motivations for being in the video to Access Hollywood. ... Rihanna has certainly made an effort since she unwittingly became the spokesperson for domestic violence to use that platform to give a voice to abused young women ...

By contrast, Eminem has never claimed to champion the cause of unheard, abused women, and in fact has often been identified as a perpetrator of domestic violence. While staging a similar “comeback” tour to the one he is staging now in 2008, Eminem told Esquire, “I’m a T-shirt guy now. But wifebeaters won’t go out of style, not as long as bitches keep mouthing off.” Eminem’s problematic relationship with women is also apparent in his popular music video for the song “Stan,” which ends with Eminem’s alter ego putting his pregnant girlfriend in the trunk of his car and driving off a bridge.

Precedents such as these immediately problematize Eminem’s goal of shedding light on both sides of domestic violence, especially as only the male voice (Eminem’s verses) describes an inherent contradiction in his feelings, or a hint of  three-dimensionality ... The woman’s only voice (Rihanna’s lines) does nothing but profess to love the abusive relationship– she likes the way it hurts.

 From MTV:

"The most important thing the video is doing is raising the topic of dating violence among young people," Stephanie Nilva, executive director of sexual assault and trauma resource center Day One, told MTV News.

An expert in relationship violence and domestic abuse prevention, Nilva praised the clip for accurately depicting a pattern typical of abusive relationships. ...

 From Feministing:

... the song doesn’t clearly condemn violence against women or intimate partner violence. In some ways, it can be easily read as a song about relationship troubles that may not necessarily require an intervention because the woman never leaves. If the old adage is true that the first step in solving any problem is admitting that you have one, this song seems to fail at clearly identifying that what we are observing is dysfunctional violence. The fact that the track is included on an album titled “Recovery” doesn’t help in clarifying things. The situation is also worsened by the portrayal of a survivor who seems complicit in her abuse because she doesn’t just love the way her aggressor lies, she “likes the way it hurts.” For me, this line scream [sic] victim-blaming central and it calls upon the counterproductive accusations that survivors sometimes face.

 From Women's Rights:

I see a significant problem with Rihanna's lines about liking the pain because, while it seems to read as a woman in love trying to justify staying, it confuses some people about the distinction between S&M and domestic violence. Non-abusive S&M is a consensual act between two partners for mutual pleasure; a situation like the one in the song, where the violence comes out of anger and pushed the abused partner to try to leave, and where it escalates to potential murder, is not S&M, it's just domestic abuse. ...

After all, approximately 1000 women (or more) are killed each year by intimate partners. Maybe Eminem and Rihanna could have worked that stat into their duet?

From M.G.H.: What we see is a reflection of the lyrical ambivalence toward the issue of domestic abuse. Most people sounding off online are relieved that the song has extended the national dialogue on abusive relationships, but there are many (this writer included) that are uncomfortable with how passive and supportive the victim is to her situation and the disturbing message that ultimately is sent. As Alex DiBranco from Women's Rights writes:

I hope that most people's take-away message isn't along the lines of victim-blaming, misunderstanding consensual S&M, or minimizing violence. Women's lives depend on it.

Shades of grey

I'm more at peace now than ever with the fact that no one is all good or all bad. Even Public Enemy No. 1 (whomever that may be at a certain point in time) may stop and guilelessly offer candy to kids. As more time passes from the sadness in recent years, I can appreciate the whole composition of each individual residing in the frozen frames in my mind. Where I've concentrated on the darkness in past posts, I have created space in my mind to see also the good that was mixed into the picture.

It is in this intersection -- between goodness and evil -- that humanity finds its redemption and condemnation. There is the hope that goodness will prevail in each of us and subsequently in our world, but there is the knowledge that the other half may win out in that individual at that time. What's important to me is never to give up on someone. History has redemption stories sewn into its quilted testimony of humanity's potential. We do not ever get the full story, but what we see resonates with examples around us in present day and we can fill the gaps with what we've witnessed.

Saul is a classic example. A hater of Christians to the extent of imprisoning and killing as many as he could, this man later would address them as 'brothers' and contribute a bulk of writings to their main book of guidance. "I long to see you so that I may impart to you some spiritual gift to make you strong -- that is, that you and I may be mutually encouraged by each other's faith," St. Paul writes in Romans 1:11. Could this be the same man?

