I have no idea what was I thinking when I assumed that moving from one country to another, one continent to another, one type of job to another, would be a segue.
My entire life changed in one bold move and I should not have expected it to be so smooth and problem free as I did. Going through this adventure while being away from my family and friends, motivated only by my wonderful husband and my daydreaming abilities, had made the transition even bumpier.
On the day we got all our belongings to our new Dublin apartment, I was overwhelmed with emotions. Just a few months before, my husband and I had gone through the same experience, only I had my sister to help with the packaging and my father to offer a huge cup of steaming chocolate milk after a harsh day of unpacking and my mom to offer a generous dinner and a bag full of boxes for several more lunches and dinners at our new home.
However, moving in to our new apartment in Dublin had been a lonely experience with no help from anyone but ourselves. We had only each other for motivation and recharging.
We have evolved. We have found great strength in our new partnership. We have found great help in the arms of each other and that is great, but it sure was not a segue...
Friday, July 25, 2008
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Lost
Kara's parents owned a multi-billion corporation and made sure she enjoyed the perks. She's had dream vacations. She's attended the best public schools. She had a wardrobe fit to serve a Hollywood star. She had everything she could ever dream about, except for a family.
Her parents were always working outside and had no siblings to play with. She grew up in her own silent world, embellished by VIP parties and fabulous apparel but lonely, nonetheless.
One Friday night she was getting out of one of the most fashionable clubs in her upper-class neighborhood she was living at to get some fresh air. As always, she was there alone, outside in the chilling air. The crisp air refreshed her and she warmed herself by brushing her hands briskly up and down her arms.
Then it happened, two men with ski masks came out of a screeching car and grabbed her. She was kidnapped and was taken away from her familiar environment. She felt so lost because she wasn't alone anymore.
Her parents were always working outside and had no siblings to play with. She grew up in her own silent world, embellished by VIP parties and fabulous apparel but lonely, nonetheless.
One Friday night she was getting out of one of the most fashionable clubs in her upper-class neighborhood she was living at to get some fresh air. As always, she was there alone, outside in the chilling air. The crisp air refreshed her and she warmed herself by brushing her hands briskly up and down her arms.
Then it happened, two men with ski masks came out of a screeching car and grabbed her. She was kidnapped and was taken away from her familiar environment. She felt so lost because she wasn't alone anymore.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
People Watching
They were looking down at the people with astonishment.
"Look at that man. Look how he waves his hands funnily".
"Look at that little girl. All alone without her family around. How can she cope with the hardships of the world without having the entire flock around her?"
"Can you see that women, down there?"
"The one on the right, next to the crossroad?"
"No. The other one. The tall one with the yellow hair and red nails".
"Yes. What about her?".
"Everyday she stands here at the same time of day with the white smoking stick coming out of her mouth. She looks so sad when she comes out and light her white stick".
They were keeping on the chatter for a while. Standing on one of the rooftops of the city, having a daily break from their tedious routine, getting from one place to the other, looking for food and sunshine. People watching was their way of getting a perspective on their life. Looking at their different routines and at their peculiar gestures and then flying to the next resting place with a fresh outlook.
"Look at that man. Look how he waves his hands funnily".
"Look at that little girl. All alone without her family around. How can she cope with the hardships of the world without having the entire flock around her?"
"Can you see that women, down there?"
"The one on the right, next to the crossroad?"
"No. The other one. The tall one with the yellow hair and red nails".
"Yes. What about her?".
"Everyday she stands here at the same time of day with the white smoking stick coming out of her mouth. She looks so sad when she comes out and light her white stick".
They were keeping on the chatter for a while. Standing on one of the rooftops of the city, having a daily break from their tedious routine, getting from one place to the other, looking for food and sunshine. People watching was their way of getting a perspective on their life. Looking at their different routines and at their peculiar gestures and then flying to the next resting place with a fresh outlook.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Be Careful!
Mike has been looking for his little brother for the past 4 years. His kid brother went out with his friends on his 17th birthday and never came back home. He was an apt student and a talented football player and had absolutely no reason to run away, despite what the police said.
Mike was following a lead, suggesting that his brother had been caught by devil worshipers and was brain washed. He is now living in the gutters, harvesting human and animal organs for his leader. Mike was appalled and could no believe it is true, but he was determined to follow any lead and not to give up on his little brother, like the police had done a couple of years before.
His mother was trembling and her voiced quivered when she said: "be careful!". She didn't want to lose another son, but like Mike, she didn't want to miss any opportunity to find little Ben. She pressed lightly on Mike's shoulder blade - not sure whether she wanted to hold him back or to send him away with her blessings. She said "be careful!" again, as if doubling the greeting might double the protection and Mike's level of carefulness.
Mike took a small pocketknife and a flashlight and went on his way to the gutters. The water were constantly dripping and making an echo inside the darkness of the gutters. Miked walked carefully, one small step following the next. He was afraid to open his flashlight and was led only by his wish to find his brother and save him from the evils which had caught him.
