I have not ridden a bike years. I mean literally, years. A few weeks ago I decided it was time to not only ride a bike, but become a bike owner. So my wonderful cousin built me a bike. The day I got it I tried to ride it and fell a bunch of times. Then I carried it up 3 flights of stairs and set it ever so neatly against the wall in my room. Knowing that I would eventually need to succumb and purchase all the necessary paraphernalia needed to own a bike in New York City, I began by finally buying a bike helmet last weekend. The heavy chain needed to lock my bike to posts around the borough will probably be the last of my purchases, and will only be done after I have convinced myself that I am, and will be, a biker in this City.
And today, determined to practice this thing that I used to do so effortlessly when I was 7, I carried that bike downstairs and got on it. At first, just getting going was hard for me. Making sure not to wobble too much because I could very well just get hit by a car. But today I did it. I got on, and I pedaled. And it was smoother than it has been.
And then I experienced the inclines of Brooklyn streets. They look so unassuming, all tree-lined and beautiful. Don't let that brownstone facade fool you. At one point I was going SO slow, and had such a pained expression on my face that the people zooming by on their bikes actually asked if I was OK. Ya, two of them. "You OK?!?" They yelled as I trudged on by. One guy passed me on his bike and was talking on the phone the whole time! I tried it. I lifted my hand up to my ear JUST to see if I could possibly ever do that. And, no. The answer to that was, no.
Although I should have come home feeling defeated - instead I felt proud. I was conquering my fears. Trying something new. It will take me a while to be, myself, zooming around the streets. But the fact that I'm trying is enough for me right now. It is nice having something so tangible to overcome.
I have to remember to tell my new incoming class this story. I think they would completely relate.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Lucy Caulkins is a well known figure in the education world. She created a philosophy for the teaching of reading and writing to children.
This morning she opened up the Reader's Workshop training with an address to the teachers, principals, learning specialists, superintendents, and all 700 of us who were gathered there to listen. I have to say, she is inspiring. Most of all because of her use of stories in illustrating a point. This morning she shared a story about her 88 year old mother. I tried to write down as much of the story as I could so as not to lose the meaning of it as told in her words and from her perspective, but it was difficult. She told it so well.
'My mother is a strong woman. One of the strongest women I know. So to see her age has been difficult.
The other day I was at my parents house and we were in the kitchen. She was lifting up a cup of water to put into the coffee maker. She missed it and the water spilled all over the floor. My father and I continued to talk, pretending that we didn't see what had just happened. Mom slowly walked over to the towels and and picked one up. As she did, it dropped. She kicked it all the way to the stove and then mopped it up using her feet. She tried again. Took another cup of water and lifted it up to put into the coffee maker. Her hand moved higher, higher up still, and then spill. All over the floor.
At this point we couldn't ignore the fact that my mother was having this difficulty. My father sprang to his feet. Rushed over to the coffee maker, yanked it out of the plug and proclaimed: I am sick of this thing. It never worked quite right. We are getting a new one!
And with that, he threw it away.
The next day there was a whole new coffee maker in the kitchen. One with a hole big enough that you couldn't miss.'
This is love.
This morning she opened up the Reader's Workshop training with an address to the teachers, principals, learning specialists, superintendents, and all 700 of us who were gathered there to listen. I have to say, she is inspiring. Most of all because of her use of stories in illustrating a point. This morning she shared a story about her 88 year old mother. I tried to write down as much of the story as I could so as not to lose the meaning of it as told in her words and from her perspective, but it was difficult. She told it so well.
'My mother is a strong woman. One of the strongest women I know. So to see her age has been difficult.
The other day I was at my parents house and we were in the kitchen. She was lifting up a cup of water to put into the coffee maker. She missed it and the water spilled all over the floor. My father and I continued to talk, pretending that we didn't see what had just happened. Mom slowly walked over to the towels and and picked one up. As she did, it dropped. She kicked it all the way to the stove and then mopped it up using her feet. She tried again. Took another cup of water and lifted it up to put into the coffee maker. Her hand moved higher, higher up still, and then spill. All over the floor.
At this point we couldn't ignore the fact that my mother was having this difficulty. My father sprang to his feet. Rushed over to the coffee maker, yanked it out of the plug and proclaimed: I am sick of this thing. It never worked quite right. We are getting a new one!
And with that, he threw it away.
The next day there was a whole new coffee maker in the kitchen. One with a hole big enough that you couldn't miss.'
This is love.
empathy
The word 'empathy' came up a lot today. Almost every hour actually. By different people. So I thought it worth while to explore.
Webster would define it as "the action of understanding, being aware of, being sensitive to, and vicariously experiencing the feelings, thoughts, and experience of another..."
One of the keynote speakers in a class I was in today described it as the ability to put yourself in another persons shoes and feel what they feel. Apparently a few years back at a commencement speech, when asked what his wish was for every college graduate, Obama stated, 'that they all have empathy'.
We are the only creatures on this planet that have the capacity for this emotion. And through conversation and reading and experiencing and being - we can feel it. It is what draws us all closer together. And what allows us to understand that we are, essentially, one.
Webster would define it as "the action of understanding, being aware of, being sensitive to, and vicariously experiencing the feelings, thoughts, and experience of another..."
One of the keynote speakers in a class I was in today described it as the ability to put yourself in another persons shoes and feel what they feel. Apparently a few years back at a commencement speech, when asked what his wish was for every college graduate, Obama stated, 'that they all have empathy'.
We are the only creatures on this planet that have the capacity for this emotion. And through conversation and reading and experiencing and being - we can feel it. It is what draws us all closer together. And what allows us to understand that we are, essentially, one.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
It was an awesome day in San Francisco. There were 5 of us in the car for most of the day. Some of the best people I know.
We saw sights, we ate good food, we had ice cream, we looked over the Golden Gate bridge.