Perhaps the majority of soulful changes aren't as drastic, but all are notable. And all should be remembered -- not just the changes from hatred to love, but also the falls from good. Those are equally a part of humanity's story. They serve as a cautionary tale that our souls are on the battlefield; good and evil are fighting daily to gain ground. What many of us don't realize is how much these daily skirmishes do count until their results are manifested in an act that seems foreign to our nature and we struggle to comprehend how we might have arrived there.

In times when I might be surprised by words that come out of my mouth or a particular action that doesn't seem to fit with the rest of me, Socrates' words return to me: "The unexamined life is not worth living." The Jesuits, founded by St. Ignatius of Loyola, educated me in college and I am grateful to their influence. In addition to their emphasis on social justice and serving others, they also taught me about a nightly reflection called "The Examination of Conscience." In it, one remembers the day and thinks of the moments that were well-lived and those in which one fell short of his/her potential. With this practice, goodness gains ground in the awareness and commitment to do better the next day. And by acknowledging that we are works in progress, our compassion grows for those around us, as well.

'Under Construction' sign in Singapore; Photo credit: Flickr user 'hellochris'

Breaking the silence

I've been treading water this past week, so to speak; I thought I'd share this new favorite with you while I work on my next post:

Calling all word nerds

I stumbled upon a list tonight that I think is too good to pass up. Aside from the satisfaction that comes from beefing up your vocabulary, you never know when one of these rare words might come in handy.

Imagine you're in the hot seat on "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?" and poised to win the purse with only one remaining question. You've used all your lifelines. You land on this: What is another word for the infinity symbol? A.) Philtrum B.) Ferrule C.) Glabella D.) Lemniscate

Are you going to see confetti falling or will you walk away wishing you had checked out the Top 10 Words For Things You Didn't Know Have Names?

I hope for your lunules that it's the former, my friend.

Locked out!

Photograph by M.G.H. upon returning home.

 For the record it's 3 a.m. I called the proverbial red phone of my apartment building only to find out that getting someone out of bed to open the front door would cost me $45.

You may be thinking: "$45? What's the hangup? Pay it, march upstairs and crawl into bed." But maybe, like me, you're not. I'm revolting on principle, refusing to part with half-a-hundred dollars for the simple act of crossing a threshold. My fiscal rebel envisions bills on my kitchen table that would receive that amount with greater appreciation than a leasing office that already gets more than enough each month. 

Don't get me wrong. I've already thought longingly of the shower and soft bed just beyond my reach. I've been guiltstricken imagining my poor hungry kitty pacing the apartment, meowing her complaints. I've imagined the dazed stupor that'll cling to me tomorrow morning when I stumble from the backseat of my car to wait beside the front door for early risers to exit the building.

For now, I've converted the backseat of my car into a cradle of creativity. Laptop screen up. Earbuds in. New Age music wafting into my writing state of mind. At least in here I don't have to deal with wet concrete, giant bugs, or the feeling of vulnerability that cloaks a woman in the wee hours of the morning. At least in here, I can sleep without keeping one eye open for insects or predators.

I realize how blessed I am  to have this temporary 'apartment'. Sure it's smaller than my bed and isn't exactly designed for overnight stays, but it's safe, softer than the sidewalk, shelters me from the elements and if I get hot, I can run the A/C. How many people in the world can't say the same. 

In the first sixty minutes of my short exile from comfort, I'm reminded of how little we need and that having less allows us to appreciate the things that we do have even more. I am newly mindful of responsible ways to use the resources I possess.

But I'll definitely be double-checking my key ring each time I leave home.

"The most important job ... ever"

A recent discovery on the radio prompted me to pause and reflect on the importance of fatherhood (you'll find the song below).

I can't help but nod in agreement with the way Randy Pausch, author of The Last Lecture, points to an aspect of his life that influenced all other components. "I won the parent lottery," he writes. "I was born with the winning ticket, a major reason I was able to live out my childhood dreams."

