Friday, October 27, 2017

Home

       Home. A term used to describe a place that one dwells in. The place of comfort, the place of familiarity. It can be a country, a building, a city, or any location with which one is familiar.
When I see the word home, I think of a drawing which contains a triangle on the top portion of a square, and other smaller geometric shapes inside the square. The picture usually contains a yellow triangle a few inches away from the triangle and square image. Every time I see the word, that is the image that pops into my head.
When I hear the word home or a reference to such place using different terms in various tongues(kay, casa, lakay, dwelling), I get different visuals. The visuals vary depending on the language and term used as well as who is using it. It also varies depending on context.
      When I say home, I speak of a dwelling place. The place which I currently inhabit. When I think of home, however, my mind drifts off to a different time and place which only now exists in there. I think back to a younger me, a part of myself that now exists in memories. I think of dim lighting and one room apartments that share one bathroom. I think of a time when I was free to roam the alley on my own because everyone knew each other. I think of buildings made of plywood and aluminum all built close together with no clear street in between. I heard that the buildings are all demolished now due to the late Hurricane Irma. I have not been there since I left 15 years ago, so I probably would not have recognized it much anyway.
        When I think of home, I think of a pink house located in a suburban neighborhood. I was not allowed to play outside, which confused me because I knew where I lived before, playing outside was never an issue. I think of the big window in the living room and the awe I felt when experiencing the vast indoor space. I think of the family members whom I only knew by name before. I think of various relatives who would come and stay for days, weeks, months, years, and then disappear to other far away towns. I think of Thanksgiving meals and parties. I think of church services that took place in the pink building. Services where people came, gathered, sang, and prayed. I think of long trips to other church services where the same people gathered, sang, and prayed in a much larger rented space and a pulpit for the preacher. I think of meeting my aunt for the first time, not knowing that she would be a central figure of my life growing up.
      When I think of home, I think of the various streets I roam seeking solitude and freedom from the confines of walled space. I think of long bus rides to anywhere. I think of every person who has requested my free services. I think of phone calls and long conversations that never seem to end. Even when they do. I think of nights leaning against trees and experiencing the comfort of the trunk against my back. I think of nights sitting on the back of a black sedan, leaning my back against the glass, listening to the wind, watching the moon and the stars.
        When I think of home, I think of the man I married. I think of the unconventional nature of our relationship and the tenacity to make it work anyway. I think of long trips and daily adventures. I think of pain and struggle and the comfort of knowing that there is someone I can call. I think of the mystery and thrill that comes from loving and being with someone who lives miles apart. I think of apartment searches and hoping maybe this is the one. I think of anticipation and faith, fuels that spark the fire of hope. I think of the comfort that fills me each time I hear the words:"It'll all work out".
      See, home is many things. It is everything. It is where I go when the experience of living overwhelms me. It is the comfort I gain from knowing that my issues are far smaller than the universe. It is not one place, but many. As it is often said, and as I often hear: home is where the heart is.

