A musical "woa" moment:
Ever seen Cinema Paradiso? Best final scene ever. Beautiful theme song (search for "Cinema Paradiso" and "Love Theme" on iTunes).
I was listening to Chet Baker sing "I've Never Been in Love Before" (and wondering how he feels singing those words, but that's a different topic)...The song ends with 7 notes on the piano that I am sure are the same 7 notes in "The Love Theme from Cinema Paradiso."
. . .
Yeah, that's all.
Nothing to see here; bye.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Are you familiar with The Red Poppy Art House?
It's a fantastic place to meet like-minded people who are into the arts/world music/jazz/the combination of all of the three. I suppose it depends on you. The amazing people are there whether you talk to them or not.
Anyhow...
I volunteer to maintain the Myspace page—feel free to add The Poppy to your friends if you're on Myspace. The official concert calendar is here.
Good show coming up, one close to my heart: NEFASHA AYER—The Space of In Between.
Enjoy.
tk
Anyhow...
I volunteer to maintain the Myspace page—feel free to add The Poppy to your friends if you're on Myspace. The official concert calendar is here.
Good show coming up, one close to my heart: NEFASHA AYER—The Space of In Between.
Enjoy.
tk
Thursday, November 13, 2008
morning commute musings
(scribbled on my morning commute into my haiku moments notebook, this is the longest entry I've ever put in there—they're generally fragments)
• • •
CREATE.
S c h e m e.
Remember.
• • •
11/11/2008
Bike ride to the beach w/ Lori.
I take that last right turn to the street that will lead me to the water. I smell woodchips. I love that smell. I feel the excitement building in my body before I even see the water. I needed this.
And there it is. I see it; then, I hear its rough murmurs, gurgles.
I needed this.
There's green and white foam on the beach, thick. Lori and I observe that they look like creatures in a sci-fi movie as they move with the wind and inch closer towards the shore. We joke that what we dismiss as sea foam are really undercover aliens in disguise.
The moon rises at dusk & moves in and out of clouds.
On the way back, I stop and call at Lori to turn around and look at the sky behind us. The trees are dark against the orangebluegray sky. We keep riding. Beyond the trees in front of us now is the moon again (& the yellowish red rings around it), glowing. I take a deep breath and grin. We ride past the aging bison.
• • •
CREATE.
S c h e m e.
Remember.
• • •
11/11/2008
Bike ride to the beach w/ Lori.
I take that last right turn to the street that will lead me to the water. I smell woodchips. I love that smell. I feel the excitement building in my body before I even see the water. I needed this.
And there it is. I see it; then, I hear its rough murmurs, gurgles.
I needed this.
There's green and white foam on the beach, thick. Lori and I observe that they look like creatures in a sci-fi movie as they move with the wind and inch closer towards the shore. We joke that what we dismiss as sea foam are really undercover aliens in disguise.
The moon rises at dusk & moves in and out of clouds.
On the way back, I stop and call at Lori to turn around and look at the sky behind us. The trees are dark against the orangebluegray sky. We keep riding. Beyond the trees in front of us now is the moon again (& the yellowish red rings around it), glowing. I take a deep breath and grin. We ride past the aging bison.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
the body, reset
It's pretty amazing to me what our bodies are capable of storing up.
I've written about body memory before.
These days, I've been thinking about the rhythms the body creates to sustain itself.
I can tell myself all I want that expectations are unhealthy, that they lead to disappointment, but my body has its own rhythmic logic. My body wouldn't calm down until I read the Talking Points Memo each morning leading up to the elections. It expects to find itself in a new environment every break I get from work; otherwise, it gets stir crazy. I feel this very physically in my body, not just psychologically.
I also just realized that my body sets up its patterns with people. It expects to make contact with people it likes somewhat regularly once even a vague pattern has been established. During the elections week, I struggled with changes to one such pattern. It was a hectic week for everyone, and someone I/my body expected to see had a change in plans. My body had a visceral reaction. I felt anxiety and began wondering what was up. I think finding absence when I looked forward to presence stirs up some old, old shit in my body (=baggage leftover from being cheated on in a relationship, and probably some stuff about growing up with family members I loved living in another country).
