escape

I long for escape these days. I fantasize of getting up at daybreak one of these mornings and getting into my car and driving, with no set destination in mind. In the company of only a few of my most precious belongings, I want to roll the windows down and feel the wind on my face. I want to sing at the top of my lungs, songs of endings and beginnings, songs of sadness and loss and freedom and peace. I want to drive past the towering buildings and back up into the mountains. I want to find a place where the ground is covered in white and the silence is deafening. I want a place to read and think and write. I want to find a haven in which I can escape from the world of responsibility and deadlines and complexity.

I know this feeling well, too well. This feeling of wanting to run far away, to escape the overwhelming sensations of reality, to find solace in solitude. After knowing this feeling time and time again for so many years, I know the origin of this desperate desire. It only comes when I reach the edge. It only happens after my long hikes up the mountain. Hikes in which I have imagined the view from the top so well that the images of the breathtaking vista grow in anticipation with each step. Until at last I reach the peak of the mountain, I stand firmly on the edge, and I look down to find that there is nothing there. The beautiful vista has only been another disillusion of my mind, and I am faced with a choice. Do I turn around and climb back down the mountain, hoping that the next mountain I climb will offer the magnificence of my dreams? Or do I allow myself to fall from the edge?

So many mountains I’ve climbed, so many times I’ve reached this edge. Many times I have jumped, allowing the desolation to envelop me as I plummet into emptiness. A few times I have simply turned around and walked back down the mountain, building up new dreams in my head of the other mountains I shall climb. In essence, I have managed to escape, in some fashion, each time I have reached the edge. Never have I even entertained the possibility of just staying there on the edge. Never have I allowed myself to realize that should I just sit and wait, perhaps the vista I have dreamed of will roll into view.

I’m at the edge again, and I’m terrified. My instincts are to run. At moments I think I could easily turn around and continue my hike throughout the range. Other moments are so burdened by exhaustion that the idea of jumping seems a blessing in disguise. But no matter how appealing escape seems, I have realized throughout the years (and many attempts to escape) that it is impossible to escape from oneself. And so here I am again, but this time I will sit on the edge. I will feel the wind upon my face as I sit here and I will cherish the deafening silence that surrounds me, even at this frightening height. I will sit, I will wait, and maybe tomorrow’s sunrise will bring the view that is harbored in my soul.

breaking the silence

I am filled with feelings of guilt and disappointment. The anger only serves as a protection against the deep sadness I have felt for so many years. In a rare moment of reality, the anger dominated the sadness yesterday and years of withholding the truth became too much to bear. The words that escaped my mouth were certainly words of truth. They were words that should have brought a sense of freedom. Words that should have finally allowed me to let go of a past that has haunted too many generations. But my words did not free me. They left me instead with guilt and fear and the knowledge that resolution is only possible if I choose to forego what I know deep inside and continue to live in silence.

Since I was a little girl, I was taught how to act “appropriately”. I was taught to love this man that never knew the true meaning of love. I was taught to respect someone who did not deserve my respect, who did not deserve respect from anyone. I was hidden from the tragic and brutal reality for many years. I caught glimpses of the tragedy that held this family in its unrelenting grip, but I never saw it with fully opened eyes. It was not until I reached adulthood that I learned the truth of this horrendous history. I learned because I asked, because I refused to live in denial, because I needed to know what lay underneath the feelings of fear that accompanied my every step in his presence. The knowledge I gained opened up numerous doors for me. Doors that had been shut and locked and barred every day of my life. As time passed, the doors began to open wider and my glimpses into this world of Hell became an unfolding reality that could no longer hide behind my terrified eyes. The view was crystal clear, and the picture before me was far worse than I had ever imagined.

With the knowledge came insight. I began to understand more, and for several years I allowed that understanding to permit the excuses that were offered. I knew what I would see if I opened my eyes, and so I refused. I kept them tightly shut, determined that I would not allow myself to witness such horror, lest my awareness convey acceptance. For years, I believed that keeping my eyes shut and keeping my voice silenced was enough. My silence allowed some semblance of peace for a family that had never known it. But my silence also allowed the continuous states of denial and suggested on a deeper level that what had happened, and what was still happening, was okay. And it was far from okay. It will never be okay.

