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 Peace. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Peace. Show all posts
Monday, November 14, 2011
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.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Whatever your faith, it's beautiful.
I've always felt a little lost when it comes to religion. Growing up, Church wasn't a mandatory thing, and when I went with my friends I just listened and went more just so I could spend time with them and their families. While I support 100% each individual's religious practices, going to Church or Saturday Services was never a religious event for me. And it didn't occur to me until middle school that that wasn't normal for someone who went pretty often.
And then of course, when a few events changed my life at a young age, I started to question why anyone would want to believe in God, especially if such horrible things happened to a girl who was only twelve years old. So for a while, I was bitter with the concept of religious practices, giving all your faith and hope to one belief. I wanted to make my own way of life, and follow my own morals. They were morals I had always been raised with, and my mother isn't particularly religious either, so I know her morals didn't come from Temple, or the Bible, or any other religious manuscript. At that point in time, I knew I could follow my own way and make it out all right.
"Toute seule dans le jardin", Luxembourg, 2010
When high school hit me, and things worsened a bit, I tried to explain to myself that bitterness would help nothing. So instead of casting off the concept of God, I simply disagreed with it and believed in a higher order, something out of human hands, but not necessarily one creator of the world. And again, for a teenage girl, that was very hard to accept. And to be able to discuss, or defend. I still went to Church services with friends, but was more hurt by not being included or not feeling welcomed at times.
When I traveled to France with PNH, I saw some of the most beautiful Cathedrals in the world. I stepped inside the walls of history, where people came to beg for forgiveness, beg for good health and pray for a good season. These people all truly believed in something higher than themselves. And for me, I tried to feel that same way. I sat in the most beautiful church of all of Paris and talked to myself, hoping a more powerful voice would enter. But it never did. So I knew I wasn't meant to believe, or to have this kind of faith. And the search ended.
"Nous avons peur", Notre Dame, 2010
When Shay died my whole world collapsed. A young, vibrant life, lost so violently-- to me, had no excuse. No reasonable explanation could dictate to me why one of my best friends was killed late in the night, while his father was out of town. Even to this day I find myself with the same hating thoughts from time to time. And they're not healthy. It's never a healthy lifestyle to be so consumed with confusion, anger and frustration.
But to try to cope with Shay's death and the history that floated in my mind, I restarted the search for God, or for understanding this January. I found a Church who's Chapel felt warm and welcoming even on the coldest day in Miami...which happened to be 38 degrees. And living in Miami, I definitely didn't own a coat. I walked in and was greeted by a wonderful Pastor, her husband and a sweet couple who sat in the same pew as I did for the first 8 weeks to make sure I felt welcome. I followed every service and tried my hardest to pray and understand the scripture. And for a few weeks I truly felt like things were changing for me. I felt more at ease with the world and I even felt good about most of the scripture readings.
As the semester pressed on, I again started to feel distanced. But instead of angered, I just felt blank. There was no emotion towards going to Church or not. So naturally I found myself very confused. I still went for the company and for the non-Biblical lessons, but I wasn't studying at home as much and I certainly didn't schedule my week around going to church on Sunday as much.
This summer, since I left for Europe religion hasn't been an important part of my life. It's not that I forgot about it because I still read daily scriptures, but I found myself not praying as much. And when I learned about the problems my family was facing, I told myself I couldn't pray for good health because I hadn't been to Church in ages. I have little respect for those who run to a Church when things get just a little bit hard. So I relied on hope, on faith, that the doctors would heal the ailments my family members faced. And it worked. But I never told myself that God didn't have a hand in it. Because I know some of my family believe that God did, and I 100% respect that notion.
But onto the point of this blog. All of these things combined have helped shape my religious beliefs, but this trip is starting to change them yet again. Walking to school, riding the metro, getting stitches and even dining in small cafes I see so much pain and self-destruction in the world. And I can't even talk about the world in a greater sense because I was only in a few districts of one major city.
Every corner I turned I either saw a woman huddled over a cane with a dirt covered hand out, one small mangled foot revealed from under her skirt; a man sleeping against a wall with a puppy in his lap, sleeping just the same; or even children walking around trying to sell pieces of paper with prayers written on them for spare change. For me, if God created everyone just the way they were meant to be, and everyone is perfect in their own sense, how do you explain those people? There is no way that every single one of them had a perfect life before and they, themselves messed it up. Children who are born into poverty hardly stand a chance at getting away from it. And people who lose their jobs but have ailments that require medical attention literally wither away in the streets.
