Tag: life

To the Friends Who Didn’t Stay

Dear Friends Who Didn’t Stay,

I don’t know where you are right now, but wherever you may be physically, on whichever continent, whatever city or town, and wherever you may be in life, blissfully wandering or rooted, I hope you are well in mind, body and spirit.

I don’t know why, but at some point life pushed us in different directions, or we chose to part ways.

I don’t know how, but somehow you’re now a person I used to know, someone I used to laugh with and have inside jokes with, and now you are someone who crosses my mind maybe just a few times a year, maybe, or perhaps less, or possibly more, or not, and always at random times, or monumental times, like a pandemic, where the world is crouching into itself and suddenly feeling very small and very collected.

We used to smoke in cars together. Make music. Take fuzzy photos of each other on those early-day cell phones from the early 2000’s. Or even before that, we used to play snake on those small fat Nokias. Remember those?

We used to sit around a make-shift table on a building roof for hours at night where we’d occasionally glance up at the stars, or our watches, and in those moments (I don’t know about you) I wondered what would become of us years from then, and if those stars knew that secret.

We danced together, cooked together, shared mix-tapes on CDs, shared taxis, shared secrets, drank till all the bottles were empty and all our vulnerabilities shone on our skin like sweat. Here, look at me, we’d say to each other in this haze; look at me because I love you and want to be seen and loved by you in return. We always texted or called each other the next day or week because we were friends. We wanted to know when we could do it all over again.

We were friends and now we are strangers.

Mere photographs in a Facebook profile.

And we barely have any photographs together, if any, because that’s not what we used to do back in the day… back in those wonderful pre-social media days, which, because they were so undocumented, feel more like dreams.

I don’t know how or why, but the stars continued to move across the skies as we moved out of each other’s lives, physically at first then mentally then emotionally, then… suddenly we didn’t have each other’s phone numbers (or no longer felt a pull to use them), and the years layered on and on, and our absence in each other’s lives became new soil for new people to take root, and stay.

We’re no longer planning the next time we will meet. No longer seeking each other’s advice or opinions. We’re simply, no longer. Not because you or I were bad friends to one another, but because that’s just life.

And even though I don’t know you anymore, I do sometimes miss the “used to be” of us that we were for a time, even if it was only meant to be for that time. We shaped each other, and whether we realize it or not our impressions still live in each other’s minds. We had such good conversations.

One day we might pass one another on a street, or not, and the spark of familiarity will flicker in the form of shock and maybe even adrenaline, or not. And what is that spark of familiarity but a mirage of the past? Like the faint scent of baked bread that lingers in a kitchen long after the bread has been eaten.

It’s not a longing that I feel for you, dear “used to be” friend, because even if we were to meet again we couldn’t possibly connect like we did before because you and I are no longer that you and me of yesterday. Too much space and time has swelled between us; we didn’t grow together we grew apart, and that’s the difference between a friend who stays and a friend who doesn’t. Friends who stay can grow separately but not apart.

But again, it’s nobody’s fault.

We’ve been moved by different years, events, and people. What we need from friendship today is different from what we needed yesterday. And that’s okay. It is how it should be.

I only want you to know that I’m thankful for the person you once were in my life, however it is we parted ways, intentionally or consciously or not. You’ll always be a part of my story, a part of cherished memories that I go back to from time to time, at random moments, or epic ones, for no reason at all, or for specific reasons, where I wonder, in a fleeting moment that lasts as long as a birthday candle’s flame: how are they today?

(And yes, some years I do remember you on your birthday.)

I hope you are well.

Sincerely,

Your Friend Who Didn’t Stay

The Importance of Doing Nothing (Sometimes)

I made a peanut butter banana smoothie earlier, and the blender, emptied of its contents, is waiting for me on the kitchen counter.  I can’t see it because I’m in my living room right now, but I know it’s there.

The plates from lunch are also there, waiting. And there may be a block of Swiss cheese under one of them that I forgot to put back in the fridge.