I suppose it is easier to pretend to forget, to pretend to not see, to pretend that the picture before you is not so ugly. I suppose it is easier to not be plagued with guilt and disappointment and the awareness that there is no resolution. Perhaps I was naïve, believing that speaking the truth would somehow change the future. Perhaps I was just filled with too much false hope, believing that every person on this earth has goodness somewhere within their hearts. Or perhaps the time had just come that I could no longer live in silence.

I am not sorry for speaking the words of truth, for confronting a fear that has held us all within its grasp for far too long. But I am sorry that these words did not bring a sense of relief or freedom or resolution. I am sorry that I was taught to feel such guilt over honesty. I am sorry that silence is not a path of comfort for me. Most of all, I am sorry to realize that this man truly has no heart. I am sorry that his own pain and self-hatred have caused such agony for so many others. I am sorry that his wife will die never knowing what love really is, never knowing the feeling of happiness. I am sorry that his children will live the rest of their lives haunted by the absence of a loving father, reminded of the bitterness and hatred that can overtake humanity. I am sorry that any person on this earth should be subjected to such cruelty.

But I am not sorry for breaking the silence.

beginning my journey

The time has almost arrived for my journey to begin. This journey that I have chosen to take, a journey to confront my fears, a journey that I hope will bring me some sense of empowerment and solace. It is this very journey that I have written about in recent days and weeks, and yet at the time I spoke of a figurative journey. Now, reality has instead presented a literal journey. And so I must embark upon it. Perhaps I could view this as a barrier, another obvious manifestation of my fears. I could choose to allow it to continue to paralyze me, to envelop me in the world of isolation that I have chosen as my comfort in past times. But that is not my choice. Not now, not today. The time has come. I have chosen to make this journey, to confront these fears. There really is no destination for this journey, as it will continue throughout the days and months and years to come. But it is a beginning. And without a beginning, a journey is not a journey.

exploring relationship patterns

As I sat through a three-hour lecture on psychodynamic therapy this morning, my professor posed a series of very personal questions. He did not ask us to discuss our answers in class or even to consider this as a mandatory assignment. Rather, he suggested that we each go home and truly ponder these questions. He advised that we answer them in order that we may continue to learn more about ourselves and our interactions with those around us. He postulated that we will begin to notice patterns in our past relationships that will lead us to more completely understand our own relationships today. It is an interesting assignment, and a journey upon which I look forward to embarking upon. I wonder if any of you might want to take this journey for yourselves as well.

For each person(s), ask yourselves the following questions. What was the quality of the relationship? How did you relate to one another? How did the relationship begin? What kinds of problems were encountered in the relationship? How were problems dealt with? How did the relationship end?

Begin by exploring your early relationship with your parents. Then proceed to the relationship with your first romantic partner. Continue with each successive romantic relationship. Lastly, examine your relationships with friends throughout the years. When you have answered the questions, look for patterns that have emerged throughout your relationships. Do the patterns differ in the ways you have related to men versus women? Do the patterns differ from family to friends to romantic partners? How do you think these patterns are playing out in your current relationships?

For those of you that choose to embark upon this journey as well, I hope that you will find greater insight into your own being. It is only through awareness that we may begin to learn and grow.

(*I do not take credit for these questions. However, I am not listing the professor’s name who posed these questions for purposes of confidentiality.*)

acknowledging fear - a personal confession

Yesterday I posed a few questions, asking each of you to find the inner courage to explore the depth and breadth of your fears. I gave you a superficial explanation of why my own exploration of these fears is personally so difficult. And I posited that there was no need to share your fears with me, as the discovery of the fears themselves is difficult enough without the additional hardship of opening your soul to others.

