Wings

Travelling is stressful. I’ll be the first to admit it. The hassle of fitting a life into a single suitcase; the annoyingly long layover, or, frighteningly short connections; the food (if you can call it that); the crying babies; the sleeplessness and restlessness in your soul to reach the journey’s end. Yet, it is all worth it once you do. Whether you return home (or in my case, one of many homes), or, step into a new adventure, it is always worth it once you do.

As I drive down a London highway on a rare English summer day I cannot help but feel the hope that the end is in sight. And, once it is all said and done (the feat of surviving an embassy, the seemingly unnecessary over night stay, the same-clothes-for-two-days-straight experience), then I start to believe it wasn’t all for nothing.
For, as the plane touches down and the final part of my journey comes to an end, my adventure begins. I am free.

Free to extend my hidden wings, to stretch and exercise them. Shake the dust off the gilded feathers so the world can see them in all their glory. I’ll be free to soar, incandescent, as the light of new adventure and the warmth of new knowledge catches the glistening wings of my exploration. Like stretching your muscles before you exercise, each tendon and ligament contracting individually, causing a slow, delicate ripple of strength: exciting.

Yes, travelling is a hassle. Because you have to keep those wings folded, guarded, hidden, lest the adventure be clipped before it’s time. But, once the wings are free to extend in their full unabashed glory of curiosity, of wanderlust, then nothing can hold you down.

Some things never change

One thing I’ve always had a hard time wrapping my head around is this: for the most part, things stay the same. For someone like me, whose life is consistently changing, growing, evolving, it is hard for me to realise that some things never change.

I always thought that when I moved yet again, when I was ripped out of the place I had become most comfortable and had to say goodbye to the people I was closest to, that everything would change. I thought that the place I was leaving would be a different place entirely if and when I ever came back to it. I thought my favourite corners; my streets of memories; my sentimental buildings would all crumble without me, their foundation to keep them standing. The truth is: life goes on.

I always assumed that when a life is lost, a truly beautiful, inspiring, innocent life sacrificed to such atrocities as cancer or time, that the world would never recover. I thought when the people I loved were lost that everything in everyone’s world had to change as everything in my world had just done. You might think this thought naïve but there is a word for this naïveté: egocentrism. It is the honest belief that everyone experiences the world as you experience it; that the things that are important to you must be important to everyone; that your sadness is everyone’s sadness and your happiness is everyone’s happiness.

I learnt about this term in a Developmental Psychology class. The exact phrase is ‘Adolescent Egocentrism’, and I think rightly so. One of the most eye-opening realisations you can come to as you grow up and fully begin to understand the world is that this is the furthest thing from the truth. No one experiences the world the same way you experience it, and that is what makes you so perfectly unique (and I truly believe unique is the best thing a person can be in this world). The things that are important to you are only important for that reason: you, if everyone held the same things to the same import everything would be considered important and in that, nothing would be. Your sadness is your own because the things that make a person sad are the things that make them who they are: what they care about, what affects them, what triggers emotion, these things are unique to everyone and that is what breeds diversified thinking. Likewise, the things that make a person happy, that truly appeal to them on a satisfactory level, that offer them comfort and joy both when they need it and when they don’t, these things define a person and must define each person individually.

For instance: the things that make me happy are good friends, good books, good science fiction and my boyfriend. My family, my writing, my travels, my studies, the list goes on! Obviously, these things will not be the same for everyone; my list of what makes me happy cannot make everyone else happy. And that is ok.
Suffice to say, I have come to realise that for the most part the things and places you leave behind when you go out to explore yourself are not what change: you are. Slowly, you begin to evolve out of adolescent egocentrism and appreciate that when you left high school that was the world you knew, but when you come back from college that world is exactly the same, you are the one that makes it different. You see the same halls you walked and streets you drove home on entirely differently than when you saw them before. You fit differently in your childhood bed that might be an inch too small now. You see a different view when you look out the window and imagine what is beyond the horizon.

When I left Trinidad I was young, impatient, and bored. I returned now two years later ready to bring my exploring home. I realised I know more about the various countries I have lived in that the one I was born in. When I realised this I realised that knowing that the places we explore never change brought me comfort. Every time I visit or re-visit somewhere I know that I will see the same place through new eyes, and knowing that now is yet another thing that makes me happy.

Boston Strong

I was neither born, nor raised in Boston. But I love Boston. It has now been two weeks since the horrendous bombings; yet, in light of these recent of events I am proud to call Boston my new home. If I learned anything from the horrific experience, I have learned of Boston’s inspirational love.