I've been blessed with an amazing father who has reassured us of his love for my mom and us, supported every dream my sisters and I have had, encouraged us to push ourselves to reach our potential, instilled within us a love of reading, the arts and travel, and challenged us to spend our lives in the pursuit of justice and in service to others.

But how many in our nation can't say that? Last month, President Obama reflected on the state of fatherhood in the Union. If you haven't heard his speech yet, I'd encourage you to check it out by watching it below or reading it here.



Key points the President makes:

• Fathers are our first teachers and coaches ... they’re our mentors, our role models.
• We also know that what too many fathers being absent means. ... We know that when fathers abandon their responsibilities, there’s harm done to those kids.
• It’s hard to live up to the lifelong responsibilities that come with fatherhood.
• Our children don’t need us to be superheroes.  They don’t need us to be perfect.  They do need us to be present.  They need us to show up and give it our best shot, no matter what else is going on in our lives.  They need us to show them -- not just with words, but with deeds -- that they, those kids, are always our first priority.
• No matter what doubts we may feel, what difficulties we may face, we all have to remember being a father -- it’s not just an obligation and a responsibility; it is a privilege and a blessing, one that we all have to embrace as individuals and as a nation.

The theme of supporting and holding fathers accountable in their efforts to be better dads is addressed in Sanctus Real's song "Lead Me". The lyrics capture the essence of marriage and fatherhood within the context of Christianity but the songwriter's struggle extends beyond any faith.

Balancing relationships and ambition is a central challenge to many in the USA (not just fathers) and is, in my opinion, at the heart of the American family unit dissolving. The song is a powerful testament, however, to that sense of responsibility and love that unites family, the importance of communicating through the difficulties, and the supernatural help that is within our reach, should we look for it.



I'll close with an excerpt from President Obama's speech:

"Those family meals, afternoons in the park, bedtime stories; the encouragement we give, the questions we answer, the limits we set, the example we set of persistence in the face of difficulty and hardship -- those things add up over time, and they shape a child’s character, build their core, teach them to trust in life and to enter into it with confidence and with hope and with determination. And that’s something they’ll always carry with them: that love that we show not with money, or fame, or spectacular feats, but through small daily acts -- the love we show and that we earn by being present in the lives of our children."

Unexpected milestones

It's funny. The experience of healing from trauma happens first in transitions from minute to minute (when it's all you can do just to breathe and put one foot in front of the other), to hourly, daily, then week-long and monthly steps away from the pain. 

Somewhere along the way, the memories that used to smother you disperse and -- if you're like me -- you start to focus more on the possibilities of Life than on what you were fortunate enough to leave behind. But it's days like today that snap me out of complacency and pseudo-amnesia to note the pervasive problem that affects millions in the USA alone, not to mention every other country around the world.

Shattering the cliched belief that domestic violence is a 'personal' problem to which one should turn a blind eye or deaf ear, a story broke this morning about a 37-year-old man in Albuquerque who shot dead two people and injured four more (among them his girlfriend) before turning the gun on himself. This is not an issue that is contained by the four walls of a home. It spills out onto our streets and into our workplaces. It often leaves the victims homeless (usually mothers with children, jeopardizing her ability to provide for them and their chance at an education). The cycle repeats itself with the nasty subtext that many who witnessed the horror as a child become perpetrators themselves, spawning new generations of abusers and the subsequent ripple effect across society.

The second event was the widespread reporting of a recorded abusive rant that was allegedly Mel Gibson threatening to kill his ex-girlfriend. The audio speaks for itself, but there are a few points worth noting:

• an abuser usually feels like the victim ("you see what you make me do?") 
• an abuser feels entitled and under-appreciated ("I deserve ...")
• an inflated self-image is usually paired with an excess of insecurity
• the problem is always with the other person
• the abuser criticizes anybody in the victim's support network to isolate the victim; the abuser may base criticisms on the way family members or friends fall short in loving the victim, according to the abuser's perspective, or on perceived lack of morality, pedigree, etc.
• Sample argument recycled from conversation to conversation: "You don't have any friends. I am your only friend and you treat me like ____, which is why you deserve to be treated this way. And if you were smart you'd see that the way I'm treating/hurting you is for your own good."
• the abuser can swing between provocation and efforts to silence (taunting/bullying the victim and then snapping when he/she speaks out) 
• abusers are unable to manage their anger, yet seek to use it to control others

I was hesitant to listen to the clip, unsure of how I'd react to returning to the past. While my heart breaks for the women who are still caged by rage, I was reassured. I could hear the attacker's words and with a knowing nod -- instead of teary eyes or a racing heart -- note in myself a healthy level of detachment. While the rant took me back to the tumult of years past, it also accentuated the peace (and welcome silence) I have savored since leaving. May all those who feel trapped find a safe and healthy way out.

