I don't do small talk

Peter Riddle

One of many reflections on working with Highland Partners, Guatemala

I spent two amazing years working with AMA/HiP (Asociacion de Mujeres del Altiplano and Highland Partners) as a guide and interpreter for Highland Partner’s (HiP) volunteer service learning groups. I saw firsthand the impact of HiP/AMA’s interventions on international volunteers. These projects create lasting change for the communities they serve. Here are some of my thoughts on why HiP’s interventions are the best I’ve seen. HiP’s work in the Guatemala Highlands is based on development theory, academic research and more than 20 years of experience. HiP’s mission is to ”create models of cross-cultural exchanges that disrupt cycles of dependency, support sustainable development and empower individuals to be active agents of change in our world.” In Guatemala, HiP empowers Maya indigenous women, increasing community resilience in Guatemala’s Western Highlands against the adverse effects of rapid climatic, economical, social and cultural change.

Since Guatemala’s civil was ended in 1996, the Western Highlands experienced an influx of aid and development initiatives by national and international agencies, as well as nongovernmental organizations (NGOs). By offering short-term handouts, many well-intentioned initiatives accustomed communities to rely on outside help rather than building local capacity to find sustainable solutions to local needs.

The projects offered through HiP’s service learning programs provide tools and knowledge to up-skill build capacity and transfer knowledge to local communities. Volunteer teams leave, but the new tools and knowledge remain.  Returning to visit communities months and sometimes years after, I found the solutions built in partnership with HiP service learning groups were used and valued. I have listened to many stories of a smokeless cook stove transforming a family’s life. On countless days I opened the door at AMA’s office to families wanting to participate in AMA’s projects after seeing the impact it had on their neighbors’ life. I have watched women’s ambitions go from homemaker to entrepreneur as their self-confidence rose. I’ve watched these aspirations develop through participating in AMA’s mutual support networks called Women’s Circle and the fair trade textile enterprise, Pixan, which employs over 100 women in productive work. Nothing is more satisfying than seeing a change that you helped create.

Indigenous Maya women lead and run AMA. This is what makes AMA unique. It is rare to see indigenous women compose an organization’s leadership. It is even less common in Guatemala for an organization to employ women from the communities it serves. Paula, one of AMA’s Community Facilitators, began as a Women’s Circle member. She then began working with AMA’s fair trade enterprise, Pixan. That was when AMA realized her potential as a community leader. AMA’s organizational structure reflects HiP’s mission: effective and sustainable change comes from within the community itself.

I had not anticipated witnessing the personal transformation of hundreds of volunteers. The evening lectures HiP offers to volunteers was a critical component of this. The lectures covered a variety of themes, from Mayan cosmovision, to the impact of international gold mining on Mayan communities, to Mayan medicine or Guadalupe’s life story, the founder of AMA. The effect of these lectures was profound, for myself included. HiP works with highly respected experts in the field who offer a historical, cultural, economic and political context for the volunteers’ experience. This is where the transformation extends beyond Guatemalan communities: HiP strives global impact in their work. The educational aspect of the service learning program raises awareness about the global policies and consumer cultures affecting the communities HiP serves. The aim is that volunteers return home enlightened and empowered to share their experiences with their family, friends and wider community to amplify AMA’s work across borders, recruit more volunteers, and be a part of the global impact. This gives me hope that we can make positive changes both within and beyond Guatemala’s borders.

However, while we work towards a more systemic change I comfort myself with the words of Helen Keller, who said “I am only one, but still I am one. I cannot do everything, but still I can do something; and because I cannot do everything, I will not refuse to do something that I can do.”

I know that HiP’s work makes a real difference to the communities I served. I challenge you to experience the transformation for yourself.

http://highlandpartners.org/category/resureces/ethics-theory-and-practice/

Análisis de mi poema 'Xela como me hace falta'

Escribí este poema acerca de mi vida cotidiana en Quetzaltenango (Xela) en Guatemala. Quise describir las cosas pequeñas que acontecían en un día normal. Al escribir el poema pude reflexionar en aquellas cosas que tomaba por hecho que llenaban mis días con sentido y alegría. Creo que me doy cuenta de tiempos felices cuando estoy recordando épocas de mi pasado con nostalgia. Muchas veces no nos damos cuenta que somos felices hasta que el momento o época pasó. Creo que este es uno de los temas de mi poema.

La rutina es útil para establecer conexiones con un lugar. Creo que mi vida allá tenia mas sentido aunque no había muchas diversiones como en Londres.