My heart goes out to the three unfortunate souls that were lost as a result of the bombings, and to the countless people who were injured. As well as the brave police officer who unfortunately lost his life in this whole ordeal. I do not know them, but I love them.
I love the selfless first responders on the scene: the paramedics who treated injuries within moments of the life changing, terrifying explosions. I love the dedicated police officers who worked tirelessly all week to find, and capture, those responsible for the tragedy.
I love the friends that I shared such unfortunate circumstances with, who all came together to celebrate life when death and tragedy was all around us.
Above all, I love the masses of people that gathered in the streets to rejoice when our shared troubles were finally over. Hundreds of people stood together, decorated in American flag apparel, proud to be together in Boston. International and American students alike stood together to sing the national anthem (or, in my case, mouth the words I did not know) and cheer on the police officers that passed us by. Everyone chanted in unison: “BPD! BPD!” College kids have never been so happy to see the Boston Police Department.
Most of all, I love that amidst all the pride and celebration I did not hear a single word of slander. Nobody yelled insults against Russia, nobody offered hatred or negativity at all. In fact, most were celebrating that they caught the final suspect alive. All that I witnessed was American pride, Bostonian strength, and human love.

Despite the terrifying and tragic circumstances that I, and, everyone else in the city, had to endure for that week, I would not want to live anywhere else right now.
Amidst all this celebration, we must mourn the five lives that were lost. A child, and two women killed as a result of the bombs; a brave police officer; and, yes, “suspect number one”, because he was just as human as the other four victims. May the families of everyone involved finally find some peace.

So, let us not focus on the negative aspects of these events. Speaking as an international student myself, it is a real tragedy that the two suspects were immigrants. But, do not discriminate. Just because they practiced a different religion does not mean they did this because “their God told them to”. Just because they are from a different country does not mean they did this because “all Russians hate America”. Most likely they were both very disturbed young men, and for whatever reasons they did these horrible things we can take comfort in knowing that they did not succeed in their mission of hate. The love of Boston was too strong.

I am Boston strong. I am Boston proud!
“They picked the wrong city to mess with.”

For Leah.

This weekend I celebrated my twentieth birthday. This weekend I found out that my little cousin would no longer celebrate any birthdays.

It doesn't seem right. It doesn't seem right that after I got the phone call that morning I went about my day as usual. I took a shower; I went to class; I walked in a fashion show, even- but none of it felt right. The world shouldn't just keep spinning on its axis, life shouldn't just keep going. Not when someone just lost theirs.
Leah, my little Leah, my sweet cousin Leah, was 3 years old when she was diagnosed with cancer. The doctors told us she didn't have much hope. They told us she didn't have much time: a year at best, they said. She survived her fifth birthday, and her fifth Christmas. That's what my Leah did, she survived. When she was too weak to walk, she crawled, and when she lost the ability to speak, she still remembered to smile.

The last time I saw Leah we were at the beach. It started to rain and everyone, including me, ran for cover. But, not Leah. She ran away from her mum, who was hiding from the rain with the rest of us, and went out and danced in the downpour. I swear the sun came back out just for her.

On Friday morning, my mum called to tell me that little Leah had passed away, and nothing has felt right since then. The world should know. Everyone should know that the world lost a beautiful soul that morning. Everyone should stop and mourn.
My little Leah inspired me every day. Though I haven't seen her since that day on the beach she has, and always will, inspire me to dance in the sun in spite of the rain. For the last year and a half every wish I made was for her recovery. All I wish now is that she is in a better place, that her suffering is over, and that she can keep dancing in the rain.

I will always love you, Leah.
Rest in Peace.

Love is a choice

I had a bad day:
I had an exam, and the clouds stole the sun. I was happy, and then the night stole my joy. I felt helpless, alone, unsatisfied, upset. I went for a long walk in the middle of the night. I was cold. I didn’t want to get out of bed, I didn’t want to go to class.

Or

I had a good day:
I did well on my exam, and the sun played peek-a-boo. I ate lunch with a friend. When I went for a walk my friend insisted she keep me company: she listened, she wiped my tears, she held me. I started my day with a hug and a kiss from my boyfriend. I was not alone.