Bite-sized inspiration

"Use what talents you possess; the woods would be very silent if no birds sang there except those that sang best." --Henry Van Dyke

A particular playlist

... springing from a conversation with my sidekick-in-crime (not pictured :-]). She's doing awesome things in other women's lives and she reminded me how widespread an issue relationship abuse is. Here are my top picks for women weighing their options or trying to pick up the pieces of their hearts and lives after leaving: 

1. Remember That by Jessica Simpson
2. Stupid in Love by Rihanna
3. Spotlight by Jennifer Hudson
4. Cold Case Love by Rihanna
5. There's More to Me Than You by Jessica Andrews
6. Survivor by Destiny's Child 
7. Fighter by Christina Aguilera
8. I Get Out by Lauryn Hill

Peace and love --m.g.h.

Tragic truths

I just finished the previously-mentioned Black Like Me, an eye-opening account of the absurdity of racial hatred in our nation's recent history. In the late 1950s, John Howard Griffin, a white journalist from Texas, is haunted persistently by these questions:

"If a white man became a Negro in the Deep South, what adjustments would he have to make? What is it like to experience discrimination based on skin color, something over which one has no control?" 

He decides one night to embark on a seven-week journey that would answer those questions by medically altering his skin color and experiencing the discrimination firsthand. The book is a series of journal entries, beginning the night he decides to pursue this project and ending with the world's reaction to his published work. Griffin's strength as a journalist in documenting his experience lies in his observation skills and his commitment to include details that powerfully evoke these situations for the reader.

In an afterword, Griffin's biographer Robert Bonazzi explains:

The book's evocation of naked experience, of what is being done to the narrator rather than what he does, draws us toward the center, engages our emotions and all of our senses. We view scenes in vivid detail, hear precise tones in the dialogue and interior monologue, smell fear, and taste dread ...

The power of the book is rooted in the uncomfortable truth that many people who were impacted by it would not have listened to its revelations if they were not written by a white man. If he had not been a part of a privileged class and documented the respect and dignity he was freely given before changing only his appearance, his experience would have been written off.

The flaw of the book springs from the same place of its power. While Griffin as a black man relearns social conditioning to act according to societal expectations, and while he approaches each situation with the methodology of a sociologist, he never fully relinquishes his white perspective. There are passages that, though well-intended, come across sounding racially paternalistic. He also has the luxury of being able to escape the despair of the ghetto when it begins to close in on him by asking to stay with a friend in the white area of town.

That being said, the book is still one motivated by a rare sense of humanity and courage, given the time period. Despite its weaknesses, I will echo the back cover's recommendation that this "chillingly relevant eyewitness history is a work about race and humanity every American must read."

Bite-sized inspiration

"I've come to believe that each of us has a personal calling that's as unique as a fingerprint - and that the best way to succeed is to discover what you love and then find a way to offer it to others in the form of service, working hard, and also allowing the energy of the universe to lead you."

--Oprah Winfrey, O Magazine, September 2002

Possibilities

I love this ad for its storytelling and the message of remaining open to Life's possibilities. (Like all ads featured on this blog, I am not endorsing the product nor do I have any connection to the company.) 



In a nod to Jung's synchronicity theory, Michael Buble released this song shortly before AT&T aired the ad. For a while, I pointed discouraged friends to it for a dose of optimism and hope. Then I found out that he cast his girlfriend as the main lead, which makes the song ring hollow. Not well-played, Buble. All the same, voila:

A Conflicted Fourth

Each Fourth of July, regardless of my location in the world, I have worn my colors, sang the songs, watched the fireworks and felt very patriotic. I'd think of the brave men and women who put everything on the line to found this country, risking liberty and life, (in the case of men) leaving wife and children to draw up the documents we still refer to today, and then fight battles in primitive conditions to defend the rights they declared.