Then we met up with more people. People who were not a part of our lives earlier in the week and all of a sudden we interacted as though we were family. As though we had known of each other all along. We laughed, we had a few serious discussions, we ate corn dogs. It was the kind of day you wish you had more often. And the kind of day that makes you extremely appreciative to have love.
We saw sights, we ate good food, we had ice cream, we looked over the Golden Gate bridge.
Then we met up with more people. People who were not a part of our lives earlier in the week and all of a sudden we interacted as though we were family. As though we had known of each other all along. We laughed, we had a few serious discussions, we ate corn dogs. It was the kind of day you wish you had more often. And the kind of day that makes you extremely appreciative to have love.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
air conditioner please!
Three weeks ago I was begging for an AC. Sweat poured out of parts of my body that I didn’t know could produce sweat. All I yearned for was 5 minutes with the air conditioner. So much so that my one conversation with my room mate from that remote island involved something along the lines of – can you just make sure the air conditioner is put into the window before I get home?
I sweat and sweat and sweat. I would talk to people all the while wondering how they could keep a straight face with sweat trickling down my face. However, I walked around in that heat almost unhesitatingly as my body slowly had grown accustomed to its new condition.
Two weeks back and I actually wake up in the middle of the night to turn off my AC off. The air it produces hurts my throat and dehydrates me. But I had wanted it so badly!
And now, I can’t even come close to bearing the heat like I used to. I walk outside and within moments I am complaining about the weather or agitated because it is so hot out; because I know that within moments I could again be in a cool, air conditioned room. My tolerance level has decreased. I have become way to dependent. All within a matter of weeks.
I sweat and sweat and sweat. I would talk to people all the while wondering how they could keep a straight face with sweat trickling down my face. However, I walked around in that heat almost unhesitatingly as my body slowly had grown accustomed to its new condition.
Two weeks back and I actually wake up in the middle of the night to turn off my AC off. The air it produces hurts my throat and dehydrates me. But I had wanted it so badly!
And now, I can’t even come close to bearing the heat like I used to. I walk outside and within moments I am complaining about the weather or agitated because it is so hot out; because I know that within moments I could again be in a cool, air conditioned room. My tolerance level has decreased. I have become way to dependent. All within a matter of weeks.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
One of the perks of being home in the summer is being able to watch things on TV you normally aren't home to watch. Today it was Oprah's show on Class in America.
A number of people were interviewed who recently have lost their jobs and 'slipped down' a class. It was a bit overwhelming to watch. But, in the midst of all this, the message that stood out was the humanity of people as they became humbled by their new state of existence. There seems to have emerged, from this, a greater sense of values. And a commonality as people begin to realize that many others share their story. An economics professor noted, "The economy will get better, I promise, but I hope we don't lose sight of what really matters."
A number of people were interviewed who recently have lost their jobs and 'slipped down' a class. It was a bit overwhelming to watch. But, in the midst of all this, the message that stood out was the humanity of people as they became humbled by their new state of existence. There seems to have emerged, from this, a greater sense of values. And a commonality as people begin to realize that many others share their story. An economics professor noted, "The economy will get better, I promise, but I hope we don't lose sight of what really matters."
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Interconnected?
I took a train to Long Island this morning and met up with a good friend and colleague of mine who lives out there. We toured South Hampton, walked around the cute little town, in and out of stores with price-tags that are too high to recount, bought over-priced (but delicious) sandwiches, and made our way to the beach, which, of course, you have to pay for to sit on. The homes are set back a mile from the road with hedges so high you might be able to sneak a peak if the gardner did a poor job of pruning that week. I couldn't help but notice the stark contrast of the life I was witnessing today with that of the one I lived a mere 2 weeks ago on the island of St. Lucia. How could these two extremes occupy the same planet? How can we be this disconnected from one another?
On the ride back home, we hit bumper to bumper traffic. For 30 minutes we inched forward, which seemed odd for 4 pm on a Tuesday. A few miles down the road we saw the reason for the delay - across the street a terrible accident. More than 4 cars were involved. And they were completely turned over all over the road. A mile of highway space had been blocked. As we passed the scene, the traffic on the other side of the highway became seen. Miles upon miles of cars were lined up. Many of whom would not know for hours what the cause of the delay actually was. Hundreds of lives were being effected by this one accident down the road. Each car, each life inside each car, now interrupted due to the unfortunate fate of another member of humanity. They may never know one another but they were now connected and effected by one another's lives.
And I realized that no matter how distant and far apart the various lives and different circumstances actually are, that we are truly all interconnected. And our actions effect, sometimes very indirectly, the lives of all the other people who inhabit our planet.
On the ride back home, we hit bumper to bumper traffic. For 30 minutes we inched forward, which seemed odd for 4 pm on a Tuesday. A few miles down the road we saw the reason for the delay - across the street a terrible accident. More than 4 cars were involved. And they were completely turned over all over the road. A mile of highway space had been blocked. As we passed the scene, the traffic on the other side of the highway became seen. Miles upon miles of cars were lined up. Many of whom would not know for hours what the cause of the delay actually was. Hundreds of lives were being effected by this one accident down the road. Each car, each life inside each car, now interrupted due to the unfortunate fate of another member of humanity. They may never know one another but they were now connected and effected by one another's lives.
And I realized that no matter how distant and far apart the various lives and different circumstances actually are, that we are truly all interconnected. And our actions effect, sometimes very indirectly, the lives of all the other people who inhabit our planet.
Visit to the NYC Public Library
There is something so inspiring about libraries. I decided today, after 5 years of living in New York City, to visit the big public library on 5th Avenue. The building itself is astounding, and the molding and intricate design of the interior is nothing short of inspiring. I walked the halls, David Grey in ear, and got lost up and down the stairs leading from one room to another. Why I waited so long to discover this place is beyond me. It is a place of total solitude which resides in the right smack dead center of this crazy, hectic, buzzing City I call home.
