Immediate Horizons

“Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power, and magic in it” – Johann Goethe

When I made the decision travel solo through SE Asia, it was without any delusions about the reality that would await my return or the romanticized notion of an idyllic island life. I knew there was little to be gained in terms of my career and was apprehensive about my immediate future, but I envisioned and even longed for a place, a time, and a space, where I would create for myself new experiences and challenges in a world that neither demanded nor expected anything from me other than curiosity and openness.

So began my journey, without a timeline, itinerary or expectations. Every day had a different horizon, every hour a new purpose. I was ready to receive and accept whatever the day had in store for me and in return, I felt I was given full reign over a passageway, a stairwell if you will, that seemed to reach into both the paradise and underworld of SE Asia. From tropical islands, gleaming temples, harrowing war museums and killing fields in Cambodia to the metropolitan vortex of modern day Bangkok and Ho Chi Minh City, I felt as if I were being transported through different times and places. There was no limit to the range and intensity of emotions that descended upon me as I marveled at the great accomplishments and brilliance of the human mind and simultaneously mull over the limitless human capacity for senseless atrocity. I uncovered the unspoken sentiments and unwritten histories of the indigenous people and studied the forgotten traditions, values and mysteries of the ancient tribes. The more I immersed myself in the culture, the more it intertwined with my sense of self and understanding of the world. I felt I was developing another part of me and this made me feel vivaciously alive.

Then there were those days when my spirit felt so dry not even the Mekong river seemed able to quench this thirst. Crossing through and exploring the undeveloped rural areas alone, where electricity was sparse and cockroaches ruled the streets, the days of hot showers, fine dining and endless chats with friends seemed a faint, distant past. I was wrestling with bouts of anxiety, sleeping with loneliness and waking up with obvious psychosomatic ailments. But somehow, I continued on, day after day, week after week. Perhaps it was more as a tactic to delay my return back to reality and less as a truly adventurous endeavor. With time, however, I became more brave and made gains with my stamina and acclimatization until eventually, these inhospitable conditions became the very stimuli that breathed life to the imagination that had been stunted by years of security and conformity.

During these moments of inspiration, I tried to take as many photos as I could to capture and share the magnificence of what I was experiencing, but I knew the viewers couldn’t possibly see beyond what was shown on the photo to understand the incredible combination of elation, fatigue, relief and accomplishment I felt in reaching this point of my travel. Alone and aligned, this oneness with nature was my moment of zen, a euphoric state tempered by calm equilibrium. And so my own, unique, private world was created, where no other person could taint or take from me the intrinsic connection and ownership I felt with these places and the experiences I had in them. And I began to understand why so many people go to such great lengths, without the potential for any perceived external gain, to explore the world.

Reflecting on my trip, I realize there are many things I could have done differently to save a lot of headache. Had I followed the time-proven path of countless backpackers who blazed the trail before me, I would have saved a few hundred dollars, avoided unnecessary travel hassles, and perhaps not made the mistake of leaving Cambodia without visiting Angkor Wat. But instead, I went where my spirit soared, stayed where my heart sang and explored where my mind activated. Such has been the nature of my journey through SE Asia and though I return home fiscally poor, I revel in knowing I am more rich in experience.

Coming to Thailand

I have always believed that the best way to measure a person’s strength and character would be to observe the physical, mental and moral attitude and aptitude beyond the sphere of one’s normal environment. To this end, traveling has always seemed to me an attractive, even necessary stimulus through which I discover and strengthen my weaknesses, inspire new passions and kindle a spark to the complacent mind that develops in the monotony of everyday repetition. With this abiding quest for higher self consciousness and development, I have formed a somewhat masochistic habit of abandoning my comforts as quickly as they become my security blanket- stripped and naked, there remains a sort of deep exhilaration, of utter willingness to do and suffer anything.

