Coursing through my veins

by

“Then I reflected that all things happen, happen to one, precisely now. Century follows century, and things happen only in the present. There are countless men in the air, on land and at sea, and all that really happens happens to me.” – Jorge Luis Borges, “The Garden of Forking Paths”

 

First, let me apologize for the lack of posts recently. This semester has been especially difficult.

This semester, I signed up for a yoga class with the university. Unlike my other classes, it does not have weekly assignments or stress associated with it. Instead, it works as a destresser.

I took a yoga class for an elective in high school and even then I was somewhat wary of taking it. I was well aware that it could help take some weight off shoulders at the end of each week, but I was also extremely aware of its increasingly popular status in society. I was afraid that my class would be full of people who were taking it simply because it is fashionable in some way, but maybe because it is offered at the university and not at a studio, it does not seem to be.

My instructor especially emphasizes the breath. He says that each movement should by synchronized our inhales and exhales, something that I haven’t perfected quite yet. Quite often, I am too intent on not falling out of poses or doing them correctly to focus on my breathing. Every once in a while, he asks if any of us have stopped breathing during the current pose, a sign that we might be pushing our bodies past our limit. My honest answer, which I don’t say out loud, is that I hadn’t noticed.

The one pose during which I am very cognizant of my breath is shavasana, or “corpse pose.” Physically, it is the easiest pose as it consists of laying on your spine with your arms nestled against your sides and your eyes closed. Some people find it the most difficult as thoughts have a tendency to take over. Ideally, in this pose, one should become grounded in their body, in their breath, in their existence and nothing else.

At the end of my first yoga class, we lay like this for a few minutes and I was very aware of my blood. I felt it pulsing in my arm and I spent the time idly imagining it running its course through my body, an image, which I realize now, is perhaps slightly disturbing. But at that time, I was amazed at my heart’s ability to send the substance throughout my body and at it changing and changelessness. That is, cells die and are reborn, but are swept along in the same current of life. At that point, my blood, my body was different than it was a moment, a day, a year before that. But it was the same.

In this present moment, I am drinking blueberry green tea, sitting on my bed, listening to the Pentatonix radio on Pandora, and typing this. I am not aware of my veins right now, but I am aware of the slight cramp in my fingers and the feeling of the keys on my fingers, which are pressing the keys out of memory. I know that when I move onto other things later today, this moment may or may not matter. Because I will be in a different present. I will have different, but the same blood in my veins.

 

No Complaining Here Please!

by

I was recently asked, “Why do you keep saying I don’t like this or I don’t want to do that?” Or in other words, why do I complain so much?

I had no reply to that except to say, only one quarters joking, “Now I’ll be extra aware of complaining in front of you.”

And I have been, but not only in front of that person. I have been hyper aware of complaining in front of myself. I complain about getting up early for work, going to school, doing homework, my time of the month, etc. I actually do not mind any of these (except for my time of the month), so why do I feel the need to whine about them?

To be honest, I feel rather surprised at myself. I have never perceived myself as constantly complaining before. And when others did so, it drove me crazy. I deeply disliked (and still do) the song “Can’t Complain” by Nickel Creek and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix is still my least favorite book because of the angst and anger expressed by the protagonist.

When my previous roommate found our apartment complex slow to respond to her, she fumed and let it bring her down. I told her that what was happening was not actually affecting her that much and instead of fixating on negatives to focus on the positive things like the sun shining or the wind blowing through her hair or her cat waiting for playtime back at home. I didn’t think that I wasn’t following my advice. I thought I was fine in that area.

It is a little late for a New Year’s resolution and I don’t believe in them anyway. Instead, a new life resolution is to complain significantly less and enjoy everything that is happening to the best of my abilities.

I’m sure I will break this resolution several times, but I won’t despair. Instead, I’ll remind myself (while simultaneously making lighthearted fun at myself) to see the good always by singing a little song entitled “I’m a complainer” to the tune of “I’m a believer.”

