Sunday, February 26, 2012
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Monday, February 20, 2012
“There is a man-made concept called lack. It does not exist. Some of us may feel lack, but it is a false perception. There is no such thing as lack. Our lives are overwhelmingly abundant.”
My favorite yoga instructor has said this in two separate sessions that I have attended. Usually it comes just at the moment that I’m stretching myself so that my body is screaming at me to stop; that it’s going to break if I push it any further, and I am feeling just that: lack. A lack in ability to cope with discomfort, both physically and emotionally. Once, just when I was thinking this, that same instructor said “It is okay to be uncomfortable,” and it was such a mind-blowing concept that it brought me to tears. Perhaps it was the fact that my hip was aching and pulling at where it attaches on my pelvic bone that also helped to bring about those little tiny droplets of salt water from my eyes. None-the-less it was a very prominent moment in my present-day life. I keep replaying it.
To realize that life isn’t always beautiful and easy and comfortable was one thing. However, coupled with the idea that there is no such thing as lack, the concept becomes completely different! That, for me, was a moment of epiphany, which sounded something like this in my mind:
To be alone…….isn’t……lack!?
Essentially, I realized that the only person creating an emptiness in my life is myself. I questioned myself about what is missing. Friends? No, I’ve had them, I just haven’t reached out (and to my astonishment, they’re all still right there—even new ones—when I’ve come crying to them recently). A social life? No, because I can create one with those friends as long as I do reach out. Money? To an extent, but only because I make the decision every day to go to school and work minimally, providing for excellent grades and ample time for what I consider to be, actually, a rather good balance in my life. Love? I’m missing a lover--missing in more than one sense of the word—but is there an actual lack of love in my life? No, I am also surrounded by that. Drenched in it, even!
The bottom line is that the only true lack is in confidence and acceptance of my self. I lost it, honestly, so many years ago, that I’m not sure where exactly I left it. I assume I probably left it in the apartment where I played into the role of the heart-broken ex-fiance who had the relationship terminated on her. You’re supposed to feel a deep lack when that happens, so I made sure I created a giant hole and then buried it up like so many love stories tells us is normal.
Truth is: there’s never been a lack in me. It’s all right here. I just have to have the courage to implement, daily, an appreciation for everything that I am, that I do, and that I have right in front of me. I need to re-discover life’s little pleasures as I used to when I was young(er).
It’s amazing what a park, some breathing, and a number of truly good souls can do!
I am thankful.
Friday, February 17, 2012
The city may not always be beautiful. In fact at first some parts of it seem downright ugly with its occasional lack of greenery or over-population of cars clunky, old, and new lining its stretch-marked streets in need of repaving. The unkempt yards—or rather, housing in general—add to the eye-sore and create a definite harshness to certain areas yet simultaneously it is a more endearing metropolis when looked at as the sort of patch-work quilt that it is.
Now, I don’t venture into the ghetto. I only balance on the thread that is between the truly rough and textured patches and the guaranteed silky smooth safe zones of Long Beach. This line I call the edge of nice or, a new term I recently coined over drinks with friends—“demi-ghetto.” None-the-less there is a definite quilting to the city’s ‘hoods.
One square block has been picked up, and cute, charming little places on quiet streets say “this could be home.” You go up and over a block and you have where I reside, an older condo building whose trash can is busily “tagged” in its placement nestled between a printing factory and an apartment building always teeming with screaming unhappy children and overflowing with the scent of some sort of beans and rice dish. Just a few blocks away are what I now would consider mansions, but once would have considered only to be very large houses.And this, First street, is where I had my little epiphany; this little recognition of perhaps an area in life I could work on. Along first street the homes are mostly beautiful. The streets are lined with big, old, knowingtrees and grassy, sometimes even ivy-filled patches between the street and the sidewalk. Signs ordering cars not to “cruise” stand tall and boast neighborhood watch programs just beneath them as an ornate street lamp stands behind like celebrities behind body-guards. So many older folk promenade along this hushed street, that it is almost startling to find what I did today and be greeted by ten year old girls awkwardly trampling about on roller-skates.
Admiring these beautiful homes, I found myself nit-picking. “This house is nice but could use more windows,” I thought. Or, “that house has a beautiful yard, but the whole look would be more beautiful with shutters. I wonder why the owner hasn’t purchased any yet.” That’s when I realized that I tend to see the beauty in things, and I appreciate it. But often times, I also note too clearly what could improve it, and see it so clearly in my mind that I lose sight of what is actually there and no longer, then, focus on an actual thing, but an imaginary one. It takes away from the enjoyment to whatever degree. Metaphorically, I realized this said a lot about me and the way I live my life.
Oddly, it is at about that moment that I veered away from these perfectly imperfect homes and ventured back towards the mostly flawed areas that I could photograph and appreciate for all their quirks and roughness. I suppose that means that I am, in some manner, in search of appreciation and acceptance of those things in life which I consider flaws.
A little alone time for this reflection with my camera was just the medicine that I needed for the day. Then again, I always find a new reflection of myself through the lens.
I’m glad to discover who is coming about through it right now.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
I can’t blame the gentleman. When a man knows it is not a fit, he knows just that: it is not a fit. It does not matter if it is but twelve days from Saint Valentine’s Day. There is no use, when there exists not the genuine feeling, in buying a woman flowers. For what reason should he, if he does not mean to say what those petals would whisper to her heart? What benefit could there be if he were to go along with a pointless gesture, only to abandon all of the emotion in a departure from the relationship some days later? He would be nothing but a small fortune less endowed, and she would remain alone wondering if everything of sentiment before this had ever held any real meaning if he hadn’t meant what he implied on the day of love.
It could have been a Sunday or a Tuesday in the middle of June when no holidays were near and I had made no plans. It would still have stung exactly as much. The willing departure of a man from a woman’s life is not the sensation of needle prick, but the lasting sting of a wasp. A man’s termination of a relationship is a pain that persists. A hurt so enduring that when one so randomly cognizes in the middle of some thought or chore, that the end has come about, one relives that sensation as if the wasp had just stuck her and injected its venom. It lingers and lurks, for some time, to know and stumble across mental reminders that she, for someone else, was not “it.”
To know that someone else will one day completely claim, by law and by mutual adoration, the man which she once imagined was her very own, if only for a brief breath in a long series of life’s exhalations, is a sort of injury without a medicine to sufficiently treat it. Like a virus, only time can let the hurt run its course.