In what is partly a preemptive move to thwart any inkling of complacency, as well as to re-establish my independence towards greater self sufficiency, I decided to pack my bags and take a solo journey through SE Asia- a decision that will not only deplete my savings of 4+ years, but the sense of security I tried to buy and make permanent through my unrelenting, mechanical devotion to financial freedom.

After enduring a 21 hour flight comprised of turbulence, disquietude, prayer, breathing exercises followed by more meditation, I am in Thailand, alone and detached from everything that feeds my peace of mind. What appears to be obvious to everyone around me is overwhelming and the “land of smiles,” pulsating with neon signs, crowded bars and animated street vendors, only excites unease. Behind the glam and glitz built and designed to pamper the tired and indulge the rich, there is a foul sense of wretched poverty and depravity that I cannot seem to escape. Layered with thick insect repellents and fighting off potentially malaria/dengue infected mosquitoes in the sweltering humid heat, my joints ache for the cool breeze of San Francisco and my lungs squeeze uncomfortably for just a small trace of fresh air. I’m suddenly not sure what I’m doing here and the desire to return home exceeds any sense of enthusiasm or significance I previously attached to this experience. How easily my will crumbles and how quickly the mind forgets the great aspirations of the heart!

A strain of rough melancholy runs through me and I begin to think about what it must have been like for my parents when they left everything and everyone they know to start a new life in a land as foreign to them, if not more so, as Thailand is to me. For my parents, coming to America was just the beginning to a life filled with as much loneliness as fulfillment, as much betrayal as forgiveness and as much pain as joy. 20 years ago, they voyaged thousands of miles in poverty and desperation; today, I am traveling thousands of miles in comfort and security. It is upon the stepping stones they laid before me that I stand with courage and through the endless sweat of their hard work that I rest and experience life in its fullness.

Remembering the immense love and confidence reposed in me, my eyes adjust and shift from the sight of grimy slums to the sun setting peacefully over the mountains, leaving a resplendent glow over the hills. I no longer feel the choking heat of SE Asia, but the warm embrace of its people. What was once overwhelming is stimulating all my senses with vigor and a smile spills over onto my face and into my heart. The idea of traveling alone is still daunting, but where there was once a current of fear now flows a torrent of profound courage.

I am deeply grateful to be here.

A Rare Gem

We sit across from each other and each take a sip of our wine. As soon as his attention shifts to the menu, I steal a glance to study his features and am pleased with what I see. His form, of great height and broad shoulders, exudes masculinity and leaves much to the imagination. His presence, striking and confident, fills the room and he is fully aware of and unaffected by all the attention he’s drawing. He twirls his glass with suave finesse and begins to talks about the color, consistency and the wonderful complexity of his petit syrah, all the while assessing the color of my cheeks, my aura and the sound of my voice. He compliments my diction and likens my voice to that of his favorite drink, chocolate milk. He’s thinking sweet, silky, smooth… I’m thinking artificial, intolerant, perishable. But he is unrelenting and continues to make deliberate gestures to win my affection. A smile here, a wink there, an approving nod whenever I open my mouth to speak. He fancies me and I’m suddenly proud of myself, as if I had some part in creating the lines and forms that shape my face. His pleasure enthralls me and my satisfaction over his pleasure disturbs me. I maintain my composure, but my fingers are on steroids, rubbing, squeezing and wiping the sweat against the palm of my hands.

We finish our plates and the waiter clears our table as swiftly as my date places his hand over my legs. I respond instinctively by way of fidgeting nervously, even demurely under my seat. My silence only serves to encourage him and in matter of seconds, he pulls me in close to his chest and searches my eyes for any encouraging sign. He is gallantly adept at the art of creating a sense of intimacy and his every move is performed with an attentive politeness. If there is any lust to be found, it is masked with his easy-going charm and witty banter. Without a doubt, this man is smart, articulate and attractive- a formidable combination of characteristics for a man of great ambitions to match his equally great accomplishments. But, his hurried advances somehow cheapen whatever affection I believe he has for me and his easy approach makes me feel like a plastic ring found at a flea market- cheap sparkles to draw attention, easy access for all to try on and ready availability for anyone to purchase or discard.

