Every once in a while I find myself thinking about the possibility of having a past life. More often than that I picture myself being born in a different decade...which may be because I haven't quite found my place in my generation. But either way, I think about it more often than not. And usually the whole "past life" question comes to mind when I'm reading Vonnegut or Hemingway, something harsh and modern...usually tearing mankind a new one. But today it struck me in the middle of a Philosophy class...which may sound like just another place for ripping mankind a new one. But today was different. I just faded out of our conversation about Moral Luck and into a new world of possibility. Maybe the whole reason I feel estranged from my generation is not because I should have been born in a different time, but maybe it's because I was in fact born in another time.
There are so many things that I don't agree with in this world: war, vengeance, and the general disapproval of carbohydrate-loaded foods. I know that if I had been born in some other time I would have found something to be upset about, something to disagree with. That's human nature in a nutshell. We all want to be right even if it means disagreeing with someone who holds our same opinion with a twist.
But how did I get here? Obviously I understand how the whole process works, but how was my existence chosen for this place, at this point in time? I was born into a wealthy and free society. Bur what about everyone else in the world who was not as fortunate? Was it written in the stars millions of years ago that my ancestry would work down to my birth? Do I have that "twin" soul people believe in, who walks on the Earth but never finds a match? Or was I really somebody else before this time, sent to do something more for this world?
Sometimes it is so overwhelming to think that I have thoughts in my head that are entirely different from the person sitting next to me. And to add to that, I will never fully understand why or how they think differently. I often wonder if there is another person out there with my exact same history, my exact same present, and my exact same manner of thinking. I wonder if there is someone out there (dead or alive) who shares my exact feelings.
And to take this crazy train of thought even further, I wonder if I will one day become somebody else too. I wish I could make a time-capsule that my future self will one day find and understand that they too are an old soul. Maybe I'll find a time-capsule with my name on it. And if I do, I guarantee a heart-attack will follow.
Okay, enough craziness for one day.
Peace, love, and cheers to being an old soul in a 21 year old's body...
Showing posts with label Hippie Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hippie Life. Show all posts
Monday, November 14, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
"Community is where humility and glory touch."
Henri Nouwen said that quote. I'm not entirely sure what his impact on the world was outside of writing and the Catholic Church, but this quote rings in my ears as I pack for Vietnam. Stuffing every last possibly supply into my bag, I have to stop and wonder what my intentions for this trip are. Of course I want to work with children and to begin my journey as a coach and teacher. But what experiences do I intend to have? And am I really leaving the States behind and going to a third-world country while carrying along an electrical converter and bottles of bug-spray? I can't help but stop and ask myself if I will truly be able to immerse myself into this culture. Last summer was easy....I speak French. So naturally, while there I spoke French. And it worked out fine. I made a few cultural faux-pas along the way, but in the end I could honestly say I wanted to move to France. Will this summer be the same? Or will I only be an outsider stepping in to help out for a few short weeks, only to move on to bigger and better things back in the Western World? At one point am I no longer helping them, but only helping myself?
I have carpet. I have an alarm system. I even have a washing machine. I may find it exciting and eye-opening to wash my clothes in a sink full of river water for three weeks. I may even find it exciting to try snake wine, or eel noodle soup...but what am I really giving back to them? If I am to become a part of their community, I have to step out of my comfort zone and into the wild (no put-down intended). There will be spiders as big as my palm living in my dorm room. There may or may not be bits of animals I've sworn to never eat in my soup. But what I'm really going to try to experience is much more than third-world living and Asian cuisine. What I'm going to try to experience is a unique perspective from the people themselves. I tried to learn a few words of Vietnamese, but have yet to really memorize anything solid. It's not just the language I am working towards understanding, but the everyday living of the people themselves. And I supposed one goal of mine is to somehow improve their daily living in the smallest way, whether that be through an activity the whole family can do at the end of a meal, or even to inspire just one child to continue going to school or continue playing sports. My goal isn't to change who I am, though I'm sure I've been pretending that is it. My goal is to change the lives of people who truly need it.
One more question I must ask...I already know it's going to rain cats and dogs the whole time I'm there, but do I really need a camping towel?
I have carpet. I have an alarm system. I even have a washing machine. I may find it exciting and eye-opening to wash my clothes in a sink full of river water for three weeks. I may even find it exciting to try snake wine, or eel noodle soup...but what am I really giving back to them? If I am to become a part of their community, I have to step out of my comfort zone and into the wild (no put-down intended). There will be spiders as big as my palm living in my dorm room. There may or may not be bits of animals I've sworn to never eat in my soup. But what I'm really going to try to experience is much more than third-world living and Asian cuisine. What I'm going to try to experience is a unique perspective from the people themselves. I tried to learn a few words of Vietnamese, but have yet to really memorize anything solid. It's not just the language I am working towards understanding, but the everyday living of the people themselves. And I supposed one goal of mine is to somehow improve their daily living in the smallest way, whether that be through an activity the whole family can do at the end of a meal, or even to inspire just one child to continue going to school or continue playing sports. My goal isn't to change who I am, though I'm sure I've been pretending that is it. My goal is to change the lives of people who truly need it.
One more question I must ask...I already know it's going to rain cats and dogs the whole time I'm there, but do I really need a camping towel?
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
from instant pudding to homemade requests.
People ask me almost everyday where I learned to bake, or rather, why I seem to be so passionate about baking. The response I usually give is short and sweet, in a classic drawn-out kind of way. It sounds something like, "Well, from a very young age, both my grandmothers taught me how to bake. And it kind of stuck with me." And it's all true, just not complete.
After my parents split up, I found myself spending afternoons with my maternal grandmother. Everyday after school I would ride the bus to her house and wait for my mother to pick up my sister and I after she got off work. Sometimes we had a knitting lesson, learning to make washcloths or potholders (basically anything Grandma needed to replace around the house), but more often than not, I had a baking lesson. It started off simple, learning how to make peanut-butter crackers. I know what you're thinking, 'Peanut butter crackers are easy to make, who needs a lesson in that?' I didn't need a lesson,, per se, but my Grandma was determined to teach me how to become more independent, as I'm sure my daily water works when my mom left in her car were starting to grow old. So we started simple. Learning how to spread peanut butter. And soon after that we moved onto instant Jello Pudding from a package. And man oh man I thought that was just Top Chef material.
Every few days I would climb up on the counter and sit down next to the sink and dump this huge package of brown powder into a gigantic bowl. Then I would get to carefully pour milk into a cup (over a larger cup to catch my inevitable spillage) and then we'd set a timer and I'd whisk away for five minutes straight. I'm sure my whisking skills were comparable to every other five year old at the time-- uneven and messy. Maybe that's why we always baked by the sink?
Probably what I loved most about the pudding mix was getting to pour the batter into these delicate little glasses my Grandma only used for our afternoons together. We would separate the pudding into fours and then place the china into the fridge to let it set. And I could never wait for the pudding to get cold, we'd always eat one right away. Everyday after that I'd check back to see if we needed to make more pudding, hoping I'd get to use the big whisk.
At Christmas time, my Grandma would have my sister and I over for a baking session. We'd get out our cutest little aprons to protect our Christmas dresses, and she would let us destroy her kitchen for the entire afternoon. The scent of the cookies would overtake the house and even lure my grandfather from his den every once in a while. We made sugar cookies, cutout cookies, chocolate chip, butterscotch crunchies, almond cookies, and everything in between. The day was not over until every tin was filled. At the time, my sister was old enough to handle the mixer and the smaller measurements, so I was in charge of measuring everything light and easy to see.
I will never forget my very first lesson in measuring flour. I was handed a giant spoon, and a one cup measure. Next to me sat the big ceramic container of flour. My grandma took my hand and told me to scoop the flour into the cup. So I did what any child would do, I scooped until it was full and then started smashing it down with the back of the spoon to make room for more. Oh no, precious, don't pack the flour down. That will make the batter too dense. Flour has to be handled gently, explained my grandma. She took my hands in hers and showed me the proper way.
1. Scoop flour into the cup
2. Take a knife and chop the top lightly.
3. Use the knife (back side, not serrated!) to slide off the excess flour
And from that moment on, I knew my baking had to be precise. But my grandmother being the amazing woman she is, made baking look effortless. Actually, both my grandmothers make cooking and baking look flawless. But who wouldn't be able to when you're this beautiful?
Maternal Grandmother Sexton
Paternal Grandmother Phipps
I give them full-credit for my tree-climbing abilities and somewhat frequent public displays of half-nudity.
Anyhow, my paternal Grandmother has been an inspiration when it comes to baking as well. Her kitchen was constantly going when I was younger, and to this day it mostly still is. She either had hot dogs boiling for kids, or a pork tenderloin tenderizing in the oven. When it came to our afternoon visits, we always had apple slices and popcorn waiting for our movie, and when it ended, it was time to bake cupcakes to take home to my Mom. I still don't know how she got her icing to be so fluffy and light, even after having the recipe for a few years, but I was always impressed with her ability to make light and fluffy cupcakes and cookies with very little effort. She didn't wear an apron. She usually had on a blouse, her gold egg-shaped jewelry (rings, earrings and necklace) along with her perfectly polished nails and Chanel Number Five perfume sprayed on lightly. I couldn't leave her house without at least two lipstick prints on my face, a Bounce sheet in my pants pocket to ward off mosquitoes, and a container filled with her baked goods....and of course the occasional Coca-Cola for the road.