I finally stumbled upon a room with rows upon rows of tables, with only a smattering of folks occupying the chairs which belonged to them. Paintings adorned the walls with portraits of what I would only assume are great writers of the past.
I found a seat - at this point the music had been turned off because there is something so incredible about the sound of silence and minds at work.
I began reading from Paulo Coelho's book of thoughts and reflections, Like the Flowing River. He had one piece about a pianist in a mall. He explained how that one talented man played because it made him happy, because he loved the piano. This part resonated: 'we each of us have our personal legend to fulfill, and that is all. It doesn't matter of other people support us or criticize us, or ignore us, or put up with us - we are doing it because that is our destiny on this earth, and the fount of all joy...He was talking to God through his work, and nothing else mattered.'
Here's to discovering our own personal legends and having the courage to fulfill them.
I finally stumbled upon a room with rows upon rows of tables, with only a smattering of folks occupying the chairs which belonged to them. Paintings adorned the walls with portraits of what I would only assume are great writers of the past.
I found a seat - at this point the music had been turned off because there is something so incredible about the sound of silence and minds at work.
I began reading from Paulo Coelho's book of thoughts and reflections, Like the Flowing River. He had one piece about a pianist in a mall. He explained how that one talented man played because it made him happy, because he loved the piano. This part resonated: 'we each of us have our personal legend to fulfill, and that is all. It doesn't matter of other people support us or criticize us, or ignore us, or put up with us - we are doing it because that is our destiny on this earth, and the fount of all joy...He was talking to God through his work, and nothing else mattered.'
Here's to discovering our own personal legends and having the courage to fulfill them.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Waking Up in St. Lucia
Let's just paint the picture of my morning. To give an idea of what it's like.
At 4 a.m., Ms. Drusilla begins to stir. I know this because the thin piece of wood that separates the room I stay in and hers does not quite reach the ceiling, and since I sleep on the top bunk of the bed (below which sleeps 3 of the girls) I am indeed very close to Ms. Drusilla's room. Although there is often a cool breeze in the mornings here, the screen on the window, doubled with the thickness of my mosquito net, leave very little that actually cools my body - which pretty much sweats through the night.
At 5 a.m. the rooster starts it's crowing, which wakes the goats who begin their singing at intervals of 5 seconds, accompanying the rooster until 7 a.m. It's just a constant melody. For two whole glorious hours. Once in a while the cow jumps in with a deep, guttural 'Mooo', which the first few mornings I mistook for the vibrating of my cell phone.
Around 5:30, the bread car begins his honking. Every morning he brings his fresh bread by, honking up and down the street for what feels like hours, but probably never surpasses one. I try desperately to block the noise which, thanks to my Myrtle Avenue side sleeping for the last 3 years, I have grown quite accustomed to.
It's close to this time that Ms. Drusilla is now up and running...and then slowly but surely, 6 little pitter pattering feet begin to join her as the morning rolls by.
By 6:30 the household is now completely awake, except for me. I have been trying, desperately, to hold on to sleep for the last 2 hours, only awoken occasionally by the slamming of a door, the yelling of a child's name, or the kicking of the bed frame from down below.
Finally, at 7:30, it is indeed impossible. For it is at this time that the daily obituaries are being loudly proclaimed on TV, accompanied by Mariah Carey's, One Sweet Day - and sweat has now completely overtaken my body.
I slowly move to a seated position, contemplating how to get down the ladder of the bunk bed without breaking my foot. And immediately I am greeted by 4 pairs of eyes peering through the netting, and a "Mornin' Sleepin' Beauty" which I can only assume means - who invited the lazy ass into the house.
7:30!!!
And thus the day begins.
At 4 a.m., Ms. Drusilla begins to stir. I know this because the thin piece of wood that separates the room I stay in and hers does not quite reach the ceiling, and since I sleep on the top bunk of the bed (below which sleeps 3 of the girls) I am indeed very close to Ms. Drusilla's room. Although there is often a cool breeze in the mornings here, the screen on the window, doubled with the thickness of my mosquito net, leave very little that actually cools my body - which pretty much sweats through the night.
At 5 a.m. the rooster starts it's crowing, which wakes the goats who begin their singing at intervals of 5 seconds, accompanying the rooster until 7 a.m. It's just a constant melody. For two whole glorious hours. Once in a while the cow jumps in with a deep, guttural 'Mooo', which the first few mornings I mistook for the vibrating of my cell phone.
Around 5:30, the bread car begins his honking. Every morning he brings his fresh bread by, honking up and down the street for what feels like hours, but probably never surpasses one. I try desperately to block the noise which, thanks to my Myrtle Avenue side sleeping for the last 3 years, I have grown quite accustomed to.
It's close to this time that Ms. Drusilla is now up and running...and then slowly but surely, 6 little pitter pattering feet begin to join her as the morning rolls by.
By 6:30 the household is now completely awake, except for me. I have been trying, desperately, to hold on to sleep for the last 2 hours, only awoken occasionally by the slamming of a door, the yelling of a child's name, or the kicking of the bed frame from down below.
Finally, at 7:30, it is indeed impossible. For it is at this time that the daily obituaries are being loudly proclaimed on TV, accompanied by Mariah Carey's, One Sweet Day - and sweat has now completely overtaken my body.
I slowly move to a seated position, contemplating how to get down the ladder of the bunk bed without breaking my foot. And immediately I am greeted by 4 pairs of eyes peering through the netting, and a "Mornin' Sleepin' Beauty" which I can only assume means - who invited the lazy ass into the house.
7:30!!!
And thus the day begins.
Friday, July 31, 2009
First Real Exposure.
I had just settled into my seat on American Airlines flight 2009. It was a full flight. Half of which were vacationers clearly delighted for their well needed escapes from Manhattan - all clad in bright floral shirts and khakis. The other half were native Lucians. My first real exposure.
