Forgiveness. July 23, 2010

At some point in our lives we will get hurt. As much as we’d like to think we could hide behind our computer screens, cell phones, foolish pride, self-loathing, or fear, something/someone 100% real will hurt us.

I guess this is where forgiveness comes in. As kids, our first experience with it may be with a simple act of childhood nonsense, by a sibling or a friend. Then, a parent, teacher, or adult of some sort probably forces the forgiveness, and life goes on. But as we get older, it becomes a little more complicated.

The parents we once admired may let us down. Maybe we’re betrayed by a friend, partner, or a spouse. Or, maybe it’s something deep inside ourselves that we absolutely detest – an addiction, our appearance, or any source of guilt. I believe there’s a point where you have to forgive in order to move on.

Forgive the faults of a mother, father, or relative, who is ultimately only human. The former friend as he or she undoubtedly possessed something you liked once. And, of course, ourselves; because in the end, letting the joys in life pass you by will be far more depressing than cutting yourself some slack.

Why? Because this person or problem does not dictate your actions past the point of forgiveness. They may have a foothold in your past, but only you decide when your own hatred stops. Peel away the fingers of your clenched fist, one at a time. In my opinion, there is no “bigger person” when it comes to forgiveness. It makes no difference if my forgiveness is bigger, louder, or more confrontational than yours. It is a silent choice with a silent, personal benefit. Letting go will be more fulfilling than dwelling on who should have “stepped up.”

It may take years of trying – avoiding your image in a mirror, a certain song, picture, or memory, but I firmly believe that the more you try the easier it gets.

I say: Breathe it in. And let it go.

(This is not specifically directed at any fans, of any sport, in any city , most definitely not Cleveland.)

Leaving, loving, family July 20, 2010

On a recent trip to visit my boyfriend’s family, who live over 8 hours (driving distance) away, I had a hard time understanding why he took so long to leave. At every family member’s home we visited, I felt like we were overstaying our host’s hospitality, just a little bit. What I thought was maybe a half hour or so later into the evening than I considered appropriate, he sat still and continued chatting. On the morning of our departure it must have taken us 45 minutes just to get up off the couch to leave, and this was all before 6:30 a.m. Maybe its because this was not my family, but who knows.

I typically come and go as I please with my family. I see them fairly often so, I guess I get my “love fix” more than he does.

It wasn’t until I got into the car with him to leave that I got it (and a little teary eyed as well). This family, I met a week ago, who had been so openly loving, hospitable, and welcoming, made even me cry when I left. Blame it on lack of sleep or generally being a woman, whatever. What I believe happened was that I finally got it. I finally understood why it took him so long to leave – the woman we stayed with, his aunt, probably loves and shows her love more than anyone does for him, probably even me. She is openly happy, loving, warm, friendly, inviting, and laughs all the time. Beyond that, she and my boyfriend have grown from what seems like a loving aunt/nephew relationship to a strong, connected friendship – like a best friend you only manage to come across every once in a while, when you’re lucky.

There is a difference between being an openly loving person and being a good host. Openness, especially with showing love, comes easier to some than it does for others. A great host will make you feel at home physically. A host like this woman will make you feel at home in her heart, as part of her family.

Leaving a loving family is never easy. Especially when the alternative is dismal, cold, and often lonely. This week someone reminded me of a lesson in love and family – a true example of love – open, honest, and free – and an example of family – warm and welcoming.

Next time I’m home, I’ll stay a little later.

Pain is a state of mind (I think) July 15, 2010

Pain – What’s there to be passionate about? We all know pain, unfortunately. It’s a dark spot on your mind and heart. Many people grow passionate about what they’ve survived, and why shouldn’t they? A connection forms between people when they share their pain with another – to me that’s nothing but passion.

Here is my take on pain:

Everyone has an excuse for pain. There is no joy without sadness. No light without dark. What goes up must come down.  They say pain is temporarily, it makes you stronger, it’s part of life, and so on.

Pain is a state of mind.

You may not agree or even remotely believe that, but at least part of me believes it’s true.