Her cookies were loaded with butter, rich sweet cream butter, and they just broke off and melted in your mouth. Snack time soon became a two or three times per day affair, and left us always wondering what would be on the menu later that day. My grandma could also make a semi-homemade dessert look and taste fully homemade. One of my favorite creations that she made was my Dad's Boston Cream Birthday Pie, and I believe about half of it was typically from store-bought materials. But she didn't look up how to make it home-made, she just created. She understood the consistency of every ingredient involved and knew what the final would need to be like, and from that point on she just dove right in.
Many afternoons were spent with my Grandparents, and that alone makes me one of the luckiest people in the world. Not only did I have the opportunity to live in the same city as both sets of grandparents, but I had ample opportunity of spending time with them and learning about their lives, while they shaped mine. I've probably adopted my maternal grandmother's perception and understanding of baking, but I adopted my paternal grandmother's ability to take this science to a new level. My passion for baking didn't just come from my Grandmothers, it came from some internal feeling I've learned to love about baking. Some days I bake because I'm sad. I bake because my world is crumbling around me, with no sense of direction, and all I want is for something to make sense. And baking makes sense. Plus, it's a great way to sort things out in my head, especially when there's no chance to go out for an hour long run!
I also bake because I like to make people happy. The first time they bite into something incredible, their face lights up. And that face is simply priceless. It's like watching a child open their first gift on Christmas morning. Nothing can compare. I may have moved on from boxed pudding and mis-measuring ingredients, but I cherish every step I've taken along the way. And now I find myself dreaming about new recipes, creating them while I'm at work without a task to complete. I even dream of opening my own bakery one day, maybe a non-profit organization designed to give back to the community in one way or another. Bring on the smiles. And the butter too, of course.
So there you have it...my story, in a very expanded nutshell. And yes, I do take baking requests.
After my parents split up, I found myself spending afternoons with my maternal grandmother. Everyday after school I would ride the bus to her house and wait for my mother to pick up my sister and I after she got off work. Sometimes we had a knitting lesson, learning to make washcloths or potholders (basically anything Grandma needed to replace around the house), but more often than not, I had a baking lesson. It started off simple, learning how to make peanut-butter crackers. I know what you're thinking, 'Peanut butter crackers are easy to make, who needs a lesson in that?' I didn't need a lesson,, per se, but my Grandma was determined to teach me how to become more independent, as I'm sure my daily water works when my mom left in her car were starting to grow old. So we started simple. Learning how to spread peanut butter. And soon after that we moved onto instant Jello Pudding from a package. And man oh man I thought that was just Top Chef material.
Every few days I would climb up on the counter and sit down next to the sink and dump this huge package of brown powder into a gigantic bowl. Then I would get to carefully pour milk into a cup (over a larger cup to catch my inevitable spillage) and then we'd set a timer and I'd whisk away for five minutes straight. I'm sure my whisking skills were comparable to every other five year old at the time-- uneven and messy. Maybe that's why we always baked by the sink?
Probably what I loved most about the pudding mix was getting to pour the batter into these delicate little glasses my Grandma only used for our afternoons together. We would separate the pudding into fours and then place the china into the fridge to let it set. And I could never wait for the pudding to get cold, we'd always eat one right away. Everyday after that I'd check back to see if we needed to make more pudding, hoping I'd get to use the big whisk.
At Christmas time, my Grandma would have my sister and I over for a baking session. We'd get out our cutest little aprons to protect our Christmas dresses, and she would let us destroy her kitchen for the entire afternoon. The scent of the cookies would overtake the house and even lure my grandfather from his den every once in a while. We made sugar cookies, cutout cookies, chocolate chip, butterscotch crunchies, almond cookies, and everything in between. The day was not over until every tin was filled. At the time, my sister was old enough to handle the mixer and the smaller measurements, so I was in charge of measuring everything light and easy to see.
I will never forget my very first lesson in measuring flour. I was handed a giant spoon, and a one cup measure. Next to me sat the big ceramic container of flour. My grandma took my hand and told me to scoop the flour into the cup. So I did what any child would do, I scooped until it was full and then started smashing it down with the back of the spoon to make room for more. Oh no, precious, don't pack the flour down. That will make the batter too dense. Flour has to be handled gently, explained my grandma. She took my hands in hers and showed me the proper way.
1. Scoop flour into the cup
2. Take a knife and chop the top lightly.
3. Use the knife (back side, not serrated!) to slide off the excess flour
And from that moment on, I knew my baking had to be precise. But my grandmother being the amazing woman she is, made baking look effortless. Actually, both my grandmothers make cooking and baking look flawless. But who wouldn't be able to when you're this beautiful?
Maternal Grandmother Sexton
Paternal Grandmother Phipps
I give them full-credit for my tree-climbing abilities and somewhat frequent public displays of half-nudity.
Anyhow, my paternal Grandmother has been an inspiration when it comes to baking as well. Her kitchen was constantly going when I was younger, and to this day it mostly still is. She either had hot dogs boiling for kids, or a pork tenderloin tenderizing in the oven. When it came to our afternoon visits, we always had apple slices and popcorn waiting for our movie, and when it ended, it was time to bake cupcakes to take home to my Mom. I still don't know how she got her icing to be so fluffy and light, even after having the recipe for a few years, but I was always impressed with her ability to make light and fluffy cupcakes and cookies with very little effort. She didn't wear an apron. She usually had on a blouse, her gold egg-shaped jewelry (rings, earrings and necklace) along with her perfectly polished nails and Chanel Number Five perfume sprayed on lightly. I couldn't leave her house without at least two lipstick prints on my face, a Bounce sheet in my pants pocket to ward off mosquitoes, and a container filled with her baked goods....and of course the occasional Coca-Cola for the road.
Her cookies were loaded with butter, rich sweet cream butter, and they just broke off and melted in your mouth. Snack time soon became a two or three times per day affair, and left us always wondering what would be on the menu later that day. My grandma could also make a semi-homemade dessert look and taste fully homemade. One of my favorite creations that she made was my Dad's Boston Cream Birthday Pie, and I believe about half of it was typically from store-bought materials. But she didn't look up how to make it home-made, she just created. She understood the consistency of every ingredient involved and knew what the final would need to be like, and from that point on she just dove right in.
Many afternoons were spent with my Grandparents, and that alone makes me one of the luckiest people in the world. Not only did I have the opportunity to live in the same city as both sets of grandparents, but I had ample opportunity of spending time with them and learning about their lives, while they shaped mine. I've probably adopted my maternal grandmother's perception and understanding of baking, but I adopted my paternal grandmother's ability to take this science to a new level. My passion for baking didn't just come from my Grandmothers, it came from some internal feeling I've learned to love about baking. Some days I bake because I'm sad. I bake because my world is crumbling around me, with no sense of direction, and all I want is for something to make sense. And baking makes sense. Plus, it's a great way to sort things out in my head, especially when there's no chance to go out for an hour long run!
I also bake because I like to make people happy. The first time they bite into something incredible, their face lights up. And that face is simply priceless. It's like watching a child open their first gift on Christmas morning. Nothing can compare. I may have moved on from boxed pudding and mis-measuring ingredients, but I cherish every step I've taken along the way. And now I find myself dreaming about new recipes, creating them while I'm at work without a task to complete. I even dream of opening my own bakery one day, maybe a non-profit organization designed to give back to the community in one way or another. Bring on the smiles. And the butter too, of course.
So there you have it...my story, in a very expanded nutshell. And yes, I do take baking requests.
Friday, April 29, 2011
A Mid-Morning 'Radical' Piece of Literature
"In case you haven't noticed, as the result of a shamelessly rigged election in Florida, in which thousands of African Americans were arbitrarily disenfranchised, we now present ourselves to the rest of the world as proud, grinning, jut-jawed, pitiless war-lovers with appalling powerful weaponry - who stand unopposed.
In case you haven't noticed, we are now as feared and hated all over the world as the Nazi's once were.
And with good reason.
In case you haven't noticed, our unelected leaders have dehumanized millions and millions of human beings simply because of their religion and race. We wound 'em and kill 'em and torture 'em and imprison 'em all we want.
Piece of cake.
In case you haven't noticed, we also dehumanize our own soldiers, not because of their religion or race, but because of their low social class.
Send 'em anywhere. Make 'em do anything.
Piece of cake.
The O'Reilly Factor.
So I am a man without a country, except for the librarians and a Chicago paper called "In These Times."
Before we attacked Iraq, the majestic "New York Times" guaranteed there were weapons of destruction there.
Albert Einstein and Mark Twain gave up on the human race at the end of their lives, even though Twain hadn't even seen the First World War. War is now a form of TV entertainment, and what made the First World War so particularly entertaining were two American inventions, barbed wire and the machine gun.
Shrapnel was invented by an Englishman of the same name. Don't you wish you could have something named after you?
Like my distinct betters Einstein and Twain, I now give up on people too. I am a veteran of the Second World War and I have to say this is the not the first time I surrendered to a pitiless war machine.
My last words? "Life is no way to treat an animal, not even a mouse."
Napalm came from Harvard. Veritas!
Our president is a Christian? So was Adolf Hitler.
What can be said to our young people, now that psychopathic personalities, which is to say persons without consciences, without senses of pity or shame, have taken all the money in the treasuries of our government and corporations and made it all their own?"