I was seated next to a young girl (maybe 13?) and her brother (probably 8?) both headed back home. Exhausted from a night of packing and preparation. Exhausted from a far too early arrival at the airport...I finally fall into a deep sleep...as the plane takes off.
*Tap*Tap*Tap*
I'm just going to ignore that - clearly they know I'm sleeping.
"Excuse me." *Tap*Tap*Tap*
Eye lids slowly separate. Body too weary for anything else to move.
"Um, can I borrow your phone?"
"Huh?" Mind more foggy than I thought, clearly.
"Can I borrow your phone?"
"Umm...for what?" Hmm...maybe there is a game on there that they want to play - or maybe they need to use a calculator on it?
"Wanted to use it."
"It doesn't work up here"
Shocked. "WHAT? Your phone doesn't work up here?!?"
"Um, no. There is no reception." Okay, she looks too confused by this. Maybe I heard her wrong. "Wait, do you need my HEAD phones?"
"No. Your phone! For a call."
I'm completely shocked and quite awake at this point. "No. It doesn't work up here."
"Oh, ok. Thanks!"
I close my eyes and turn my body away from them and towards the aisle as a small smile plays on my face at the total absurdity of the whole situation. And, once again, I begin to doze off.
*Tap*Tap*Tap*
Oh God, PLEASE no!
*Tap*Tap*Tap* "Excuse me."
Again, eyes slowly separate.
"Ya?" I'm so groggy.
"Can I borrow a pen?"
Slowly I realize that immigration papers are in her hand and she wants desperately to fill them out. Why this needs to be done 20 minutes into our 4 hour flight is beyond me so I grab my purse, hand her a pen, turn my body again, and close my eyes.
"Um..." ARE YOU KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW?!? "...how do I fill this out?"
I help.
Then I turn to her. "Listen, I'm going to sleep now, OK?" I look her straight in the eyes and make sure she understands. She does. "Just put my pen in this pocket," I say, making sure that all bases are covered so that there is no ambiguity left which will require my immediate attention.
But, alas, I am too awake at this point to even dream of sleeping. And quite honestly, I am beyond amused by the interactions that have transpired. I give in and begin filling out my own immigration papers only to be interrupted periodically by, "Do you have change for a $20?" "How much are chips?" "Do I need to pay for drinks?"
At one point she peeks her head far into my seat, looks at my passport photo and remarks, "Hey, you look pretty there!"
Immediately I am reminded of my friend Shari's interaction with a number of young Israeli girls in a movie theatre in Haifa a few years back when they had annoyed and aggravated us beyond all reason and when we finally came to confront them, one of them looked at her and said, "HEY! You're pretty!", at which point her heart melted and she sat back in her chair enjoying the compliment. And at this moment I understood what that must have been like for her.
Although, at this point, my little friend has won. Whatever the battle is, she won. Because if I know anything it's that the cardinal rule of a teachable moment is consistency and follow through. And the mere fact that I made it CLEAR that I was going to sleep and am now up answering her barrage of questions means - she.has.won.
Meanwhile, a little 3 year old cries incessantly behind us as she turns to look at him. Ever so clearly annoyed.
Go figure.
I was seated next to a young girl (maybe 13?) and her brother (probably 8?) both headed back home. Exhausted from a night of packing and preparation. Exhausted from a far too early arrival at the airport...I finally fall into a deep sleep...as the plane takes off.
*Tap*Tap*Tap*
I'm just going to ignore that - clearly they know I'm sleeping.
"Excuse me." *Tap*Tap*Tap*
Eye lids slowly separate. Body too weary for anything else to move.
"Um, can I borrow your phone?"
"Huh?" Mind more foggy than I thought, clearly.
"Can I borrow your phone?"
"Umm...for what?" Hmm...maybe there is a game on there that they want to play - or maybe they need to use a calculator on it?
"Wanted to use it."
"It doesn't work up here"
Shocked. "WHAT? Your phone doesn't work up here?!?"
"Um, no. There is no reception." Okay, she looks too confused by this. Maybe I heard her wrong. "Wait, do you need my HEAD phones?"
"No. Your phone! For a call."
I'm completely shocked and quite awake at this point. "No. It doesn't work up here."
"Oh, ok. Thanks!"
I close my eyes and turn my body away from them and towards the aisle as a small smile plays on my face at the total absurdity of the whole situation. And, once again, I begin to doze off.
*Tap*Tap*Tap*
Oh God, PLEASE no!
*Tap*Tap*Tap* "Excuse me."
Again, eyes slowly separate.
"Ya?" I'm so groggy.
"Can I borrow a pen?"
Slowly I realize that immigration papers are in her hand and she wants desperately to fill them out. Why this needs to be done 20 minutes into our 4 hour flight is beyond me so I grab my purse, hand her a pen, turn my body again, and close my eyes.
"Um..." ARE YOU KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW?!? "...how do I fill this out?"
I help.
Then I turn to her. "Listen, I'm going to sleep now, OK?" I look her straight in the eyes and make sure she understands. She does. "Just put my pen in this pocket," I say, making sure that all bases are covered so that there is no ambiguity left which will require my immediate attention.
But, alas, I am too awake at this point to even dream of sleeping. And quite honestly, I am beyond amused by the interactions that have transpired. I give in and begin filling out my own immigration papers only to be interrupted periodically by, "Do you have change for a $20?" "How much are chips?" "Do I need to pay for drinks?"
At one point she peeks her head far into my seat, looks at my passport photo and remarks, "Hey, you look pretty there!"
Immediately I am reminded of my friend Shari's interaction with a number of young Israeli girls in a movie theatre in Haifa a few years back when they had annoyed and aggravated us beyond all reason and when we finally came to confront them, one of them looked at her and said, "HEY! You're pretty!", at which point her heart melted and she sat back in her chair enjoying the compliment. And at this moment I understood what that must have been like for her.