I'd think of the men and women who continue to put their lives on the line to defend U.S. interests and the sacrifices they make. Having kept in touch with my friend while he serves in Afghanistan, I have new respect and appreciation for everything that entails.

While I am still a proud American, this Fourth was completely different for me. Watching the fireworks was the only thread of continuity linking me to years past. What's different now is that my vision's gone from 2-D to 3-D. Added to the cardboard cutouts of our founding fathers frozen in their moments of glory is a crowd of faces behind them - each with its own heartbreaking tragedy to tell: being sold like livestock, daily life steeped in condescension, lashings, losing family members to the auction block or at the hands of a bigot, and the death of dreams. Now I replay the parades, flag-waving, speeches about liberty and God's role in this young nation at the same time that this quilt of heartbreak and horror is going on in plain sight -- and it makes it impossible for me to celebrate the holiday as I used to. I'm not trying to be a downer, I just feel like we need to be telling the whole story in context because otherwise it's propaganda. Without context, it's an insult to the memory of the faces in that crowd and a disservice to the future of this country.

Early start

The alarm goes off at 4:45 a.m.

We look at each other, stunned to be up before daylight. Her eyes ask me: "You sure we have to do this?"

The reward for getting up.

A soul's plea

Anybody who's been in a controlling relationship or has been victimized by injustice or discrimination knows that freedom is built into our souls; that the form of any oppression upon us, the manipulation of heart, mind and/or liberty, is a grave offense and that that violation resonates to our very core.

--February 4, 2009

Tuned in

For not being much of a TV-watcher, I sometimes get made fun of for ordering two (count 'em, two!) premium channels: TV5Monde (French) and RaiItalia (Italian). But tonight I was reminded of why I keep them in my package. Not only do they help me maintain language skills, but they also consistently have beautiful, artistic films I would never find through Netflix or iTunes; and vegging out is still somewhat intellectually engaging when I turn to one of these channels instead of the reality TV alternatives.

Tonight I happened to catch the last two-thirds of a WWII movie called 'Zone Libre' (Free Zone). I won't go into too much detail but the movie focuses on one part of a family that is split up and hiding with a French peasant who is protecting them from Nazi sympathizers. The quality of the acting and the cinematic storytelling were top-notch. I noticed aspects of the experience I had never thought of from previous exposure to other WWII movies and books. In one scene, the peasant Monsieur Maury stops to check on three of the women he is protecting -- two sisters and their mother -- at the isolated farmhouse and he brings them a bouquet of lilacs. Their expressions of delight and gratitude spurred me to think of the profound nature and impact this seemingly tiny gesture offers.

***

To anybody else it's just a bouquet.
But to us - we who are stuck in the shadows of a hostile world,
denied the luxury of 'normalcies' and faced instead with
yellow stars, boxcars, family losses and death camps -
these flowers remind us of the beauty that can still grow
in a world as crazy as ours,
where men engineer systems of annihilation
and lose sight of humanity.

These flowers show us the kindness
that can survive despite the bleak times,
of the humanity and goodness in some
that rise to outdo the evil of the day.

These remind us that we can choose who we become,
even in the worst-case scenario
we can mimic or defy our captors
in the adopted attitudes and values we display.

These blooms may be the only sweet-smelling fragrance
we encounter while hiding out on this farm,
here with the smells of sweat and sh*t and animals.

They may be our only visible sign of hope
and they sustain our will to live
when we think of the beauty this world can offer,
the goodness of those around us,
and we take a sensual escape from our imprisonment.

But to anybody else, it's just a bouquet.

Snapshots of humanity

"All that mankind has done, thought, gained or been -- it is lying as in magic preservation in the pages of books." -Thomas Carlyle 

As far back as I can remember, I've had a book in my hand. Growing up it was my joy and the way that I felt set free. Not much can coax me to put reading and writing on hold, but a certain project that took top-priority these last few months did. That being said, as soon as I'd finished I took a running leap into my pile of books and savored the wisdom and humanity I found in their pages.