— Kurt Vonnegut (A Man Without a Country)
In case you haven't noticed, we are now as feared and hated all over the world as the Nazi's once were.
And with good reason.
In case you haven't noticed, our unelected leaders have dehumanized millions and millions of human beings simply because of their religion and race. We wound 'em and kill 'em and torture 'em and imprison 'em all we want.
Piece of cake.
In case you haven't noticed, we also dehumanize our own soldiers, not because of their religion or race, but because of their low social class.
Send 'em anywhere. Make 'em do anything.
Piece of cake.
The O'Reilly Factor.
So I am a man without a country, except for the librarians and a Chicago paper called "In These Times."
Before we attacked Iraq, the majestic "New York Times" guaranteed there were weapons of destruction there.
Albert Einstein and Mark Twain gave up on the human race at the end of their lives, even though Twain hadn't even seen the First World War. War is now a form of TV entertainment, and what made the First World War so particularly entertaining were two American inventions, barbed wire and the machine gun.
Shrapnel was invented by an Englishman of the same name. Don't you wish you could have something named after you?
Like my distinct betters Einstein and Twain, I now give up on people too. I am a veteran of the Second World War and I have to say this is the not the first time I surrendered to a pitiless war machine.
My last words? "Life is no way to treat an animal, not even a mouse."
Napalm came from Harvard. Veritas!
Our president is a Christian? So was Adolf Hitler.
What can be said to our young people, now that psychopathic personalities, which is to say persons without consciences, without senses of pity or shame, have taken all the money in the treasuries of our government and corporations and made it all their own?"
— Kurt Vonnegut (A Man Without a Country)
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Sunday night inspiration?
Two sangria malts down. I repeat: two sangria malts down. And I'm wondering where the inspiration is. Ten months ago, I found myself typing away furiously after a night out with my Parisian friends. Actually, it didn't even have to really be a "night out" per se, but maybe just an apératif-afternoon. Tucked inside my fourth floor chambre I would type away, sometimes for hours, writing blog entries, intricate emails, longing letters, and everything in between. I chatted with friends, skyped with loved ones, and found myself utterly inspired by the world around me. And tonight I find myself oddly uninspired...not in a bad, depressing way though, just in a very confusing, oddly uninspired mood. What strikes me as so odd is my lack of inspiration. I live in an incredible world where everyday life usually inspires me. There's usually at least one part of my day that muddles my mind, intrigues me into deep thought, or challenges what I've always believed in. But today, I find myself very, yes I will say it again, oddly at ease. It's a content feeling I'm not acquainted with. For some people, this may be an exceptionally comforting feeling to have, but for me...I just feel like a waste of space. A waste of perfectly capable, perfectly thoughtful, space. My life is interesting enough, isn't it?
Maybe it wasn't my own life that intrigued me so much while I stayed in Paris, but rather, the lives of the Parisians that intrigued me so. But Miami, Florida is such a unique place to live. I should feel inspired by something everyday, and yet I just feel--content. Ugh, the sound of that word is giving me a headache. No one should be content. It's both mundane and tragic at the same time. (Yet the word itself does not mean either!) My need for adventure and experience has both blessed and cursed the very ground I walk on.
Two questions come to mind: (1) Is the world I live in too comfortable? Or, (2) is it just so blatantly structured there is little time for either adventure or experience?
I'm not unhappy. I'm really not. At least, I don't think I am the majority of the time. And I think that's how it should be. There is no room for total happiness, just like there is no need for complete unhappiness. But somehow I don't think my lack of inspiration lands me anywhere productive on either end of that spectrum. So now I'm left with wondering where to go from here. With only Monday's sobering agenda nearing me each passing moment.
Maybe it wasn't my own life that intrigued me so much while I stayed in Paris, but rather, the lives of the Parisians that intrigued me so. But Miami, Florida is such a unique place to live. I should feel inspired by something everyday, and yet I just feel--content. Ugh, the sound of that word is giving me a headache. No one should be content. It's both mundane and tragic at the same time. (Yet the word itself does not mean either!) My need for adventure and experience has both blessed and cursed the very ground I walk on.
Two questions come to mind: (1) Is the world I live in too comfortable? Or, (2) is it just so blatantly structured there is little time for either adventure or experience?
I'm not unhappy. I'm really not. At least, I don't think I am the majority of the time. And I think that's how it should be. There is no room for total happiness, just like there is no need for complete unhappiness. But somehow I don't think my lack of inspiration lands me anywhere productive on either end of that spectrum. So now I'm left with wondering where to go from here. With only Monday's sobering agenda nearing me each passing moment.
Love, food, and roller coasters.
It's 4 pm and I've hardly begun my homework. My mind simply cannot wrap itself around Anna Gavalda and her world-renound French nouvelles. Thoughts of roller coasters and theme park food race through my mind. Not to mention the close game of put-put that ended just hours ago. For his 25th birthday, Evan and I drove up to Orlando for a mini-vactaion. We spent two wonderful days at Universal Studios and Islands of Adventure. At first it seemed silly that neither of us had been there before, at twenty and twenty-five years old. But somehow, I'm almost glad I waited this long to go. I was able to spend the time with my best friend, acting like children on rides I would have been too scared to go on a few years back.
Sporting torn up red Chuck Taylors and a hot-pink Minnie Mouse fanny-pack, I set out with Evan to explore the depths of Islands of Adventure. Our favorite ride ended up being the first one we got in line for...The Hulk. I of course had to do the famous Wind-Clap he does in the movie...only I did it in public and without the same result. Needless to say, Evan was mildly embarrassed, but he covered it up well with the giggle and side-smile he shot my way on the way to the next ride. Making our way through the Toon Lagoon, we went on a few water rides. And the giggles didn't stop from there on out.
A hop skip and jump landed us into Jurassic Park Island, a place I had been dreaming about since we started planning this trip. At last, I would get to see a real dinosaur! Pulling Evan through the park, I assured him real dinosaur would pop out at any point in time so he better be on the lookout. To keep me from losing hope, he pulled me into a gift shop about midway through and showed me a few "real" dinosaurs. I wasn't impressed. I almost asked an employee where they kept the dinosaur eggs, but she was so enthralled by the split ends in her hair I didn't want to bother her with such a scientifically important question. Checking out the map, we decided we would only see a real dino on the water ride, which took us through the real Jurassic Park. But the line was over 70 minutes long, and we HAD to get to Harry Potter World.
First things first. They make you walk entirely too far around Harry Potter World to actually enter it. But it's absolutely worth it. Even Evan was impressed! The snow-covered buildings and castle are a perfect enough for me replica of what I envision/what is seen in the movie. Every one is dressed in character and they have their lines down to a tee. I of course got a Butterbeer, Evan got his celebratory big-boy beer and we set off to explore the grounds.
Sidenote: I must mention that this blog will be incomplete for a while because I decided to go old-school on my photography this weekend. All photos were taken with a disposable camera for full-on tourist effect. Therefore, it will be a while before I can post any photos.
Deciding the lines were too long for an afternoon adventure, we made a vow to wake up extra early in the morning to ride the Harry Potter rides and we pressed on to Dr. Seuss Land. And OH what a place that was! Clearly made for children, the entire Island is decked out in swirled scenery with pastel trees and fuzzy characters walking around. Their slushies are named Goose Juice and Moose Juice and they even has a store dedicated to selling all of the Dr. Seuss stories I grew up reading. The place is simply magical. I couldn't imagine a better design for that Island.
Of course I'm doing this place zero justice with my words, but what I can describe is the comforting feeling I'm taking away from this weekend. It's not only the comfort of spending 48 hours alone with my boyfriend, doing only the things we want to do with little to no responsibility, but it is the comfort of knowing I can take vacations, I can plan out what I'd like to do. And it can be fun, not hectic and confusing. This weekend I was able to be a kid 24/7, giggle at being splashed by dirty water, get scared by a dark roller-coaster and eat whatever I want without feeling guilty. And more importantly, I was able to share the weekend with someone I love very much. And even after knowing him for so long, I was able to see a shiny new side of him, one that relates to my inner-child more than I could have imagined.
Until next time...peace, love, and butterbeer.
Sporting torn up red Chuck Taylors and a hot-pink Minnie Mouse fanny-pack, I set out with Evan to explore the depths of Islands of Adventure. Our favorite ride ended up being the first one we got in line for...The Hulk. I of course had to do the famous Wind-Clap he does in the movie...only I did it in public and without the same result. Needless to say, Evan was mildly embarrassed, but he covered it up well with the giggle and side-smile he shot my way on the way to the next ride. Making our way through the Toon Lagoon, we went on a few water rides. And the giggles didn't stop from there on out.
A hop skip and jump landed us into Jurassic Park Island, a place I had been dreaming about since we started planning this trip. At last, I would get to see a real dinosaur! Pulling Evan through the park, I assured him real dinosaur would pop out at any point in time so he better be on the lookout. To keep me from losing hope, he pulled me into a gift shop about midway through and showed me a few "real" dinosaurs. I wasn't impressed. I almost asked an employee where they kept the dinosaur eggs, but she was so enthralled by the split ends in her hair I didn't want to bother her with such a scientifically important question. Checking out the map, we decided we would only see a real dino on the water ride, which took us through the real Jurassic Park. But the line was over 70 minutes long, and we HAD to get to Harry Potter World.