Poetry Perusing

by

A while ago, I was given an anthology of poetry entitled “I Feel a Little Jumpy Around You,” edited by Naomi Shihab Nye and Paul B. Janeczko. I remember flipping through it briefly and then placing it on my shelf, where it sat for quite a few years (sorry to whoever gave it to me). Because of the cover, which has a drawing of two newlyweds dancing off a tiered cake, I thought it was a volume of love poetry… and I wasn’t particularly interested in reading love poetry at that moment in my life.

Picking it up today, I was pleasantly surprised by the little bit that I have managed to consume. “A Little Jumpy” is an intriguing volume in which the editors  grouped poems into pairs to illustrate the similar as well as dissimilar ways that men and woman view the same topics.  The title seems to suggest that the topic is mostly romantic love, but that is not the case. The first section, “Heads on Fire” contains poems about family relationships. The second, “Foreign Exchange,” is about the beginnings of adolescence and figuring our romantic relationships. The third, “The Real Names of Everything” seems to be poems discussing the everyday life of adults who have found more settled, solid lives. And lastly, “Separate Longings”is about, well, longings.

In other words, the anthology is about life.

Poetry is difficult. Quite a few people don’t like it. Quite a few people don’t understand it. I stand in an in between place. I don’t hate it… but it is certainly not my favorite. In middle school, I wrote quite a lot of poetry. And then I realized that prose fits me better.

Flash forward to college and adulthood, where I’m starting to encounter events and issues that I  have not dealt with before. I am still attached to prose, but I have found myself writing poetry in my journal or sometimes in class. These poems are different than the ones from my past. Not only are they usually better (in my estimation), but they are written about my hardest issues. Therefore, they are extremely private. I have no trouble sharing most of my prose, but no one has seen any of these intensely personal poems.

I imagine that the poems included in the anthology are as personal for the author’s as mine are for me. It is amazing that they were able to share them with the public. Maybe I’ll be able to do that one day.

I’ll end with sharing one of my favorite poems of the collection:

“Travelling Together” by W.S. Merwin

If we are separated I will

try to wait for you

on your side of things

 

your side of the wall and the water

and of the light moving at its own speed

even on leaves that we have seen

I will wait on one side

 

while a side is there.

Currently Reading

by

Happy New Year!

This year for Christmas, I asked for Cosmos by Carl Sagan. My mom was taken aback by this request, but she got it for me anyway. I do not particularly like reading nonfiction (different than creative nonfiction) and I’m not usually invested in science related subjects. I had two reasons for this request. 1. My astronomy professor quoted from it at the end of the last class and I liked the quote and the quote’s diction. 2. I’m determined to read books from every genre, especially the ones that I typically avoid (I even signed up for a detective fiction class for this reason).

My progress in the book has been rather slow due to me reading other books and listening to three others simultaneously, but I have enjoyed. I have enjoyed it more than I thought I would, actually. For those with a heavier science background than me, some of Sagan’s explanations may seem a little dumbed down. However, they are perfect for me, the English major. Where I am in the book now, he is mostly just explaining the origins of the concept of Martians (which is thoroughly interesting and engaging), but he every once in a while, with the grace and grasp of language I don’t often associate with physicists, makes his topic relatable and accessible to all.

A few passages that I particularly liked:

“What does seventy million years mean to beings who live only one-millionth as long? We are like butterflies who flutter for a day and think it is forever.”

“I am a collection of water, calcium and organic molecules called Carl Sagan. You are a collection of almost identical molecules with a different collective label. But is that all? Is there nothing in here but molecules? Some people find this idea somehow demeaning to human dignity. For myself, I find it elevating that our universe permits the evolution of molecular machines as intricate and subtle as we.”

“An extraterrestrial visitor, looking at the differences among human beings and their societies, would find those differences trivial compared to the similarities.”