How impossible it seems at times to imagine bearing our naked souls, with their most vivid contours of ugliness. And yet that seemingly impossible task is perhaps essential, at least for me. Deep down inside, I know my fears. Not all of them of course, but many that I have continued to deny and suppress in order to feel more comfortable in my own skin. And those of which I am aware, those are the ones that despite my awareness, continue to invade my existence and impede my journey of passion. So I feel compelled to share these fears with you, at least to the capacity of which I am able. My story, my confession, as it may be, will hopefully open the doors a little wider and allow a little more passion to seep into the core of my being.

~Barrier to an International Dream~

The glossy pages of a magazine glare up at me from its opened position on my lap. The story headline captures my eye and my attention quickly becomes focused on the beautified pictures. The face of a celebrity stares back at me, her emotions measured by the slight smile of her full lips and the look of sympathy that escapes from her dark, captivating eyes. But it is not her beauty that paralyzes me. Rather, it is the illustrations of desolation and loneliness in which she has immersed herself that pull so fiercely at my heartstrings. The tiny dark children she holds upon her lap are emaciated from the deprivation of nourishment and nurturance. As I study the images and I read of the millions of children encapsulated in this world of suffering, I catch yet another glimpse of a dream I have long hidden from the world. A dream which I have buried out of fear. A dream which I have relinquished under fear’s imprisoning power. A dream that is not reflected by the publicity and beauty of the celebrity on the page, but is only mirrored by the desire to nurture and nourish these children.
At times, I have gathered the courage to think of the practical logistics involved in my hidden dream. And it is these practicalities that have been confronted on the front lines by fear’s demolition. Fears of the long flights necessary to reach my destinations. Fears of the native diseases that could threaten and perhaps take refuge in my ignorant body. Fears of living in a way of life to which I am not accustomed. Fears of being confronted by the daily images and experiences of death. Fears of mental and emotional collapse beneath my already worn nerves and episodes of darkness.
I am ashamed of these fears. I despise them and want to banish them from the home they have claimed within me. I want to fight them and destroy them and gain strength through my battles with them. But I do not know how to do that. And I know that they are not all completely unreasonable fears. And so the essence of the conflict is not necessarily how to eliminate the fears, but rather to determine if the fears are worth forsaking a dream. And that is an answer that I do not have…not now, not yet.

living in safety

How many times in your life have you allowed fear to stop you from doing what you truly and deeply desire?
How many times have you censored yourself because of fear’s intrusive presence?
How many times have your love for others and your love for life been diminished because fear is guarding the door to your heart?

Perhaps you are thinking that these are rhetorical questions. But they are not. They are questions that I offer to each of you, to truly ponder within yourselves. I am not asking for your answers. These answers are not often easily discovered, and even less frequently are they easily shared. However, I believe these are important questions for each of us to ask ourselves in order that we may all live more passionate and less fearful lives.

Tonight I read another chapter in Dawna Markova’s phenomenal book. This chapter began with a description of her mother’s life. She depicted her mother as a caring and loving woman. Yet she also highlighted the pervading sense of fear with which her mother lived. Fear is not always expressed in the most obvious and overt ways. Much fear, like that experienced by Markova’s mother, is more a manifestation of the desperate need to feel safe in physical, financial, and emotional realms. We spend our lives relentlessly working so that we may rest assured that we will have financial security upon retirement. We alter the activities we allow ourselves to experience because of the inherent fears involved in taking risks. We guard our hearts and souls from negative emotions and pain, often living in states of denial, in order that we may feel safe from the feelings of discomfort. And yet what kind of lives are we actually living when we live in such a constant and pervasive sense of fear?

These questions are particularly difficult for me to answer personally. I am often the person who has been accused of jumping into things heart first without thought to the practical and logical consequences that likely will follow. I have been labeled the epitome of impulsivity at times, and yet I certainly feel that my life has been hampered by fear. There are many avenues I have not pursued because of fear’s powerful grasp. There are many dreams that I have diminished to mere fantasies because of fear’s overbearing presence. There are many aspects of myself that I hold inside because of fear’s threats should I release those aspects. So, now I am faced with asking myself the question: is this the life I want to live? And I know the answer…I do not want to live a life of fear. I do not want to live in safety.

doors of protection

In the process of reading Dawna Markova's "I Will Not Die An Unlived Life: Reclaiming Purpose and Passion", I am continously confronted by words of inspiration. Words that beckon for my individual personal truths to be freed. Words that invite the self-exploration that I wrote of yesterday.