First things first. They make you walk entirely too far around Harry Potter World to actually enter it. But it's absolutely worth it. Even Evan was impressed! The snow-covered buildings and castle are a perfect enough for me replica of what I envision/what is seen in the movie. Every one is dressed in character and they have their lines down to a tee. I of course got a Butterbeer, Evan got his celebratory big-boy beer and we set off to explore the grounds.
Sidenote: I must mention that this blog will be incomplete for a while because I decided to go old-school on my photography this weekend. All photos were taken with a disposable camera for full-on tourist effect. Therefore, it will be a while before I can post any photos.
Deciding the lines were too long for an afternoon adventure, we made a vow to wake up extra early in the morning to ride the Harry Potter rides and we pressed on to Dr. Seuss Land. And OH what a place that was! Clearly made for children, the entire Island is decked out in swirled scenery with pastel trees and fuzzy characters walking around. Their slushies are named Goose Juice and Moose Juice and they even has a store dedicated to selling all of the Dr. Seuss stories I grew up reading. The place is simply magical. I couldn't imagine a better design for that Island.
Of course I'm doing this place zero justice with my words, but what I can describe is the comforting feeling I'm taking away from this weekend. It's not only the comfort of spending 48 hours alone with my boyfriend, doing only the things we want to do with little to no responsibility, but it is the comfort of knowing I can take vacations, I can plan out what I'd like to do. And it can be fun, not hectic and confusing. This weekend I was able to be a kid 24/7, giggle at being splashed by dirty water, get scared by a dark roller-coaster and eat whatever I want without feeling guilty. And more importantly, I was able to share the weekend with someone I love very much. And even after knowing him for so long, I was able to see a shiny new side of him, one that relates to my inner-child more than I could have imagined.
Until next time...peace, love, and butterbeer.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
28 Day Cycle (?)
So I was doing a little late-night WholeFoods.com browsing (obviously), and upon a classic slow-motion scroll-down, I noticed an ad for a 28-day diet challenge. I thought to myself, 'Whole Foods promoting a diet plan? Must be somewhat legitimate for them to back it up.' Not going to lie, I always imagined Whole Foods goers as the Hippie types who refused to eat processed foods, while still refusing to give into the man and his concept of what it means to be skinny, not just-- oh what's the word?
Oh yeah, healthy.
Away I clicked, and was immediately swept me onto a new page with bright red letters telling me to BEGIN THE SURVEY NOW! 'Well alrighty then, why not?' My book could wait a few more minutes while I humored the website, fully expecting a generic health summary after spending fifteen minutes feeling rather proud of my mostly-health related responses. Instead, I was presented with a full analysis of my family history, how my eating habits are related to those risks, and how even a few risks I was unaware of could potentially be related. Further shocking my mind, I realized that the material was not presented in a way meant to scare the late-night dieter. Instead, it was more of an educational presentation of my lifestyle and a few basic steps to change it. And not only that, they were feeding me those steps with a silver-spoon and it appeared they would be holding my hand through four weeks of the change.
'Brilliant!' I thought as I stumbled upon a menu guide. *Correction, a daily menu guide, giving me recipe ideas for how to prepare my new and improved meals, with specific measurements and how many servings I could make (because after all, it is in fact easier to diet with a buddy), despite the fact that my dieting buddy happens to have a disease that does not allow him to process many nutrients to begin with (though he is in fact a wonderful food buddy), so the recipes would just end up feeding me twice. But I digress, and I've decided to attempt this 28 day challenge, or lifestyle cycle as the website likes to call it. Some of the changes will be more drastic than others, as to be expected, but I think it will be nice to have a guide (with pictures!) to help me through this process. But, since it is now midnight, and Publix closes at 10/opens at 9 for some ungodly reason, I will not be able to shop for tomorrow's cinnamon fruit oatmeal. Therefore, I will begin with lunch tomorrow, or I will use the meal guide exactly how its title indicates, as a guide, attempting to create my meals around its guidelines.
On the menu for tomorrow:
BREAKFAST
-Cinnamon Fruit Oatmeal
-Orange juice
LUNCH -Russian Fig Dressing/Dip on whole-wheat pita stuffed with shredded romaine, sliced tomato, chopped cucumber, and avocado slices
-Strawberries
DINNER
-Tossed Green Salad with dressing of choice
-Spiced Haddock or Tilapia
-Brown rice -Braised Bok Choy
-Poached Pears with Raspberry Sauce* or fresh fruit
Hmm, little pricey for my taste, but this diet did come from Whole Foods' website. And so it begins. Kind of. For tonight, Tuesdays With Morrie will suffice.
Bonne nuit tout le monde.
Oh yeah, healthy.
Away I clicked, and was immediately swept me onto a new page with bright red letters telling me to BEGIN THE SURVEY NOW! 'Well alrighty then, why not?' My book could wait a few more minutes while I humored the website, fully expecting a generic health summary after spending fifteen minutes feeling rather proud of my mostly-health related responses. Instead, I was presented with a full analysis of my family history, how my eating habits are related to those risks, and how even a few risks I was unaware of could potentially be related. Further shocking my mind, I realized that the material was not presented in a way meant to scare the late-night dieter. Instead, it was more of an educational presentation of my lifestyle and a few basic steps to change it. And not only that, they were feeding me those steps with a silver-spoon and it appeared they would be holding my hand through four weeks of the change.
'Brilliant!' I thought as I stumbled upon a menu guide. *Correction, a daily menu guide, giving me recipe ideas for how to prepare my new and improved meals, with specific measurements and how many servings I could make (because after all, it is in fact easier to diet with a buddy), despite the fact that my dieting buddy happens to have a disease that does not allow him to process many nutrients to begin with (though he is in fact a wonderful food buddy), so the recipes would just end up feeding me twice. But I digress, and I've decided to attempt this 28 day challenge, or lifestyle cycle as the website likes to call it. Some of the changes will be more drastic than others, as to be expected, but I think it will be nice to have a guide (with pictures!) to help me through this process. But, since it is now midnight, and Publix closes at 10/opens at 9 for some ungodly reason, I will not be able to shop for tomorrow's cinnamon fruit oatmeal. Therefore, I will begin with lunch tomorrow, or I will use the meal guide exactly how its title indicates, as a guide, attempting to create my meals around its guidelines.
On the menu for tomorrow:
BREAKFAST
-Cinnamon Fruit Oatmeal
-Orange juice
LUNCH -Russian Fig Dressing/Dip on whole-wheat pita stuffed with shredded romaine, sliced tomato, chopped cucumber, and avocado slices
-Strawberries
DINNER
-Tossed Green Salad with dressing of choice
-Spiced Haddock or Tilapia
-Brown rice -Braised Bok Choy
-Poached Pears with Raspberry Sauce* or fresh fruit
Hmm, little pricey for my taste, but this diet did come from Whole Foods' website. And so it begins. Kind of. For tonight, Tuesdays With Morrie will suffice.
Bonne nuit tout le monde.
Monday, December 27, 2010
-3 Degrees Celsius.
9:15 on a winter Monday morning. I wonder what the Parisians are doing right now. I'm sure the city is mostly desolate, as many of its inhabitants have headed to the mountains for their winter ski trips. But I'm sure the natural sparkle of the city goes on. Family-owned shops are still opened, and sidewalks must be swept up so that les propriétaires des brasseries can begin a new week. And while the weather may be drastically different from the 95 degree sweltering heat I grew accustomed to, and while the clouds may never part during a winters' day, I'm sure that the radiance of the city's wonder will shine on nonetheless.
Madame Dru must still be sleeping, or either sitting in her kitchen smoking while enjoying a cup of steaming hot black English tea. A piece of toast will suffice until she heads off to work, grabbing a bit of quiche or salade on her way. I wonder what free-spirited ring she has selected for herself today. Perhaps the clear ring with all the rhinestones to compliment her black sarong, or maybe a swirled design to jazz up her simple yet purposeful Birkenstock sandals.
«Les Bagues des Rêves», Chez Rosine, 2010
Then again, this is Rosine we're talking about. Two days after Christmas, she probably hasn't seen her children much this fall, and she doesn't really enjoy working. So she's probably traveling, or sleeping in late-- enjoying a good existential piece of literature, sipping tea and/or Diet Coke.
And here I am, restless and neurotic in my home-home, at 2:15 in the morning. My mind wanders from street to street, trying to relive all the life-changing moments of my Parisian escapades. As frustrating and confusing the city was on a day-to-day basis, I couldn't help but fall in love with the wave of emotions. For such a seemingly reserved culture, French folks really wear their emotions on their sleeve. When they're mad, they show you...in hand gestures, in words, and in eyebrow scrunching. And when they're happy, they attempt to smile and usually kiss your cheeks like they've just seen a long-lost friend. But one thing you can count on with any strong emotion is the repetitiveness of their words. Usually in threesomes.
Très très trèèèès bien.
But why do these peculiar details intrigue me so? Why do I weep for the strange friends I made on the streets, in cafés, in dark bars and late-night streets? Why do I crave the scent of foreign second-hand smoke wafting through the streets accompanied by the distinct scent of freshly baked croissants and quiches? And why is it that I'd rather sit on a dirty metro for 30 minutes than in my own air-conditioned car during a traffic jam?
