The Power of Time

While making my regular FB tour tonight, I was struck by a famous Buddha quote which read: “The trouble is, you think you have time.” I sat there contemplating the sentence for what seemed forever, and then I realized I better stop staring and move on to something else before time with its mighty wings dares steal even more precious moments while I keep going unaware of its effects and its boldness.  

The concept of time has been consuming me for 3 days now, and I feel the need to virtually arrange my thoughts on paper in hope of settling an already busy mind. It all started when I discovered a white hair in my eyebrow while fixing my makeup in the car. I froze for an eternity before I started the engine and went straight to my beautician to pluck it out.

I had never been aware of how scary it would be for me to start the aging process. Sure I have always joked about it, but not once - I am now aware - have I truly gave it a sincere thought. Somehow I had never believed that I would ever grow old, or older. I had always had the sense that one way or another, my life would be over by the time I was thirty. And with thirty so close now, a lot downed on me in a single moment.

The sense of being underachieved could be tragically thrown out of proportion when you spot your first white hair. The feeling that you have done way too little in contrast with your potential sets in, and a whole lot of drama starts buzzing in your head, robbing you a bit more of what little sanity you were still trying to maintain.  

I sit here thinking of whys and what ifs. I sit with remorse, with regrets. I feel threatened by missed opportunities and lack of effort. And as one thought gets chained to the other, I start seeing lack of ambition, lack of spirit and serious lack of motivation in my past, and sadly, in my present as well. Melancholic dilemmas start clouding me and a morose state takes over my being. Have I ever really tried achieving a goal or fulfilling a dream? Have I ever given anything my all? Have I ever compromised enough or have I ever, to the contrary, refused to compromise? Have I been passionate, in the true sense of the word, about something in my life so far? The answer saddens me even more, it empties me of any sympathy I still had for myself. Had I ever been sincerely passionate and truly determined, I wouldn’t be lamenting myself now.

Tonight I pray for the ability to use the fleeting gift of time more wisely. I pray for greater determination and second chances. I pray for patience and opportunity. I pray for knowledge and feasibility. I pray for inspiration and enthusiasm. For hope and faith. For strength and drive. For passion, most of all, because love is nothing without it, and what a shame it would be to waste love.

Tonight I strive to read more and procrastinate less. I strive to do more and talk less. To produce more while nagging less. To appreciate what I already have. To cherish what I have already achieved. To be thankful for the people already surrounding me. For without gratefulness to what I am lucky to have now, I don’t deserve what I may accomplish in the future and will never know how to enjoy it.    

The Summer of Dom Perignon

Or should I call it the summer of Moet Et Chandon? It is hard to tell which brand I indulged myself with more this summer. And I know you must be wondering why I am still talking about summer when it is almost Christmas. The answer is both simple and complicated. Simple because I started writing this at the end of the summer – yes, I know I only wrote two sentences then, and complicated because I was writing it when I thought it was the end of an era – and yes, it now is.

It is the end of the free champagne era for me, for now at least. Champagne was in fact the highlight of my 2012. I attended so many openings, met so many people, interviewed some, had a crush on others, and hated the rest. The job was worthless money wise, experience wise even, but it offered so many perks on the social front.

I am not sure anymore what I wanted to say when I started writing this, but I am pretty certain I wanted to vent on something or the other. I am an innate nagger, as you must have already noticed by now. I can’t really find it in me to pester tonight though, shocking I know!

Well anyway, long story short, I have started a new job, a more challenging one on all levels so far. It is time to get serious, time to get busy and time to try and leave behind my semi bohemian life. Somehow it feels good to have so much to do. It is startling how much I didn’t know and how big is the stack of things I have never experienced before. Bye bye champagne and aloha social misery. So long two hours work days and 4 days off a week, and hello 24/7 marathon. That makes it sound a bit frustrating, but what isn’t? I have always been an extremist in any case, why change now?

I am excited. I am anxious. I am worried. I am already tired. But I want to make a plan. I want to stick to it too for once. I am even considering trying out a diet again. Useless I know; hopeless maybe. But I have to confess it has crossed my mind. I want to benefit from the situation, turn it around to fit me in all ways, as much as I can. I want to buy a car. I want to travel. I want to be independent. I want to live.

I want to live. I do. I may not have much time for it with the crazy schedule, but I promise to try. I hereby promise that should the plan work, I am going to live. I am going to have champagne with my friends for a change. I want to enjoy it. I want to pop it and smear it all over the place. I want to get into pillow fights with my girls. I want to leave the crust behind and feel fresh and energetic. Most of all, I want to get away from the coffee shop, to step away from my routine, to shake myself to do more, to feel more,  to be more.