--Time's up--
Mike was following a lead, suggesting that his brother had been caught by devil worshipers and was brain washed. He is now living in the gutters, harvesting human and animal organs for his leader. Mike was appalled and could no believe it is true, but he was determined to follow any lead and not to give up on his little brother, like the police had done a couple of years before.
His mother was trembling and her voiced quivered when she said: "be careful!". She didn't want to lose another son, but like Mike, she didn't want to miss any opportunity to find little Ben. She pressed lightly on Mike's shoulder blade - not sure whether she wanted to hold him back or to send him away with her blessings. She said "be careful!" again, as if doubling the greeting might double the protection and Mike's level of carefulness.
Mike took a small pocketknife and a flashlight and went on his way to the gutters. The water were constantly dripping and making an echo inside the darkness of the gutters. Miked walked carefully, one small step following the next. He was afraid to open his flashlight and was led only by his wish to find his brother and save him from the evils which had caught him.
--Time's up--
Monday, July 21, 2008
Finding Motivation
Lately it has been hard for me to find motivation. Vast amounts of my time are going to waste on aimless and idle web surfing.
I have a routine going. First comes my e-mail account, then my rss reader, then my You Tube subscriptions and some other social networks news. When I am done with my routine, I just start all over again in a vicious cycle. Chasing after my custom made news flashes.
It isn't always like that. Sometimes I get up in the morning with an urge to write and to create. I get up with a strong will to get forward and to succeed. I get up with a great passion to excel. On these days I go through my routine only once and start working right away. Sometimes I am not even patient enough to go through my entire routine. I just want to write something myself, to create something my self and not to watch what others have created and written.
Not lately though. I am trying to find motivation everywhere. Visiting websites that usually inspire me. Speak with friends and family that usually motivate me to be more active. Reading inspiring books and rereading books I have already read. But nothing helps.
I feel like there is an enormous pothole right next to me and my motivation keeps tripping and falling inside that hole instead of getting into me and filling me up. I feel quite desperate, as this is a feeling I have been having for the past couple of weeks.
where has my motivation gone to?
--Time's up--
I have a routine going. First comes my e-mail account, then my rss reader, then my You Tube subscriptions and some other social networks news. When I am done with my routine, I just start all over again in a vicious cycle. Chasing after my custom made news flashes.
It isn't always like that. Sometimes I get up in the morning with an urge to write and to create. I get up with a strong will to get forward and to succeed. I get up with a great passion to excel. On these days I go through my routine only once and start working right away. Sometimes I am not even patient enough to go through my entire routine. I just want to write something myself, to create something my self and not to watch what others have created and written.
Not lately though. I am trying to find motivation everywhere. Visiting websites that usually inspire me. Speak with friends and family that usually motivate me to be more active. Reading inspiring books and rereading books I have already read. But nothing helps.
I feel like there is an enormous pothole right next to me and my motivation keeps tripping and falling inside that hole instead of getting into me and filling me up. I feel quite desperate, as this is a feeling I have been having for the past couple of weeks.
where has my motivation gone to?
--Time's up--
Friday, July 18, 2008
Strawberries & Whipped Cream
As a personal exercise I am trying to look at a child murderer from a different perspective, only I am giving him the proper punishment....
Here it goes ==>
Samir was born at the Dakhia neighborhood in Beirut. His father was recruited as a fighter by the Hezbollah and was killed by Israeli troopers when Samir was 3 years old. His mother was forced to clean other people's houses in order to bring home some food for Samir and his five siblings. Times were tough for the Al'Mukhtar family.
When samir turned 15 he was recruited as a fighter for the Hezbollah and followed his father's footsteps. He wanted to make an impact, to be commemorated on the pages of history. Somewhere in the dark corners of his heart he just wanted to revenge his father's death and the harsh poverty he grew up in due to his father's death.
Samir Al'Mukhtar was an exemplary fighter thus chosen to serve as a Shahid at the early age of 17. He went on an operational mission inside Israel, in a city the Zionists call: Qiriat Mozkin, which is located near Haifa.
Samir was smuggled across the border, carrying a gun and a picture of his late father. He was constantly repeating verses from the Koran. When he got to the city of Qiriat Mozkin he penetrated a Zionist apartment building and broke into one of the apartments.
It was pitch dark inside and his eyes had to adjust to the darkness. He started walking across the room and shot everyone on his way. The first to be killed were the father and the mother in their bed and from the shouting and the gun shots, their eldest son woke up. Samir had shot him in a breeze and than he could hear the crying of a small child. He followed the crying voices and found a small baby girl in her crib, crying her lungs out from all the commotion. At first he stopped moving and thought about his kid brother, Ibrahim, who was born shortly before his father got killed.
Samir heard the sirens, the police is on its way. He was sweating and started shivering. The magnitude of his deeds has daunted him. What has he done? He shook his head to take away these weak thoughts and remembered how small Ibrahim was when he had to work at the food market, waking up everyday at 3 am and carrying heavy baskets of fruits. Then he raised his gun and smashed its shaft onto the crying baby's skull.