People have countless ways of adjusting their state of mind to deal with their suffering, misfortune, or adversity.

Wear red, the color of power, to help you believe in and exhibit your own power. The strong color is a symbol of strength, control, and authority.  When left with feelings of powerlessness and insignificance we crave every ounce, every bit we can earn by tooth and nail in the struggle to regain our power and overcome our pain.

Tarot, horoscopes, even aromatherapy are ways to deal with pain. They address the pain of the unknown, mental strife, or physical hurt.

The last, my favorite, is ice. Sealing the name of a person, a problem, or an obstacle in the confines of a cold, hard, block of ice – in secret, with no harm to anything or anyone – is unusual, but as I’m told, fulfilling. The negativity and pain of whatever hurts, is stopped, sealed, stuck in a block of ice at the back of the freezer. It’s a symbolic act of freezing off that part of your mind. Whatever it is, its gone, locked away.

This all sounds kinda creepy, huh? I know. But as I said before, pain is a state of mind. And we control our minds.

If only it was that easy to control our pain!

Touch. July 1, 2010

Touch is by far one of the most important senses. Never seeing a person again, or hearing their voice, even smelling their cologne, or their signature dish again, all seem daunting; but what if you could never have your mother’s hug again, never cuddle in bed with the one you love, never even embrace a friend or family member? Sight, hearing, and smell are the first to be defended when the question of ‘if you had to give up one sense, what would it be?’ comes up. But how could I even tell you this without touch the keyboard?

Think about what it would be like to never be touched. By anyone. Not the extremity of being ‘bubble boy’ or locked in a germ-free room for the rest of your existence; think, living in a nursing home, a stuffy dorm, or even living alone in a new city, by yourself. Who would touch you? You could literally go days without it.

Whenever I’d visit someone in a home, no matter how difficult, my mother would remind me to hold the person’s hand as I said goodbye, hug, or kiss them, even if I hesitated.

Because if I didn’t, who else would?

Just yesterday, my amazing boyfriend [who has been wondering when he'll get mentioned in this blog! ] told me that he’d read a study that argued if couples held both hands together while they argued, they’d have more compassion in their words, and likely, a more positive argument.  He also recently tested me on hugging. He read if a couple hugs for a longer-than-normal-time it builds trust. So hold on a little longer – it’ll feel uncomfortable in public, but its totally worth it.

There’s a comfort that develops among humans, and sometimes animals, through touch. I believe it does build trust, compassion, and love. A touch is a connection. A mother to a child. A friend to a friend in need. The lover to his love.

I believe that a touch can be passionate. It can also be compassionate. It could be just what we need to survive in a world isolated by technology, hatred, crime, and distance.

Growing Up: Part 2 June 28, 2010

Growing up part 2

There are days when I do nothing right. Nothing. I could bat a thousand one day and be hiding with the blinds drawn, under the covers, the very next. But I still wouldn’t go back to middle school, or even high school.

Hell, I felt older then than I do now.  

Today I wrote a letter to my father. Reintroducing a person he forgot. But, I guess forgot isn’t quite fair. A person he lost track of. Me.

At some point in a child’s life, roles switch. The ones who cut up our roast beef, who helped us down those daunting stairs, and who kept track of our routines might simply start to lose track.

Be gentle and don’t be afraid. There were countless times when you fell down the steps and scraped your knee, your hands, and maybe even your head – and I’m sure they didn’t look at you differently for it.  They comforted you. Because growing up, or growing old, well it ain’t easy.

They can be the person they once were, to you, if you let them. Listen to their life’s stories, the ones that remain, again and again when you have to. Because one day, things will quiet down, and you’ll think back to when Mr. Savulak spoke about ‘dafferent’ people, or when he jumped off the edge of his ship during a World War just to retrieve a basketball, or when Daddy used to let his favorite girl help close-up his pool hall for the night.

Anger, fear, denial, resentment, pain, and sadness – they’ll all be your demons.

But, as they say, “Grow up.” Be an adult; it’s your turn. 

Try to let love guide your actions and the demons will seem miniscule.