It felt like a cinematic moment when I left the old office for the last time. I felt pretty wearing that smile around and offering it to strangers. The wind blowing through my hair and my scarf gave me a shiver, not one of cold though, but one of pride. Been a while since I felt happy, or proud, let alone both together.

As always, I shall treasure the friends I made along the way and cherish the memories, the experience and the mistakes. All of it will just fill me with more of something I already hold plenty of: nostalgia. Days that will never repeat themselves no matter how hard we try, moments that we might never be able to grasp again no matter how badly we want to, and people who leave such a mark in us that it becomes impossible not to attempt to find it in the rest of the human race. So here is to a summer that despite its trouble will remain, like all the ones that preceded it, and all the ones that will hopefully follow it, a memorable one. Rain is washing it out tonight, trying to steal its stickiness from my mind, and the winter lover in me feels like leaving my chair and walking under it, feels like getting wet, like embracing the most beautiful season of all, the most powerful of all, the most empowering of all. May those heavenly clouds accompany me and protect me in my new endeavor; may they guide my path towards the new era, the latest opportunity and the divine blessing.

A Letter To My Dear Friend John

A little background first: John is a wonderful friend whom I have recently met online, and not long ago, he surprised me by posting a YouTube video in which he dedicated a reading extracted from one of Amin Maalouf’s books to me. This is my way of thanking him. Although this is nothing compared to what he had given me, it is the best way I can think of for the moment to thank him. So John, please accept the following as my gratitude towards you.

Link to John's reading to me

Dear John,

I am ashamed to say that I have read only one book by my compatriot Maalouf. I should have read two by now, but alas, one of my many oddities and complexes got in the way of reading one of them. Let me elaborate.

When I was young - or should I say when I was young-er, considering that the fact that I am a woman makes me ageless, or at least not prone to admit the fact that I am getting old-er – I didn’t care much for books. I only occasionally read the books assigned by school, and rarely enjoyed any of those at the time. I tell you, they give beautiful books to people who aren’t capable of appreciating them yet. Les Miserables felt like a punishment at the time, and Madame Bovary reeked of boredom. Let alone the fact that sitting still for more than five minutes back then used to be a major obstacle between me and a book.

So, back to Maalouf. Before they had all moved away or gotten married, my uncles and aunts did a cleanup, which meant they sent me all the books they had already read and didn’t have the place to store anymore. Among those books was a French copy of Leo the African.

The cover was not attractive. The font was so small and the pages were so long that it scared me. But the oddity I had mentioned earlier didn’t lie in any of those facts, although those weren’t exactly helpful either. My major book complex has to do with the fact that I simply cannot read a used book. And although this one was in great shape, it was still a book that had been read by half of the family, who didn’t only touch the pages and rummage through the book, they also had the nerve to make notes and translate words all over the place. I think that is when I had started to be more appreciative of books. I felt that the book’s temple had been messed with, violated. I realized then that books are sacred and should be treated as such.

Now I have been ranting for so long about this you would think I treat my books like shiny silverware, I don’t though. My yellow marker covers every single sentence that I have ever liked. The thing is, I just don’t like reading a used book, and I am awfully strict about lending my books to anyone too. Once I have marked all those stuff, and occasionally written some notes, the book becomes mine rather than the author’s. All these little scrapings make it so personal.  

Dear John,

By now I have been writing this piece of nothing for weeks! And another Dear John entry in the middle of it might turn this into a diary! We wouldn’t want that, no one would want to read my shameless rambling if it goes on for over a page, so this is to commit to write faster!

And now that we have established that, where was I? Oh yes, I was rambling about myself, now it is time to ramble about you!  

You used to be a lawyer, so I gather that is where the wit comes from! And you are an avid reader, which accounts for the wild imagination.

John, this is mostly to tell you how much I truly enjoy our conversations, how much I look forward to them, and exactly how surprised I am each and every time we get to catch up; you always manage to cheer me up, even if it was with the most simple ways. I will also never forget the extremely nice gesture of having sent me the beautiful Hockney book along with the postcards; it was an utter delight receiving mail from you.

In the past few months, I have come to be online for a great deal of my time, due to personal reasons, and during these months, I have had the honor and the blessing of meeting several unique and talented individuals from across the globe, and you, by all means, and considering every aspect, climbed to the top of that chart very quickly. I can’t think of a nicest person. I can’t think of a more respectful person. And I can’t think of a more imaginative and inspiring one.