I of course have an answer for all of these questions, but am not brave enough to face it. So I lay awake sometimes for hours each night, thinking about my life in Paris this past summer, the friends I made out of complete strangers, and the odd sense of welcome I felt each night at la fontaine Saint Michel. And despite the fountain being a tourist hot-spot, I never felt like a tourist. I always received a warm greeting from the performers who recognized me, who understood that I could not pay them each night I watched their routines, but saw how much I valued their passion and talent.
So I lie here awake, feeling guilty for wishing to go back so soon in life. Guilty for not wishing to visit my own country in greater depth, fearing that if I don't go back now, I never will. Or worse, my friends and French family will have forgotten me by the time I manage to "get my act together" and return.
But somehow, the mere image of crowded outdoor cafés steaming with guests and their daily gossip brings me right back into the wave of French culture I dreamed about before even embarking on my adventure. My heart aches for so many things. And right now it aches most for my humble yet dark and twisty hippie of a host mother, the reassuring feeling of solitude, Centre Pompidou, a quietly messy salon, the shuffle of the metro, and a 4 euro bottle of Champagne to be shared among friends at sunrise for no particular reason other than the sheer factor of being young.
My heart aches, and it's an ache that hasn't faded. An ache that won't fade.
«The Best Chicken on a Stick Ever», Chez Rosine, 2010
Madame Dru must still be sleeping, or either sitting in her kitchen smoking while enjoying a cup of steaming hot black English tea. A piece of toast will suffice until she heads off to work, grabbing a bit of quiche or salade on her way. I wonder what free-spirited ring she has selected for herself today. Perhaps the clear ring with all the rhinestones to compliment her black sarong, or maybe a swirled design to jazz up her simple yet purposeful Birkenstock sandals.
«Les Bagues des Rêves», Chez Rosine, 2010
Then again, this is Rosine we're talking about. Two days after Christmas, she probably hasn't seen her children much this fall, and she doesn't really enjoy working. So she's probably traveling, or sleeping in late-- enjoying a good existential piece of literature, sipping tea and/or Diet Coke.
And here I am, restless and neurotic in my home-home, at 2:15 in the morning. My mind wanders from street to street, trying to relive all the life-changing moments of my Parisian escapades. As frustrating and confusing the city was on a day-to-day basis, I couldn't help but fall in love with the wave of emotions. For such a seemingly reserved culture, French folks really wear their emotions on their sleeve. When they're mad, they show you...in hand gestures, in words, and in eyebrow scrunching. And when they're happy, they attempt to smile and usually kiss your cheeks like they've just seen a long-lost friend. But one thing you can count on with any strong emotion is the repetitiveness of their words. Usually in threesomes.
Très très trèèèès bien.
But why do these peculiar details intrigue me so? Why do I weep for the strange friends I made on the streets, in cafés, in dark bars and late-night streets? Why do I crave the scent of foreign second-hand smoke wafting through the streets accompanied by the distinct scent of freshly baked croissants and quiches? And why is it that I'd rather sit on a dirty metro for 30 minutes than in my own air-conditioned car during a traffic jam?
I of course have an answer for all of these questions, but am not brave enough to face it. So I lay awake sometimes for hours each night, thinking about my life in Paris this past summer, the friends I made out of complete strangers, and the odd sense of welcome I felt each night at la fontaine Saint Michel. And despite the fountain being a tourist hot-spot, I never felt like a tourist. I always received a warm greeting from the performers who recognized me, who understood that I could not pay them each night I watched their routines, but saw how much I valued their passion and talent.
So I lie here awake, feeling guilty for wishing to go back so soon in life. Guilty for not wishing to visit my own country in greater depth, fearing that if I don't go back now, I never will. Or worse, my friends and French family will have forgotten me by the time I manage to "get my act together" and return.
But somehow, the mere image of crowded outdoor cafés steaming with guests and their daily gossip brings me right back into the wave of French culture I dreamed about before even embarking on my adventure. My heart aches for so many things. And right now it aches most for my humble yet dark and twisty hippie of a host mother, the reassuring feeling of solitude, Centre Pompidou, a quietly messy salon, the shuffle of the metro, and a 4 euro bottle of Champagne to be shared among friends at sunrise for no particular reason other than the sheer factor of being young.
My heart aches, and it's an ache that hasn't faded. An ache that won't fade.
«The Best Chicken on a Stick Ever», Chez Rosine, 2010
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
someone once said that scars are the roadmap to the soul...
Every scar tells a story, reveals a past adventure, a past heartache, and a past memory. Some people scar more easily than others, but one thing thing remains true about scars, no matter how big or small. They're there forever.
I used to be ashamed of my scars. I used to try to hide them, or make up stories about why they're all over my arm, my ankles, my hips. And I guess now people only see the ones that line my arms, not the burns on my leg, my hand, or the scars I have from picking old wounds. I may not directly lie about where my scars come from anymore...no more story about a burn from the bakery I worked at, or some cat scratching me. I mean, come on, was that every really believable? Do cats really have 6 claws that are parallel to each other? No.
Now when someone asks, I just look down at them, cover them up a bit, as if to hide the person from the bitter truth for one more instant, and then glance up at them for a moment and say, "They're really old scars." And then I change the subject. Okay, so that's not really telling the truth, but it's better than directly lying to their face, right? Every scar may tell a story, and since I wear mine very visibly, I guess I can't knock the people who demand to know the story. But why is it I'm so afraid to tell them? Why am I afraid to tell my best friends, my teammates, my family members, what I've done to myself?
Sure, there's only a handful of people who know exactly what I've been through, who were witnesses to what I suffered growing up. But there have also been people I've met that don't care what I've been through, who see it in my eyes that I've been hurt, and who probably only wish to hear the truth about where I've come from and what's brought me here. Yet I still run away from them. I try to run from my own story, one I have written for years, memorized it down to the very last facial detail and muttered last words. It's a story I don't like to tell very often, one that wipes the smile from my face each time. One that turns my eyes glassy as I turn away to conceal the tears. It's not all bad, of course, but most of it explains why I've become the person I am-- why I'm freaked out, insecure, neurotic and emotional. A lot of it also explains my attachment to people, my fear of them betraying me, leaving me, or just plain physically hurting me. And parts of the story reveal my peaceful side, my need for human love and devotion, and my heartfelt wish to make everyone around me as happy as can be.
But why can't I just make myself happy? I go through these phases every once in a while. Phases of feeling self-worth, pure happiness with the world around me, and this hop in my step that can't be overturned. And then, darkness falls. A feeling of anxiety rushes in that can't be stopped. It attacks my body from the inside out. First, it devours my stomach, leaving me feeling sick and curled in a ball. Then my breathing rate rises and won't be lowered for anything. Tears start to burn my eyes and the smile fades away into a grey frown. And that physical state stays in place until someone, or something can shake me out of it. And I must say, as the years add up, it has become harder and harder for people and things to get me out of this state.
One thing I can always reflect on in that state of mind is my arm, or my leg, or my hip. A constant reminder of where I've been, and where I don't want to end up again. A few strokes of those tale-telling scars and I'm ready to try to smile once more.
I used to be ashamed of my scars. I used to try to hide them, or make up stories about why they're all over my arm, my ankles, my hips. And I guess now people only see the ones that line my arms, not the burns on my leg, my hand, or the scars I have from picking old wounds. I may not directly lie about where my scars come from anymore...no more story about a burn from the bakery I worked at, or some cat scratching me. I mean, come on, was that every really believable? Do cats really have 6 claws that are parallel to each other? No.
Now when someone asks, I just look down at them, cover them up a bit, as if to hide the person from the bitter truth for one more instant, and then glance up at them for a moment and say, "They're really old scars." And then I change the subject. Okay, so that's not really telling the truth, but it's better than directly lying to their face, right? Every scar may tell a story, and since I wear mine very visibly, I guess I can't knock the people who demand to know the story. But why is it I'm so afraid to tell them? Why am I afraid to tell my best friends, my teammates, my family members, what I've done to myself?
Sure, there's only a handful of people who know exactly what I've been through, who were witnesses to what I suffered growing up. But there have also been people I've met that don't care what I've been through, who see it in my eyes that I've been hurt, and who probably only wish to hear the truth about where I've come from and what's brought me here. Yet I still run away from them. I try to run from my own story, one I have written for years, memorized it down to the very last facial detail and muttered last words. It's a story I don't like to tell very often, one that wipes the smile from my face each time. One that turns my eyes glassy as I turn away to conceal the tears. It's not all bad, of course, but most of it explains why I've become the person I am-- why I'm freaked out, insecure, neurotic and emotional. A lot of it also explains my attachment to people, my fear of them betraying me, leaving me, or just plain physically hurting me. And parts of the story reveal my peaceful side, my need for human love and devotion, and my heartfelt wish to make everyone around me as happy as can be.
But why can't I just make myself happy? I go through these phases every once in a while. Phases of feeling self-worth, pure happiness with the world around me, and this hop in my step that can't be overturned. And then, darkness falls. A feeling of anxiety rushes in that can't be stopped. It attacks my body from the inside out. First, it devours my stomach, leaving me feeling sick and curled in a ball. Then my breathing rate rises and won't be lowered for anything. Tears start to burn my eyes and the smile fades away into a grey frown. And that physical state stays in place until someone, or something can shake me out of it. And I must say, as the years add up, it has become harder and harder for people and things to get me out of this state.