Además, quería resaltar en las tradiciones de Xela, las escenas típicas y el paisaje de la ciudad en vez de enfocarme en personajes conocidos; ellos merecen su propio poema o discurso; no quería juntarlos. El día cotidiano merece si propio poema porque aunque las personas que conocí en Guatemala me influenciaron tanto, el país en si me impacto por su belleza.

http://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2014/06/happily-ever-after/372573/?single_page=true

Xela como me hace falta

Extraño su luna y como los rayos brillan en los charcos de las calles que iluminan mi camino en el desierto de la media noche.

Extraño como la neblina cae por las atardeceres, enrodándonos como un ponche de protección del frío.

Extraño caminar en el silencio de la madrugada, disfrutando la ilusión de tranquilidad, un momento fugaz antes de que todos se despierten.

Extraño las subidas y bajadas extremas de Baúl que sirven como una metáfora de la vida allá en Guatemala, alto o bajo, todo o nada: sin balance.

Extraño pasar por las nubes en la subida a Baúl, mirar hacia abajo a la manta que cubre la cuidad escondida de la luz del nuevo día.

Extraño como me cuesta respirar en la cima, como jamás puedo llenar mis pulmones con el aire necesario, y así quedándome con ganas de intentar de nuevo.

Extraño hacer la bajada con más ánimo para seguir con el día, lista para la lucha de trabajo y los problemas que me esperaban en la oficina.

Extraño pasar al lado del señor del jugo que me pregunta al diario ‘jugo hay jugo’ y cada día lo niego, pasándolo corriendo sin parar.

Extraño ir al mercado y admirar el arco iris de colores, atrayéndome a comprarlo como si fuera dulces a la venta.

Extraño tener el peso de un avocado redondo en mi mano, como si mi palma fuera hecha solamente para tenerlo tiernamente, así.

Extraño el ruido de la licuadora destructiva que llena el ambiente con ruidos de dulce productividad.

Extraño meter mis manos en una canasta de frijoles y el sonido que suena como monedas cuando muevo la selva de semillas negras.

Extraño la alegría de encontrar tres cartuchos perfectos en un cubo en la salida, sus pétalos sin manchas del viaje, su perfección un reflejo de la belleza de la vida.

Extraño el sonido de la campana anunciando la venta de helados, medio tibios, y tintados un amarillo resplandeciente acercandome en el parque.

Extraño el ‘poc poc poc’ de las gallinas de madera comiendo su maíz imaginario, nunca se cansan de la rutina infinita como su dueño al acecho de los potenciales compradores.

Extraño acercarme al niño del parque para comprar un cigarrillo en los momentos de debilidad, nunca esperé una sonrisa, sé que la vida le ha quitado demasiado, para dar el ultimo que tiene a un desconocido.

Extraño el chisporroteo de las pupusas cocinandose encima de un fuego fuerte, extraño hasta la cola que nunca se formaba y el picante que siempre me dejaba con parásitos, no aprendo negar mis tentaciones.

Extraño el refugio de su iglesia al lado, un rato de meditación, mirando a la gente orando, sufriendo, recordándome que hay mucha gente pasándolo mucho peor que yo en un día estresante de trabajo.

Casi extraño el ‘ch ch ch’ de los hombres en las calles, molestándome; a lo menos notaban mi presencia y me ofrecían un saludo.


Extraño sentirme en casa en un país tan lejano y diferente que el mío mientras soy una extranjera en mi propio país.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8CrOL-ydFMI

It is human to err and divine to forgive and show compassion

And the ultimate simplicity of it is awe-inspiring. All you ever want to know - the only question that really matters is: are the children all right? Are they happy? Are they safe? And as long as the answer is 'yes', nothing, ultimately, matters. You come across the passage in the Grapes of Wrath, and go cold at the true: 'How can you frighten a man whose hunger is not only his own cramped stomach but in the wretched bellies of his children? You can't scare him - he has known a fear beyond every other.'

Then Teller of All Our Stories

Seated in your element,
grained and grounded in love,
barefoot and open-handed,
we wait for you to speak.

We sit in stillness,
hearing our fractured tale of difference and division,
deep longing, and hope of healing.
You listen with grave gaze,
turning our copper leaf-question over in hand and heart,
then offer it back with challenging compassion
to see our story in a different light.

Image of humanity, suffused by divine refracted glow,
you gather our fragments with stern tenderness
into halo'ed wholeness.
The seat of judgement becomes the throne of grace,
the alchemy of love transforms the question.
Your hand raised in powerful blessing,
you draw us out of darkness into enlightening day.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z0tldz_-0yU

We are all slightly ruined by the things we've grazed against.