Once I became conscious of these patterns, I knew my body needed a "reset." I needed beach time. Perspective. Fast.
I couldn't have picked a better day to ride my bike to the beach. Yesterday, at dusk, the moon and the sky and the ocean were gorgeous. I read aloud the bit about hope that I posted yesterday. And I honestly felt calm in my body for the first time in a while.
Body resetting mission: accomplished.
I know I have managed to erase the patterns my body had built up. I feel more grounded and less programmed now. My body feels more aligned with how I feel and how I perceive myself: it feels open to spontaneity again rather than privileging patterns that don't really exist.
Nothing like nature to show you even the natural rhythms possess an inherent variation and randomness within.
:: exhales ::
I've written about body memory before.
These days, I've been thinking about the rhythms the body creates to sustain itself.
I can tell myself all I want that expectations are unhealthy, that they lead to disappointment, but my body has its own rhythmic logic. My body wouldn't calm down until I read the Talking Points Memo each morning leading up to the elections. It expects to find itself in a new environment every break I get from work; otherwise, it gets stir crazy. I feel this very physically in my body, not just psychologically.
I also just realized that my body sets up its patterns with people. It expects to make contact with people it likes somewhat regularly once even a vague pattern has been established. During the elections week, I struggled with changes to one such pattern. It was a hectic week for everyone, and someone I/my body expected to see had a change in plans. My body had a visceral reaction. I felt anxiety and began wondering what was up. I think finding absence when I looked forward to presence stirs up some old, old shit in my body (=baggage leftover from being cheated on in a relationship, and probably some stuff about growing up with family members I loved living in another country).
Once I became conscious of these patterns, I knew my body needed a "reset." I needed beach time. Perspective. Fast.
I couldn't have picked a better day to ride my bike to the beach. Yesterday, at dusk, the moon and the sky and the ocean were gorgeous. I read aloud the bit about hope that I posted yesterday. And I honestly felt calm in my body for the first time in a while.
Body resetting mission: accomplished.
I know I have managed to erase the patterns my body had built up. I feel more grounded and less programmed now. My body feels more aligned with how I feel and how I perceive myself: it feels open to spontaneity again rather than privileging patterns that don't really exist.
Nothing like nature to show you even the natural rhythms possess an inherent variation and randomness within.
:: exhales ::
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
but I think hope is like a crush.
not the resigned hope, like -i hope things get better -- but the hope that feels like suspended disbelief. where spaces open up and everything is possible again, and you're pushed to adventure, pushed out of your regular boxes, pushed to show off, to be the person you want to be the most, working hard to show your best sides, your secret scars, your hidden dreams.
hope is like a crush, making things as beautiful as possible even knowing you'll get hurt.
it won't sustain you, not like the hard work of love will, but it pushes you beyond what you thought you were capable of.
i am not optimistic, but hope, yes, hope.
I added more to my previous post in the comments section, but I wanted to keep this separate.
This is from a zine called Doris. Issue 26. I like reading and rereading this section. I find it soothing, grounding, and inspiring. I feel like the writer lived in my head at some point and took notes, and now here she is, reminding me what I've always known.
You have no idea how much hope I suddenly have. I feel my body pushing anxiety out and embracing the lightness of being once more.
I am so crushed out on these words.
I am so crushed out.
hope is like a crush, making things as beautiful as possible even knowing you'll get hurt.
it won't sustain you, not like the hard work of love will, but it pushes you beyond what you thought you were capable of.
i am not optimistic, but hope, yes, hope.
I added more to my previous post in the comments section, but I wanted to keep this separate.
This is from a zine called Doris. Issue 26. I like reading and rereading this section. I find it soothing, grounding, and inspiring. I feel like the writer lived in my head at some point and took notes, and now here she is, reminding me what I've always known.