One thing I can always reflect on in that state of mind is my arm, or my leg, or my hip. A constant reminder of where I've been, and where I don't want to end up again. A few strokes of those tale-telling scars and I'm ready to try to smile once more.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
That was a Sunday sign of Fate.
A few weeks ago while reading at the pool, I saw a father playing with a few of the kids at the apartment complex. Between sessions of tossing them into the pool, he would stop at read a few papers. With a red pen in his hand, I figured he was grading papers so he must be some kind of teacher or professor. The table he sat at provided him with the just the right amount of shade to clearly see his work, while giving his back a nice tan.
This morning I was the first person at the pool so I set up shop at the same table to warm my back with the sun's mid-morningh rays. The neighbor behind me had some kind of mix playing in his apartment, so music wasn't needed. He's the hippie who steps out on his porch every morning to chat with his plants while his wife makes a pot of coffee for them to enjoy later on.
So I set off and worked on my teaching assignments. Powering through my field notes, I watched as the complex slowly woke up. Enjoying my cup of coffee and Pandora music mix, I showed no mercy in my observational write-up. As I finished my assignment, I heard a somewhat familiar voice behind me say, "Good morning!" as the gate opened up. I turned around and realized the voice was probably directed at me, since no one else was at the pool. So I responded with a, "Good morning, how are you doing?" and recognized the face. It was the same father from a few weeks ago, this time leading his son to the other side of the pool deck, with their bikes at the ready for an adventure.
He stopped for a minute as I asked him if he was a teacher of some kind because I thought I noticed he was grading papers a few weeks back. He told me he was a chemistry and physics teacher at a local high school. "You seem like you're hard at work," he said to me as I muted Pandora to further inquire about his profession. His son was now a few steps ahead of him so I told him I wouldn't delay his day but I'd like to sit down and talk to him about his profession one day, as I had just begun my work at a middle school for UM.
Chris, my neighbor caddy corner to me, just across the pool-- a high school teacher who spends time with his kids every weekend despite having constant papers to grade. If me sitting at this very table, on this very morning, working on my future teaching career as he steps out with his son, isn't some kind of sign for my future profession, then I don't know what is.
I've struggled with seeing signs lately, constantly wondering if my belief system is just a crock of hippie wishful thinking. But I don't think it is, and this was an oddly refreshing interaction. And if all it does is improve this one hour of time for me, that'd be enough.
This morning I was the first person at the pool so I set up shop at the same table to warm my back with the sun's mid-morningh rays. The neighbor behind me had some kind of mix playing in his apartment, so music wasn't needed. He's the hippie who steps out on his porch every morning to chat with his plants while his wife makes a pot of coffee for them to enjoy later on.
So I set off and worked on my teaching assignments. Powering through my field notes, I watched as the complex slowly woke up. Enjoying my cup of coffee and Pandora music mix, I showed no mercy in my observational write-up. As I finished my assignment, I heard a somewhat familiar voice behind me say, "Good morning!" as the gate opened up. I turned around and realized the voice was probably directed at me, since no one else was at the pool. So I responded with a, "Good morning, how are you doing?" and recognized the face. It was the same father from a few weeks ago, this time leading his son to the other side of the pool deck, with their bikes at the ready for an adventure.
He stopped for a minute as I asked him if he was a teacher of some kind because I thought I noticed he was grading papers a few weeks back. He told me he was a chemistry and physics teacher at a local high school. "You seem like you're hard at work," he said to me as I muted Pandora to further inquire about his profession. His son was now a few steps ahead of him so I told him I wouldn't delay his day but I'd like to sit down and talk to him about his profession one day, as I had just begun my work at a middle school for UM.
Chris, my neighbor caddy corner to me, just across the pool-- a high school teacher who spends time with his kids every weekend despite having constant papers to grade. If me sitting at this very table, on this very morning, working on my future teaching career as he steps out with his son, isn't some kind of sign for my future profession, then I don't know what is.
I've struggled with seeing signs lately, constantly wondering if my belief system is just a crock of hippie wishful thinking. But I don't think it is, and this was an oddly refreshing interaction. And if all it does is improve this one hour of time for me, that'd be enough.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Miss Rita from Lebanon
I have always hoped to find a neighborhood where everyone knew each other, where everyone genuinely cared for one another. Most of the time neighbors just make small talk, but every once in a while a glimpse of who someone really is comes out during one of those conversations.
Last night I met Rita, Susan and a couple of other neighbors while they were sitting by the pool enjoying a couple of drinks to let off steam from the hard work-week. Stepping out onto my patio, they greeted me warmly, surprising me a little bit with their shouting. "Hi neighbor!" And, "Yes! Hello neighbor how are you tonight?"
I had a towel on my head-- having just stepped out of a long shower, and wore only a black tee-shirt. When I realized I wasn't alone on this steamy August night, I made sure nothing was revealed from the bottom of my tee and replied with a warm, "Good evening! I'm just fine, how are you doing?"
And then came the small talk; the exchanging names, apartment locations, etc. I knew I would see them again so I didn't try my best to remember their buzzed and slurred names. They asked me about Merlin, and I told them he was my husky, staying for the night. Mentioning how much they all loved dogs, they promised mum was the word when it came to the Leasing office. And so our bonding began.
Leaving them to their evening, I couldn't help but smile as I stepped back into my apartment, the cool air conditioning sweeping over my face. Little did I know that the next afternoon I would see Susan and Miss Rita tanning by the pool as I taught Evan how to dive. More small talk was exchanged but the surface layers rubbed off and I found out Miss Rita and her family had been here for almost seven years and each member was brought over one by one by her brother, from Lebanon.
I've never known much about Lebanon and I felt humbled talking to a woman who I had assumed to be of Latin or Hispanic backgrounds. After she taught me about Lebanese children learning multiple languages from a very young age, Miss Rita asked me if I was American, American. Of course I said yes, and then that I was born in Saint Louis. A wide smile took over her face as Miss Rita giggled and excitedly said, "Oh my goodness a real American, that's so great!" I have never in all my life seen such a wonderful reaction when I've simply said I was born and raised in America.
It's probably hard for me to understand where she was coming from because I was born in the suburbs, never had to immigrate and I didn't grow up in an area with a ton of immigrants. Needless to say, I felt honored that Miss Rita was so excited to meet a born-and-raised-in-the-States American.
I'm not sure how much I will see Miss Rita, her sister Susan, and the rest of the family, but I can be sure that when I do, I'll say hi and ask how her niece is doing with her ping-pong competitions and if she's met any more "pure-blood" Americans.
Last night I met Rita, Susan and a couple of other neighbors while they were sitting by the pool enjoying a couple of drinks to let off steam from the hard work-week. Stepping out onto my patio, they greeted me warmly, surprising me a little bit with their shouting. "Hi neighbor!" And, "Yes! Hello neighbor how are you tonight?"
I had a towel on my head-- having just stepped out of a long shower, and wore only a black tee-shirt. When I realized I wasn't alone on this steamy August night, I made sure nothing was revealed from the bottom of my tee and replied with a warm, "Good evening! I'm just fine, how are you doing?"
And then came the small talk; the exchanging names, apartment locations, etc. I knew I would see them again so I didn't try my best to remember their buzzed and slurred names. They asked me about Merlin, and I told them he was my husky, staying for the night. Mentioning how much they all loved dogs, they promised mum was the word when it came to the Leasing office. And so our bonding began.
Leaving them to their evening, I couldn't help but smile as I stepped back into my apartment, the cool air conditioning sweeping over my face. Little did I know that the next afternoon I would see Susan and Miss Rita tanning by the pool as I taught Evan how to dive. More small talk was exchanged but the surface layers rubbed off and I found out Miss Rita and her family had been here for almost seven years and each member was brought over one by one by her brother, from Lebanon.
I've never known much about Lebanon and I felt humbled talking to a woman who I had assumed to be of Latin or Hispanic backgrounds. After she taught me about Lebanese children learning multiple languages from a very young age, Miss Rita asked me if I was American, American. Of course I said yes, and then that I was born in Saint Louis. A wide smile took over her face as Miss Rita giggled and excitedly said, "Oh my goodness a real American, that's so great!" I have never in all my life seen such a wonderful reaction when I've simply said I was born and raised in America.
It's probably hard for me to understand where she was coming from because I was born in the suburbs, never had to immigrate and I didn't grow up in an area with a ton of immigrants. Needless to say, I felt honored that Miss Rita was so excited to meet a born-and-raised-in-the-States American.
I'm not sure how much I will see Miss Rita, her sister Susan, and the rest of the family, but I can be sure that when I do, I'll say hi and ask how her niece is doing with her ping-pong competitions and if she's met any more "pure-blood" Americans.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Life will pass you by if you don't have the antidote to the toxin.
I find it insane how much of our life we spend worrying about nothing, about everything. Minutes turn to hours of worrying everyday, and so much of life's beauty is forgotten. The idea of not having enough money blocks out the thought of how warm a kiss on the cheek feels, how pleasant the sound of a baby giggling can be. Everyday sights and sounds become blurred into the background as life's major concerns take us over cell by cell.