Although, at this point, my little friend has won. Whatever the battle is, she won. Because if I know anything it's that the cardinal rule of a teachable moment is consistency and follow through. And the mere fact that I made it CLEAR that I was going to sleep and am now up answering her barrage of questions means - she.has.won.
Meanwhile, a little 3 year old cries incessantly behind us as she turns to look at him. Ever so clearly annoyed.
Go figure.
In the silent room only photos surround you. Each picture holds a memory - burned in your heart - saved in your soul. But the photos are busy; they each tell a story and in that room, the photos are talking - each wishing their voice to be heard. The calm and serenity you long for can not be found in the faces on that page or the colors - screaming at you.
The peace comes when you close your eyes. When your soul speaks - softly and melodiously - of the people who have touched your heart. It is their light that gives the necessary calm you long for. It is all captured right there in your soul.
3.22.03
The peace comes when you close your eyes. When your soul speaks - softly and melodiously - of the people who have touched your heart. It is their light that gives the necessary calm you long for. It is all captured right there in your soul.
3.22.03
The night is filled with warm steam; soft rain snow that clings to the light making puddles on the ground. My thoughts move in rhythm with the shoes crunching hard gravel. No more smiling, no more tears. Just beautiful, simple walking. Steam rising from my mouth like unbidden thoughts, floating in front of my eyes like long repressed memories.
A child clinging to her mothers hand.
A father asleep on the couch, his book rising up and down on his chest.
Furtive glances in the mirror before the dance.
Where am I hidden in my eyes?
Soft humming and a finger twisted in my curls.
Drunken voices echoing around me, reminding me of my unbelievable sobriety.
3.12.01
A child clinging to her mothers hand.
A father asleep on the couch, his book rising up and down on his chest.
Furtive glances in the mirror before the dance.
Where am I hidden in my eyes?
Soft humming and a finger twisted in my curls.
Drunken voices echoing around me, reminding me of my unbelievable sobriety.
3.12.01
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Teaching.
At the end of every day, shoulders scream with pain from constantly feeling pulled towards the ears for hours as though gravity wishes the opposite fate for them. Back aches from the constant moving, sitting, standing, bending over to explain a lesson or to work out an argument. Feet burning so much so that it feels like you’ve been in heels all day. And the brain actually hurts if it thinks of one more small detail. Anything can put you over the edge.
No one will ever know how hard it is. Unless you have experienced it for yourself – stood in front of 50 watchful eyes for 7 hours straight constantly thinking of how to engage them, how to support them, how to encourage them, while trying desperately to keep them, and yourself calm - you never really know. The physical exhaustion is one thing, granted, but the mental and emotional exhaustion? Completely different. You play so many roles, wear so many hats, and are expected to know the solution to so many problems. It is a level of exertion unlike any I have ever witnessed or experienced. To say you are ‘tired’ on Friday afternoon is an undeniable understatement. For five days you fulfilled your role as educator, friend, therapist, nurturer, actress, counselor, and mediator. And your heart is often heavy.
But nothing will ever replace the feeling of total satisfaction that accompanies the exhaustion at the end of the day. That feeling of knowing that you did something today that will contribute, in the years to come, to the betterment of society. Your days never feel wasted, and in every one of those days, even the ones that feel like everything just went wrong, there is ALWAYS a morsel to remember. How her eyes lit up when she figured out how to spell a word, how his face beamed when he was told you were proud of him, how he learned that word, or she finally negotiated a problem on her own. Each day, however horrid it may have been, however exhausted you may be, ends up in the end, being a small gift to cherish. Those moments surround you and it becomes blatantly obvious that you have slowly fallen in love with every little human you have been in contact with. And their love is returned.
Happy but exhausted. Fulfilled.
No one will ever know how hard it is. Unless you have experienced it for yourself – stood in front of 50 watchful eyes for 7 hours straight constantly thinking of how to engage them, how to support them, how to encourage them, while trying desperately to keep them, and yourself calm - you never really know. The physical exhaustion is one thing, granted, but the mental and emotional exhaustion? Completely different. You play so many roles, wear so many hats, and are expected to know the solution to so many problems. It is a level of exertion unlike any I have ever witnessed or experienced. To say you are ‘tired’ on Friday afternoon is an undeniable understatement. For five days you fulfilled your role as educator, friend, therapist, nurturer, actress, counselor, and mediator. And your heart is often heavy.
But nothing will ever replace the feeling of total satisfaction that accompanies the exhaustion at the end of the day. That feeling of knowing that you did something today that will contribute, in the years to come, to the betterment of society. Your days never feel wasted, and in every one of those days, even the ones that feel like everything just went wrong, there is ALWAYS a morsel to remember. How her eyes lit up when she figured out how to spell a word, how his face beamed when he was told you were proud of him, how he learned that word, or she finally negotiated a problem on her own. Each day, however horrid it may have been, however exhausted you may be, ends up in the end, being a small gift to cherish. Those moments surround you and it becomes blatantly obvious that you have slowly fallen in love with every little human you have been in contact with. And their love is returned.
Happy but exhausted. Fulfilled.
You have to think about your life and the purpose of your life.
Do you think that you were an accident?
That you are here just to pass through your days, without meaning?
Or.
Do you think that you have been created by a special combination of genes and atoms. Of virtues, talents, and capacities - created to do something in this world.
That you are magic.
Do you think that you were an accident?
That you are here just to pass through your days, without meaning?
Or.
Do you think that you have been created by a special combination of genes and atoms. Of virtues, talents, and capacities - created to do something in this world.
That you are magic.
Melbourne
July 21, 2008.
It is a Monday and I am sitting in a Cafe whose name now escapes me, on Royal Arcade in Melbourne, Australia. Six months ago no one would ever have been able to convince me that today I'd be here - across the globe - in a quant coffee shop, writing. To have traveled so far on my own, to have used my own savings for something I knew my mind, body, and soul needed, would have been unimaginable back then.