You have no idea how much hope I suddenly have. I feel my body pushing anxiety out and embracing the lightness of being once more.
I am so crushed out on these words.
I am so crushed out.
Monday, November 10, 2008
on L/love
Fuck it. I know exactly what's wrong within my body, what I need to alleviate all the anxiety and sadness stored up in there for months and months. I think too many people look for explanations when it's clear what we need. But let me make I statements, as vulnerable as I feel writing this post. You know what would make me feel better?
L.O.V.E.
Not "love ya," not a dutiful "I love you." Not something at the end of an email or in a text message (no matter how genuine those may be, too), but a genuine and in-person "I love you," in any and all its variations.
I want to feel in my body that I am loved.
Yes.
.
.
.
Love. Been thinking about all its paradoxes. This will get lost in translation, but as the Turkish saying goes, it's too bad that love has become a piece of gum in people's mouths, at least in this country. People throw it around all the time, so it's hard to know the difference between love and Love. I do think there needs to be a difference between "I love my new corkscrew" and "I love you."
And yet, and yet…
I do think I have come to take "Love" too seriously; when I'm in a relationship, I do wait for the other person to say the L-word before I open up. I have also gotten so sucked into all the semantics of love that I am not certain I can tell the difference between loving and being in love. The distinction in Turkish is a lot clearer to me. You have one word for the person you are in a romantic relationship with, and another you can use for your new corkscrew, playing hooky, your grandma…
.
.
.
I began making a list of things that make me feel loved and alive. Once I feel I have my list down, I plan on going through it and giving each item some time to the extent that I am able—in other words, it's not like I can manipulate someone into making me dinner or reading to me. It happens when it happens. I thought of what has gotten me out of a funk in the past and made me feel love/beauty/inspiration/alive in my body. Here's the list so far (when I think of something else, I'll add it to the comments section):
• 1 am trip to the beach
• a trip to the beach anytime
• swimming in a sea
• "That's it; I'm taking you out for sushi."
• Octojelly (=my biracial kite)
• Bubbles
• being pissed off out of my funk
• crying the stress out of my body
• um, sex...kisses and bites and cuddling. (Duh.)
• someone's beautiful words in a blog post
• The Stendhal Syndrome—being moved by art and music.
• traveling elsewhere
• being read to
• reading the zines Tomas gave me
• recording haiku moments
• the wisdom of Chip Thomas
• writing postcards to people I love everyday for a month (I need to go buy some stamps pronto!)
• bourbon and conversation with Todd, or sometimes just sitting together in silence
• reading James Baldwin
What makes you feel loved and alive?
L.O.V.E.
Not "love ya," not a dutiful "I love you." Not something at the end of an email or in a text message (no matter how genuine those may be, too), but a genuine and in-person "I love you," in any and all its variations.
I want to feel in my body that I am loved.
Yes.
.
.
.
Love. Been thinking about all its paradoxes. This will get lost in translation, but as the Turkish saying goes, it's too bad that love has become a piece of gum in people's mouths, at least in this country. People throw it around all the time, so it's hard to know the difference between love and Love. I do think there needs to be a difference between "I love my new corkscrew" and "I love you."
And yet, and yet…
I do think I have come to take "Love" too seriously; when I'm in a relationship, I do wait for the other person to say the L-word before I open up. I have also gotten so sucked into all the semantics of love that I am not certain I can tell the difference between loving and being in love. The distinction in Turkish is a lot clearer to me. You have one word for the person you are in a romantic relationship with, and another you can use for your new corkscrew, playing hooky, your grandma…
.
.
.
I began making a list of things that make me feel loved and alive. Once I feel I have my list down, I plan on going through it and giving each item some time to the extent that I am able—in other words, it's not like I can manipulate someone into making me dinner or reading to me. It happens when it happens. I thought of what has gotten me out of a funk in the past and made me feel love/beauty/inspiration/alive in my body. Here's the list so far (when I think of something else, I'll add it to the comments section):
• 1 am trip to the beach
• a trip to the beach anytime
• swimming in a sea
• "That's it; I'm taking you out for sushi."