My baby’s bib is crumpled up on her high chair, also in the kitchen. Just another item in the long list of things waiting to be cleaned. It’s one of those long-sleeved full body bibs that has saved me from having to wash her clothes after every mealtime (we do baby-led weaning, which is extremely messy). The bib, however, as I’ve just noted, needs cleaning, so really there is no escaping constant washing and cleaning when you have a child.

My baby is finally asleep and I haven’t picked up the toys strewn upon the living room floor (that my dog lazily assesses from the couch). And I haven’t folded the clean clothes that have been sitting in the laundry basket since last weekend (today is Saturday).

I’m sitting here with my dog contemplating all these things I have not done, and these things are making me feel claustrophobic. I start to get up… then I decide to ignore them and do nothing. (How glorious!) My dog is quite the expert at happily doing nothing, so I’ll just take my queues from her tonight. She never judges—she understands.

Here are some things I did do today though:

I went to a car dealership (didn’t get the car I wanted but it was a cool learning experience).

I played with my baby. Marveled at her as she crawled—everywhere. Watched her raid my bookshelves and very much enjoyed the entertainment she provided removing every book and tossing it on the floor.

I watched a weird kids movie called Gnome Alone. Not sure how I feel about it. Wasn’t the most intelligent kids movie I’ve seen.

I fed my baby, bathed her, told her I loved her as I kissed her toes.

When I first sat down after she finally went to sleep, I felt guilty that I didn’t accomplish any of my chores that I had set out to do when the day first started. I felt guilty for sitting down instead of turning to the next thing that needed my attention.

Something always needs my attention. (The books she tossed on the floor? Still there.)

But sitting here doing nothing (well, now I’m writing) is bringing me a peaceful kind of joy.

And joy needs nurturing.

A blogger I follow tends to say “being present is being productive” when she talks about motherhood. I really like this mantra, especially on Saturdays like today, when I spent so much of my afternoon just being with my baby instead of putting her in her playpen so I could run around the house doing chores.

Saturdays—weekends in general—are the holy grail of “when I’m going to get things done.” But sometimes Monday comes along and I look back at my would-have-been productive weekend and I sigh and push everything to the next weekend.

In the midst of doing so many things=, all the time, on high speed, on auto-pilot, or on copious amounts of caffeine, it’s really good for the mind to do nothing sometimes. A healthy dose of not doing can help you achieve balance when you spend so much of your time doing. Self-care, self-preservation, protecting your sanity—whatever you want to call it and whatever that looks like for you—doing nothing should be a necessary part of the week.

The dirty blender and plates in my kitchen? I know they’ll greet me tomorrow morning. The clothes in my hamper? Sure, they may be wrinkled, but at least they are clean. The toys on the floor? They will be played with again tomorrow.

All is well. All is okay.

I simply can’t do everything all the time.

Sometimes, I need to do nothing.  I need to. And as my dog would agree, it’s a perfectly fine way to pass the time.

20190519_013852

Reflecting on ‘The Power of Meaning…’ by Emily Esfahani Smith

I just finished this book by Emily Esfahani Smith: The Power of Meaning: Finding Fulfillment in a World Obsessed with Happiness. I don’t read nonfiction very often, but once in a while when I find a topic that intrigues me, curiosity pulls me in, and this book certainly did. It investigates how we can find meaning in life, on why a focus on meaning rather than happiness is so critical to our ability to thrive. The book was published recently, in 2017, so it includes all the latest research on this topic, which was definitely interesting to read about.

Our Obsession with Happiness

It’s true—happiness seems to be the goal we’re constantly aiming for in life. We make plans and buy things and pursue paths because we think it will make us happy. And for a brief moment it does. Ask anyone what they want out of life, and they will probably say “I just want to be happy.”

We use happiness to justify our actions, our means to our ends. Do what makes you happy, society says. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, America declares. We all just want to be happy!

And I get it. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to be happy. But I’ve always believed that happiness isn’t the point of life. I don’t believe I was put here on this earth to be happy. Happiness to me is a fleeting emotion, and at the same time, a wonderful gift. (Also, how egocentric of us to think that life’s ultimate mission is to find our own personal happiness.) Happiness, I believe, is a by-product of how we choose to live and perceive our lives.