She writes, "...I come to four doors, closed at my heart...I believe most of us were taught to slam these shut, turn our backs, and lean up against them in fear. But I also believe that on the other side of these doors are passageways to our brightest fire, the choice to live fully awake and alive."

During the months of solitude she spent searching for the passion and purpose that had become lost to her over the years, Dawna Markova found herself face to face with these doors of protection. We all have such doors, barriers that encapsulate our hearts in a web of safety. And yet how are we ever able to fully live a passionate and purposeful life if we continue to turn our backs on these locked doors? Sometimes it may take a long while to find the keys, but when we do, may we all have the courage to unlock the doors and embrace the journey that awaits on the other side.

distractions...and more

Maybe it’s the classes I’m taking or maybe it’s the books I’m reading. Or maybe there’s no external tangible reason at all. Nevertheless, I have recently begun to feel as though there is more to me. More than the persona I present to the people of my daily encounters, more even than the truth I speak through the written language of my personal existence. I cannot prevent the intuitive feeling that there is more beneath the surface, existing beyond the depths to which I have previously dug.

During my masters program, I began to question the notions of what my numerous therapists over the years had speculated. I began to wonder more about the blank spaces of my childhood, the times of which I had no recollection. I began to wonder about the underlying reasons for the rebelliousness of my youth, to question the descriptive reality of the events leading up to my severe bouts with depression. I started to investigate the potential formulating grounds of my deepest fears. And throughout the process, I found myself both intrigued and terrified. I would often call my mom during those times, questioning her about my infancy and my childhood. I listened to her recollections of the history I myself could not remember and the past ambivalence of our relationship began to fade away in its evolution. During these talks, I learned more about myself and my history. I learned about my own childhood, as well as my mother’s early experiences. I began to understand more about the person I had become, and the contributing factors that had led me to that point in my life.

A couple of years later, I again found myself in a time of intense self-exploration. Following the disintegration of my marriage to a man I had never really known, I began to embark upon a journey of reflection. Surrounded by more solitude than I had ever previously known, I started to question the dynamics of my relationships. My curiosity regarding my destructive patterns of intimacy eventually led me to a place of unknown honesty and unforeseen clarity. My therapist at the time recommended that I allow myself to just “be” with myself. She suggested that I inhibit myself from engaging in the distractions that consumed the frequency of my time. Despite the uncomfortable and restless feelings, I attempted to participate in this experiment. During the six months following my divorce, I spent many days lost within my own inner world of thoughts, overflowing with tears and intense writings of catharsis.

Now, I have once again found myself with this nagging sense that there is more. What is it that the distractions of my daily life keep me from discovering? Even during the moments when the distractions of school and work are not available, it seems as though I have been filling my time with distractions of my own creation. If I allow myself to become still and just to exist within the moment, what is it that I am so terrified I might find? Perhaps it is simply the fear of the unknown. Perhaps is the fear of reactions, both from myself and from others. Perhaps it is the prospect of confronting realizations that I am not yet ready to face. What would happen if I allowed myself to free those thoughts and feelings that I can sense floating toward the surface of my life? Perhaps the sense of more would become enough.

"I will not die an unlived life..."

"I will not die an unlived life.

I will not live in fear

of falling or catching fire.

I choose to inhabit my days,

to allow my living to open me,

to make me less afraid,

more accessible;

to loosen my heart

until it becomes a wing,

a torch, a promise.

I choose to risk my significance,

to live so that which came to me as seed

goes to the next as blossom,

and that which came to me as blossom,

goes on as fruit."