• Octojelly (=my biracial kite)
• Bubbles
• being pissed off out of my funk
• crying the stress out of my body
• um, sex...kisses and bites and cuddling. (Duh.)
• someone's beautiful words in a blog post
• The Stendhal Syndrome—being moved by art and music.
• traveling elsewhere
• being read to
• reading the zines Tomas gave me
• recording haiku moments
• the wisdom of Chip Thomas
• writing postcards to people I love everyday for a month (I need to go buy some stamps pronto!)
• bourbon and conversation with Todd, or sometimes just sitting together in silence
• reading James Baldwin
What makes you feel loved and alive?
Saturday, November 08, 2008
bicycle dreams
Within the last three nights, I had two dreams of a stolen bicycle.
So I did some dream research.
To dream that you are riding a bicycle signifies your desires to attain a balance in your life. You need to balance work and pleasure in order to succeed in your current undertakings. If you have difficulties riding the bicycle, then it suggests that you are experiencing anxieties about making it on your own.
To see a bicycle in your dream, indicates that you need to devote time to leisurely pursuits and recreation.
To dream that you are a witness to a theft, indicates that others are wasting and stealing your time, energy, and ideas.
So...when I find my own bicycle stripped (wheels and seat etc. gone), I am seeing my ability to devote time to recreation stripped away from me because my time/energy are stolen from me? Or maybe I'm feeling like I am not well equipped right now to attain balance in my life because there are things that are competing for my time/energy/ideas?
Well: NO SHIT.
And what does it mean when I dream someone else's bike is gone and I feel responsible even though I know it wasn't my fault?
So I did some dream research.
To dream that you are riding a bicycle signifies your desires to attain a balance in your life. You need to balance work and pleasure in order to succeed in your current undertakings. If you have difficulties riding the bicycle, then it suggests that you are experiencing anxieties about making it on your own.
To see a bicycle in your dream, indicates that you need to devote time to leisurely pursuits and recreation.
To dream that you are a witness to a theft, indicates that others are wasting and stealing your time, energy, and ideas.
So...when I find my own bicycle stripped (wheels and seat etc. gone), I am seeing my ability to devote time to recreation stripped away from me because my time/energy are stolen from me? Or maybe I'm feeling like I am not well equipped right now to attain balance in my life because there are things that are competing for my time/energy/ideas?
Well: NO SHIT.
And what does it mean when I dream someone else's bike is gone and I feel responsible even though I know it wasn't my fault?
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
After the win...
Everything now, we must assume, is in our hands; we have no right to assume otherwise. If we—and now I mean the relatively conscious whites and the relatively conscious blacks, who must, like lovers, insist on, or create, the consciousness of others—do not falter in our duty now, we may be able, handful that we are, to end the racial nightmare, and achieve our country, and change the history of the world.
:: who else but James Baldwin ::
In the meantime—a necessarily incomplete gratitude list that got me this far...
Thank you for giving a shit.
Thank you for doing your part.
Thank you for voting.
Thank you for emailing/texting me after you voted.
Thank you for donating to my Obama fundraiser and for making me feel empowered, "alien" as I may be.
Thank you to the folks who raised you, friends alongside family.
Thank you to the folks who pissed you off and challenged you along the way if only to strengthen the values and views you already held.
Thank you for sharing those values and views with your community.
Thank you for calling me on my BS and keeping me honest with myself.
Thank you for reading my blog posts because you care about what's on my mind, because you know your reading these thoughts put into words means the world to me.
Thank you for being literate and literary people; thank you for playing with words.
Thank you for sending me postcards, CDs, photos, Obama stickers (my favorite: the one I can't even read from the Navajo reservation in AZ).
Thank you for making bubbles.
Thank you for trusting me with your spare keys.
Thank you for acknowledging your privilege as husband and wife as a part of your wedding ceremony, for acknowledging ongoing injustice.
