"Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive and go do it. Because what the world needs is more people who have come alive" – Howard Thurman
Month: March 2013
Mistakes
I hate when I have to learn from repetitive mistakes. It seems pointless, even hateful that I continue to make mistakes that seem so clear AFTER the fact. Yet, that is how we get better, grow and perhaps at some point stop making those mistakes. I never thought I would stop making mistakes, but I did expect that I would get better. Well, so much for that notion. It’s not even the continual mistake that I am sorry about, but the fact that I let someone down who expects me to rise above being my usual self. I am too caught up in my pain to see theirs. Too self-involved. Too hurt. Too deep in my self-pity. Too everything as long it involves just me, me, me!
Yet, all those are rationalizations. They are nothing more than excuses after the fact. I am at a loss as to how make the person feel better, and that could lead to even more mistakes. I thought I was better than that. That I could learn at any age, and be a better person. I know I can, yet I also have to deal with the aftermath of my carelessness. It wasn’t meant to be spiteful but leaving someone alone in their time of need can feel that way to the person. I was recently told to become more aware of what I say and I do, ad I have to say I still have a long way to go. I am still too often on auto-pilot, and saying and doing things that are completely unnecessary and hurtful.
At this points, words are the assurance I feel I can offer someone, yet even I know that is not enough. It is time for action. Sometimes being and acting sorry are not even close to being enough. Sometimes you have to be an adult!
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Food For Thought For Saturday, March 23rd, 2013
"Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive and go do it. Because what the world needs is more people who have come alive" – Howard Thurman
Spring Cleaning
I read somewhere the best way to spring clean is one small area or cupboard at a time. Yesterday, I started with my medicine cabinet, one of the smallest in my house. It took me an hour to get rid of expired medications, open packets of various sorts and 15 different kind of pain patches (both wife and I have had at one point or another back spasms), and try to coordinate what medications go on which shelf. One hour. And I still wasn’t quite happy with it. It wasn’t as clean as I wanted it to be. It wasn’t shining or perfect the way I wanted it to be, but I finally let it go because I was tempted to go on to another cabinet. All the while, I could not believe how much crap I had stored in the house ( I can’t blame my wife since I lived at this house by myself for a long time). I wanted at that moment to clean it all!
It kind reminded me of my writing. I start with a blog post, and the next thing I know I want to write a novel. Yet I know, it’s a step by step by process but somewhere I fall off. I can’t seem to figure out between doing too much, too little or nothing at all. I don’t know how to be steady. I don’t know how to take it step by step. It’s as if I am hardwired to either sprint a marathon or sit on the stand and watch others go by me. I have always been the type to need the recipe or manual on how to do things. Well, guess what, life doesn’t come with one (no shit Sherlock), and so I flounder. I don’t look at what I have accomplished: a clean drawer and a blog post, but more at what I did not get to. I read somewhere that you have to acknowledge your successes no matter how small. I think I am more afraid that I will become content with just that, and that is something I am just not willing to accept. So I push myself. I will spring clean the whole house, and I will be a writer. There is no middle ground!
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Food For Thought For Friday, March 22nd, 2013
"I have found that if you love life, life will love you back" – Arthur Rubinstein
Indian
I still cannot believe the words that come up on this screen. My cup of tea steams, waiting for me to drink it down. The dog watching my every move, believing any second now I will take her for walk. The quietness of the morning, interrupted only by rare passing cars or the random barks of dogs who think they can take on the cars, seems loud. The hardness of the chair I am sitting on, digging into my butt deeper and deeper as if looking for something inside me, makes me realize how much effort it takes to put on these tiny words onto this screen.
The remnants of a dream come to me just now. An old couple I am visiting insist I take the 2 books I was admiring in their library. I don’t know who they are, but I confidently tell them to feel free to come borrow anything from mine. I also brag that mine is bigger (Freud anyone). At that, I look around and see what I have. There’s Bharati Mukherjee‘s The Holder of the World right next to by Bombay Time by Thrity Umrigar. Then there is Junglee Girl by Ginu Kamani, overwhelming Love from Punjab by someone named Dhillon. My Indian collection is a source of pride for me. I used to visit the book store, and look for any Indian authors because I believed it was important to have them in my library. I don’t know when my enthusiasm waned, or when I stopped buying any books. Perhaps it happened when I realized that I had more more than I could possibly read in 6 months or maybe it came when I look at the titles, and most of their stories don’t come to me. Lately, my memory is not what it used to be. It is a fact that I am painfully aware of, and makes me want to reread all the books in my library especially the Indian ones. Salman Rushdie‘s Shalimar the Clown beckons me, and does the anthology Our Feet Walk the Sky. But then I realize it’s not just about the Indians, it’s about all the words that surround me. They all are staring at me, almost wishing for me to create my own. Silence…
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