Dear Dad,

Hello! This is Anne, your youngest daughter. I am 22 years old…

Growing Up: Part 1 June 25, 2010

Growing up

Remember when you couldn’t wait another day to have your driver’s license? Just to have that feeling of freedom, the open road stretching before you, and heaven forbid you let that cellular leash tie you down! We couldn’t wait to grow up. To be free of curfews, parents, rules – eat, sleep, and clean when and where you want to, make your own calls, all your own choices.

When does that passion stop? That fervency to excel further and further into ‘freedom’. Is it at the first 24-pack of ramen noodles or the second? Is it when you get hurt bad? Hurt to your core, your heart, or your pride. Whether it be the first big hurt or the 25^th, the impact doesn’t seem to change.  Maybe it’s a man, or a woman, or a bounced check, a bad credit report, a lost friend or lover, a crappy boss, or an EPIC (even though I hate that word) Failure, with a capital F.

Becoming an adult is an unending and often uphill battle. There’s your own wants and desires, the responsibility to a family that you were once threaded so tightly in (one that you may or may not still be wound so securely to now) and of course, the family you may start. There’s money. There’s right and wrong. There’s the end of the day and the last dollar to spend. There’s that thing called Responsibility (with a capital R). It’s your tradeoff to  ‘freedom.’

So what was all that rush for anyway?

We’re ‘growing up’ forever.  And in yesteryear we called this ‘freedom?’ Funny how that view may change when that ‘R’ word rolls around.

They say life has phases. A time for everything, and everything in due time. Do you believe it? Or do you still hang on to that passion for life, for freedom? For an open door to an endless road. That graduation night, first-day-of-the-rest-of-your-life feeling you once had?

I hope you live passionately on this ride.

Because, you don’t have to worry, ‘R’ will be there when you get back.

Growing Up: Parts 1 and 2

Sometimes, we start in one place with one goal, and end in another place with a completely different result.

That’s how my ‘Growing Up’ blog went – fittingly.

Running. June 22, 2010

Running. I could go months without it – every day regretting my lapse in exercise, but as soon as I pick it up again, I am reminded of a simplicity that I love so much. It’s you. Your body. And your thoughts. Hot sweat in the sunset and a cool breeze through damp sleeves. [Poet. Sorry]. Whatever the elements outside confront you with – snow, rain, wind, or humidity, you fight furiously.

It’s the purest challenge. No stretchy bands, machines or videos. The thought of quitting goes in and out of your mind at what feels like every other second.  Aches and sores pine through your muscles as you dare to convince yourself to go just one more block. Just to that sign at the end of the road, bargaining with yourself that the uphill walk will be your “break.” Finally, by some stroke of luck, you reach your goal, you surpass, and somehow you make it back home.

The tension in your legs, hams, calves, and shoulders, loosening as you stretch – sweating even more profusely – almost more than when you were actually running.

There is nothing more addicting than that feeling of ecstasy, the runner’s high, you feel after or even during the jaunt.

Stretch. Relax. Shower. The endorphins breathe out of your pores as you dry off and get dressed. Ready to go on with your day.

Running is a personal satisfaction. It’s yours, and yours alone. Even if you don’t run alone, your body, soul, and mind get that feeling – that I’ve done this for me; I will continue to do this for me. It’s mine. And no one can take that away.

There are plenty of people that would call running one of their passions, or even their greatest passion. Others might consider it a little bit of an obsession. And the rest of us ‘fair-weather’ runners, we’re somewhere in the middle.

I’m not trying to say we all need to be runners. Life would be pretty boring if we all were the same. My point is that we all need something that is solely our own. A moment of solace, a peace and quiet, something strictly for our own health and sanity.  Defend that moment – whatever passion it is, or whatever passion it fulfills, it’s yours for the taking, so don’t let it go.

Food. June 16, 2010

Recently I’ve been experimenting with cooking fresh beans and making my own dressings with olive oil. Two of the world’s oldest foods are still the guinea pigs of modern cooking. Beans and oil. Who’d ever guessed those would also be loaded words.