The staff behind the counter laugh as they discuss the recent birthing of Aneglina Jolie's children. I eat a chicken and bacon melt, on Turkish pida. The cafe's here are incredible, all of them have delicious food, the coffee is impeccable. My world feels a million miles away.
It seems they just finished serving the lunch rush. A quieter, more serene calm seems to have filled this tiny, dark cafe.
The city feels less 'city' here. There isn't the same pulsating energy that moves Manhattan. People walk a little slower, they stop to look into shop windows, to look around, to take it all in.
I barely understand what anyone says. Although everyone speaks my language, it is done in a way that makes it very clear that I am an outsider any time I open my mouth.
And yet, I feel nothing but grateful for this experience. For having people in my life who, although may live on a completely different side of the planet, when reunited it is as though not a day has passed. I'm grateful knowing that the bonds I created while I was away on that sojourn are so deeply rooted. I have the absolute pleasure, the total joy of having so many good people in my life. People who inspire me and allow me to recognize every day that I am surrounded with love.
Ever grateful for the experiences that unfold.
It is a Monday and I am sitting in a Cafe whose name now escapes me, on Royal Arcade in Melbourne, Australia. Six months ago no one would ever have been able to convince me that today I'd be here - across the globe - in a quant coffee shop, writing. To have traveled so far on my own, to have used my own savings for something I knew my mind, body, and soul needed, would have been unimaginable back then.
The staff behind the counter laugh as they discuss the recent birthing of Aneglina Jolie's children. I eat a chicken and bacon melt, on Turkish pida. The cafe's here are incredible, all of them have delicious food, the coffee is impeccable. My world feels a million miles away.
It seems they just finished serving the lunch rush. A quieter, more serene calm seems to have filled this tiny, dark cafe.
The city feels less 'city' here. There isn't the same pulsating energy that moves Manhattan. People walk a little slower, they stop to look into shop windows, to look around, to take it all in.
I barely understand what anyone says. Although everyone speaks my language, it is done in a way that makes it very clear that I am an outsider any time I open my mouth.
And yet, I feel nothing but grateful for this experience. For having people in my life who, although may live on a completely different side of the planet, when reunited it is as though not a day has passed. I'm grateful knowing that the bonds I created while I was away on that sojourn are so deeply rooted. I have the absolute pleasure, the total joy of having so many good people in my life. People who inspire me and allow me to recognize every day that I am surrounded with love.
Ever grateful for the experiences that unfold.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Ode to the City
A myriad of lives reside here. With every walk of life the City buzzes with the energy of those living in their Park Avenue homes (while a house awaits them in the Hamptons) and those working 2 to 3 jobs with barely enough time to see their child to bed in between. There are representatives from virtually every corner of the globe, each creating its own pocket within the confines of these five Boroughs. Each one holds a special story, a tale of misfortune and luck, a story of love and loss, legends of faith and betrayal. Each charmed, if not at first, yet ultimately, by the City in which they dwell.
What could, to an outsider, seem difficult and too much hassle, the average New Yorker writes off as a small price to pay for the larger gains. Although seemingly different, they unite in their appreciation for what the City has to offer. And what I speak of is not the lights and noise that the herds that fill up 42nd Street on any given night may experience. It is not the expensive shops on 5th Avenue, the myriad of museums and cultural experiences, the endless options for food, the theatre and musical performances. It isn't even Lady Liberty in all her glory that distinguishes this City for those who call it home.
It is something much more meaningful. Something that breeds in the very fabric of its infrastructure, something easily overlooked by the visitors and superficial spectators.
It is in the man on the corner selling flowers who begins to know your name, your favorite restaurant that knows your order just by hearing your voice on the phone, the salon owner who sticks her head out the door as you walk by just to see how you are.
For within the masses and the craziness, the need to create a community begins to form. Out innate desire to connect and have witnesses to our lives begins to take precedence as we continue to interact with those in our immediate community. Slowly the large masses that surround us become more familiar. Friendships begin to form and we find ourselves connected to people and lives that we never imagined existed.
And in that connectedness, a deeper appreciation begins to form. A love and attachment that will never be replaced, for it was born out of true experience, out of feeling, and being.
And if you ever leave this place, it etches a memory on your heart that only you understand. No matter how you try and explain its validity to others it will only ever be felt by those who, like you, were once New Yorkers.
What could, to an outsider, seem difficult and too much hassle, the average New Yorker writes off as a small price to pay for the larger gains. Although seemingly different, they unite in their appreciation for what the City has to offer. And what I speak of is not the lights and noise that the herds that fill up 42nd Street on any given night may experience. It is not the expensive shops on 5th Avenue, the myriad of museums and cultural experiences, the endless options for food, the theatre and musical performances. It isn't even Lady Liberty in all her glory that distinguishes this City for those who call it home.
It is something much more meaningful. Something that breeds in the very fabric of its infrastructure, something easily overlooked by the visitors and superficial spectators.
It is in the man on the corner selling flowers who begins to know your name, your favorite restaurant that knows your order just by hearing your voice on the phone, the salon owner who sticks her head out the door as you walk by just to see how you are.
For within the masses and the craziness, the need to create a community begins to form. Out innate desire to connect and have witnesses to our lives begins to take precedence as we continue to interact with those in our immediate community. Slowly the large masses that surround us become more familiar. Friendships begin to form and we find ourselves connected to people and lives that we never imagined existed.
And in that connectedness, a deeper appreciation begins to form. A love and attachment that will never be replaced, for it was born out of true experience, out of feeling, and being.
And if you ever leave this place, it etches a memory on your heart that only you understand. No matter how you try and explain its validity to others it will only ever be felt by those who, like you, were once New Yorkers.
Simplicity.
It's an incredibly beautiful world we live in. Filled with people who care. Care about the earth, the people around them, the general well-being of humanity. Their hearts feel love because they have been shown love. A certain light shines from them.
