(no subject)
i was going to write an update about my last few days, but then i re-read a private entry i wrote last friday about about much of what has been on my mind recently, and i kind of just want to post that instead.
it's hard to concentrate on work today. it's hard to imagine that as i was walking the three miles to work this morning, taking my time, listening to edith piaf and dreamily watching the mist swirl and envelop trees and buildings around me, thinking about how beautiful winter can be, my cat was struggling through her last breaths. it feels wrong somehow, these days, to mourn the passing of a (beloved) pet, but i suppose it would feel equally wrong not to. although i was relieved to find that the nervous, melancholy phone call from my father was about sybil, and not about my uncle, it will be hard to go home tonight to four healthy, active cats, and then to go to my parents' house this weekend to her absence for the first time in eleven and a half years.
the last few weeks have reminded me, more powerfully than ever, how important it is to stop, to breathe, to take my time. i feel as if i haven't had a proper moment to myself in a long time. life is moving too quickly. wake at 7, work from 9 to 5 (or later), tutor in the afternoons, teach in the evenings, turn down invitations and fall into bed exhausted. try to sleep enough, try to eat better, try to see my friends and family, try to still make time for those unique, unexpected, breath-taking moments of brilliance. try not to fall into robotic routine, try not to lose myself. am i spreading myself too thin? i'm starting books i can't finish. i have no time to write or explore. i can hardly stand most bars, shows, parties because they feel somehow like a waste of time - but i still go, because often, that's where i will find my friends.
i can't complain. my students at NSC are bright, eager, hard-working. they are immigrants and refugees from haiti, indonesia, peru, mali, russia, argentina. their days are very often longer and harder than mine will ever be, and still they are smiling and laughing at the end of the night. many of them have just arrived in the US and tell me that they don't have any friends - or even family, in some cases - yet. the receptionist hasn't seen his family in eleven years. he left rwanda, alone, in 1994 under UN protection and is forbidden to go back even to visit. he's writing a book about his experience and encouraging me to read more about all that the media has left unsaid. i have so much to learn from the new people in my life this year and i'm so grateful for the opportunity to volunteer with this community.
i am longing, still, to leave, but i think it's more important for me to stay right now. i'm struggling every day with conflicting emotions regarding my role in my jobs, my relationships, my life, and i am constantly overwhelmed by what goes on in the world, but i'm trying not to suppress or ignore those feelings, because as difficult as they can be, they're a reality that i need to confront if i ever hope to achieve anything positive (the unexamined life will never be worth living). i am beginning to map out a future for myself, and it's frightening but exhilarating to even begin to discover what i want to do with my life.
on wednesday night, one of the better nights i've had in 2006, i made a chocolate peanut butter pie and brought it to matt's house for a delicious dinner. afterwards, we watched the fog of war, which i've been meaning to see since it came out. it's a haunting, moving documentary, but one striking image in particular has remained in my mind: black-and-white streets filled with people celebrating the ends of the two world wars. it's hard to imagine that kind of jubilance, that collective sigh of relief, that sense of finality. war seems to have become, especially over the last few years, a constant: always present, no joyous end in sight. it's a thought, one of many, that fills me with unspeakable dread, and then i wonder if i am alone in all the things i never say.
it's hard to concentrate on work today. it's hard to imagine that as i was walking the three miles to work this morning, taking my time, listening to edith piaf and dreamily watching the mist swirl and envelop trees and buildings around me, thinking about how beautiful winter can be, my cat was struggling through her last breaths. it feels wrong somehow, these days, to mourn the passing of a (beloved) pet, but i suppose it would feel equally wrong not to. although i was relieved to find that the nervous, melancholy phone call from my father was about sybil, and not about my uncle, it will be hard to go home tonight to four healthy, active cats, and then to go to my parents' house this weekend to her absence for the first time in eleven and a half years.
the last few weeks have reminded me, more powerfully than ever, how important it is to stop, to breathe, to take my time. i feel as if i haven't had a proper moment to myself in a long time. life is moving too quickly. wake at 7, work from 9 to 5 (or later), tutor in the afternoons, teach in the evenings, turn down invitations and fall into bed exhausted. try to sleep enough, try to eat better, try to see my friends and family, try to still make time for those unique, unexpected, breath-taking moments of brilliance. try not to fall into robotic routine, try not to lose myself. am i spreading myself too thin? i'm starting books i can't finish. i have no time to write or explore. i can hardly stand most bars, shows, parties because they feel somehow like a waste of time - but i still go, because often, that's where i will find my friends.
i can't complain. my students at NSC are bright, eager, hard-working. they are immigrants and refugees from haiti, indonesia, peru, mali, russia, argentina. their days are very often longer and harder than mine will ever be, and still they are smiling and laughing at the end of the night. many of them have just arrived in the US and tell me that they don't have any friends - or even family, in some cases - yet. the receptionist hasn't seen his family in eleven years. he left rwanda, alone, in 1994 under UN protection and is forbidden to go back even to visit. he's writing a book about his experience and encouraging me to read more about all that the media has left unsaid. i have so much to learn from the new people in my life this year and i'm so grateful for the opportunity to volunteer with this community.
i am longing, still, to leave, but i think it's more important for me to stay right now. i'm struggling every day with conflicting emotions regarding my role in my jobs, my relationships, my life, and i am constantly overwhelmed by what goes on in the world, but i'm trying not to suppress or ignore those feelings, because as difficult as they can be, they're a reality that i need to confront if i ever hope to achieve anything positive (the unexamined life will never be worth living). i am beginning to map out a future for myself, and it's frightening but exhilarating to even begin to discover what i want to do with my life.
on wednesday night, one of the better nights i've had in 2006, i made a chocolate peanut butter pie and brought it to matt's house for a delicious dinner. afterwards, we watched the fog of war, which i've been meaning to see since it came out. it's a haunting, moving documentary, but one striking image in particular has remained in my mind: black-and-white streets filled with people celebrating the ends of the two world wars. it's hard to imagine that kind of jubilance, that collective sigh of relief, that sense of finality. war seems to have become, especially over the last few years, a constant: always present, no joyous end in sight. it's a thought, one of many, that fills me with unspeakable dread, and then i wonder if i am alone in all the things i never say.