My Morning Commute Epitome

Sound attempt and after hours I'm still not sure it's any better!

I am on my morning commute,

the train is filling up stop-by-stop until I am surrounded by bodies,

I feel like cattle going to market, packed in we rattle down to our destinations in these metal cages.

Forced into awkward embraces we move in unison, supporting ourselves through the tracks’ twists and turns as if we were suspended on a rollercoaster.

I am so close to my neighbour that I can read every detail of their distant eyes,

the perfume of freshly washed hair consumes my senses and I feel squeaky-clean skin polishing up against mine,

with little warmth shown amongst these strangers I warm my shivering fingers by the heat of my phone.

And as I look around I find everyone transfixed by the same show playing between their hands,

worlds balanced between thumbs and fingers like two curtains opening onto the centre stage,

here play self-constructed realities programmed to our own limited agendas,

I stand and watch the scene engrossed.

It seems that we prefer to occupy ourselves with celebrity gossip,

passing the minutes zooming into airbrushed images,

photos so different from the originals that we barely recognise their beautiful faces.

You see it’s easier to consider the life of one star than contemplate the fate of thousands,

so we limit ourselves to the quick fixes of distraction that satisfy our need to fill this time.

It’s then, drowning in this sea of screens and silence I realise we have become disconnected from the realities around us,

could it be that our senses have been numbed, so anesthetized by overexposure that we are no longer stunned by the atrocities recounted on our crystal clear screens.

And the vision may be high definition yet we still miss the looks of desperation,

and how loud must the surround sound be to hear the cries of our global friends?

Today I can switch off to the sight of death at the press of a button.

As our horizons shorten to the focus of our two-inch screens,

we become entwined in the familiar, venturing no further than the circumference of our own circle of friends,

it is our friends that form the ends of a protective blanket wrapped around us,

it holds us so tight that we cannot step out to help those in need from other walks of life, even when they stood right in front us.

We tell ourselves that the problems around us are not our problems,

it’s the benefit system, it’s immigration, the economy, their culture,

you see they just didn’t try as hard enough.

Yet everybody knows that the toil of Sisyphus was infinite, and there was no reward for his endless output.

We could offer a helping hand to our fellow passengers, make their loads a little lighter, make their space a little larger,

But ‘our hands are tied’ we say, and they are tied-

tied to our phones, plugged into superficiality, charging on consumerism and wired to our egoisms,

we could put down our prisons, free our hands to focus on things that really matter: the implosion of our world and those within it.

In a recent study at Emory University called "Short- and Long-Term Effects of a Novel on Connectivity in the Brain," Neuro-scientist discovered evidence suggesting that reading novels improves brain function on many levels. Reading a novel puts the reader in another person's shoes expanding their imagination. A bran scan showed that there were changes in the temporal cortex of novel-readers. This is the area of the brain associated with language as well as sensations and movement. Reading stories can exercises a person's emotion and compassion as well. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AzCUGhdnGvI

The more one forgets himself -- by giving himself to a cause to serve or another person to love -- the more human he is

Frankl

This uniqueness and singleness which distinguishes each individual and gives a meaning to his existence has a bearing on creative work as much as it does on human love. When the impossibility of replacing a person is realized, it allows the responsibility which a man has for his existence and its continuance to appear in all its magnitude. A man who becomes conscious of the responsibility he bears toward a human being who affectionately waits for him, or to an unfinished work, will never be able to throw away his life. He knows the "why" for his existence, and will be able to bear almost any "how."

Frankl.

Why meaning in life is more important than happiness

Mind the Gap

This was created to be spoken

And we stand here, huddled together in this moving case,

packed in like cattle so close that we can stare straight into the other’s distant eyes,

we watch their emptiness reflecting back at us.

We are surrounded by bodies, propped up shoulder-to-shoulder, ready for market yet there is no warmth in our uncomfortable enforced embraces,

the only warmth we find sits in the encased connections held within our hands.

Transfixed by the boxes balanced between our thumbs and fingers,
 like a theatre stage between two curtains,

we watch self-constructed realities played out for our own private viewings,
built to order, custom made, programmed to play

microcosms of our own world vision.

Our only desire is to zoom into albums of digitally enhanced images,

so dissimilar from the originals that we barely recognise our own airbrushed faces.

And we occupy ourselves feeding on meaningless knowledge,

celebrity updates, comedy trends, scandalous gossip,

there is no end to the quick fixes that satisfy our need to fill this time,

you see it distracts us from what really matters;

the implosion of our world and those within it.