With that thought, I decide to call it a night and express my wishes to go home. For the first time, he shows the slightest hint of fluster and asks me if I would prefer to carry on our rendezvous in the privacy of his bedroom. I take a long look at his decadent body and summon all my power to refuse his invitation with the firmest tone I can find to match my resolve. After an awkward hug, I briskly walk to my car, wondering if I’m making a mistake by bringing an abrupt end to what could potentially become a  fun, dynamic relationship. And just as I reach for my keys, he stops me to ask the most revealing question of the night, “Mary, what was your last name again? I want to be able to find you on Facebook.”

Silence. Then, more silence…

I am not making a judgment call on what is and isn’t appropriate for a first date. I admit I was every bit a willing recipient of his affection. But, in assessing the nature of my desires and how that plays out in the context of dating, I remembered the long forsaken, but important notion of a romance that stirs me- to be someone’s gem. A rare gem that is a challenge to discover, a pleasure to behold and at times, effortful in pursuit and attainment. But, to aspire for, or even desire such devotion from anyone would require that I first become that gem- refined through fire and regularly polished with care. Great love, great devotion, great life… I guess they all come at a great price.

Laugh Attack

The first time I experienced it was 11 years ago at a funeral of a dear student’s father. He was one of my favorite mentees with whom I had shared a great deal of time, history and affection. I took great care in nurturing a relationship where he felt safe, and in return, he looked to me as an older sister who would always be there to listen, accept and comfort. The day he found out his father was terminally ill, he came to me in tears and wept in my arms. He had no words, only quiet sobs between his turbulent breathing and anguished sighs. In my embrace, he felt my love, through my tears, I shared his pain.

On the day of his father’s funeral, I took longer than usual to get ready. A part of me dreaded going, but I knew I had to be strong and show my support. Standing still amidst grieving families and friends, I tasted death and saw human brokenness. As if to deny the reality of human mortality, I automatically placed my hand over my chest and searched for the beating heart that would continue to sustain my life. It was strong, hopeful and still, no different in design than that which lay inside the man in the coffin. Lurid imaginings of my own death and afterlife injected themselves somewhere between the dead corpse and my eyes. And I knew that one day, this heart of mine would also expire.

The ceremony continued with eulogies and other formalities, but most of me was watching something else unfolding- I was breaking down under mounting anxiety and the first signs of a panic attack showed in the twitch of my upper lip, followed by a tingling sensation in my stomach that indicated the onset of uncontrollable laughter. I was utterly confused and altogether astonished with my crude reaction to this tragic situation. The more I tried to suppress my giggle, the harder it became to contain myself. I was, by definition, delirious, becoming more hysterical by the second. Frantically trying to quell my most bizarre and inappropriate frenzy, I took a quick glance across the room to meet the gaze of the grieved. I mistakenly hoped the look of their brokenness would slap the sense of seriousness and decorum back into gear. Instead, in that oppressive, dark moment of silence, I did the unthinkable- I let out the most boorish cackle followed by loud gasps of air barely escaping my suppressed asphyxiation. Simultaneously, I felt hot streams of tears staining my cheeks with searing pain, regret and guilt. It was a scene straight out of some psycho thriller movie with the camera rolling on the face of a woman clinging to her last moment of sanity before she succumbs to the abysmal darkness of nothingness.

Since then, I have had more instances to similar effect and each time, I’m met with confusion, anger or both. Despite all my introspection and reflection, the true nature of things I’ve tried to grasp remain a mystery to me. Why do I persist in thinking there must be a way to understand the elusive existence of things in my life? As I ponder over my absurd way of dealing with pain, what my father once said comes unbidden to mind. He told me to meet life’s challenges with a smile and alleviate all heartache with a laugh, even if it’s forced. I’ve taken his advice literally and it’s caused me to be dysfunctional in my dealings with life’s most difficult situations. His advice isn’t the source of my anxiety- he merely provided one of many channels with which I have learned to cope with anxiety.