First came Eat Pray Love. Elizabeth Gilbert's storytelling of her yearlong search for pleasure, devotion and love (in that order) sparkles with intelligence, wit, and personality. Her sense of adventure, courageous vulnerability and the insights she draws from philosophy and major world religions allows the reader to participate in her travels and growth, to empathize and celebrate in her struggles and triumphs, and carry away at the end of the book a sense of friendship with her. I rarely say I feel that personal connection, but few authors have the audacity to share so generously of themselves, to include both virtues and flaws in democratic detail and to react to both with such love.

Favorite excerpts/lessons from this book (ironically both come during her time in India where she studies at a temple and meets fellow student Richard, a larger-than-life character from Texas):

• [On being aware of our thoughts] He said, 'You need to learn how to select your thoughts just the same way you select what clothes you're gonna wear every day. This is a power you can cultivate.' ...  On first glance, this seems a nearly impossible task. Control your thoughts? Instead of the other way around? But imagine if you could? ... So I've started being vigilant about watching my thoughts all day, and monitoring them. I repeat this vow about 700 times a day: "I will not harbor unhealthy thoughts anymore." Every time a diminishing thought arises, I repeat the vow.
• [On the subject of soul mates] "I seriously believed David was my soul mate." Richard: "He probably was. Your problem is you don't understand what that word means. People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that's what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that's holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life. A true soul mate is probably the most important person you'll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then they leave."

Next, I followed a friend's advice and went for another adventure, this time to Spain and the Sahara Desert, and then to the Soul of the World. Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist is a fable about a young boy pursuing his 'Personal Legend' (what each of us was designed to do -- something that usually you know as a child). Coelho offers piercing insights into the ways we often compromise as adults on our authenticity and dreams. His fable surprises with its depth because it is packaged in simple prose, but it resonates on a personal level with the reader because the universal themes and lack of pretense allow it to be a guide for whomever is wise or lucky enough to peek under its cover. 

From The Alchemist:

"There is one great truth on this planet: whoever you are, or whatever it is that you do, when you really want something, it's because that desire originated in the soul of the universe. It's your mission on earth. ... To realize one's Personal Legend is a person's only real obligation."

Whether it be a woman's heartache and subsequent search to discover herself and the world, or a shepherd boy's quest to realize his potential and remain open to life's lessons along the way, both have changed me. Both accounts I found magically preserved in the pages of books, and both have inspired me to dream of the adventures I have yet to live and the contribution I hope to make one day in guiding fellow travelers in search of their own Personal Legend.

Photograph

Worn clothes hang from her thin frame.
Threadbare, mismatched, brightly colored, 
they are a contrast to the mask of grief on her face.
Furrowed brow. Life's toughest moments etched on her cheeks.
Her black hair, parted just where it has begun to gray,
hangs in braids at her shawl-wrapped shoulders.

I don't know her name
but this woman from Guatemala's Chimaltenango province
is cloaked with a humanity that I can relate to.
Her body bowed with resignation under the weight of her loss.
Eleven relatives washed away by Tropical Storm Agatha
Stomach protruding, she casts an unseeing glance down at the earth that took them.

A scene of destruction frozen in frame:
ravaged land, broken branches
The trees' vibrant shade of green seemingly mocks her despair
A haunting suggestion of the lives that once were there
In this quiet scene of grief, she is wholly removed from the chaos that ripples across the globe.
Right now, her shattered corner of existence is the only one that matters.

More than 1,700 miles away, a stranger grieves with her.

Photography by Ulises Rodriguez/EPA

Orb (a.k.a. Pumpkin)

She came to me in my darkest moments

When I was as broken as my dreams

She cowered under the bed with

the same fear I felt towards people around me --

avoidance I could relate to when it was all I could do

to get through another day with the pain.

She taught me that, in spite of my doubts,

I could still love and express that love.

She coaxed out my nurturing maternal side,

and little by little, as I gained her trust and respected her space,

I learned to hope that there would one day be

someone who showed me the same respect and tenderness.

Gradually, as she came out of her shell

she showed me that life after trauma

can be composed of the small silly moments

that made it worthwhile and so joyful before.