He immediately put his gun into his mouth for the final deed. It is time to turn into a shahid so the Israeli police won't catch him and interrogate him. He squeezed the trigger and could already hear the policemen entering the apartment, but there were no more bullets in the magazine. Samir was caught.
Samir was a bit surprised that no one had hit him. No one had tortured him in a dark basement. He was even given an Arabic speaking lawyer by the state of Israel to represent him during his trial and there were several appeals, served by Israeli organizations, for calling off the death sentence he was given.
On his last hour, before the death sentence was carried out, he was asked what would he like to eat for his final meal. He thought for a short minute and confidently said: "Strawberries and whipped cream", Ibrahim's favorite.
--Time's up--
Here it goes ==>
Samir was born at the Dakhia neighborhood in Beirut. His father was recruited as a fighter by the Hezbollah and was killed by Israeli troopers when Samir was 3 years old. His mother was forced to clean other people's houses in order to bring home some food for Samir and his five siblings. Times were tough for the Al'Mukhtar family.
When samir turned 15 he was recruited as a fighter for the Hezbollah and followed his father's footsteps. He wanted to make an impact, to be commemorated on the pages of history. Somewhere in the dark corners of his heart he just wanted to revenge his father's death and the harsh poverty he grew up in due to his father's death.
Samir Al'Mukhtar was an exemplary fighter thus chosen to serve as a Shahid at the early age of 17. He went on an operational mission inside Israel, in a city the Zionists call: Qiriat Mozkin, which is located near Haifa.
Samir was smuggled across the border, carrying a gun and a picture of his late father. He was constantly repeating verses from the Koran. When he got to the city of Qiriat Mozkin he penetrated a Zionist apartment building and broke into one of the apartments.
It was pitch dark inside and his eyes had to adjust to the darkness. He started walking across the room and shot everyone on his way. The first to be killed were the father and the mother in their bed and from the shouting and the gun shots, their eldest son woke up. Samir had shot him in a breeze and than he could hear the crying of a small child. He followed the crying voices and found a small baby girl in her crib, crying her lungs out from all the commotion. At first he stopped moving and thought about his kid brother, Ibrahim, who was born shortly before his father got killed.
Samir heard the sirens, the police is on its way. He was sweating and started shivering. The magnitude of his deeds has daunted him. What has he done? He shook his head to take away these weak thoughts and remembered how small Ibrahim was when he had to work at the food market, waking up everyday at 3 am and carrying heavy baskets of fruits. Then he raised his gun and smashed its shaft onto the crying baby's skull.
He immediately put his gun into his mouth for the final deed. It is time to turn into a shahid so the Israeli police won't catch him and interrogate him. He squeezed the trigger and could already hear the policemen entering the apartment, but there were no more bullets in the magazine. Samir was caught.
Samir was a bit surprised that no one had hit him. No one had tortured him in a dark basement. He was even given an Arabic speaking lawyer by the state of Israel to represent him during his trial and there were several appeals, served by Israeli organizations, for calling off the death sentence he was given.
On his last hour, before the death sentence was carried out, he was asked what would he like to eat for his final meal. He thought for a short minute and confidently said: "Strawberries and whipped cream", Ibrahim's favorite.
--Time's up--
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Parallel universe
I live my life on two parallel universes. One is happy and filled with joy and bliss and the other is a sad, sad universe, filled with my fears and frustrations.
The portal through which I move from one universe to another is continuously changing and is always found in the most unexpected corners of my heart and mind, flipping me from one universe to another without a control panel for me to handle with care and with thought.
My husband's sweet words, whispered in my ears. My nephews' wide and radiant smile. My niece's smart observations. All are triggers for being launched back into my happy universe. Sometimes I need a higher doze of my little helpers to get there, when the gravity of my dark universe is getting stronger and pulls me in with no sympathy and no remorse.
When I am in my happy universe, I can create freely. I feel inspired and full of ideas. In my sad universe, I feel blocked and any glimmer of inspiration on this universe only yields ugly and miserable creations.
Living on two parallel universes helps me remain sane. It helps me keep all the sorrow and despair confined to one place and to achieve bliss on the other side of my personal solar system.
--Time's up--
The portal through which I move from one universe to another is continuously changing and is always found in the most unexpected corners of my heart and mind, flipping me from one universe to another without a control panel for me to handle with care and with thought.
My husband's sweet words, whispered in my ears. My nephews' wide and radiant smile. My niece's smart observations. All are triggers for being launched back into my happy universe. Sometimes I need a higher doze of my little helpers to get there, when the gravity of my dark universe is getting stronger and pulls me in with no sympathy and no remorse.
When I am in my happy universe, I can create freely. I feel inspired and full of ideas. In my sad universe, I feel blocked and any glimmer of inspiration on this universe only yields ugly and miserable creations.
Living on two parallel universes helps me remain sane. It helps me keep all the sorrow and despair confined to one place and to achieve bliss on the other side of my personal solar system.
--Time's up--
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