The moving carriage slows down, then jerks to a halt,

there’s a pause –

until the pre-recorded voice calls,

‘mind the gap between the train and the platform’.

Mind the gap.

The distance to cross between the train and the platform has got bigger,

so wide that we can no longer glide over with the confidence we once had,

we are caught in the rat race, trapped in the chase for money and power

we stride to reach the privileged who tower above us in their sterile office blocks.

Don’t look down, they warn, that’s where oblivion sleeps.

We have become so entwined with our wealth and familiarity that we no longer venture further than our own circle of friends,

it is their ends that form a protective blanket wrapped around us so tight that we cannot step out to reach those in need from other walks of life.

We can switch off to the sight of death at the press of a button,

it is easy to miss the faces of desperation when the sound’s on silent.

our senses have been numbed; so anesthetized that we are no longer stunned

by the atrocities recounted on our crystal clear screens,

the vision might be high definition but we do not hear the cries for assistance from our global citizens, not even with surround sound.

And we are so disconnected from the realities of others that we are blind to

their suffering, paralysed, so overexposed to disaster and lies that we could drown in this apathy.

You see we tell ourselves that the problems on our doorsteps are not our problems,

it’s the benefit system, it’s immigration, the economy, their culture,

You see they just didn’t try as hard enough.

Yet everybody knows that the toil of Sisyphus was infinite, and where were the rewards for his endless labour?

We could make people’s load a little lighter, but we choose not too.

‘Our hands are tied’ we say in our defense, and they are tied,

tied to our phones, plugged into superficiality, charging on consumerism and wired to our egoisms.

We could put down our prisons,

free our hands to focus on the things that really matter; draw the platform a little closer, make the gap a little smaller, assist others who are weaker-

but we choose not to. The gap continues to grow and we continue on our precarious commutes, how long before the space is so great that we can no longer reach the other side?

We have a choice. We choose to remain living in our homemade prisons, watching our connections, pretending we can’t see them, pretending we can’t hear. Perhaps we do but we still remain motionless.

‘Mind the gap’ the announcement calls yet who ever paid attention to the safety warnings given by the voice from above?

'where you come from now is less important than where you're going...home isn't just the place where you happen to be born, it's the place where you become yourself.'

Boom:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zQucWXWXp3k

Letter to my daughter

You may not control all the events that happen to you but you can decide not to be reduced by them. Try to be a rainbow in someone's cloud. Do not complain. Make every effort to change the things you do not like. If you cannot make a change, change the way you have been thinking. You might find a new solution.
Never whine. Whining lets a brute know that a victim is in the neighbourhood.
Be certain that you do not die without having done something wonderful for humanity.

Maya Angelou

Erudite

Having or showing great knowledge or learning.

Rhetorical assignment two: my cause and passion, community engagement

In order for community development to be successful and sustainable at a local or international level the community and local citizens must be fully engaged with the development process. I have dedicated my career to engaging local communities in local development processes and opportunities: facilitating their involvement in social, health, economic and political decision making processes. I have witnessed the outcomes that community engagement fosters. 

One example focusing on the reduction of health inequalities, a current focus of my work, is found in the journal ‘Community engagement to reduce inequalities in health: a systematic review, meta-analysis and economic analysis’ that evidences the positive impact community engagement has in reducing existing health inequalities. This is just one of many examples that prove that development project outcomes are better when the local community is fully engaged. 

Involving local people in political and developmental processes is also a democratic right.

“The people of Scotland have spoken. It is a clear result. They have kept our country of four nations together.”

Take the recent Scottish referendum on independence, if a referendum had not been granted to the Scottish people we would never know whether Scotland is bound to England because it was not given a choice or because the people chose to be part of the Union. Their recent decision to stay within the union is as a result of a democratic and fair decision with over 85% of the population voted. Great Britain remains undivided through a process of engaging with citizens politically. Now compare this to the current events in Syria and the onslaught of the terrorist group ISIS, did the people of Syria have a say in whether they would like to become an independent Islamic State? Both these examples prove that citizens much be engaged in the political process for it to be democratic.

 Working in rural indigenous communities of Guatemala for two years I saw countless international and government projects come and go, handing out aid and establishing new initiatives without consulting or engaging local communities about these projects. These development solutions were often inadequately designed for the local environment or insensitive to local cultural practices. These projects often failed or were unsustainable lacking local support to enable their continuation. Take the example of a greenhouse built by the government built in a community at too higher altitude for anything to grow. The greenhouse now lies abandoned only a couple of years later. Compare that to AMA’s organic greenhouse project. The need for a supply of nutritious , affordable and diversified diet identified through community engagement processes led to the instigation of this project. Not only is the greenhouse now harvesting organically-grown tomatoes, lettuce and pepper for local consumption and for surplus sale but they are now in the process of establishing an sustainable agricultural school in order to ensure seed diversity and food security for local indigenous women and their families. All this happened because the leaders of AMA who are driving grassroots development in the Guatemalan highlands had stopped to ask what it was the community wanted. After listening to their needs they to action to respond with real and workable solutions.