What is astounding about this work is that Sagan devotes much of the pages to helping the reader learn about the cosmos and places in the universe that we are extremely lucky to know about, but particularly emphasizes the importance of other human beings and the earth that we live on. He shows that science is not simply about cold facts, but about warmth and solidarity.

 

 

 

Advent: Light Amongst Dark

by

For those unfamiliar with the season of Advent, it is the four weeks before Christmas.

Growing up, Advent was always about decorating our outside Advent wreath, pulling out Christmas books, and singing “O come, O Come Emmanuel” at night around our small Advent wreath on the dining room table. The last few years, Advent has been different. At first, I tried to make it as familiar and traditional as possible.  I got a makeshift wreath from my church, complete with tapers, and listened to variations of “O Come.” But this year, Advent has changed for me. Admittedly much of it is because I barely have time for myself as my semester wraps up. But also, I want to make it new. Lately, the repetitiousness of liturgy at church has started to bore me. It has started to become meaningless.  So I find myself closing my eyes during confession and other prayers and making them my own in my head. I did not want Advent to be boring or meaningless either. So I decided to dedicate my journal to Advent.

Here are some of the entries I penned:

Advent is about preparation. To be prepare is to be read for what happens. It is to be ready for a test, an event, the day ahead. During Advent, we prepare ourselves for the birth of Christ. We celebrate this every single year, so there can’t be much to prepare for or much that can take us by surprise, right? Contrarily, that is not the case. At every Christmas, we are different. We are a year older, our desires have changed us for better or for worse. This happens gradually, but faster than we think or wish. And so as we grow and change, our ways of preparing change. For Advent, we may cling to traditions like Christmas trees, eggnog, Christmas, music, etc, but out hearts are different. Christ is the same, but the way we look at him, think of him is completely different. It is up to us to continue letting him  in and to find the courage to keep him in your hear, soul, and mind.

Advent is about providing light in the dark. It is not necessarily a time for preparing for a light, but looking for it. Not only has there been less light per day, but the world has been darker lately, especially with ISIS and with the recent shootings in Colorado Springs and California. To dispel this darkness, we can look at the stars. We can light candles or even electrical lights. Most importantly, we can be lights to each other. In a climate of hate, terror, and chaos, we can love and affirm each other. We can pick each other up. We can hope. Because, ultimately, what is Advent? It is hope.

 

 

Recently Read

by

The minute that I stepped into the dining room on my first day of Thanksgiving break, my eye fell on a paperback with a yellow cover. “Who’s reading this?” I asked my dad. He replied that, at the moment, no one was. And with that information, I snatched up the book and proceeded to gobble up the first few pages. I, unfortunately, had to eat and then sleep, but as soon as I could the next day, I continued with my latest adventure… and I finished it that same day.

This book that caught my attention so immediately was Still Alice by Lisa Genova. Some may recognize this title from the recent film adaptation starring Julianne Moore. I have not seen the movie, but I have been long curious about both the novel and the movie, especially since the main character has Alzheimer’s, a disease that I have watched my grandmother go through for many years.

The difference about the protagonist, Alice, is that she has Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease (sometimes referred to as EOAD in the novel). The book begins right before her fiftieth birthday when she starts noticing strange memory lapses. At first, she thinks that it is menopause because of her age, but after visiting a neurologist, she discovers the unexpected and beyond life-changing diagnosis. The rest of the novel spans the next two years during which she becomes more and more lost to dementia.

When I first picked it up, I didn’t have high hopes for the quality of the writing because I expected it to be a typical illness story, like ones that I have read about cancer. But I was very wrong. My breath was almost taken away by the beauty and simplicity of the first scene in which Alice’s husband is looking for something and she notices how all the clocks in the house do not tell the right time. Not only is it written well, but it is magnificent symbolism and foreshadowing.

I do not know how well Genova portrays Early Onset Alzheimer’s, but I do know how familiar the symptoms that are described sound like from watching my grandmother, especially the wandering, the asking to go home, and the eventual forgetting of who her loved ones are.