-Dawna Markova

TAG - the list of 4's

For months now, I have been saved from the tag. I suppose the irony is that I actually enjoy these types of questions and list-making activities, ones that encourage me to think more about myself and my own likes/dislikes, experiences, etc. And I absolutely love to read those written by others. I find that this is actually a rather good way of getting to know various idiosyncratic information about others. And so, at last, it is my turn. Here we go…

4 jobs you've had in your life:
1. waitress – on multiple occasions (one particular job that stands out in my mind involved wearing a very un-sexy french maid type outfit, with my hair pulled tight in a bun, and serving the rich and sometimes famous a 5 course meal consisting of unpronouncable foods)
2. construction – I spent a couple of months working on rooftops in Kentucky, and actually found that the physical labor of removing old roofs and laying new ones provided a refreshing combination of repetitive mental simplicity and grueling physical catharsis
3. mental health therapist (ranging from working with inmates in a high maximum secuirty prison to children and adolescents on an inpatient psychiatric unit…I absolutely loved this work, and it is what has continued to drive me to my present pursuits of my doctorate in clinical psychology)
4. teacher – or college professor to be more specific (though it has never been a personal aspiration to teach in this traditional fashion, I did find it surprisingly rewarding…and it also helped me to conquer my fear of speaking in front of others:)

4 movies you would watch over and over:
1. A Walk to Remember
2. Silence of the Lambs
3. Mad Love
4. Serendipity
-Ok, I know…I’m a sucker for cheesy chick-flicks (thus the explanation for 1 and 4). As for Mad Love, it holds a deeply rooted connection to my days of adolescence, and a time when my own mental disintegration was rapidly approaching. And as for Silence of the Lambs…read above regarding my psychological work with prison inmates. The world of forensic psychology fascinates and intrigues me.

4 places you have lived:
1. St. Simons Island, GA – I grew up in Brunswick, the main land for this island. Following my graduation from my Masters program, I returned to the island. It will always be my home, in some aspect.
2. Statesboro, GA – where some of the best days of my life were spent…college years, need I say more?
3. Water Valley, KY – a tiny, worthless town in rural western Kentucky that existed of one stop sign (no traffic lights) and one gas station. That literally was the essence of the town. There were no grocery stores, no stores of any sort, and nothing except for myself, my bastard ex-husband, and an ancient brick ranch house.
4. Atlanta, GA – my current home, which I absolutely love.

4 tv shows you love to watch:
1. American Idol – I refuse to offer an explanation…I just love it! Though I guess it does provide a deeper sense of satisfaction in that I can vicariously live out one of my childhood dreams (to be a singer).
2. ER – I actually only watch the reruns on DVD, and not on a frequent basis. However, I am fascinated with the world of medicine.
3. The O.C.
4. One Tree Hill
-The last two allude to my weakness for cheesy teenage drama. But like ER, I don’t actually watch them on TV…only on DVD on the rare occasions that I have time to watch anything.

4 places you have been on vacation:
1. Las Vegas, Nevada – love it, love it, love it! Cannot wait to go back and am actually planning a hopeful trip for the end of April.
2. Santa Fe, New Mexico – a city that reverently tells of history and art, beauty and religion.
3. Cape Cod, Massachusetts – an isolating escape for many writers, though I will have to take another trip there to allow myself the luxury of quiet solitude.
4. Austin, Texas – one of my favorite cities in the U.S. The atmosphere and ambiance of the city cannot be explained…it just felt “good”.

4 of your favorite foods:
1. green olives – absolutely succulent
2. lemon poppyseed muffins – I lived off of these in my Masters program and still to this day find in them not only exquisite taste, but a warming comfort as well.
3. rice – basic, yes…boring, absolutely not…you wouldn’t believe the things I mix with rice. It is a fabulous foundation for most any meal.
4. hummus – with veggies, chips, crackers, rice, etc….

4 places you would rather be right now:
1. perusing a used book store
2. on a warm tropical beach
3. exploring a new and foreign land/culture
4. playing in the snow (which would mean that I would have to be in a place that actually snows….suggestions anyone???)

Tag--You're it!!