"Le chien innocent", La Rue l'Arbalete, 2010
Most of the time people just pass them by and pay no mind. But I see every single one of them. I see every single diseased foot, coughing chest, torn pair of pants, and sun burned back. And you honestly can't blame them for turning to bottles of wine, there's no other way to stay warm. Today I was on the Metro going to a Museum in the 16th district and a man stepped onto the train and asked everyone for a few cents so he could call a shelter across town to try to reserve a room. He had lost his job and was unable to find another. He also mentioned that this summer there will be a lot of homeless shelters being closed from over-crowding and not enough funding. For me, if there is a God, what good is it to put people back out on the street where skin diseases and fleas run rapid through the gutters?
I hope I'm not sounding bitter, because I'm not. I understand that God cannot help everyone in the world, and you have to help yourself. But there's a point when self-help isn't enough. There comes a point in everyone's life where you need someone to offer their hand, or their home for the night. If we all just rely on ourselves and turn to God for help from time to time, nothing will get accomplished. You can't boil water without heat and you certainly can't expect miracles to happen without a little help.
"Personne n'aide jamais", La Rue l'Arbalete, 2010
This summer I found out that I can't be satisfied with changing one heart at a time. Because I tried to help people one day at a time and I would turn the corner and find another tragedy at my feet. And that's fine if you want to tell me that "you can't help everybody", but alas my friend, I can and will help the world, with or without the help of a Higher Power.
And then of course, when a few events changed my life at a young age, I started to question why anyone would want to believe in God, especially if such horrible things happened to a girl who was only twelve years old. So for a while, I was bitter with the concept of religious practices, giving all your faith and hope to one belief. I wanted to make my own way of life, and follow my own morals. They were morals I had always been raised with, and my mother isn't particularly religious either, so I know her morals didn't come from Temple, or the Bible, or any other religious manuscript. At that point in time, I knew I could follow my own way and make it out all right.
"Toute seule dans le jardin", Luxembourg, 2010
When high school hit me, and things worsened a bit, I tried to explain to myself that bitterness would help nothing. So instead of casting off the concept of God, I simply disagreed with it and believed in a higher order, something out of human hands, but not necessarily one creator of the world. And again, for a teenage girl, that was very hard to accept. And to be able to discuss, or defend. I still went to Church services with friends, but was more hurt by not being included or not feeling welcomed at times.
When I traveled to France with PNH, I saw some of the most beautiful Cathedrals in the world. I stepped inside the walls of history, where people came to beg for forgiveness, beg for good health and pray for a good season. These people all truly believed in something higher than themselves. And for me, I tried to feel that same way. I sat in the most beautiful church of all of Paris and talked to myself, hoping a more powerful voice would enter. But it never did. So I knew I wasn't meant to believe, or to have this kind of faith. And the search ended.
"Nous avons peur", Notre Dame, 2010
When Shay died my whole world collapsed. A young, vibrant life, lost so violently-- to me, had no excuse. No reasonable explanation could dictate to me why one of my best friends was killed late in the night, while his father was out of town. Even to this day I find myself with the same hating thoughts from time to time. And they're not healthy. It's never a healthy lifestyle to be so consumed with confusion, anger and frustration.
But to try to cope with Shay's death and the history that floated in my mind, I restarted the search for God, or for understanding this January. I found a Church who's Chapel felt warm and welcoming even on the coldest day in Miami...which happened to be 38 degrees. And living in Miami, I definitely didn't own a coat. I walked in and was greeted by a wonderful Pastor, her husband and a sweet couple who sat in the same pew as I did for the first 8 weeks to make sure I felt welcome. I followed every service and tried my hardest to pray and understand the scripture. And for a few weeks I truly felt like things were changing for me. I felt more at ease with the world and I even felt good about most of the scripture readings.
As the semester pressed on, I again started to feel distanced. But instead of angered, I just felt blank. There was no emotion towards going to Church or not. So naturally I found myself very confused. I still went for the company and for the non-Biblical lessons, but I wasn't studying at home as much and I certainly didn't schedule my week around going to church on Sunday as much.
This summer, since I left for Europe religion hasn't been an important part of my life. It's not that I forgot about it because I still read daily scriptures, but I found myself not praying as much. And when I learned about the problems my family was facing, I told myself I couldn't pray for good health because I hadn't been to Church in ages. I have little respect for those who run to a Church when things get just a little bit hard. So I relied on hope, on faith, that the doctors would heal the ailments my family members faced. And it worked. But I never told myself that God didn't have a hand in it. Because I know some of my family believe that God did, and I 100% respect that notion.