Please read this book. It will ruin you (in a good way, I promise).

Humanity

by

I’m sorry I have been absent from this blog for a while. Life got hectic.

“You must not lose faith in humanity. Humanity is like an ocean; if a few drops of the ocean are dirty, the ocean does not become dirty.” -Mahatma Gandhi

Last Friday when I heard about the Paris attacks and the day afterwards when I read some of the negative reactions, I had a hard time believing in humanity and my heavenly father. It seemed like there wasn’t much proof of his existence. But two things happened that made me realize that our creator is there after all.

The first happened on Sunday when my car broke down at an intersection of a busy street. This event was nerve racking and did not help my present insecurity. However, my faith in the human race and God as well returned when a couple with two kids towed my little car to safety at a gas station before AAA came. One of the kids, a tween girl, showered me with compliments such as “I like your wallet” and “I like your shoes.” Usually I do not like compliments, but she cheered me up excessively.

Humanity seems quite ugly sometimes. And often social media and news stations emphasize that. But it is important to remember that humans can be beautiful to. The family that helped me in that stressful situation was beautiful as well as my friend who drove to the gas station to rescue me and the various people who drove me to and from work this week. And just like not all humans are bad, not all Muslims, Christians, or anyone religious are bad.

I said that two things happened. The second thing appeared in something that I wrote in my journal last month when I felt like I was drowning in stress.

wordlist

Darkness

no one like you

healer

with

There is no one like you in the darkness. I, a river, try to flow for you, but I stumble over broken rocks. With you, I am stronger. With you, my healer, I am reminded that rocks cause a waterfall glorious in beauty.

wordlist

strength

ache

silver

falling

brand new

see

unmovable

The unmovable silver ache falls like a leaf burdened with what it’s seen. It lies limply on the ground, but it finds, somehow, the strength – and the faith – to look at the brand new mountains.

 

Everything is a Choice

by

In the Broadway version of The Lion King, Simba sings of the “Endless Night” that he is experiencing when he feels abandoned by his father:

“Where has the starlight gone?

Dark is the day

How can I find my way home?

Home is an empty dream

Lost to the night

Father, I feel so alone.”

But something amazing happens. The chorus starts singing,”I know that the night must end. And that the sun will rise.” And Simba eventually joins in. His story, his battle is really just beginning, but he’s already starting to realize that he has a choice. He can either believe that the night, his exile, is never ending… or he can put his faith in the ever consistent sunrise.

Everything is a choice.

Whether or not we get out of bed in the morning is a choice. Eating breakfast is a choice. Driving safely is a choice. We always choose what we do, even if we do not realize it. Even if they are automatic.

I read a short, not quite credible clickbait article from “Health of Women” that made me upset this morning titled “Robin Williams did not die from suicide, wake up people.” A couple of my Facebook friends had shared it. I clicked on it because I was expecting some crazy idea about some conspiracy (it was on Facebook, after all). As it turns out, the author did have a crazy idea. And it was this: Robin Williams died from depression and not from suicide. He also wrote that suicide is not a choice.

Becoming depressed may not be a choice, but staying depressed is. One can cheer themselves up (it can seem impossible, I admit) or choose the night, to stay burden down by the oppressive blackness. If one can choose to not feel depressed, shouldn’t one be able to choose life?

Suicide, by definition, is voluntary. It is deliberately, intentionally killing oneself. It usually means that one has a plan thought out beforehand. It is not inevitable.

I agree wholeheartedly that mood disorders, all mental illnesses, and suicide have collected stigma that should be dissolved. This will only happen when those afflicted with these kind of darknesses are truly heard. Not understood. I don’t think it’s possible for mental illness to be completely understood by everyone. They just need to be heard and acknowledged.

That acknowledgement is a choice.

Going to class is a choice.