As I walked home, alone for the moment but far from lonely, I looked up at the setting sun. The clouds may have been encroaching, but it made for a vibrant pink wash of sky. I fell in love.
Love is not only person to person, not between a man and a woman (or two men or two women), or between friends, or family members. Love is everything, love is all around. Love is the pink in the sky as shadows grow long. Love is the uncontrollable smile when walking alone. Love is the companionship of a friend when you are at your lowest, the kiss of a boy when you are at your best, and your own strength through everything in between. Life is love. Love is a choice, not a gift. You choose to love the life you live, choose to appreciate the pink sky and long shadows. That choice is what makes us human. The precarious balance of loneliness and love, sadness and joy, is what makes us human. Whichever one you choose, it is your choice, and that is what is important.

Choose love.

Narcotics Anonymous Not Applicable?

My name is Tara; I am not an addict. But that does not mean I don’t relate.
Tonight I went to a Narcotics Anonymous meeting as part of a class assignment. I listened to men and women, old and young, recount their struggles and their inspiring tales of success. And I could relate. The most surprising thing about the NA meeting was that, even though I am not an addict, or an alcoholic, or picking my life up from rock bottom, I could relate with these people.
Struggling with a higher power, with the choices we have made in our lives, and with the repercussions of our actions both on ourselves, and those around us is something every human faces at one point or another. I was surprised to find that each time someone raised their hand to speak I could see a little bit of myself in a little bit of what they were saying. Yet at the same time I was completely, wholly aware of my own identity (which, I have realised, is a very rare blessing). I know who I am and who I want to be. I am lucky.
If I have ever been unsure about my choice to pursue a profession in Psychology, I learnt tonight why I want to do what I want to do. It’s not for the satisfaction of helping people, it’s not for the control of fixing someone else’s problem; it’s not for me at all. It’s for the people, the strong and inspiring people that have enough self-regard, and, more importantly, enough hope to want to help themselves. There is nothing I, as a psychologist, or any other professional could do for a person that they could not do for themselves. Human strength is a powerfully inspiring thing.
What struck me most was not the people courageous enough to speak, not the heart-wrenching struggles of the newcomers to the meeting, but simply the number of people that filled that small room both with their physical presence and their ambient encouragement.
Before I attended the meeting I did not fully understand how a self-help group worked. I learnt about it in my counselling class, I’ve heard about it, and seen re-enactments on TV, but I never really knew what self-help was until tonight. It’s each person’s individual battle, and victory over their struggle. Even if just for that day, even if just for the hour they are sitting in that room. It’s the will power to take control of your own life and learn to make the decisions you want to make. It’s the personal search for a higher power, and surrendering to it or, alternatively, choosing not to. Self-help groups are about helping the individual. All the group is there for is support, but support is the most important thing.
Anyone who is struggling with substance abuse, or simply struggling with themselves, should know what it is to be a part of something greater than themselves. Not God, or Buddha, or religion, or anything, but help. A group arranged with the sole purpose of helping yourselves by helping others, to me, is a higher power worth believing in.

Post Secret

When I was in 9th grade my English teacher shared with the class a new project that she had discovered called Post Secret.
Last night I was lucky enough to hear Frank Warren, the founder of the Post Secret project talk at my University.

It has been five years since the first time I heard of post secret at the start of high school. I am now at the start of college, and I have been through many ups and downs in that time. (There really is no other way to say it: there are those moments of height and happiness, the ‘ups’, and those times that you just feel small, defeated, ‘down’.)
I have followed post secret regularly throughout this five years, I have checked the website many Sundays in a row, I have written secrets but never found the courage to mail them, I have suffered and I have learned. Most of all I have found a happiness that I did not know about five years ago, and part of that has to do with discovering that I am and never have been alone in my perceived struggles. That is what post secret is about: understanding the truth that none of us are as alone as we feel.

Sitting in the crowd last night with close friends, some people I recognised, and some people I had never seen before, I did not at any point feel alone. I felt an overwhelming sense of community in the crowd that was all there to share in their hope. Hope found through the secrets of others. Hope found in themselves when they thought there was none left to discover. Hope in humanity, in the future, in making a connection.
I could go on and on about how inspiring the post secret community is. I could talk about how it has helped so many people in so many ways. I could say that it touched me and showed me a humanity I had never imagined. But I don’t want to preach; I want to inspire. So go see for yourselves: go to postsecret.com and connect with someone else’s secret: laugh, smile, and cry.

Ever since I first heard of post secret I have tried to think of what, if ever, I would send in on a postcard. I used to think I had too many secrets, but now I think I do not have any. I have been lucky enough to find a select few people with whom I share everything (whether they want to hear my thoughts or not, that’s what best friends are for). Yet, after the event last night, I do have one secret I want to share:

They asked us not to take any pictures after the first 5 minutes,
but I loved this secret so much I couldn’t help myself.