Friends, I fear this weakness of mine will one day cause you to feel pain, disappointment and even betrayal, driving you away from my life in the same way my student decided to never speak with me again. Family, I’m grateful my inadequacies will never cause you to doubt my love and affection, but still, afraid to show you anything less than the daughter you know me to be.

I have anxiety. I get panic attacks. And at times, my life is an aberration to myself and others- painful to watch, impossible to ignore. But today, I take the same motion of placing my hand over my chest to feel the beating of my heart and realize again that my time’s not up yet. And until that heart stops beating, and I can discipline my actions to match the gentle, generous and gracious spirit for which I strive so hard to attain, I will not give up on life. Or myself. And so life goes on- In beat, in rhythm, in gratitude.

Strength in weakness

Depressed patients, overworked nurses and isolation rooms fill the corridors of this immensely dreary, sterile building. There is commotion and movement in every corner with deceiving optimism, but the uneasy spirit of lifelessness and apprehension screams even louder. All that was once healthy and vibrant seem sunk in a deep degeneracy and degradation of mind and body.

Taking all precautions, I place a clean mask over my face and quickly walk past the isolation rooms to make my way over to my friend’s room. He greets me with a plastered smile, and it doesn’t take me long to figure out he is in critical condition. His room appears clean, but is cluttered with medical equipment and other miscellaneous items that do nothing to create a much needed ambiance of healing and relaxation. Despite the mix of medicine and body odor lingering in the thick, stuffy air, the windows remain tightly shut under a dark green curtain that looks more like a carpet. An atmosphere of anxiety and gloom is dense in here.

Sharing this tiny space with us is an old, Nicaraguan man named Daniel. He appears way too jolly for a sick patient and I wonder if he’s senile. We exchange simple words of courtesy between his long, painful coughs and I begin to sense his loneliness and longing for companionship. Even so, I stay as far removed from him as possible to avoid contracting the virus responsible for his dwindling health. Each time he coughs, I not only hear, but am jarred by the idea of being infected by the phlegm and/or other unknown fluids spewing out from his wet, uncovered mouth.

Hours pass before I realize he has, without my permission, worked his way into my heart. He calls me by my Spanish name every 30 minutes or so and refers to me as his daughter. He uses what little energy he has with his feeble arms to bring me his chair so I can prop my feet up during the night. He encourages me to learn Spanish and asks me to practice speaking with him. Every now and then, he looks completely distracted and resumes talking again by telling me how “bonita” I am. His compliments don’t flatter me, but they mean more to me than the various contrived generalities with which some men try to win my affection. Amidst this gloomy, depressing environment, a 90-year old man fading away with pneumonia is somehow putting a smile on my face and placing courage back into my heart. In return, I give him my affection, the only thing I have to offer to this strangely familiar old man.

I wish for his health to return so he can tell me more stories of his youth, his family and his struggles. Alas, this sweet, gentle old man, who is also incredibly sharp, is a diabetic with pneumonia, withering away by the hour and drowning internally in his own bodily fluids. Before long, he will leave this place along with other patients on this floor, and it makes me consider how my last moments will be perceived and the ways in which I will impact the people in my life. What colors will I show when my body is deteriorating and death becomes the most tangible, inescapable reality?

I have long ways to go before I can match Daniel’s strength and grace.

Hello, 30

The long-dreaded moment has come- I turned 30. I don’t know why this number frightens me. But, unlike the youthful exuberance of teenagers looking forward to their 20s or the dignified pride with which I presume accomplished individuals of late thirties welcome their 40s, turning 30 doesn’t seem as promising or stabilizing as turning 20 or 40.