Friday, September 29, 2017

Perspective

This is the second of the two blog posts I promised I would write. The first was about writer's block and, on a greater level, about self-sabotage. This post is mainly a reflection on how I choose the perspectives in view points that I do. Not only how I choose them, but also how I choose to respond to and share these perspectives. I actually started with an earlier draft, but amidst the business and distractions of my day, the post remained frozen and untouchable on my app. I cannot access it through the main site. Really, the post is a phantom and in some ways reflective of myself.
        Like my phantom post, I tend to remain in an unedited and unpublished state when it comes to self-expression. The thoughts are there, at times they even escape my mouth. But only when no one is looking. Once the expectation of an audience is present, my thoughts return to the safety of my mind, and my actions resume their automatic programmed status. The automation of my actions are wired to the expectations of my environment. In the event thay I am either unsure or unaware of what is expected, I simply numb and quiet myself. Silently hoping that I am both seen and unnoticed.
       I have dubbed myself a walking paradox. This label I gave myself at some point in high school. I accepted  this label upon learning the definitions of "oxymoron" and "paradox". I knew even in my immature teenage years that my actions and my thoughts were often juxtapositioned. The words I say to myself and those I express out loud would be on either sides of the debate. I never was a stand for what I truly believed. Only for what I thought others believed of me.
        I also labeled myself a myriad of obscenities as my age became more advanced. I was two-faced, fake, dishonest, disloyal, unworthy, untrustworthy, and a plethora of others that I either chose not to remember or am to ashamed to write on this public platform. This is probably the most intimate anyone will get.That last statement was a lie.
      As far as perspectives go, I was either perceived to be a "good girl" by other adults or something else by my parents. I suppose I wanted my parents to approve me the same way outsiders did. That desire for approval was my driving force for the past 23 years of my life. As I grew older and less appealing, the stronger the desire to please grew. I lost myself in it. The more I wanted it, the less I received it. The easier it became to find reasons to foster a paradoxical relationship with them.
       It appears that I may have strayed from the central point about my perspectives. The central point is I became a willing robot. An eager to please one. Whatever a person wanted me to be, I would pretend and be just that. My opinions were few(though in fact they were many) and my compliance was easy. As I advanced in my development however, this became an issue. This desire to please and be seen and liked and gain approval. It tore me apart in my friendships and romantic endeavors. It did nothing to repair or augment my relationship with my parents. If anything, acting on my growing desire to be the star jester only created room for hostility and resentment. Hence, the prior post on self-sabotage. Hence, why I find every excuse for failure(though I really cannot stand to fail).
        With this unreciprocated desire to please everyone(including myself) without any clear commitment to actually forming solid relationships with anyone, I was bound to go mad. Really. Fortunately, I did find one safe space to pour out my most honest and raw perspectives on life. This was through my writing. I still have trouble actually vocalizing my opinions. It really baffles me. The thoughts are there, the words are there, and in front of an invisible audience, even the voice and projection are there. But when I am placed in front of live humans with advanced cognition, humans with opinions of their own, humans who are bold with their expressions and clear about their perspectives----when I am placed in front of such an audience, my brain goes back to the automatic. It becomes harder for me to say what I want, instead I merely become an echo. When I do say what it is that I think I want to say, it feels wrong somehow. The words used become the model of poor vocabulary. I suddenly realize that my volume has only one setting:low. My mouth cannot open wide enough to let the words out. I am almost mute.
        Even as I write, when my writing is public, I find ways to bury myself in my words. My perspectives become my own illusions. Though I like to say that perspective shapes reality. It does. The perspective I hold of being inadequate unless an authority figure tells me that I am good enough has shaped the reality of my constant need for acknowledgement and approval. My perspective that my opinions sound way better in my mind have shaped the frustrating reality of my voice not being heard. The perspective that I must be punished for events that I experienced as a child(a sure sign that part of my psychological development is incomplete) has created the reality of a cycle of self-sabotage.
        I know I am not the only person or creature on this planet who experiences bouts of inadequacy. I know I am not the only one who chooses to use self-talk as a mechanism to keep silent. I know I am not the only one who is aware of all this and still chooses the same unsupportive and backward behavior. I am probably not even the first to write about it from a personal perspective.
       But these are my words. My thoughts. For once, I can safely publically expose myself for all to see. To that, I can almost say  I am courageous. Almost, because I use written jargon to conceal my emotions. For me, the truest act of courage would be for me to share my songs, for they would require me to physically use my voice. For me, the truest act of courage would be for me to glimpse back at my past and rewrite my story so that it no longer haunts me. For me, the truest act of courage would be for me to not only admit that I am a scared little girl (everyone who knows me can see that it is my favorite act), but to allow myself to grow into the warrior goddess that is also me.
        This is only a step in my journey. I will not overlook the layers I have peeled in my private to at least come here on a public platform and lay out the insecurities that I experience. I will not ignore the fact that although I put on a show and then try to hide, there are multiple teams of people who fight by my side until I show the real me. I will express gratitude for my amazing friends. The ones who have seen me at my worst and stuck around anyway. The ones who call me out whenever I put on one of my charades. The ones from whom I can never hide no matter how far I go or how hard I try.
         My perspectives are not all destructive. I hold the view that every individual has the capacity to connect with their higher self. I hold the perspective that each individual has the power to create their reality and also shape the reality and perspectives others. I hold the perspective that underneath the identity labels and groups we create, we are all beautifully unique creatures with our own gifts to offer. It all sounds naive, but I am also a realist. I understand that as individuals, we at times need the collective identity to survive. I understand that although everyone has the CAPACITY to tap into their higher selves, not everyone will have the desire or motivation to do so. I understand that rules and laws keep societies strong. I also understand that attachment to these same rules and laws can lead to chaos and societal decay. This is especially true when adherence and enforcement comes without understanding.
     I once read a passage in which the writer stated "Know thyself". To me, this is one of the greatest truths that continually shape and reshape my overall perception on life and the story of my existence.