The Desire for Meaning

Enter Emily Esfahani Smith. This wise young author presents in her book the idea that meaning—not happiness—is what we’re all truly seeking on an innate level. And it makes sense if you think about it. Money and fame and success and all those traditional triggers for happiness don’t bring their recipients any lasting joy or fulfillment.

People live in gilded cages feeling empty and lost. Our obsession with buying more and more stuff stems from this desire to fill that void, to refuel that happiness tank that can never stay full. It can never stay full because it’s simply not the point. We’re chasing the wrong goal.

Perhaps it’s an issue of semantics; when people say they want to be happy, they mean they want to feel a sense of meaning in their lives. That’s life’s big question after all, the GREAT MYSTERY: What is the meaning of life? Why am I here? What is the point of it all?

To answer these questions, we must either find a source of meaning or create meaning for ourselves. Only then can we lead meaningful lives and find that sense of fulfillment.

The Pillars of Meaning

Using research in psychology and neuroscience, and insights from philosophy and literature, Smith illuminates the four pillars of meaning—belonging, purpose, storytelling, and transcendence—that can help us lead more satisfying lives.

Each pillar has its own chapter in the book, and all throughout we’re introduced to people, both ordinary and extraordinary, who are working to build meaning in their lives using these pillars. We meet astronauts, survivors of trauma, entrepreneurs, people facing impending deaths, a zoo keeper, and everyday people trying to make sense of their lives.

The stories entwine with fascinating research and scientific findings—from how awe affects the sense of self to the strange relationship between happiness and suicide, and to the factors that make some people more resilient in the face of adversity than others.

The beauty of these pillars is that they are accessible to everyone. Both with and without religion, individuals can build up each of these pillars in their lives. They are sources of meaning that cut through every aspect of existence. ~ Emily Esfahani Smith, The Power of Meaning

I read this book for a book club, and it was interesting to hear, during our meeting, how the pillars resonated differently with each person. Not surprisingly, one of the pillars I gravitated towards was the pillar of storytelling.

Storytelling is one of the oldest traditions in human history; it’s how we connect with ourselves and others, how we make sense of the world and our place in it. This method of discovering meaning through narrative is not just about the stories we share or hear, but about the stories we tell ourselves, about ourselves. These stories of the self can either lift us up or oppress us, depending on the perspective we choose. There is great power in the story and it’s ability to shed light, provide context, and promote healing and understanding.

It was interesting to notice, also, how many of these pillars already exist in many aspects of my life and the lives of the people I know closely. The more I read about each one the more I made connections with how certain people in my life arrive at meaning, whether they realize it or not, through one of the pillars.

With transcendence, for example, where you connect with something larger than yourself to find meaning, I saw how my tendency to seek out nature—the peace and tranquility of forests or the overwhelming majesty of the ocean—is my way of achieving a transcendent state, to recenter myself amidst the chaos of everyday.

It’s by recognizing these pillars that we can work to cultivate them more intentionally in our lives, and thus achieve a deeper sense of meaning for who we are and how we want to live.

There’s More to Life Than Being Happy

I really enjoyed this book. It was a fast, easy read, well-written and well-researched. I had never heard of Smith before but I’m glad we are now acquainted, and I’m looking forward to hearing her speak at an event next month.

Intrigued? Check out her TED Talk “There’s more to life than being happy”—and if you end up reading her book, let me know what you think!

The Miracle of Mornings

0d246de

Even though waking up early can be a struggle, I’m glad I have somewhere to go to every morning. I’m glad that I’m needed, that people are expecting me, waiting for me, and happy to see me when I arrive.

Sure, I could opt to live a life of sleeping in. Of dreaming for just a little bit longer as I clutch my dog and smell her ears for just a little bit longer. I could opt to wake when I please, without urgency, and I could make showering optional (imagine the gallons of water I’d save).

But what kind of life would that be? A cyclical drudgery. An eventual restless wandering. Even larvae live with purpose.

We are creatures of habit. Some of us thrive on routine, some of us thrive on the thrill of not knowing what’s next (though really, nobody knows what’s next). But we are all creatures of habit. So I will make my new habit this:

To rise each morning purposefully and gratefully, a willing recipient to the day’s embrace, which is in no way owed to me. To recognize the miracle of mornings. The way they kiss my cheek each day, without fail, without judgement, never wanting anything in return save for gladness, as I flutter my eyes awake.