Homeless

Today I woke up in a warm bed in a nice room provided for me by the prestigious university I attend and paid for by my generous, caring parents. Today I put on clean clothes and a warm jacket, I ate, and I went to class.
After class I got on the t and went to a homeless shelter.

I got lost. Straight off the subway right next to the cinema I always go to I had no idea where to look for a homeless shelter in an area I had been numerous times before. I walked around in circles, not understanding why my expensive iPhone’s map application couldn’t find the shelter for me. I guess these sorts of things aren’t programmed into iPhones. Eventually I got my head out of my phone and looked up just in time to see a man begging for money. He stopped me, and I reached for my wallet to give him some change. Then I asked him if he could point me in the right direction. Despite my $600 iPhone a homeless man showed me the way.

I got to the shelter in time to sit in on one and a half interviews that my Mental Health and Counseling instructor was conducting as part of a research project.
The first woman made jokes. She was a success story; she had recently been given a home by the state, and her children were coming to visit her soon. She had no teeth and she was funny.
As I listened to her I became increasingly aware of myself. There I was, wearing nice clothes because I had wanted to look professional. I had a sparkly hair band, earrings, a ring from Poland, and a real diamond nose stud for goodness sake. Yet she did not judge me, she did not look at me any differently from the way my friends look at me every day. When she looked at me as she cracked a joke about her Jamaican husband she smiled at me. When was the last time someone smiled at her, or looked at her as if she were an equal? When was the last time someone smiled at any of the homeless community, for that matter?

The next woman came in and answered routine questions about herself. Then she began to cry. I don’t know how she did it but my counseling instructor comforted her professionally and carried on with the interview. I couldn’t watch as the woman’s eyes filled up and brimmed over, as she went silent and still, as she gave up hope for that brief moment because life has given her nothing to hope for.
By the end of the interview she was in better spirits, she was hopeful again. That’s the beauty of human nature. Hope. When it was negative 15 degrees Celsius the other night and I was complaining though I had a warm room to go back to she was sleeping on the streets. Yet she is hopeful.

I am so lucky. I have a roof over my head, food in my stomach, clothes on my back, and an education at my fingertips. I have friends who love me, and a family who cares for me. We are all so lucky. We cannot ever take that for granted.

After the interviews I walked back to where the homeless man had given me directions. I wanted to buy him food from the fast food restaurant he was begging outside of. I wanted to give him the same hope I had seen in the second interview. But he had already moved on.

Today I lived and I learned. Today, and every day, I am grateful.

Happy 2013

Better late than never:
This time last year I wrote a post about how good 2011 was for me. I wrote that I had seen so much, learned so much, and loved so much that year. I don’t want to repeat myself so I will not say that 2012 has been just as good if not better to me. Splitting the year between living in 3 different cities in Italy and discovering Boston has been a gift in many ways. It was an eventful, educational, exciting year and I loved every minute of it.

This time last year I wrote my five news years resolutions to share them with the world so I would have no excuse not to keep them. They were as follows:
1. Stop making excuses:
For the most part I’d say this was a success. I didn’t always live by this resolution but when I did I experienced some truly great moments. I took life by the hand and ran with it and though by the end I was out of breath (because I’m out of shape) it was worth every stride.

2. Be better at long distance communication:
It was slow and steady, but I would say I improved at maintaining the friendships that matter. Thank god for facebook, skype, and having a US number.

3. Stop being so lazy:
Yeah, maybe, almost. I still like to take a lot of naps. I can’t accomplish every resolution at once can I :P

4.Accomplish at least one thing on my bucket list:
http://memoirsofarat.blogspot.com/2011/12/my-bucket-list.html
I accomplished two! I not only went to Venice and lived there for a month and wrote some of my favourite blog posts from the watery streets I learned to call home, but after that I was lucky enough to see one of my favourite musicians perform live with one of my favourite people. Check, and check!

5.Allow myself to get hurt:
This I did and did not do. I took risks to the best of my ability. I did not fall but I threw myself into relationships and moments that could potentially hurt me. Whether they did or not is irrelevant because I took the chance and experienced the vulnerability that makes us human, and the warmth of heart that makes the risk worthwhile. I’m still falling, I have not hit the ground yet. (Though I did fall down the stairs a couple of times…)

Suffice to say 2012 was both scintillating and successful. I look forward to 2013 and all it has to offer.
This year I have only one resolution: to enjoy it. I hope you all do the same.