Jeff
Sky
Tammy
Baba

finding my home…reaching a balance

With the skyscrapers of the city rising before me and the rolling hills of suburbia fading behind me, I came to the realization that this is my home. This “melting pot” city of diversity, with its intertwining cultures of nationality and religion and sexual orientation, still holds a place for the typical southerner. Granted, I would never describe myself as “typical”, whatever it is that actually means. But I am certainly a Southerner and I have found a home for myself in this diversified southern city. I often write about the changing beauty of the river that I cross each day on my journeys out into the world. But I never write of the beauty of constancy that I feel each day as I walk between towering buildings of steel and glass. The beauty is not the same, as man cannot compete with Nature’s creations. But it is beauty nevertheless. A beauty of power and stability, of security and imagination. A beauty that has formed from the intricacies of an individual mind and has come to manifest itself as the formulating structure of this city. It is this combination of beauty, the creations of both Nature and man, that continues to pull me inward on a daily basis. With the awareness of the river’s changing from moment to moment, so is the knowledge of the constancy of the architecture’s stagnancy. As I continue to watch the rolling waters of the river, I have become increasingly aware of the solid, rising structures that surround the river. Through the beauty of each, I am beginning to reach a harmonious balance.

salvation of sleep

I have so many things that need to be done. Chapters to be read, clothes to be laundered, the language of Rorschach to be learned. And yet, I have decided to not do any of it. At least not at the moment. Instead, I have decided to allow myself the luxury of an afternoon nap, the pure bliss of snuggling underneath my corduroy comforter and listening to the rain pelt the tin gutters outside my window. I have chosen to drift off to sleep with the memory of the darkening smoky gray clouds bringing their introduction of a fresh chill in the air. If I had a fireplace, I would light a fire (despite the unseasonable warmth) and lounge next to it with a good book. If I had a bay window overlooking Nature’s creations, I would sit and write to my heart’s content. With the absence of both, I still might curl up and read the inspiring words of someone’s ancient brilliance or I might search the memories of my mind as inspiration for a few hours of writing. But first, I will allow the beckoning of sleep to seduce me and relish the salvation of its luxury.

beautiful chaos

Apparently, I spoke too soon of experiencing a calm sense of contentment. For today, I found myself swept up in the whirlwind encircling me. However, I am not suggesting a current state of discontent, only a revival of the chaos that had temporarily gone into hiding. I suppose what I am beginning to discover is that chaos is not always the enemy. In a rare form, chaos can be both beautiful and fulfilling. After all, isn’t that what propelled me into this field in the first place? A daily routine that can barely be characterized as routine at all, instead comprised of changing environments and changing interactions on a moment to moment basis. I’ve never done well if I stick with one particular thing for too long a time. Boredom easily takes over and I find myself wanting something new, different, exciting. And in essence, chaos is the mixture of newness and diversity and excitement. It is the combination of so much occurring at once, the culmination of various facets of life tumbling together into one specific piece of time. And so, ultimately, the prominent portion of my days is spent amidst the whirlwind of chaos. And yet I look around me, and through the rapidly swirling layers of body, mind, and soul, what I find is beauty. In the middle of this whirlwind, my life is the epitome of beautiful chaos.

the river's reflection

I feel a sense of contentment tonight. The new semester has just begun and the inevitable deadlines yet to hang over my head. Both my personal and academic reading materials are intriguing. And despite the anxiety that accompanied me to my first real class today, I left the building with a feeling of invigoration that has been buried beneath the recent clouds of a mild depression. Even the unusually warm temperatures could not dim my spirits tonight. Though the fantasies of playing outside on a snowy wintry day continue to fill my dreams, I have succumbed to an acceptance of a southern interpretation of the season.

The change I felt inside today was paralleled by the river’s currents as I passed across it. On my way out into the world this morning, the river’s noisy and unsettled surface mirrored my own painful fears. Through the violent rain, I could feel the river’s uncertainty and was caught in wonder of what lay ahead. But my journey back home found a calmer and more serene river, one offering its soothing waters as proof that the clouds were lifting and the sun would indeed shine again soon.