Thank you for supporting the arts and local artists.
Thank you for being community organizers.
Thank you for being my community.
Thank you for putting out zines.
Thank you for raising children the best way you know how.
Thank you for knowing we all fuck up sometimes and that we get to.
Thank you for being educators.
Thank you for following world news.
Thank you for making world news.
Thank you for looking at maps.
Thank you for knowing some words and phrases in my mother tongue.
Thank you for visiting my birthplace, for swimming in the Aegean Sea with me.
Thank you for talking to strangers.
Thank you for giving me support when I get down about all this INS bureaucracy bullshit; thank you for having a sense of humor so I can lighten up, too.
Thank you for jumping photos.
Thank you for taking me to the beach.
Thank you for jazz.
Thank you for cooking; thank you for sharing a table.
Thank you for knowing some desserts must be had two days in a row.
Thank you for making art with your hands.
Thank you for holding mine...even when they're sweaty.
Thank you for giving me a sense of home.
tk
:: who else but James Baldwin ::
In the meantime—a necessarily incomplete gratitude list that got me this far...
Thank you for giving a shit.
Thank you for doing your part.
Thank you for voting.
Thank you for emailing/texting me after you voted.
Thank you for donating to my Obama fundraiser and for making me feel empowered, "alien" as I may be.
Thank you to the folks who raised you, friends alongside family.
Thank you to the folks who pissed you off and challenged you along the way if only to strengthen the values and views you already held.
Thank you for sharing those values and views with your community.
Thank you for calling me on my BS and keeping me honest with myself.
Thank you for reading my blog posts because you care about what's on my mind, because you know your reading these thoughts put into words means the world to me.
Thank you for being literate and literary people; thank you for playing with words.
Thank you for sending me postcards, CDs, photos, Obama stickers (my favorite: the one I can't even read from the Navajo reservation in AZ).
Thank you for making bubbles.
Thank you for trusting me with your spare keys.
Thank you for acknowledging your privilege as husband and wife as a part of your wedding ceremony, for acknowledging ongoing injustice.
Thank you for supporting the arts and local artists.
Thank you for being community organizers.
Thank you for being my community.
Thank you for putting out zines.
Thank you for raising children the best way you know how.
Thank you for knowing we all fuck up sometimes and that we get to.
Thank you for being educators.
Thank you for following world news.
Thank you for making world news.
Thank you for looking at maps.
Thank you for knowing some words and phrases in my mother tongue.
Thank you for visiting my birthplace, for swimming in the Aegean Sea with me.
Thank you for talking to strangers.
Thank you for giving me support when I get down about all this INS bureaucracy bullshit; thank you for having a sense of humor so I can lighten up, too.
Thank you for jumping photos.
Thank you for taking me to the beach.
Thank you for jazz.
Thank you for cooking; thank you for sharing a table.
Thank you for knowing some desserts must be had two days in a row.
Thank you for making art with your hands.
Thank you for holding mine...even when they're sweaty.
Thank you for giving me a sense of home.
tk
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Should I include this in her letter of rec for college?
The one in blue is a senior I am teaching right now...and this would be why -even when I'm fucking stressed out- I love my job.
"Hey Sarah Palin."
"Hey Sarah Palin."
Monday, November 03, 2008
Poll tax (aka I fucking love this woman)
I love it when articulate people express what's been on my mind for a while.
At the same time, I always get a little disappointed and frustrated when I do come across someone finally articulating what I've been thinking about. Why? Because I find it disconcerting that I, a non-citizen, who is so new at caring about following politics/elections in the US and about educating myself, that I, an alien, who feels like she could never educate herself enough about enough issues quickly enough could wonder and worry about how aaaaaalllll these people will be able to afford to take this much time off to vote, and go weeks without hearing anyone else mention a similar concern.
Let me try to explain with another example.