Of course I can't sit on a high horse and judge everyone around me, because I too find myself over thinking, worrying about finances, the future, and how to maintain the certain happyness and childlike wonder I hold so very deep in my soul. What I've realized the past few weeks is just how viral such thinking can be. It seeps into my skin, attaches to my cells and soon enters my bloodstream. From there I can feel my temperature rise, my breathing strain and a sense of anxiety enters my mind. The twisted, sick feeling sits in my chest, stomach and brain for hours upon hours, consuming my every thought. Sometimes it is easier to just fall asleep and hope that when you open your eyes, those feelings will have resided, and the world will once again find equilibrium.
We all know viruses never go away. There is no cure for a virus that enters the body, the risk of it coming back is always there-- lurking in the background.
But my question to the world, to myself, Why do we let such a virus enter our system? What happened to the days when all we worried about was getting to stay up late in the summertime, sneak an extra dessert after dinner, or getting that first kiss without our parents finding out? What happened to the days when childlike wonder flowed through our mind, making the world seem brighter, happier and full of possibilities with very few heartaches? There was no worry over money, jobs, living conditions, or transportation. There was no fear of being heartbroken and alone for life. None of that was relevant. Why does it have to be now?
I can try to deny the lurking fears that I've allowed to enter my body, but I know that sooner or later they will surface. Instead of masking them with bad decisions, impulsive buying, or even rash decision making, I try to find the simple things that make me happy; baking, reading, writing, petting an animal, helping someone find their way (whether it's physically finding their way on the road or metaphorically speaking in life), listening to music, and taking walks.
Some people choose to call this 'therapy', but I just call it living. Ooh, there's a radical idea. Go out and do the things I love to do, seek the finer/beautiful things in life instead of laying in bed late at night, worrying about the mysteries of my private student loan, wondering if I will be able to find my next place to live by the time my Lease is up in 10 months.
Babies laugh. The sky burns blue in the daytime. The sun sets in the West, rises in the East. Flowers bloom. The eyes of a broke street performers light up when a few cents are dropped in their hat.
Musicians put their heart and soul into every piece of music.
(Artists put their heart and soul into every work of art.)
[Authors put their heart and soul into every piece of writing.]
Lovers hold hands at 2 years old, 10 years old, 24 years old, 50 years old, and even 90 years old.
(Lovers kiss in public at 2 years old, 10 years old, 24 years old, 50 years old, and even 90 years old.)
[Love never dies.]
People may live their lives when they want to, when things are easy and fun. But it is very seldom to see people living their lives when they need to; when life gives them lemons, which is really just a nice way to say when life beats them over the head with a frying pan.
Two mottos to try to follow.
(Peace.Love.Happiness.)
[Peace.Love.World.]
One modifies the other, and vice versa.
(Change the world one heart at a time.)
[Starting with your own.]
From there, spread the joy to every plant, animal, and human being on this Earth. If we're all put here together there must be a reason for it, and what better reason than to share life with one another? What better reason than to not let life pass us by because of solitary worries?
Of course I can't sit on a high horse and judge everyone around me, because I too find myself over thinking, worrying about finances, the future, and how to maintain the certain happyness and childlike wonder I hold so very deep in my soul. What I've realized the past few weeks is just how viral such thinking can be. It seeps into my skin, attaches to my cells and soon enters my bloodstream. From there I can feel my temperature rise, my breathing strain and a sense of anxiety enters my mind. The twisted, sick feeling sits in my chest, stomach and brain for hours upon hours, consuming my every thought. Sometimes it is easier to just fall asleep and hope that when you open your eyes, those feelings will have resided, and the world will once again find equilibrium.
We all know viruses never go away. There is no cure for a virus that enters the body, the risk of it coming back is always there-- lurking in the background.
But my question to the world, to myself, Why do we let such a virus enter our system? What happened to the days when all we worried about was getting to stay up late in the summertime, sneak an extra dessert after dinner, or getting that first kiss without our parents finding out? What happened to the days when childlike wonder flowed through our mind, making the world seem brighter, happier and full of possibilities with very few heartaches? There was no worry over money, jobs, living conditions, or transportation. There was no fear of being heartbroken and alone for life. None of that was relevant. Why does it have to be now?
I can try to deny the lurking fears that I've allowed to enter my body, but I know that sooner or later they will surface. Instead of masking them with bad decisions, impulsive buying, or even rash decision making, I try to find the simple things that make me happy; baking, reading, writing, petting an animal, helping someone find their way (whether it's physically finding their way on the road or metaphorically speaking in life), listening to music, and taking walks.
Some people choose to call this 'therapy', but I just call it living. Ooh, there's a radical idea. Go out and do the things I love to do, seek the finer/beautiful things in life instead of laying in bed late at night, worrying about the mysteries of my private student loan, wondering if I will be able to find my next place to live by the time my Lease is up in 10 months.
Babies laugh. The sky burns blue in the daytime. The sun sets in the West, rises in the East. Flowers bloom. The eyes of a broke street performers light up when a few cents are dropped in their hat.
Musicians put their heart and soul into every piece of music.
(Artists put their heart and soul into every work of art.)
[Authors put their heart and soul into every piece of writing.]
Lovers hold hands at 2 years old, 10 years old, 24 years old, 50 years old, and even 90 years old.
(Lovers kiss in public at 2 years old, 10 years old, 24 years old, 50 years old, and even 90 years old.)
[Love never dies.]
People may live their lives when they want to, when things are easy and fun. But it is very seldom to see people living their lives when they need to; when life gives them lemons, which is really just a nice way to say when life beats them over the head with a frying pan.
Two mottos to try to follow.
(Peace.Love.Happiness.)
[Peace.Love.World.]
One modifies the other, and vice versa.
(Change the world one heart at a time.)
[Starting with your own.]
From there, spread the joy to every plant, animal, and human being on this Earth. If we're all put here together there must be a reason for it, and what better reason than to share life with one another? What better reason than to not let life pass us by because of solitary worries?
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
My Amazing Hippie House Mom
Rosine is an incredible woman. Very thoughtful, intelligent, well-spoken and respectful. We knock every time we want to enter a room, but at the same time, when I may have accidentally walked into the unlocked salle de bains while she was getting out of the shower, she was okay with it and said I need not apologize. She just illuminates grace and comfort in every sort of way.
When I was sick, she gave me three kinds of cough drops, when I got stitches she took me to the pharmacy to get better supplies to wash my wounds, and had the pharmacist re-wrap my stitches after we had been walking along the Seine. And she will cook for me whenever, even though I don't ask her to. I can genuinely tell she wants to teach me, not talk down to me for my very simple mistakes.
"A Warm Welcome", Chez Madame Dru, 2010
And while her outlook on life is at a different point than where I find myself, I can very easily see my future ressembling hers. She is not active in politics, but she holds very strong opinions on how the world functions and what could be changed. We had a fifteen minute conversation about how silly it was that people spend their whole lives trying to pay off a mortage, when having a roof over your head is probably the single most important thing you need in life. And we talked about how globalization has completely diminished the lives of small farmers, who work their entire lives to provide for their families. But with importing and exporting goods taking over every market system, it becomes impossible for them to stand on their own two feet.
"Les Escaliers", Chez Madame Dru, 2010
Today we had an afternoon date planned to go the Modern Art Museum of Paris, and possibly Palais Tokyo, an industrial art museum with a pretty funky twist. I came back from class to take a nap since I haven't been sleeping well with my stitches. Rosine said, ok, bonne sieste and I'll see you soon. Around 3 pm she meekly walked into my room and said, "Excusez-moi Lauren, je vous revez." Looking at my clock I realized I overslept by an hour and immediately got up. She told me to take my time because she was preparing some meat for us to eat before we left.
Meat = hamburger + tomato salad = nomnoms.
So we leave around 3:45, after she made sure I thoroughly cleaned my stitches of course, and set off to find her car. It took us about thirty minutes and three cigarettes later to find her car. We were on the verge of aborting the mission and taking the bus when we turned on one final rue. The whole time we talked about her neighbors and her childhood, and Elisa's half sister. It was nice to just walk around the streets and hear her talk while she strutted along in her Birkenstock sandals and black flowing skirt with a long matching sheer top.
Wind blowing through our hair, Rosine showed me a few places on our way across the Seine. We talked about anglacismes, idiomatic phrases, and pollution. When we got to the Modern Art Museum we realized the permanent collection was a look-alike or a second-hand collection, meaning certain artists mimicked other works of art. It was pretty interesting to see different interpretations of famous Matisse paintings, or Warhol prints, or even Pollock tosses of paint. And the whole time, Rosine would look at one, guess the name and run up to the sign to see if she was right. And she was about 99.99999% of the time. We went through the whole museum in about an hour, but somehow discussed nearly every d'oeuvre.
"Le the et les noix.", Chez Madame Dru, 2010
After sharing a Diet Coke on the Terrace we stepped into Palais Tokyo to look at the funky gift shops. She bought me a 1Euro postcard that has the name "Aurore" written in graffiti on the front. Then she took me to a pharmacist and bought me new cleanser for my arm and made sure my dressings were clean enough. We walked along the Seine for a few minutes and discussed how I can get back to this area tomorrow for class. The evening was so nice, we even got to see a little garden at the back of the museum. On our way home we stopped at a supermarche for some things for dinner. It was a very light selection; some endives with pears, seeds, ham and olive oil. Then peaches with ice cream for dessert. Wonderfully simple.