But onto the point of this blog. All of these things combined have helped shape my religious beliefs, but this trip is starting to change them yet again. Walking to school, riding the metro, getting stitches and even dining in small cafes I see so much pain and self-destruction in the world. And I can't even talk about the world in a greater sense because I was only in a few districts of one major city.
Every corner I turned I either saw a woman huddled over a cane with a dirt covered hand out, one small mangled foot revealed from under her skirt; a man sleeping against a wall with a puppy in his lap, sleeping just the same; or even children walking around trying to sell pieces of paper with prayers written on them for spare change. For me, if God created everyone just the way they were meant to be, and everyone is perfect in their own sense, how do you explain those people? There is no way that every single one of them had a perfect life before and they, themselves messed it up. Children who are born into poverty hardly stand a chance at getting away from it. And people who lose their jobs but have ailments that require medical attention literally wither away in the streets.
"Le chien innocent", La Rue l'Arbalete, 2010
Most of the time people just pass them by and pay no mind. But I see every single one of them. I see every single diseased foot, coughing chest, torn pair of pants, and sun burned back. And you honestly can't blame them for turning to bottles of wine, there's no other way to stay warm. Today I was on the Metro going to a Museum in the 16th district and a man stepped onto the train and asked everyone for a few cents so he could call a shelter across town to try to reserve a room. He had lost his job and was unable to find another. He also mentioned that this summer there will be a lot of homeless shelters being closed from over-crowding and not enough funding. For me, if there is a God, what good is it to put people back out on the street where skin diseases and fleas run rapid through the gutters?
I hope I'm not sounding bitter, because I'm not. I understand that God cannot help everyone in the world, and you have to help yourself. But there's a point when self-help isn't enough. There comes a point in everyone's life where you need someone to offer their hand, or their home for the night. If we all just rely on ourselves and turn to God for help from time to time, nothing will get accomplished. You can't boil water without heat and you certainly can't expect miracles to happen without a little help.
"Personne n'aide jamais", La Rue l'Arbalete, 2010
This summer I found out that I can't be satisfied with changing one heart at a time. Because I tried to help people one day at a time and I would turn the corner and find another tragedy at my feet. And that's fine if you want to tell me that "you can't help everybody", but alas my friend, I can and will help the world, with or without the help of a Higher Power.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
11:34 p.m.
The air is stifling. For it only being the end of May, the summer heat has already hit hard. Summertime in Saint Louis is hard to beat. Heat radiating off asphalt pavement, laughing children running around with sticky hands from the sweet treats delivered by the ice cream truck, and Cardinals baseball games on nearly every body's mind. The month of June is always perfect. Everyone is out of school, enjoying the hot days sitting by the pool, and having cookouts during the cool but humid nights. Tonight isn't one of those nights.
The stifling air is not a product of the outdoors. Well, indirectly it is. The stifling air haunting my bedroom tonight comes from a forty-year old home's circulation. The second floor is naturally hotter, naturally less breezy, and naturally more uncomfortable for those very reasons.
A fan hums continuously and disturbs the taped posters on the wall. In order to feel the fan's effects just a little bit more, my feet are hanging over the edge of my polka-dot covered bed, and my right foot shakes out of habit. My cat is lounging next to me, wondering why this bright glow is keeping her from sleeping. Every once in a while her irritation causes her to lift her head from the bed, turn it slowly towards me as one ear cocks back, as if a sound has caused her senses to awaken her. When in reality, it's the drumming of my fingers on the keyboard and the brightness of the screen that causes her insomnia. My insomnia, however, is caused by other reasons.
When I was younger, I used to lay wide awake before every vacation or trip I went on. The only difference is the reasoning behind it. As a kid, there are no obligations to keep track of, no promises to uphold, and friends were always there when you got back. The adventure I was about to embark on was what mattered. Sure there was some anxiety when I wasn't travelling with a parent, but mostly I laid awake wondering what was waiting for me, wondering if we could leave as soon as I saw the sun's rays peaking over the hill. But tonight I lay awake for a different reason.