I was 21 when I observed a "Special Education" classroom while working towards my teacher certification and noticed all the students were students of color. I was 21 when I wrote a paper arguing that what was "Special" here was that the teacher, a white guy, talked to these children about the body building career of Arnold Schwarzenegger rather than about anything that could be relevant to their experience; what was Special here was that the students were not Special Ed. students, but students most of whom spoke English as their second language, being taught by a guy who couldn't speak their first language. What was Special here was that the girl in the wheelchair didn't fit into the student desks, so she sat at the teacher's desk while the teacher leaned against it to address the rest of the class—with his back to the girl in the wheelchair the entire class period.
I was 32 when I went to a national conference for/about people of color in independent school when a keynote speaker got a standing ovation for talking about his new book in which he explains Special Education programs are rooted in racism and prejudice.
I'm sorry, but I wasn't impressed. How is it that my newbie ass could figure this shit out in 30 minutes by paying attention to classroom dynamics, and we were still talking about the same shit over a decade later as if it all was some new revelation? How is it that this book is just now coming out and selling out and impressing people with its newly formed theories?
And should you need a more pop-culture example, I have two words: Halle Barry. I was not at all psyched or happy when she got an Oscar. I was livid. This wasn't an achievement I could be all proud of and excited about; I was pissed it took this long for a black woman to be recognized as having talent and to be given a chance in a traditionally racist industry (find the documentary "Slaying the Dragon" if you can).
I'm not sure what my point is exactly. I just know that I want more people to be paying more attention to injustice everywhere and to raise hell about what they notice more frequently, especially when they have the power and the privilege to do so.
I want men to call each other and institutions on sexism; I want the wealthy to call each other and institutions on classism; I want straight folks to acknowledge their privilege during their wedding ceremonies. I want my American friends with the means to travel to go and see the world, to realize it is a privilege to be able to show up at a country's airport without a visa, to be able make travel plans based on best fares, not on what country would allow them to enter without making them jump through hoops made of red tape and dollar bills. I want white folks to call each other and institutions on racism. I want to remember the weeks I was on crutches and couldn't always take public transportation or walk comfortably down the street, I want to remember the frustrations I felt trying to wheel my grandmother around her neighborhood and having no sidewalk space not to mention consistent access to the sidewalk....you get the idea.
Now go vote, dammit.
Saturday, November 01, 2008
:: r a i n ::
I love the rain when it really rains.
I don't use an umbrella. (Umbrellas have always annoyed me.)
I stay away from people with umbrellas. (I like my eyes and having some space on the sidewalk too much.)
When I stand in the rain; I can't help but grin.
Other than the rain, today started kinda shitty. I had to go to an all-day Students of Color conference as a chaperone. I wasn't really in the mood to be in workshops and listen to speakers all day. But I went. Eventually. First, I had to take the train in the opposite direction out of habit because I was spacing out and moving on autopilot—this, of course, meant that I got to the conference way later than I should have been there. It was OK.
I didn't feel very present. I left early.
Waiting for the J train in the rain, I once again found myself spacing out, thinking about the rest of my hectic day, wondering when I would have the time to grade this weekend.
A car stopped in front of me. I couldn't really see inside, nor was I trying to. At a quick glance, it just looked like the driver was wiping the windshield from the inside. Glass fogging up, I guess. I heard a honk, which made me shift my gaze, and I began looking not at the car but in the car. And it was then that I realized the older guy in the car was not holding a cloth but an umbrella. He hadn't been wiping the windshield but waving the umbrella to get my attention. When I looked at him directly, he pointed to the umbrella, then at me.
I snapped out of my daze and smiled. I mouthed, No, thank you, still smiling. He smiled back and drove off.
A part of me wanted to rewind the scene and go up to him, not take the umbrella but give him a hug, or at least shake his hand, or at the very least exchange spoken words.
Not really.
I enjoyed the experience the way it was—so ephemeral in its beauty, not unlike the raindrops.
I've been so blue recently, and this little moment in the rain reminded me to focus on the everyday beauties to keep going. I am hoping the collective sigh of November 5th (for which I am so fucking ready) will bring some levity into my life. In the meantime, and always, there are these beautiful moments around me waiting for me to shift my gaze and notice them.