There is no guarantee of how the river may present itself tomorrow. There is no certainty that the clouds will continue to lift or that the rains will not return with their drenching downpours. But there is possibility and hope. May the river’s waters continue to reflect the contentment I feel tonight.

loving inscriptions

Over the Christmas break, I helped my sister rummage through my parents’ attic and find things to take to GoodWill. In the process of our excavation, I found an old shoebox labeled “sentimental stuff”. The box was old and tattered, the edges barely holding together the foundation for the various remnants of my childhood. Due to the chaos of the holidays, I didn’t explore the box’s contents at the time and only began to peruse the ancient letters and pictures in these past few days. Amidst old birthday cards from my grandparents and pictures from music camp, I came across a pile of letters from my days in junior high school. From the tender age of twelve years old, these letters were filled with words of love and commitment. The words held promises of eternal friendships and bonds that would persist throughout a lifetime. It was a strange feeling that overcame me as I read these letters. Between the laughter at our naïve worldviews, I found myself taken back to a time of disillusioned innocence. The messages of heartfelt love were endearing, but I found the experience bittersweet. The years have taken their toll on my memory and I realized that most of my correspondents have long since been forgotten. Life has taken us down various paths, and most of us have had no contact for many long years. I know a little about some of their lives now, but my only knowledge comes from the newspaper clippings of weddings and births that my mother has mailed me over the years. Many of those young girlfriends are living lives far separated from my own. Like myself, I am sure that many of them have forgotten our bonds of childhood as well.

However, there was one stack of letters and one set of pictures that overwhelmed me with feelings of comfort. Snapshots of two pre-adolescent girls, their arms around one another and knowing smiles beaming from their young faces. Vows to never forget the power of our friendship and the promises that we would never be alone. To this day, we have not forgotten and we are not alone. These letters reminded me that the promise of childhood friendships is not always naïve or disillusioned. As I read the letters that my dear friend wrote to me thirteen years ago, I realized that her words to me then were not so different from the words we exchange now. Loving inscriptions sealed our correspondence in 1992. Loving inscriptions continue to seal our correspondence in 2006.

Amidst the many people who come into our lives, only a few remain forever. Time passes and new life experiences gradually cause the fading away of our histories. But those who touch our hearts the deepest leave a lasting imprint that neither time nor life may conquer.

turning with the world

Tomorrow, the world will begin to turn again. The morning sunlight will cast its shadows upon my walls at a time of day from which the previous weeks have shielded me. The coffee will once again be brewed, its fragrant aroma wafting throughout the rooms of my tiny apartment. My backpack will be stuffed with new textbooks, fresh pens, and perfectly lined sheets of white paper. No doubt, I will be frantically rushing from room to room, ensuring that I have gathered all the necessary belongings until my eye catches sight of the clock which will inevitably read five minutes past the time I should have left. I will emerge into the winter day, which will feel much more like springtime with its balmy temperatures and blinding sunlight and for the millionth time I will close my eyes and imagine the dancing fall of snowflakes and a world blanketed in white. But the moment will pass too soon, the reality of Nature’s confusion will remain, and I will set off across the river toward my destination of new knowledge.

Despite my speculations of tomorrow’s return of daily rituals, I do not know what tomorrow will bring to me. I do not know what the river will offer as I cross over it in this new year. Whether it will beckon to me with a calm and subdued beauty or cry out to me in terrified dread…I do not know. I do not know what my destination will bestow upon me, what knowledge will be imparted to my blank mind. I do not know what hopes or expectations or anxieties the day might bring. But I do know that tomorrow my world will once again begin to turn. And somehow, in some way, I will begin to turn with it.

awakening

The past few weeks have been an ongoing series of excitements and anticipations, a hasty creation of festive chaos and celebrations. With the endings and beginnings brought by the new year, I find myself walking a precarious balance between relaxation and restlessness. A fine line of teaching myself to calm down and allowing myself the luxury of peaceful rest has begun the battle against the need to reactivate my mind and body, urging it onwards towards the responsibilities hovering beyond the nearest corner. The exhilaration of the holidays is quickly receding, with reality’s anxious dread taking its place. The daily chores of existence are calling and I must awaken from fantasy’s slumber.