My outlook on reaching adulthood wasn’t always met with so much dread. In my teens, I looked forward to becoming an “adult” and enjoying what I assumed would be a life of greater independence, with freedom to explore, define and chart my own course. By my Senior year in High School, I was ready to emerge from my measly, awkward cocoon to become the next “history maker,” on par with Moses and Mozart. Prior to having to pay my own rent, there was no such thing as delusional thinking; my thoughts were my dreams, my hopes and my future- all of which seemed not only within my reach, but destined for my life.

Looking back at the last 30 years of my life, I am overcome with emotion. I am grateful, but unfulfilled. Inspired, but stunted. Productive, but unaccomplished. At times, fear grows at a faster rate than any hope, invading my innermost subconscious to unearth all the nastiness that lurks beneath my normally cool and confident veneer- I’m afraid to cross the Bay Bridge for fear that it might collapse on me. I’m afraid to strive for something new for fear that it’ll leave me feeling just as unfulfilled as my previous successes. I’m afraid to enjoy too much of anything, or anyone, for fear that it may be lost or forgotten. I’m afraid to remember my need for God, for fear that I would be met with silence.

These moments of fatalistic thinking and self-doubt come sparingly, but with greater intensity around the time of my birthday. Fortunately, these moments are also met with and tempered by sweet reminders of why I love my life. Each year, on December 28^th, I am reminded of the precious gift that is my life and am compelled to live better, stronger and wiser. I am reminded of my limitations and am encouraged to explore and create a path that works for me. I am reminded of my inability to stop the time and am found with the freedom to live in the moment.

As of today, I am thirty, single and unemployed…  And I feel younger, unrestricted and content.

Happy Birthday Miri.

Spaniard with a fanny pack

Many of my friends have heard me talk about my fantasy involving a hot “Spaniard with a fanny pack.”  I can’t recall the age at which I began to fantasize about this future “Spaniard” of mine, but it was before the sting of my first heart break, and after the taste of my first kiss. Growing up, a Spaniard represented a mysterious vagabond, a passionate lover, and a free-spirited Bohemian. Why the fanny pack? Well, let’s just say I wanted an adventurous globetrotter, whose sense of manliness and confidence is not put into question because he’s sporting a dorky fanny pack.

This fantasy has since become just a fairytale of a curious girl at the height of puberty- a cheesy, teen romance with a “happily ever after” ending. But coming to Buenos Aires, an uninhibited romantic city full of beautiful people, I began to wonder if and how my love story would unfold.

Then, I met my Spaniard. It was at an outdoor music festival, “Mexico Viara en Buenos Aires.” In a sea of people that neither moved nor danced, I saw a smile. Then movement. His eyes were closed, but he moved as if he could see and sense everything around him. He danced with steady ease and alluring calm. I couldn’t tell if he was moving with the wind or to the sound of music. Before long, I too, was dancing and swaying with his rhythm. Still, there was no eye contact. No exchange of words. I was invisible to him.

My initial disappointment eventually faded as I continued to enjoy the day in one of the most picturesque neighborhoods of Buenos Aires. Around the time of sunset, my friends and I came across a  massive lion statue. In a spirit of nostalgia, I decided to climb it, remembering the time when my best friend Annie and I climbed a lion statue in Italy. What I failed to realize is the fact that I have little to no upper body strength to pull myself up gracefully onto a lion that is about 15 feet from the ground. But half of my body was already dangling off the side of the lion and it didn’t help to think about the danger I just brought upon myself. I felt my skin slipping, sliding and flapping against the smooth, glazed statue as I struggled to keep my body wrapped around the lion. I felt, and probably looked like cottage cheese being whipped and slathered around. It was during this ungraceful moment that our eyes met for the first time. This is not how I imagined we would meet again. I was flustered, disheveled, and unabashedly glad to see him again.

I quickly composed myself, but he must have sensed my embarrassment or fear, for he quickly offered to help me down. His cheerful smile was inviting and his sympathetic grin somehow reassured me that he would catch me. I jumped into his arms and we both tumbled into the grass.