Eating beef ramen over chicken is a choice.

Going to work on time (or even working in the first place) is a choice.

Reading this is a choice.

And above all, life is a choice. The biggest, the hardest, and the most important one of all.

 

 

This Little Light of Mine…

by

“A single tiny light creates a space where darkness cannot exist. The light vanquishes the darkness. Try as it might, the darkness cannot conquer the light.” – Donald L. Hicks

I do not think I am alone in my awe of what light can do to darkness. This awe has been prevalent since the beginning of humans’ time on earth and I suspect that it will be around long after I’m gone. Our relationship with light, however, has changed since the early humans’ discovery of fire. We, especially in first world countries like the U.S.,  do not always quite get the true relationship of dark and light. We have so much light at night, we can’t always see the stars. Many astrologists have to resort to retreating to the mountains or to secluded places away from civilization where their only adversary is the weather.

Perhaps because of the constant presence of light pollution, I am extra aware of the power that a single candle can bestow onto a room and how a flashlight can transform a forested campsite. A candle won’t light up everything in the room entirely, but it does illuminate the things that do matter: family, friends, a book, a game introduced by a child’s mother to decrease fear… When camping, I have seen the beam of a flashlight transform pine trees into monsters with many wild hands, but I have also seen it shine on rocks I might have stumbled on, the path to my destination (usually the bathroom), and the welcoming sight of our family tent.

Our relationship with darkness and light is not always literal. Darkness can be a fitting, albeit simple, metaphor for depression, natural disasters, tragedies like the Oregon school shooting, or just personal struggles. Similarly, light is whatever expels that darkness.

Some of my lights are:

My family. They glow with love for me, each other, and for others around them.

My friends. They’re like glow-in-the-dark-stars, except they don’t fade after a certain time.

Those are the easy ones. The ones on the top of my head.

I also find my lights in:

Good literature, especially the ones that make me tingle inside.

Bananagrams.

Relaying my dreams to my roommate.

Spending time with my beau, even if it’s for a few minutes.

Laughing at myself.

Serving other people, especially if they have stories to tell.

Having enough food.

Being other people’s lights

 

I often worry that I’m not doing anything that will make my life memorable. But I guess if I’m at least one person’s light during my lifetime, that will suffice.

 

Time Flies…

by

“Fruit flies like a…” I paused, embarrassed that I messed up the saying. “Time flies like an arrow, fruit flies like a banana.” He laughed and I smiled.

Ever since I started this relationship, I’ve been thinking of time. Maybe it’s because I’m finding myself with less of it… or it’s because my boyfriend and I have been talking about it. You see, he’s made a somewhat strict schedule for himself and I definitely don’t. While I do have classes and work at specific times, the rest of my day I clean, do homework, hang out with friends, sleep, basically whenever I want to.

He says that I’m trying to catch up with time. And to a certain extent, I am. I procrastinate and am forced to do homework in a rush, I hurry to clean when company is coming over. I sometimes don’t have time because I got distracted (being a typical college student, it’s often Netflix).

I do sometimes wish that I was better at organizing. Because after all, time is one thing that we can’t get back. It keeps on going, whether we like it or not.

But to take a hopefully fresh look at the cliche, I want to be a river and I want to go where the waves take me. I live like I do because I like it. It allows me live in the tiny moments instead of worrying about the future.

Today in class, we were discussing The Ruin, an Anglo Saxon poem describing the ruins of ancient Bath. The poem is eerie and fragmented, itself in ruins. It is not only eerie because that is the nature of ruins, but also it eerie because the Anglo Saxons, whose culture, buildings, and artistry has been excavated from ruins, saw and were affected by the remnants of those who had gone before.

Time has always passed by humans. It is the nature of time and of mortality. But what we do in those small moments and those big, life-changing moments are the things in matter.

So let’s live in the small droplets on the pond. Or we can try catching life by it’s tail feathers.  Either one is a viable option.