I don't use an umbrella. (Umbrellas have always annoyed me.)
I stay away from people with umbrellas. (I like my eyes and having some space on the sidewalk too much.)
When I stand in the rain; I can't help but grin.
Other than the rain, today started kinda shitty. I had to go to an all-day Students of Color conference as a chaperone. I wasn't really in the mood to be in workshops and listen to speakers all day. But I went. Eventually. First, I had to take the train in the opposite direction out of habit because I was spacing out and moving on autopilot—this, of course, meant that I got to the conference way later than I should have been there. It was OK.
I didn't feel very present. I left early.
Waiting for the J train in the rain, I once again found myself spacing out, thinking about the rest of my hectic day, wondering when I would have the time to grade this weekend.
A car stopped in front of me. I couldn't really see inside, nor was I trying to. At a quick glance, it just looked like the driver was wiping the windshield from the inside. Glass fogging up, I guess. I heard a honk, which made me shift my gaze, and I began looking not at the car but in the car. And it was then that I realized the older guy in the car was not holding a cloth but an umbrella. He hadn't been wiping the windshield but waving the umbrella to get my attention. When I looked at him directly, he pointed to the umbrella, then at me.
I snapped out of my daze and smiled. I mouthed, No, thank you, still smiling. He smiled back and drove off.
A part of me wanted to rewind the scene and go up to him, not take the umbrella but give him a hug, or at least shake his hand, or at the very least exchange spoken words.
Not really.
I enjoyed the experience the way it was—so ephemeral in its beauty, not unlike the raindrops.
I've been so blue recently, and this little moment in the rain reminded me to focus on the everyday beauties to keep going. I am hoping the collective sigh of November 5th (for which I am so fucking ready) will bring some levity into my life. In the meantime, and always, there are these beautiful moments around me waiting for me to shift my gaze and notice them.
Dia de los Muertos
Today I celebrate the lives of Nina Simone for keeping me company; James Baldwin for being a mentor who knew that home ≠ birthplace, that it "is not simply a place, but an irrevocable condition," who reminds me again and again that we all have the capacity to love and we ought to be taking full advantage of this capacity since there is already so much hatred in the world, who reminds me to approach the people I am wont to dismiss with love as well.
I am grateful, too, for all the women and men who worked for the liberation of people they would never know.
I privately whisper my gratitude to the mothers and fathers who have created lives that have inspired and sustained my vitality with their friendship, with their words. Thank you for the people you have brought into my life. (You, who are reading this, know who you are.)
Thank you Nesim, my father's father whom I've never met; Rashel, Gramama, my father's mother, who could create infinite stories inspired by the same three paintings in her living room; Leon, my mother's father, my Grampapa, who believed (or at least told me) eating bananas would give me strong biceps and who, I found after he died, loved traveling and going on road trips.
And I celebrate once again the life of my cousin Moshe, who was my age when he died—for reminding me each day and each night when I look at his picture above my bed: I am alive. No matter what anxieties and pettiness might distract me from this fact, I am alive.
"So live."
I am grateful, too, for all the women and men who worked for the liberation of people they would never know.
I privately whisper my gratitude to the mothers and fathers who have created lives that have inspired and sustained my vitality with their friendship, with their words. Thank you for the people you have brought into my life. (You, who are reading this, know who you are.)
Thank you Nesim, my father's father whom I've never met; Rashel, Gramama, my father's mother, who could create infinite stories inspired by the same three paintings in her living room; Leon, my mother's father, my Grampapa, who believed (or at least told me) eating bananas would give me strong biceps and who, I found after he died, loved traveling and going on road trips.
And I celebrate once again the life of my cousin Moshe, who was my age when he died—for reminding me each day and each night when I look at his picture above my bed: I am alive. No matter what anxieties and pettiness might distract me from this fact, I am alive.
"So live."
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