What happened next is not as important as what I realized through my meeting with him- A Spaniard with a fanny pack does not exist, in the same way that the story of my life does not always mirror that which I imagined as a child. I create so many expectations and wait for them to play out in the exact timing and manner for which I planned my life. But life is too grand, too unpredictable and at times, beyond the scope of my comprehension and control. To wait and live for a certain moment would be to put a limit on all that life has to offer.

My Spaniard, you neglected to wear your fanny pack and you certainly aren’t a mysterious vagabond. But, you reminded me that life is full of pleasant surprises and unexpected turns, all of which bring more excitement and spontaneity to my life. I won’t forget you.

Plane Ride

3 more hours and I will be in Buenos Aires, Argentina. I typically prefer to be seated in the window or aisle seat of the plane, but today, I feel comforted being squished between two bodies, reinforcing my need for human interaction/touch should there be a sudden onset of panic or disaster during this 11-hour flight.

I take a quick walk down the aisle and am met with the same look of boredom and restlessness I’ve been trying to escape for the last 8 hours. I should be filled with giddy excitement and thoughts of how I’ll be spending my Thanksgiving in South America. Instead, my mind focuses in on my life and people back home. In this state of mental and physical exhaustion, my defenses are weakened and my mind begins to wander through the areas that have been sealed off by wounded pride and irreconcilable hurt. I try to block it out, but each time I close my eyes, my mind plays a movie of the people I have loved in the past, the different reasons and ways we’ve drifted apart, and how much I miss their presence in my life. I have put up so many walls, screened so many calls and deliberately put an end to friendships and partnerships that I thought would last a lifetime.

To mend these relationships will require my sincere apologies and explanation, while others will require my true forgiveness and understanding. Either way, I will have to find the courage to reach out and the strength to be vulnerable. But it will have been worth it.

More onions please

On average, I eat Subway about 3-4 times a week. I don’t particularly love the taste, but the option to customize any sandwich to my liking, coupled with its ubiquitous establishment across most major cities, ranks Subway at the top of my list for a quick, convenient meal.

But my experience with Subway is not always so easy or convenient. For me, having a good Subway experience hinges on the amount of onions I can get on my sandwich, and for that reason, I’ve developed a peculiar routine that accompanies every visit to Subway. It starts with observation. I quickly survey the employees to gauge how generously they would respond to my request for more onions. Generally, I’m looking for signs of indifference, bordering on apathy. Next, I initiate a superficial conversation that insinuates my loyalty to and love for Subway, particularly emphasizing my great appreciation for the option to customize my own sandwich. In doing so, I employ different tactics aimed at getting more onions, muttering ridiculous statements like, “I like onion breath,” and “Doctor’s orders- I need more onions,” to pleading shamelessly, “I’ve really been craving onions and would really appreciate more. Pleeease.” More often than not, I am given as much onions as my heart desires. But 1 out of 10 subway experiences ends up with me feeling defeated and dissatisfied because I can’t taste or feel the consistency of onions with every bite of my sandwich.

I realize the topic of my entry is superficial and inconsequential. There are millions of children dying from starvation and I’m writing about my need to get more onions on my sandwich. But that’s exactly the point. While this is just one entry devoted to one of my more meaningless fixations, my life is filled with countless experiences that are lived through a privileged perspective that overlooks the real important issues in life. I have more options than I can handle and am able to obtain all the basic necessities at my whim. Buyer’s remorse is often a greater concern to me than my ability to make a purchase, yet I forget to be grateful because I’m preoccupied with getting more of everything- more value, more savings, more luxuries… And there seems to be no end to this greed, which cuts into the joys of knowing and living a life of contentment.

This realization doesn’t change the fact that I love onions. I will continue to ask for as much onions as I can get. But next time I go to Subway, I will order not from the perspective of an arrogant paying customer, but from the perspective of one whose life is marked by humble gratitude for all that she’s been given.