Don’t Let Life Pass You By

The_Time_Traveler_by_xetobyte

It’s easy to get lost in the folds of everyday. The countdown to the weekend seems to rule our lives. It’s a vicious cycle that blurs together days and weeks and months, until you forget how old you are on your birthday, and you no longer want to celebrate.

To-do lists are endless highways, as though life were a road trip, and you stay up all night just to get to where you want to be, and by day you’re too exhausted to enjoy the views. Attempts to workout or eat right or quit that habit or say the right words or commit to that perfect routine seem to follow you like a recurring daydream (or nightmare). Then you wake up one morning and realize six months have gone by (or worse — years), and you still haven’t taken the steps to accomplish all that your heart wants to do. Your passions are hanging on a hook behind your bedroom door. I’ll get to it tomorrow, you say as you make your usual exit, walk down the path of your usual routine. Because first things first: bills need to be paid, and your boss is expecting you to be somewhere on time — on their behalf.

And all the while your dog is getting older as he waits for you on the couch each day. You are getting older. The days continue to dissolve and you continue to put off calling up that friend or family member whom you haven’t seen in ages. You don’t remember what you did last weekend because every weekend looks the same, and it doesn’t matter anyway. You seem to be constantly saving for something and constantly broke. Not because you don’t have money, but because you’re worried that like time, you’ll never get back what you spend, so you tuck it away hoping something worthwhile will come along, something that will give you a good return on investment. And you’re constantly searching for that one thing that’s certain. Because better safe than sorry, right?

When I was about 6 or 7 years old, I remember having what was probably my very first moment of clarity. I was sitting at the dining room table eating alone, looking across the room to the wall that held a round-faced clock. I remember staring at the second hand, focusing every thread of my being on its incessant ticking, its endless quest to move forward, to keep going. And for some reason, I remember feeling an immense sadness at the sudden, stark awareness that seconds were falling away from me. Falling away as I sat there on that table with a spoon in my hand, into a place I could never visit. It was the first time I realized that time is irretrievable.

We all have things that we want to do and things that we must do — sometimes those things align, sometimes they conflict. But no matter where those things fit in your life, I’ve learned that it’s important to prioritize what makes your heart catch fire. To do what makes you feel alive. Too many of us walk around drugged by coffee and obligations — utterly subdued into mindless routines that undo the threads of the heart by night and numb the passions of the soul by day.

Until you wake up and your skin is stale, and the pages of the novel you’d never written are sitting on your bedside table, yellowed by years of neglect. And your boss doesn’t exist in your life anymore, and you don’t remember how old you are, and it doesn’t matter anyway. Suddenly your life’s priorities involve getting to the bathroom before you let yourself go, and making your doctor’s appointments on time (they’re very busy so it’s important to be on time) because those shiny-eyed doctors with their sympathetic nods hold the answers to elongating your life (at least that’s what your mind has you believe) — though you’re unsure what you would do with your time if you did live longer. Because by that point, your best years are gone anyway (at least that’s what your mind has you believe). And dreams are for sissies anyway. Dreams are for street musicians and artist hippies and young inventors and college students who think they can change the world. Who are you to dream? Who are you?

Lies are Exhausting

24957_1_miscellaneous_digital_art_heart_vs_brain

“Lies are exhausting,” said the heart.

“But some things mustn’t be said,” said the brain. “Sometimes the truth does more harm than good. What’s more important to you? Truth or peace?”

“Can’t the two co-exist? Doesn’t truth seek justice?”

“The truth seeks nothing but itself,” said the brain. “The truth is selfish, if you ask me. It wants the spotlight. It wants to be heard. And it has a right to be, but in reality, whether or not the truth is uttered, the truth still is, regardless.”

“But the truth must be sought, must be proven, must be shared, must be lived,” said the heart. “It mustn’t be suppressed.”

“The truth is never suppressed,” said the brain. “The truth just is. People choose their own truths and choose their own lies. People are free to choose. And each choice comes with sacrifice. That’s when one must prioritize.”