She showed me what it is to play

with the innocence and wonder of a toddler,

even after having been betrayed and abandoned

by the one person you should feel protected by.

Her snuggles brought me out of my pain

out of the loss, the fear and the darkness.

She was in many ways the presence of Christ in my life:

encouraging me to live again, restoring hope beyond the pain,

assuring me I had not been abandoned through it all

and was not alone, now or ever.

According to The Shack, God reveals Himself

in the least intimidating form for us to see.

God packaged His love for me in the form of

a scruffy, scrawny, scared little kitty,

whose two years of life had been defined by instability.

On days when I'm sad and she curls up beside me,

I still feel His love through her.

But I have also been healed to a point where

I can begin to look outside of my "safe" zone and glimpse God

in the everyday details and faces surrounding me in life.

So, tonight, like every night, I offer up my thanks to God

for the many blessings He has given me --

family, friends, faith, health, a job, the hope of a future --

and folded into that list is a precocious and affectionate cat

who's captured my heart with her zeal for life,

and restored my own with her presence.

--May 2, 2010

Attack Aftermath

I put on our class' t-shirt tonight (the one from high school with both our names on it) not knowing what his fate is -- a clammy, shaky, sinking feeling. At once numb and achy. Totally nauseous.

That death or severe injury is even a possibility for him right now has drained me of every drop of energy that overflowed my cup this morning. The spring in my step has uncoiled with the anxious dread of not knowing.

The silence.

The waiting.

Time does funny things to a person waiting for this type of news. It stretches itself to seem interminable but promises none of the speed that brought one to this stalemate.

I know what you must be thinking: "He's in a war zone; what did you expect?" But it's funny how that works, too, because while you try and prepare for these types of scares as you send them off with a hug, a mental dress rehearsal can't compare with the real thing. It's totally different when the whispered imaginings of "If ..." are replaced with nightmarish details of actual events. Bloodstain outside the T.G.I. Friday's on the boardwalk where many soldiers socialize. Details distilled in the military's slowness to release information and paired with a personal tendency to let my mind wander the "what-if" trail amount to a dance with insanity.

Try sleeping when you don't know whether your friend is in pain, conscious, dead or alive; whether he's alone in a military hospital or just reliving the horror in his bunk as his body and mind wrestle about the need for sleep.

I apologized to him - mentally - as I ate today; that my body seemingly kept ticking forward when for him the world had been interrupted so violently. The fact that my appetite was still there felt like a betrayal from my own body. I was full of dread, worry, fleeting bouts of hatred toward the Taliban, then the subsequent repentant prayers to God. Weren't all these enough to keep my body going?

In the fluctuation between panic and numbness, I got to thinking about war. Nothing in my mind was linear and these thoughts aren't either, so I won't try to string them together in a forced structure. I pondered:

• the wasted potential, the promise of brilliance bled out on battlefields where the gifted individual is hidden behind generic labels like "troop," "soldier," etc. 
• the unquantifiable senselessness of it all; the ugliest layers of Life and humanity exposed; the messes we get ourselves into for unchecked passions, lack of wisdom, and an abundance of pride. 
• the hatred I feel for the terrorists restrained only by my desire not to resemble them in any way; not to become like them by the same fatal flaw; instead, to tap into the potential nobility of a human soul and recognize the power to choose what we allow ourselves to become. 
• frustration for the moments when people reassure me there were "only injuries" reported. I know they're trying to comfort, but it sounds callused and naive to say that. "Only injured" could be a life-altering brain injury, limb or sensory loss. And, without any further information from the military, we have no way of gauging how many are "only" critically wounded, which could translate into the worst-case scenario. 

When we fight wars, we invite Satan -- in all his ugliness and horror -- to reveal his face on Earth in utter clarity. The depths to which humanity and angels alike can fall; the brutality and viciousness unleashed against each other, destroying the very fabric of our existences; reminding us -- as they are lifted from our hands -- what the most precious things in life actually are: family, friendship, love, health and faith.

"And remember, the truth that once was spoken: To love another person is to see the face of God" is a favorite line of mine from the musical "Les Miserables." It reminds me, now, why it is so crucial not to hate and allow evil another stronghold on Earth; but instead, to sacrifice our aching hearts, shattered dreams, and wounded pride on the altar of service to God and fight brutality with beauty, fear with faith.