Sure I want the plane to take off already, but I want to be sure of a few things when it lands. I want to know I'll be accepted as an American student, who is truly interested in learning the culture of both Austria and France, and not just some spoiled American kid on summer vaca. And I want to know that I'll be able to find my way around foreign airports and make it to my connecting flights on time. And then find a trustworthy taxi driver to take me to my House-Mother's apartment. And I want nothing more than to understand Madame Dru and learn from her about her lifestyle in Paris. It's one thing to be a student in a city, but to see how it's inhabitants live their lives is one that has always fascinated me. Part of me wishes I could fast-forward to the part where I will be sitting in cafes, sipping lattes or a glass of white wine, asking the waiters where they are from while pieces of live performers songs ring through my ears. People on bicycles will ride by and the tires will bounce along the cobblestones. And not only do I want to sit in the city and see how people interact, but I want to see how they fall in love, appreciate one another and appreciate (or disrespect) complete strangers. I know it won't be Eden, or even close to a Paradise, but it will be something-- something spectacular.
And while I am sad to leave my country behind for a month, and while I feel guilty for diving into not just one, but two new cultures....ignoring my own, I know that when I step outside to walk to class, or enter a new arrondissement, I know that the pavement will still be steaming, children will still be running around gaily with ice cream stuck to their grinning faces, and...okay maybe it won't be baseball, but the talk of the town will be the World Cup and the Tour de France. And maybe, just maybe, keeping those few things in mind, the cultures won't seem so different, and American soil won't seem so distant. I can carry that piece of knowledge and understanding with me, secretly of course. We all know the French would hate to be compared to the Americans...
And so the fan hums on. My cat has chosen a new spot to sleep, and I have rolled onto the bed properly, and laid my head to rest.
By this time tomorrow, I will be in Vienna, drinking my morning coffee, reading an international newspaper at a local cafe, watching the summer work its magic.
The stifling air is not a product of the outdoors. Well, indirectly it is. The stifling air haunting my bedroom tonight comes from a forty-year old home's circulation. The second floor is naturally hotter, naturally less breezy, and naturally more uncomfortable for those very reasons.
A fan hums continuously and disturbs the taped posters on the wall. In order to feel the fan's effects just a little bit more, my feet are hanging over the edge of my polka-dot covered bed, and my right foot shakes out of habit. My cat is lounging next to me, wondering why this bright glow is keeping her from sleeping. Every once in a while her irritation causes her to lift her head from the bed, turn it slowly towards me as one ear cocks back, as if a sound has caused her senses to awaken her. When in reality, it's the drumming of my fingers on the keyboard and the brightness of the screen that causes her insomnia. My insomnia, however, is caused by other reasons.
When I was younger, I used to lay wide awake before every vacation or trip I went on. The only difference is the reasoning behind it. As a kid, there are no obligations to keep track of, no promises to uphold, and friends were always there when you got back. The adventure I was about to embark on was what mattered. Sure there was some anxiety when I wasn't travelling with a parent, but mostly I laid awake wondering what was waiting for me, wondering if we could leave as soon as I saw the sun's rays peaking over the hill. But tonight I lay awake for a different reason.
Sure I want the plane to take off already, but I want to be sure of a few things when it lands. I want to know I'll be accepted as an American student, who is truly interested in learning the culture of both Austria and France, and not just some spoiled American kid on summer vaca. And I want to know that I'll be able to find my way around foreign airports and make it to my connecting flights on time. And then find a trustworthy taxi driver to take me to my House-Mother's apartment. And I want nothing more than to understand Madame Dru and learn from her about her lifestyle in Paris. It's one thing to be a student in a city, but to see how it's inhabitants live their lives is one that has always fascinated me. Part of me wishes I could fast-forward to the part where I will be sitting in cafes, sipping lattes or a glass of white wine, asking the waiters where they are from while pieces of live performers songs ring through my ears. People on bicycles will ride by and the tires will bounce along the cobblestones. And not only do I want to sit in the city and see how people interact, but I want to see how they fall in love, appreciate one another and appreciate (or disrespect) complete strangers. I know it won't be Eden, or even close to a Paradise, but it will be something-- something spectacular.
And while I am sad to leave my country behind for a month, and while I feel guilty for diving into not just one, but two new cultures....ignoring my own, I know that when I step outside to walk to class, or enter a new arrondissement, I know that the pavement will still be steaming, children will still be running around gaily with ice cream stuck to their grinning faces, and...okay maybe it won't be baseball, but the talk of the town will be the World Cup and the Tour de France. And maybe, just maybe, keeping those few things in mind, the cultures won't seem so different, and American soil won't seem so distant. I can carry that piece of knowledge and understanding with me, secretly of course. We all know the French would hate to be compared to the Americans...
And so the fan hums on. My cat has chosen a new spot to sleep, and I have rolled onto the bed properly, and laid my head to rest.
By this time tomorrow, I will be in Vienna, drinking my morning coffee, reading an international newspaper at a local cafe, watching the summer work its magic.
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