Elisa got home after we finished dinner so we caught up for a few minutes and discussed the permanent collection we had just seen. And she asked me about my adventure filled weekend and if everything turned out okay. Rosine made a joke that everything bad happened when she left, and I said, "Oui, aujord'hui a Sweet Briar, j'ai dit que quand ma mere d'acceuil est partie, l'enfer est arrive! C'est comme, when mom leaves for the weekend, all hell breaks loose!" She laughed and said, "and so it goes..." (Is she not perfect or what for making a Vonnegut reference?)
When Elisa left the kitchen Rosine told me this beautiful story about when the French had a fete for the Americans after WWII when they sent thank you gifts to the States. Each gift had a name and address of the family who sent it. Her mother just so happened to send a doll of some kind, and there was an American woman who sent her a letter, asking where she could find one because she had a daughter, who happened to be about Rosine's age at the time, who wanted one. Instead of just writing back a response to find the doll, Rosine's mother sent the woman a doll of her own and they soon became pen-pals. In the late 1950's, Rosine's father traveled to the states and actually met the woman. But her mother never did. And until the two died, they continued to write each other, telling stories of their lives in the kitchen and around the family. One Christmas, Rosine told me she received a great package with things she had never seen before. One-piece pajama sets with footies, Rice Krispie treats, Popcorn, etc. She said it arrived a few weeks before Christmas but she had to wait, but it always stood out in her mind. I thought it was beautiful that Rosine's mother found such a great hobby to start, and that she was able to create a wonderful friendship that lasted until death. That would be so hard to do today, there are no more celebrations of countries helping one another, no connections made between absolute strangers. It's a different time now though.
"L'amour est un caillou riant dans le soleil.", Jardin du Luxembourg, 2010
Then we moved on to talking about her wall of memories. For 15 years she has built this wonderful wall, and I was envious for a few weeks because she was keeping these memories to herself. But tonight, I had the pleasure of going through just one set of keepsakes on the wall. We took down a small handbag full of old tickets and notes from the past years. I was happy to see this because I have been saving my movie theater, museum, and theater tickets for years. Seeing her face light up when she pulled each ticket or handout from inside the purse was priceless. She would quickly pick up her green-framed glasses from the chain hanging on her neck, place them on her nose, and say to herself, "C'est quoi ca....OH! Je sais! Oh, c'est incroyable!" And then the story would start. For nearly an hour she dove into past adventures, surprises for her children, and even little notes she wrote herself from a series of photographs she once went and saw.
One quote stood out to me, "You are not the only who is lonely." I couldn't read the signature beside the quote, but it reminded me of one of To Write Love on Her Arm's creedos: "You are not alone." So I got to tell her all about the organization I try to help out with, and how its for suicide prevention. She thought it was great and she seemed surprised to hear me say I helped out with a non-profit organization, probably because I already have so much on my plate.
We talked, and talked, and every time her eyes lit up, I felt mine light up. I thought to myself, This is really someone I want to be there when I walk down the aisle, when I publish my first book of short stories, and someone I'd like to send photos too every few months. After a day like this, who would want to leave Paris so soon?
"Hoarders Paradise", Chez Madame Dru, 2010
When I was sick, she gave me three kinds of cough drops, when I got stitches she took me to the pharmacy to get better supplies to wash my wounds, and had the pharmacist re-wrap my stitches after we had been walking along the Seine. And she will cook for me whenever, even though I don't ask her to. I can genuinely tell she wants to teach me, not talk down to me for my very simple mistakes.
"A Warm Welcome", Chez Madame Dru, 2010
And while her outlook on life is at a different point than where I find myself, I can very easily see my future ressembling hers. She is not active in politics, but she holds very strong opinions on how the world functions and what could be changed. We had a fifteen minute conversation about how silly it was that people spend their whole lives trying to pay off a mortage, when having a roof over your head is probably the single most important thing you need in life. And we talked about how globalization has completely diminished the lives of small farmers, who work their entire lives to provide for their families. But with importing and exporting goods taking over every market system, it becomes impossible for them to stand on their own two feet.
"Les Escaliers", Chez Madame Dru, 2010
Today we had an afternoon date planned to go the Modern Art Museum of Paris, and possibly Palais Tokyo, an industrial art museum with a pretty funky twist. I came back from class to take a nap since I haven't been sleeping well with my stitches. Rosine said, ok, bonne sieste and I'll see you soon. Around 3 pm she meekly walked into my room and said, "Excusez-moi Lauren, je vous revez." Looking at my clock I realized I overslept by an hour and immediately got up. She told me to take my time because she was preparing some meat for us to eat before we left.
Meat = hamburger + tomato salad = nomnoms.
So we leave around 3:45, after she made sure I thoroughly cleaned my stitches of course, and set off to find her car. It took us about thirty minutes and three cigarettes later to find her car. We were on the verge of aborting the mission and taking the bus when we turned on one final rue. The whole time we talked about her neighbors and her childhood, and Elisa's half sister. It was nice to just walk around the streets and hear her talk while she strutted along in her Birkenstock sandals and black flowing skirt with a long matching sheer top.
Wind blowing through our hair, Rosine showed me a few places on our way across the Seine. We talked about anglacismes, idiomatic phrases, and pollution. When we got to the Modern Art Museum we realized the permanent collection was a look-alike or a second-hand collection, meaning certain artists mimicked other works of art. It was pretty interesting to see different interpretations of famous Matisse paintings, or Warhol prints, or even Pollock tosses of paint. And the whole time, Rosine would look at one, guess the name and run up to the sign to see if she was right. And she was about 99.99999% of the time. We went through the whole museum in about an hour, but somehow discussed nearly every d'oeuvre.
"Le the et les noix.", Chez Madame Dru, 2010
After sharing a Diet Coke on the Terrace we stepped into Palais Tokyo to look at the funky gift shops. She bought me a 1Euro postcard that has the name "Aurore" written in graffiti on the front. Then she took me to a pharmacist and bought me new cleanser for my arm and made sure my dressings were clean enough. We walked along the Seine for a few minutes and discussed how I can get back to this area tomorrow for class. The evening was so nice, we even got to see a little garden at the back of the museum. On our way home we stopped at a supermarche for some things for dinner. It was a very light selection; some endives with pears, seeds, ham and olive oil. Then peaches with ice cream for dessert. Wonderfully simple.
Elisa got home after we finished dinner so we caught up for a few minutes and discussed the permanent collection we had just seen. And she asked me about my adventure filled weekend and if everything turned out okay. Rosine made a joke that everything bad happened when she left, and I said, "Oui, aujord'hui a Sweet Briar, j'ai dit que quand ma mere d'acceuil est partie, l'enfer est arrive! C'est comme, when mom leaves for the weekend, all hell breaks loose!" She laughed and said, "and so it goes..." (Is she not perfect or what for making a Vonnegut reference?)
When Elisa left the kitchen Rosine told me this beautiful story about when the French had a fete for the Americans after WWII when they sent thank you gifts to the States. Each gift had a name and address of the family who sent it. Her mother just so happened to send a doll of some kind, and there was an American woman who sent her a letter, asking where she could find one because she had a daughter, who happened to be about Rosine's age at the time, who wanted one. Instead of just writing back a response to find the doll, Rosine's mother sent the woman a doll of her own and they soon became pen-pals. In the late 1950's, Rosine's father traveled to the states and actually met the woman. But her mother never did. And until the two died, they continued to write each other, telling stories of their lives in the kitchen and around the family. One Christmas, Rosine told me she received a great package with things she had never seen before. One-piece pajama sets with footies, Rice Krispie treats, Popcorn, etc. She said it arrived a few weeks before Christmas but she had to wait, but it always stood out in her mind. I thought it was beautiful that Rosine's mother found such a great hobby to start, and that she was able to create a wonderful friendship that lasted until death. That would be so hard to do today, there are no more celebrations of countries helping one another, no connections made between absolute strangers. It's a different time now though.
"L'amour est un caillou riant dans le soleil.", Jardin du Luxembourg, 2010
Then we moved on to talking about her wall of memories. For 15 years she has built this wonderful wall, and I was envious for a few weeks because she was keeping these memories to herself. But tonight, I had the pleasure of going through just one set of keepsakes on the wall. We took down a small handbag full of old tickets and notes from the past years. I was happy to see this because I have been saving my movie theater, museum, and theater tickets for years. Seeing her face light up when she pulled each ticket or handout from inside the purse was priceless. She would quickly pick up her green-framed glasses from the chain hanging on her neck, place them on her nose, and say to herself, "C'est quoi ca....OH! Je sais! Oh, c'est incroyable!" And then the story would start. For nearly an hour she dove into past adventures, surprises for her children, and even little notes she wrote herself from a series of photographs she once went and saw.
One quote stood out to me, "You are not the only who is lonely." I couldn't read the signature beside the quote, but it reminded me of one of To Write Love on Her Arm's creedos: "You are not alone." So I got to tell her all about the organization I try to help out with, and how its for suicide prevention. She thought it was great and she seemed surprised to hear me say I helped out with a non-profit organization, probably because I already have so much on my plate.
We talked, and talked, and every time her eyes lit up, I felt mine light up. I thought to myself, This is really someone I want to be there when I walk down the aisle, when I publish my first book of short stories, and someone I'd like to send photos too every few months. After a day like this, who would want to leave Paris so soon?
"Hoarders Paradise", Chez Madame Dru, 2010
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