“But lies are exhausting,” said the heart. “And you yourself can’t even keep up. Each time a lie is uttered, another must be made to cover it up. Must we lie? Doesn’t the truth set you free?”

“The truth only unburdens the liar,” said the brain. “It’s impossible to appease everyone. The truth is uncomfortable and it stings. Once uttered, it merely becomes a burden to someone else.”

“But the truth is not a burden! Lies are the burden! Lies wrap me in shadows,” said the heart. “Lies choke my breath. Lies are exhausting. Lies make a fool of everyone. The truth is the truth—it simply is, as you said—and so it must be. It’s a lesson for the ears that don’t want to hear it. The truth is inevitable. It doesn’t go away.”

“The truth!” said the brain. “Don’t you see it’s all relative? One person’s truth is another person’s lie! What is the truth if everyone chooses to believe what they will, to see what they want to see?”

“Even so,” said the heart. “Lies are exhausting. They bring me no joy.”

Trials are like fertilizer

calm-before-storm-1

Hello, wonderful readers and bloggers. I have been absent from my blog for pretty much this entire month, which makes me sad, but I am still here, I assure you. I have not fallen off the blogging stratosphere, at least not yet. Blogging isn’t easy, as I’m sure you know. It’s a commitment, like a relationship, one that must be nurtured and constantly fed, and I’ve enjoyed the challenge of holding myself accountable to keeping this blog of mine, ‘the little blog that could’, alive and worthy of your time.

The truth is, and though this is a sappy excuse (I hate excuses), I’ve been battling some personal trials and tribulations these past few weeks (non life-threatening) that have completely taken over my mental, physical, and emotional energy. I will spare you the details because my blog is not a diary or journal; it is meant to be a place of inspiration and thought (at least that’s my hope and intention).

Trials.

As much as they cause pain and discomfort, sadness, confusion, or anger, they are very necessary. We need trials, we need moments of failure, we need our bubbles to burst sometimes. Trials push our mental, spiritual, and emotional development. Without trials, we would remain stagnant, floating on a plateau of ignorance and self-absorption. Trials force us to look inside ourselves, to reexamine what is important to us, what is worth fighting for.

Trials help us recognize the blessings we might have taken for granted were it not for the knife that stabbed the force fields of our comfort zones. Trials test our courage; they make us face our fears. Trials soften our hearts so that we can be more compassionate and empathetic towards others.

We need trials.

Trials are like fertilizer. Though repulsive and unpleasant, they help beautiful things to grow. A tiny, helpless seed must push its way out of darkness, through the thick, heavy soil, in order to reach the sunlight, in order to thrive and transform into a new being with a new purpose.

Every trial has its purpose.

Right now, I am in the thick of it. I am soaked in fertilizer. But the important thing to keep in check as we endure our trials and tribulations… is perspective. No trial lasts forever because nothing lasts forever. Without trials there can be no sigh of relief. Without trials there can be no shaping of character and strength and perspective and inspiration. There would be no tales of heroism—no inspirational autobiographies. No lessons learned.

Yes, I have moments of weakness where I’m in no mood to be positive, to try to trace the silver lining. Sometimes you just need someone to sit with you, hold your hand, listen, and tell you, “yeah, that is pretty bad.” Those moments are okay—they make us human and keep us human.

But after a good night’s rest, after a long, tight hug with someone you love who loves you, after a good cry or punching bag session, after silent reflection, after all the volatile emotions diffuse… it becomes a little easier to invite perspective back into your heart. To realize that, like all the centuries that have gone before you, this too shall pass, this too you shall overcome.

It may seem like the end of your world when you’re in the thick of your trial, but it really isn’t. Life moves on and life moves fast. Our bodies may be destructible but our spirits were built to endure. No matter how big and powerful the storm, sunshine always prevails.

WP_20131115_08620131115165353

where there is life there is hope

Hope is not always as we expect it to be. It does not always shine brilliantly. Sometimes you have to search for it in heaps of rubble. Quiet your mind from the chaos to hear its soft flutter. Hope will always meet you anywhere, but your will to reach for it must be stronger than your fear that it isn’t there.

danbo-hope