They are the people of the earth that smile and you feel better, they care to ask how you are, they lend a helping hand. The world is filled with them.
And then there is the nature that surrounds us all! The pure beauty of the mountains, the ocean, and the fields of vegetation.
This landscape that has created all that we are, all that we appreciate. It is all so simple. So lovely. And yet we complicate it.
We choose to focus on the things that make us sad, the things that create hatred and anger. And in doing so we overlook the simple beauty of life. We stop appreciating. We stop loving.
Tired of the race of life. Tired of the responsibilities that are so doubt pressing. And it becomes so all consuming that enjoyment ceases to exist. Just sitting in that moment when your heart is free and you feel unattached to the ropes that usually hold a tight reign on you allows reflection. And in that moment of freedom and peace you begin again to look and appreciate.
If only those moments came more frequently. If only being was more simple - as is the simplicity found in the glistening of the oceans water and the rustling grass after a mornings breeze.
If only...
They are the people of the earth that smile and you feel better, they care to ask how you are, they lend a helping hand. The world is filled with them.
And then there is the nature that surrounds us all! The pure beauty of the mountains, the ocean, and the fields of vegetation.
This landscape that has created all that we are, all that we appreciate. It is all so simple. So lovely. And yet we complicate it.
We choose to focus on the things that make us sad, the things that create hatred and anger. And in doing so we overlook the simple beauty of life. We stop appreciating. We stop loving.
Tired of the race of life. Tired of the responsibilities that are so doubt pressing. And it becomes so all consuming that enjoyment ceases to exist. Just sitting in that moment when your heart is free and you feel unattached to the ropes that usually hold a tight reign on you allows reflection. And in that moment of freedom and peace you begin again to look and appreciate.
If only those moments came more frequently. If only being was more simple - as is the simplicity found in the glistening of the oceans water and the rustling grass after a mornings breeze.
If only...
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Visit to Edirne, Turkey
32 of us piled into the bus. We had met not but a little over 24 hours prior, yet it was as though our hearts and souls had been connnected for all time. The bond was inexplicable. I just merely gazed upon the sweet face of my Ameh and tears were all I could shed to express the feelings of my heart. She held me in her arms and we wept - not a sad, mournful weeping, but 'ashghayeh eshgh' as my grandfather put it, tears of love.
Our bus ride to this place of pilgrimage was the most inspiring my life had experienced. Brushed up against each other on a hot, sticky day, we payed no mind that the whole of our group could not fit in that 27 passenger bus. We were determined to make it work. Had we not all travelled for hours on end, using all monetary belongings we had to make this journey? A moments seperation was out of the question.
For 4 hours we sat - conversations taking place from seat to seat - the murmer of stories and the sharing of experiences over the last 20 some years filled the car with gentle excitement, only to be broken by one voice raising up in song until others slowly ceased conversation to join in the melodies.
Songs, prayers - joyous and mournful - filled the interior of that car, leaving the driver wondering what bond could be this strong to unite all these people together.
Stories of the history of the place of our destination occupied time and emotion. Tears, laughter, and pure, genuine, and sweet love filled the air.
To be anything but moved denies the existence of God in that moment.
It was this journey that solidified our group.
Connected my family.
Engraved a place for them all in my heart.
Our bus ride to this place of pilgrimage was the most inspiring my life had experienced. Brushed up against each other on a hot, sticky day, we payed no mind that the whole of our group could not fit in that 27 passenger bus. We were determined to make it work. Had we not all travelled for hours on end, using all monetary belongings we had to make this journey? A moments seperation was out of the question.
For 4 hours we sat - conversations taking place from seat to seat - the murmer of stories and the sharing of experiences over the last 20 some years filled the car with gentle excitement, only to be broken by one voice raising up in song until others slowly ceased conversation to join in the melodies.
Songs, prayers - joyous and mournful - filled the interior of that car, leaving the driver wondering what bond could be this strong to unite all these people together.
Stories of the history of the place of our destination occupied time and emotion. Tears, laughter, and pure, genuine, and sweet love filled the air.
To be anything but moved denies the existence of God in that moment.
It was this journey that solidified our group.
Connected my family.
Engraved a place for them all in my heart.
The Reunion
If I were to explain to you in mere words the account of this journey
- I would. I would fill pages with letters and sounds to try and
adequately express the thoughts and experiences of this precious time.
But feelings - emotions felt by the heart and resonated in the soul,
are never appropriately expressed by words alone. An attempt follows:
We spent five days surrounded by our family. My grandparents reunited
with all seven of their children after 34 years of separation.
Cousins meeting and embracing for the first time. Like two cultures
colliding and instantly spinning into a whirlwind of love. Initial
reactions were minimal, too overcome with pure joy to analyze the
personalities and put any deep thought to the pure love and sheer
happiness. A few days passed before I started to realize I had her
eyes, his sense of humor, and her knack for management. Soon, all
characters fused into one. Soon, love was deepened by understanding,
communication, and simple listening.
Hours we would spend sharing stories of the past, recollecting
experiences and explaining circumstances. Realizing commonalities and
awed by differences.
I live a life of absolute freedom. I choose the way I wish to live,
who I want to love, consort with, and connect with. I not only have the
luxury of choosing my own field of study, but I am blessed to have had
the opportunity to learn at the most prestigious of Universities - to
acquire knowledge by those trained and experienced for many years to
bestow understanding.
I live a life of comfort and ease. A life I easily take for granted
and appreciate the value of on occasion. I could venture to say that I have
grown up in a state of ignorant bliss. I understand that people
suffer - have travelled near, far, by car and by plane to experience a
myriad of cultures and ways of existence. Each interaction has
brought with it growing opportunities, a chance to re-evaluate myself
and begin to understand the purpose of my existence. But all of these
experiences, however powerful and influential in character, never
shook me to the core until I was face to face with one of my own.
Brushed up against my own reality.