As a semi-recent vegetarian (pescetarian to be exact), peanut butter and tilapia, the staples of my existence, were starting to wither away in my unentertained belly. For you non-latin learners, (Gratias tibi, Magistra), Pescetarian is one who eats fish. I admit I do throw in an egg or two every now and then, and my record is not clean of an occasional cheat. I’m human.

The thing is, I’m also a recovering lactose intolerant – it sneaks up on me every now and then like that one acquaintance that always bumps into you at THE most awkward place and time. Literally.

Finally, I wasn’t raised to be a rude or non-compliant guest.  I grew up thinking that in someone else’s house you eat when, where, and what you are told. There was no I’m sorry Mrs. XYZ, I can’t eat your Chicken Alfredo that you so laboriously prepared because I’m a lactose intolerant pescetarian.     What?

Right.

What I’m trying to address here, is that we are hugely passionate about food.  HUGELY. This could be a 12-month series about foods we are passionate about, hell, it could be an entire blog! (let me know if you’re planning to steal that idea!).

We as humans live and die over something as simple as fuel. Energy. Food. So many factors dictate what we eat – our culture, our parents, our geographic area, our taste buds, our economic status, and even political issues – like factory farming. But that’s another story (maybe even for another blog!). Living and dying over food stems from wars for resources, poverty levels and inflation, and even an obsession with food so great that we stop ourselves from eating entirely.

I have an obsession with food. Good food. Bad for you food. And cooking food. And I’m certain I’m not alone. The best thing I ever did in this battle over my own fixation on food – the thing that saved me from myself – was to stop worrying about it. Eat when you’re hungry. Eat what you can afford. And all things in moderation. Healthy doesn’t mean never eating ice cream. It means eating one cup, not a quart.

What’s your food passion? The one that you crave, the one that you reminisce for longingly, or the one that simply sticks out. I hope your enjoyment is as good as my Cumin Seasoned Black Beans and Boca over an Iceberg Salad with homemade Spicy Mustard Vinaigrette Dressing.

Bon Appetit!

Experience June 8, 2010

We all have skeletons in our closet. Ghosts from our past that dictate who we’ve become today. Some choose to block out those negative stepping stones as if it was poison that has somehow made their life worse or wrong. Others relish in their hardships and see them as defining aspects of their character, highlights of their past, present, and future.

As 20 somethings, our past really only encompasses our upbringing and coming of age (where a certain parental unit is likely the scapegoat). As 30 or 40 somethings, we’ve probably caused a little detriment of our own.

Conversations we get into, talking about how hard life was [in our situation], how much we’ve been through, or seen; these conversations brings us to some kind of camaraderie or connection with another person on a somewhat deeper level. For some strange reason we want to know that some other human has suffered some injustice of their childhood, and that, that brings us together, as if it were proof.

Why is it that pain brings us closer? Is that saying that person who had a happy, normal life couldn’t possibly empathize with a person who didn’t? We, as humans, speak so fervently of our experience – in life, in jobs, travel, education, worldliness, even wine! Just think of how many times a day you say that word – experience. They have it, you want it, and even if “it” was actually buying a bagel in a coffee shop – we use that loaded word: “experience,” making our eyes grow big and sarcastically smiling so everyone knows, it was beyond ordinary (even if it wasn’t).

I too am at fault here. I find it difficult to understand a person who has been handed everything in life. The “trauma” of my life happened when I was 13. I recall telling my mother that I felt like I was suddenly 40, suddenly wiser than my peers, who I never gave the chance to understand my situation.

It was not until I got over the “experience” that I had had that I finally wanted to tell the world. I wanted to shout what I’d survived to anyone that would listen. But that’s really not the point, is it?

The point, for those of you who’re wondering, is not to assume that a person can’t understand, or won’t understand. Sometimes, the people who will actually ‘get it’ are the ones you would least expect.

I had my ‘experience’ at a young age. And now, I must say that for those of us who have been in that defining, life changing place, that ghost we push away sometimes, its now our turn to listen.

You, my friend, have the experience, they want it. So listen, and give it.