Unemployed and Unbroken

I was laid off on Wednesday, September 21, 2011. It happened on a typical morning over a brief, but emotionally charged conversation with my supervisors. It was 9:30 in the morning, and I was already on my second cup of coffee when I received a phone call for a meeting. I entered my supervisor’s office with a pace and posture meant to exude confidence and professionalism- a work persona I’ve rehearsed to perfection. Working in a department of predominantly conservative, white-collar male professionals ranging in their 40s and 50s, I adopted speech and mannerisms intended to deflect whatever preconceived notions they may have of Asians and females.

As soon as I walked in, I noticed, in my periphery, a packet with my name on it. What followed was 5 minutes of painfully uncomfortable interaction, punctuated by long awkward pauses. There was an explanation intended to help me understand the gravity of the organization’s financial situation and how difficult it was to come to a decision to eliminate my position. Every now and then, I saw what appeared to be a genuine look of regret followed by a sentence or two exaggerating the value I bring to the organization. This sentiment was always followed by the need to deliver a firm, well-rehearsed speech meant to help every displaced employee understand his/her market value, or lack thereof, in relation to the dollar amount brought to the organization.

And just like that, I became unemployed and joined 14 million other Americans without a job and healthcare in an economy unlikely to recover any time soon.

It required less than 15 minutes and the space of a medium-sized purse to pack up the items that actually belonged to me. I drove out of the parking lot for the last time with feelings ranging from bitter anger to pensive contemplation. It was diffiult to juggle the competing emotions that both resented and appreciated the organization to which I’ve become a part. I spent more or less 50 hours each week working at this hospital, and like it or not, this place had become more to me than just a means to a paycheck- it was where I discovered my love for writing, shared over a thousand meals with dear friends and battled countless situations that challenged and shaped my deeply held moral intuitions and values.

It is somewhat disconcerting to be in a state of uncertainty without any real income and healthcare, but it’s incredibly liberating to be in a place with no immediate goals or plans. Today, I just want to be responsible for one thing: to be mindful of and grateful to all that allows me to be the healthy, happy Miri I am today.

Dear Johnnie Walker

It’s been 50 days since we parted and I’ve had plenty of time now to reflect on our relationship and draw some conclusions about your effect and future role in my life.

And the simple truth is this- I can manage just fine without you, but I don’t ever want to part with you again. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder and in my case, your absence made my heart deplete faster. You possess all the fine ingredients to embolden the timid, awaken the dormant and satisfy the aroused. I have yet to meet another who makes an entrance as exquisite as the way you smoothly pour yourself over my lips and linger provocatively over all my senses. With stubborn curiosity, you make all the necessary stops as you explore your way through my body, until finally, every part of me is saturated with your color and scent. I see that I’ve become your playground as you’ve taken liberty to explore and intimately acquaint yourself with my body- from the surface down to every microscopic cell in the bloodstream.

One would think I would be used to you by now, but this couldn’t be further from the truth. You bring a different flavor and zest each time we meet and I can’t imagine getting bored with you. You are dangerously delectable, irresistibly desirable and absolutely welcome in my life. But let’s start slow this time and really think about how we can continue to enjoy our love affair without the headache, dependency issues and other complications that plague so many relationships.

In ten days, I will have you. Unadulterated

Perception can be fatal

No one likes to be judged unfairly, but so many of us feel entitled to judging others.  After all, placing people in various personality/intellectual/cultural/religious categories helps us to simplify our understanding of people and situations in our lives. It also helps me anticipate how the dynamics of certain relationships will develop over time.  And sadly, my initial impressions usually do not change. In fact, they become self-fulfilling prophesies that continue to confirm and validate my initial perception.

On Monday, August 8, I recognized the arrogance that accompanies these impressions, as well as the danger of holding on to these perceptions. It was one of those stressful days with competing work priorities that made me feel like I had a right to strike against any and all that stood between my work and the finish line. Amidst all the tension and deadlines, my patience was already dwindling and I was struggling to keep my spirits up. So when my coworker continued to interrupt me with questions unrelated to our project, I quickly dismissed her behavior as her typical way of doing things- confirming everything multiple times as to not make a mistake. In doing so, I failed to notice her unusually odd behavior that would later be determined as early signs of a stroke.