John, I believe you are one of the few, rare people on this planet who would indulge me on my mad virtual escapades, who will go with me to the end of the line when I am muttering absolute nonsense concerning a new world war that would be ignited by the Europeans bickering over the origins of the almost word yoo-hoo!

My dear, it has come to my attention yesterday that you are currently facing a rough familial situation, and I already know you aren’t doing exactly well yourself at the moment. So I will wrap it up by sending you my best wishes for recovery and happiness once again. If there is someone I know who deserves all the blessings that can be bestowed upon them, it is you. Now I will not pretend I will go to church and light candles, but I do promise to keep you in my thoughts and to mention you to the Almighty while I bombard him with my endless list of demands every night before I go to sleep. May He one day forgive my negligence and selfishness.

Uncertainty

I am not sure what to write about tonight. Eva said I should tell the exorcism story, but I had my mind set on writing the cat story, which leaves me uncertain...

I am going to take the request first and tell you the exorcism story. I am not sure if it could be put into words, if I can tell it again or if it will be meaningful at all, but here is how it went. 

My mother was convinced that all my bad luck was due to a higher, evil force and so when her colleague told her about an exorcist priest, she decided he was going to be the solution to her daughter's problems, the long awaited and finally found one. 

On Monday morning, she asked me if I was free in the afternoon. I said yes, why? *and that is when I learned that I should always answer with no, why* She said she would like me to go with her and my father to church tonight; there is a priest she would like me to speak with. 

I didn't want to disappoint my mother, I am already a disappointment to her in so many ways, so I decided I should go just for the sake of pleasing her, it seemed such a small effort to make. 

And so we went. I hadn't been to church in a long time, and it seemed that since I had last been to the service, they have added a load of prayers and rosaries prior to the actual mass, which left me feeling exhausted even before the service started. And when it finally did, it took yet another hour if not more to finish.

I am not sure how I used to withstand all these ceremonies. I remembered that day why I stopped believing in all the rituals and put an end to my practicing them. I couldn't stand how fake everyone was. How mean they were. How they said the prayers between their teeth while looking at each other with utter disdain. The rosary sounded like a school poem they felt forced to recite. The mass sounded like a test they studied hard to pass. And if you ask for my opinion, they failed miserably. 

No one seemed truthful. No one seemed there because they wanted to. They all somehow "had" to be there. They either had nothing else to do, either felt it was a duty they needed to fulfill. I so desperately wished one of them would smile or seem in any way sincere.

Anyway, it was what happened after the service that needs to be told. After having waited in a "queue" of people who wanted to meet with the priest, my turn finally arrived. I went in his too white office with my mother. What ensued was so bizarre I don't even know how to describe it, but I will try. 

It started as a simple conversation. But soon enough my mother told the priest that I haven't been going to church for many years now. This occurred right after I tried to pull myself out of the session by telling the priest that I had felt peace while in the service. She just had to tell him all about my lost devotion. As if I had defected from Christianity. I haven't actually; I just did from the church. 

This led to the priest asking my mom to leave us alone. And he started bombarding me with all kinds of unnecessary questions, not to call them stupid. He tried in every way he could think of to convince me to rejoin the church. He then proceeded to make me repeat some long sentences after him, and repeat them I did, until he reached the last syllable, and then I didn’t. It exasperated him, but I felt no guilt; I had warned him not to try with me from the very start. 

At the end of a frustrating hour or so, somehow the subject of my insomnia came up. And the priest’s face lightened up as if he had just found the missing piece of my puzzle. He inquired about my dreams, and when I said that my recurrent dream was cockroaches, he gave me the title of a book to read and referred me to yet another priest who would REALLY help me. 

I wasn’t going to go to the other priest if it hadn’t been for the first one who insisted in telling my parents about it, there was no escape from going after that.

A couple of days later, I went to see the other priest. And I am not feeling into going into lots of details anymore, but the essential is that he performed the same ritual on me among many others in the church’s yard. It was an absolutely ridiculous ritual which involved him and another priest praying over my head and blowing “the Holy Spirit” IN MY EYES and noticing that when they blow their disgusting breath in my face, my eyes TWITCH!!! Oh yeah, they twitched!!!! And that of course meant that I was “possessed” by something and the treatment includes taking off my “Satanic” pendant (it was just a random piece of metal!!!) and puncturing the bottle of holy water with a pin and spraying the water every night in the house in the form of a cross. I would also have to come back next Thursday and bring with me water, olive oil (not frying oil) and rough salt, they would “pray” on those too and give me the guidelines on their usage.

Needless to say I never went back there.