To know their struggle is to know a life that could have so easily
been mine. Had circumstances not let my parents to the 'land of
opportunity', their oppression would be my story. To be covered from
head to toe, bullied and scrutinized for your beliefs, denied access
to higher education, not allowed to work, and refused a bank account.
How are you expected to survive?
"They call me 'kaseef'", my 15 year old cousin explains to me, when I
asked him what school is like for him as a Baha'i, "and sometimes they
separate themselves from me, but it's ok." Had he said this with the
slightest hint of anger in his voice I would have reacted differently
- but to hear the sincerity and see genuine love in his eyes, I could
respond in no other way but to weep.
For three months my 70 year old grandmother was placed in prison
because she believes that 'the earth is but one country and mankind
its citizens'. Treated like an animal, situated amongst prostitutes
and drug dealers, she lived, without her husbands knowledge of the
state of her existence, and without contact with her family. She
lived and suffered because of the Faith she professes.
If I could write pages and pages of books, I would write of the lives
of these souls - so rich in experience, latent with struggle and
saturated in love have their full lives been. But until the heart
connects with theirs, and eyes lock, do you grasp the severity of this
situation.
They are stripped of all human rights while I live here a life of
freedom. They are oppressed, beaten, and scorned for their beliefs
while I am able to openly express my love for my Creator and explain
the way I worship and the ideas I possess.
Yet could I explain the love in their eyes with the scratchings of my
pen and offer it to you as a gift, I would. It is a love so intense
it burns at the edges of the soul. A purity so untouched that you
fear that speaking any word from your mouth would defile it.
It is the most uplifted I have ever been. The most moved, the most touched.
Indeed God has a great plan for us all...the reason for this
serendipitous meeting, this crossing of paths across the ocean, will
become evident in time.
All I can do is remember...and hope that their effect remains engraved
on my heart forever. That my actions may align with the spirit of
that encounter and my life be moved accordingly.
- I would. I would fill pages with letters and sounds to try and
adequately express the thoughts and experiences of this precious time.
But feelings - emotions felt by the heart and resonated in the soul,
are never appropriately expressed by words alone. An attempt follows:
We spent five days surrounded by our family. My grandparents reunited
with all seven of their children after 34 years of separation.
Cousins meeting and embracing for the first time. Like two cultures
colliding and instantly spinning into a whirlwind of love. Initial
reactions were minimal, too overcome with pure joy to analyze the
personalities and put any deep thought to the pure love and sheer
happiness. A few days passed before I started to realize I had her
eyes, his sense of humor, and her knack for management. Soon, all
characters fused into one. Soon, love was deepened by understanding,
communication, and simple listening.
Hours we would spend sharing stories of the past, recollecting
experiences and explaining circumstances. Realizing commonalities and
awed by differences.
I live a life of absolute freedom. I choose the way I wish to live,
who I want to love, consort with, and connect with. I not only have the
luxury of choosing my own field of study, but I am blessed to have had
the opportunity to learn at the most prestigious of Universities - to
acquire knowledge by those trained and experienced for many years to
bestow understanding.
I live a life of comfort and ease. A life I easily take for granted
and appreciate the value of on occasion. I could venture to say that I have
grown up in a state of ignorant bliss. I understand that people
suffer - have travelled near, far, by car and by plane to experience a
myriad of cultures and ways of existence. Each interaction has
brought with it growing opportunities, a chance to re-evaluate myself
and begin to understand the purpose of my existence. But all of these
experiences, however powerful and influential in character, never
shook me to the core until I was face to face with one of my own.
Brushed up against my own reality.
To know their struggle is to know a life that could have so easily
been mine. Had circumstances not let my parents to the 'land of
opportunity', their oppression would be my story. To be covered from
head to toe, bullied and scrutinized for your beliefs, denied access
to higher education, not allowed to work, and refused a bank account.
How are you expected to survive?
"They call me 'kaseef'", my 15 year old cousin explains to me, when I
asked him what school is like for him as a Baha'i, "and sometimes they
separate themselves from me, but it's ok." Had he said this with the
slightest hint of anger in his voice I would have reacted differently
- but to hear the sincerity and see genuine love in his eyes, I could
respond in no other way but to weep.
For three months my 70 year old grandmother was placed in prison
because she believes that 'the earth is but one country and mankind
its citizens'. Treated like an animal, situated amongst prostitutes
and drug dealers, she lived, without her husbands knowledge of the
state of her existence, and without contact with her family. She
lived and suffered because of the Faith she professes.
If I could write pages and pages of books, I would write of the lives
of these souls - so rich in experience, latent with struggle and
saturated in love have their full lives been. But until the heart
connects with theirs, and eyes lock, do you grasp the severity of this
situation.
They are stripped of all human rights while I live here a life of
freedom. They are oppressed, beaten, and scorned for their beliefs
while I am able to openly express my love for my Creator and explain
the way I worship and the ideas I possess.
Yet could I explain the love in their eyes with the scratchings of my
pen and offer it to you as a gift, I would. It is a love so intense
it burns at the edges of the soul. A purity so untouched that you
fear that speaking any word from your mouth would defile it.
It is the most uplifted I have ever been. The most moved, the most touched.
Indeed God has a great plan for us all...the reason for this
serendipitous meeting, this crossing of paths across the ocean, will
become evident in time.
All I can do is remember...and hope that their effect remains engraved
on my heart forever. That my actions may align with the spirit of
that encounter and my life be moved accordingly.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Confirmations
There are moments in your life, I can recall one most recently, where you feel utterly and completely confirmed. Your connection with Him is so intense and your prayers so precise, that when you recieve the direct response to them, you are completely humbled. And awed. It's something you can't even really explain or put a finger on. And when you try you sound like a complete lunatic. But you know that when it happens, when you feel it, when you are witness to your own confirmation, a feeling of reassurance washes over you and things are clear once again.
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