A few hours later, I found out she was admitted to the ER.  She is only 29 years old and is otherwise a pretty healthy gal. How in the world does this happen? Could I have helped prevent this incident by being more attentive to the early signs she was exhibiting during my last interaction with her? One of the last questions she asked me was related to the meeting she and I already attended together. She emailed, called AND walked over to my desk to find out where and when this meeting will be held. Without taking my eyes off the screen, I responded curtly, “if you look at your calendar, or if you recall, you’ll see that the meeting already happened yesterday.”   Without a trace of a smile to soften my chilly tone, I continued to type away. In retrospect, I realize there were many warning signs that could have alerted me to notify others had I been more attentive.

At the end of day, I don’t think it was my rudeness that gave way to her having a stroke. But, it did make me reflect on my own behavior, so much of which is derived from my own insecurities. To be critical is to be perceptive and to be efficient is to be productive… or so I think. My need to be constantly productive, combined with my fear of becoming a useless blob, has quickly put me in the ranks with self-righteous elitists who take pride in identifying weaknesses and find self-validation through criticisms. Sadly, I’ve neglected a part of me that takes pleasure in identifying one’s strength and facilitating its growth through encouragement.

As I look at myself in the mirror today, I see an ugly person whose insecurity has resulted in lending more value to criticism over encouragement. I intend to change that.

Quote of the day: “As we perceive another, so they become. When we see a person in a certain way and expect one kind of behavior from them, that is often what we get. When we hold onto an old picture of a person, it can prevent them from growing.”

Miri decides to quit alcohol

Sadly, that means no more Napa, no more whiskey tasting nights and no more drunken dancing. Where will i find my fancy flair? You will have the pleasure, or displeasure, of Miri’s company- sober. At least for the next 60 days.

This will mark my very first attempt and decision to abstain from alcohol. I’ve thought about cutting back in the past, but the reasons were never compelling enough. However, I’m beginning to see some signs that accompany what has now become a daily, habitual indulgence.

So I’m making a public declaration to my trusted family and friends in hopes that you will support my decision and hold me accountable to my words. The goal isn’t to quit forever, but to recognize and admit that I have developed a mindless habit, a growing inclination that I seek to moderate before it becomes an addiction. Through it, I want to learn to appreciate the value of restraint, exercise self-control and nurture discipline.

The journey began yesterday. And I remain fully committed. Cheers to that.

Sweet soil of moments

It’s been quite some time since I’ve been moved in spirit. And I’m not talking about the state of being happy or content, but a state of recognizing something deep and true in my life- something known but forgotten, or missed.

It seems these moments of epiphany or revelation came with much more frequency, ease and influence in my early twenties. But today, I find myself being somewhat resistant to being moved- hesitant to allow my heart to take a leap. Perhaps I’ve just grown too cynical… Or maybe I’m shielding myself from the inevitable hurt, vulnerability and commitment that shadows a hopeful heart- After all, to be moved, you need a childlike wonder, trust in life’s goodness and  belief that you too can be a contributor to and recipient of everything good life has to offer.

But today, as I read “the Book of Awakening,” (thank you Mario) I found the hardness of my heart softening just enough to allow for quiet moments of spirit-moving epiphanies. It reminded me that a perfect life, as I see it, is not a requirement to a fulfilling life.

“Our life is made of days. It is only in the days of our lives that we find peace, joy and healing. A life well lived is firmly planted in the sweet soil of moments. We receive the deepest blessings of life when we fall in love with such moments. Most sacraments are acts of breathtaking simplicity: a simple prayer, a sip of wine and a piece of bread, a single breath in meditation, a sprinkling of water on the forehead, an exchange of rings, a kind word, a blessing. Any of these, performed in a moment of mindfulness, may open the doors of our spiritual perception and bring nourishment and delight” – Wayne Muller