Thursday, September 21, 2017

On Obstruction

    I made a promise to myself and a select group of people that I would have two blog posts by the end of September. The moment I made that commitment, however, I experienced great resistance. My first thought: what are you trying to prove? The moment I thought that, I knew my commitment was going to be a challenge.
   Any time I explicitly commit to an endeavor, I experience some form of obstruction. However, I have learned that the key to removing an obstruction is recognizing its presence and its source. I consider myself quite masterful at the art of self-sabotage. Not a feat to worth bragging about, but one I pride myself in nontheless. Recognizing the creative energy that is involved in this form of obstruction has taught me so much about myself. It has also taught me how to become more aware of the foundational roots of my self-imposed obstruction. 
         To be masterful at self-sabotage requires some level of self-awareness and a measure of self-loathing. It also requires effort. Oftentimes it is subconscious---but the greater the level of obstruction, the more effort is required. This is true both literally and figuratively. I have come to realize that the more aware I am of myself, the more resistant I become to any sign of progress. This resistance in time evolves into obstruction, leaving me at a standstill in which I can not move forward nor move back. I simply become stuck. Often when I get stuck, I choose to ignore the blockage. When I ignore the blockage, I also fail to recognize the source of my obstruction. When I fail to recognize the source of my obstruction, I become complacent. When I become complacent, I allow myself to sink into depression. When I sink into depression, I become consumed in self-resentment. When I am consumed in self-resentment, I justify the obstruction that I created. Then, at some point, something shifts. I realize that I can continue in the cycle and wallow in self-pity or I can actually acknowledge the justified obstruction for what it is. 
        When I choose to acknowledge the obstruction, I also allow myself to seek the possibility of freedom. This possibility of freedom brings to my awareness the element of choice. I have a choice. Just as I can unconsciously choose to remain in a state of obstructive complacency, I can choose to be complacent and unobstructed. I can also choose to be completely free of obstruction. This awareness of choice also comes with great responsibility. It comes with the responsibility to choose awareness every time. It comes with the responsibility to be conscious of my thoughts and actions. It comes with the responsibility to choose freedom so that I may progress and allow myself to be who I am. Honestly and truly. It also comes with the responsibility of being aware of each time that I do consciously or unconsciously choose obstruction. 

Thursday, March 23, 2017

On Forgiveness

      "We're all born sinners". That is what I heard my brother tell me in the car as he drove me to the bus stop this morning. I wanted to dismiss it. The phrase. I wanted to argue it out of existence, out of my mind, but there it is and here I am writing about it. I suppose it was the inspiration I was seeking after months of absence.
    The phrase got me thinking because I grew up(and still live in) a religious home with a zealously religious mother. I spent most of my life growing up going to church, reading the Bible, praying, and trying to understand salvation. What people call "salvation" though is merely atonement. A relief, an acknowledgement that whatever perceived sin they have committed has been absolved, forgiven. I suppose when I look at it that way, salvation appears less scary, less foreign.
      Forgiveness, that is a word that I have grown up hearing and that was as foreign to me as salvation, but at least more attainable. I could not grasp it, but I knew that if it was something we were expected as humans to also give and receive, then maybe it was a more realistic endeavor. However, I still struggled because in my mind I would wonder how is it that we are created by this God who gives us this imperfect nature and expects us to be perfect? I did not understand. I could not. In my mind, the God my parents introduced me to was this judgemental being who was impossible to please. Yet, laid all these expectations and rules that were supposedly attainable, but really impossible. I could not grasp how such a God could forgive or even want to forgive me.
    I tried in vain to seek validation and forgiveness externally. I thought maybe if I prayed more, sang more, read and memorized more Biblical scriptures, maybe then I would be close to perfect. I thought maybe if I loved God a little better, tried to be more like Yehoshua, then maybe I would transcend the sinning stage. 
     It became an ongoing battle for me. I found myself committing the more blatant and obvious sins. The ones every Christian and believer could point out as sin. I found myself hearing quotes like "You can't try to do it by your own works". I pretended not to understand. But I did.
     What I understand now is that in some ways we will all fall short of our ideal. Whatever that may be. I came to understand that forgiveness is more than someone dying for our sins.That it is more than acknowledging our capacity to hurt someone and apologizing when we do. It is about moving past our own perceived limitations and the limitations of others. It is about recognizing who we are in spite of what we think we should be. It is about coming to an understanding of not only where we are as individuals, but also where we fit within the collective.It is about understanding that our perceived mistakes are really teachable moments life. Moments to learn about ourselves, about others, about the abundant universe(or multiverse) that intricately connects us all together. Ultimately, forgiveness, is recognizing the "sinner" in all of us and learning to see past the "sin". To me, forgiveness is that doorway to unconditional love and eternal universal peace. But it really starts with the individual realizing that yes, we are all "born sinners". We all make our "mistakes". But we are all fully capable of finding the lessons in each mistake, learning from them, and ultimately demonstrate our capacity to love and be loved.