That being said, abstract principles are little comfort to me as the silence consumes me tonight. All philosophical thought seems absurd when the concrete dangles before me.

Overwhelmed by feelings of powerlessness and exhaustion, I climb into bed.

***

Update 5/25: I heard from my friend this morning and he is safe.

A new favorite ...

I love pretty much everything about this song: the groove, the lyrics, his voice, and the production. Enjoy!

Marketers to the Super Bowl audience:

You, yes, you on the couch. We've never met. But we've been working months to show you that we get you.

If you're a guy, you're two-dimensional. You're part-baboon. You have no intellectual interests. You really, really, really like beer. In fact, that and a naked woman (together or separately) are enough to motivate you to do anything. You feel threatened by the fact that women have leveled the playing field and are asking you to be more than a paycheck. We recognize this in overt ways by telling you your best shot at holding on to your masculinity is to drive our car; or in subtle ways, by playing to your ego and casting you in the dominant role in every single commercial.

If you're a woman, you're also two-dimensional. You are annoying. You're not worth addressing with any of the millions of dollars at our disposal. You fit into this event as comic relief -- but don't expect to write or crack the jokes; the laughs will be at your expense. The only way you get to shine is if you're 88 and willing to be tackled to sell a candy bar. Otherwise, your place is in a hot tub, on a massage bed, or passively standing beside your husband as he tries to fight fees with the concierge. We are wholly unconcerned with the fact that we kowtow to the XY chromosomes in the room and flip the bird at you in the process. You'll get over it. You should be used to it by now. And you'll come back to buy our stuff anyway because, honestly, would you expect anything different from us on such a male-centric event? I mean, who do you think you are? Let the boys be boys, and let us make the money how we do. Go back to the hot tub. Oh, and on your way, get us a cold one.

A song for today

Aside from the freaky close-up and the Italian lyrics, check it out. I'll work on posting the translation when I don't have a snowbank asking to be shoveled off my car. :)



Update: Translated lyrics below

Tutto questo tempo a chiedermi cos'e che non mi lascia in pace
(All this time to ask myself what it is that's not allowing me to be at peace)
Tutti questi anni a chiedermi se vado veramente bene cosi
(All these years to ask myself if I was really doing well like this)
Come sono
(As I am)
Cosi
(As such)
Cosi, un giorno
(Like this, one day)
Ho scritto su un quaderno "Io faro' sognare il mondo con la musica"
(I wrote in a journal "I will make the world dream with music")
Non molto tempo dopo quando mi bastava fare un salto per raggiungere la felicita
(Not too long afterward it was enough that I make a leap to rejoin happiness)
E la verita e' che
(And the truth is that)
Ho aspettato a lungo qualcosa che non c'e'
(I waited for so long for something that doesn't exist)
Invece di guardare il sole sorgere
(Instead of looking at the rising sun)
Questo e' sempre stato un modo per fermare il tempo e la velocita'
(This was always a way to stop the time and the speed)
I passi svelti della gente, la disattenzione, le parole dette senza umilta'
(The quickening steps of people, the carelessness, the words said without humility)
Senza cuore
(Without heart)
Cosi'
(Like that)
Solo per far rumore
(Only to make noise)
Ho aspettato a lungo qualcosa che non c'e'
(I waited for so long for something that doesn't exist)
Invece di guardare il sole sorgere
(Instead of looking at the rising sun)
E miracolosamente non ho smesso di sognare
(And miraculously I never stopped dreaming)
Miracolosamente non riesco a non sperare
(Miraculously I continue to hope)
E se c'e' un segreto e' fare tutto come se vedessi solo il sole
(And if there's a secret it's to do everything as if you only saw the sun)
Un segreto e' fare tutto come se, fare tutto come se vedessi solo il sole
(A secret is to do everything as if, to do everything as if you only saw the sun)
Vedessi solo il sole
(As if you only saw the sun)
E non qualcosa che non c'e'
(And not something that doesn't exist)

On the lighter side ...

Loved, loved, loved this ad!



(I do not have any connection with Audi, nor is this an endorsement of their product.)