Effective community engagement creates sustainable change and development for our local and international communities. Whether you work in  local or international development, it's essential that local people are given a voice, their voice often holds the key to your own projects’ success. 

http://www.journalslibrary.nihr.ac.uk/__data/assets/pdf_file/0006/94281/FullReport-phr01040.pdf

http://www.pixanproductions.org/

http://amaguate.org/

http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/natalieprunty/sustainableagricultureschoolfundraisingpage

http://www.healthwatch.co.uk/

For today

It feels odd to look long
At a corpse or a leaf:
It disturbs one's belief.
I found it hard to see my mother's face;
The more I looked,
The more her face eluded me.
I see her perfectly
In dreams, or when I don't try.
The long afterwards
I wonder why I suddenly cry.

Ben Okri
The difficulty in seeing

But the beauty is in the walking. We are betrayed by our destinations.

And you know I won't be satisfied with just a little. I won't watch the misery of my life. Either life gives me everything, or I'll quit.

When we are no longer interested in how we are seen by the person we love, it means we no longer love.

Immortality

High culture is nothing but a child of that European perversion called history, the obsession we have of going forward, with considering the sequence of generations a relay race in which everyone surpasses his predecessor, only to be surpassed by his successor. Without the relay race called history there would be no European art and what characterizes it: a longing for originality, a longing for change,

Immortality

The Wind, the Sun and the Moon

For weeks the wind has been talking to us,
Swearing, imploring, singing like a person.
Not a person, more the noise a being might make
Searching for a body and a name. The sun
In its polished aurora rises late, then dazzles
Our eyes and days, pacing a bronze horizon
To a mauve bed in the sea. Light kindles the hills,
Though in the long shadow of Moelfre
Winter won't unshackle the dead house by the marsh.

Putting these words on paper after sunset
Alters the length and asperity of night.
By the fire, when the wind pauses, little is said.
Every phrase we unfold stands upright.  Outside,
The visible cold, the therapy of moonlight.

Write or Right?

I had been fairly confident that I had produced a carefully planned, well-organised and engaging narrative to discuss why I write for assignment one. That was until I began to read the work of others, which forced me to question whether the approach I had taken was even correct and adequately engaging to achieve the purpose of the narrative: to persuade others to write. For example, I had not told a story with an accessible introduction, a middle that built suspense until the climatic end like Anne from York’s narrative about her husband’s eventful walks. Neither had I selected one specific point or one ethical question to mold a descriptive and captivating story behind like ‘why I don’t write any more’. My unconnected and somewhat disjointed events also differed from that of Yaroslava Roy whose narrative gracefully guides us from childhood up to the present day in their identity a writer.

We were given the same task based on the same question yet each of us interpreted the task differently. Perhaps it’s not a difference in interpretation of the question but a difference in how we came to the answer the question based our own individual causes and personal experiences, which are so varied and rich, to give us reason to put pen to paper or fingers to keys. In fact this was part of the beauty of the assignment: to highlight the ability of writing to cast light on the essence of our souls, each lined with our own unique mix of thoughts, experiences and memories.

For all the diversity found within our narratives I am able to draw parallels and pick out common themes between selected assignments upon further analysis.
Aisling Irwin who wrote ‘Why I don’t write’ shares my perspective that writing can be used to promote issues of justice, morality and social equality. In their care it was the plight of the poor in Bangladesh but for many others the injustices that take place outside the borders of our own countries had featured heavily. It is a common theme in my writing. I ended my essay emphasising the power that written word thanks to the knowledge it carries which can be a catalyst for igniting change. I was comforted that others like Aisling Irwin, who have more experience in using word as the tool for change, still see the value of communicating the injustices of inequality to western readers. Aisling describes both intensely and justly how poverty can drown the human spirit in degradation.
I believe we have a duty to commit ourselves to ensure that the world and those in it flourish. We should strive to live our lives as global citizens to be as rich as the colours of a nation’s flag wrapped around the coffin of a soldier killed in combat: drenched in meaning, weighed down by dedication and responsibility.

I also believe that life’s mission is to find our talent and unlock its potential in order to improve the lives of those who have limited or no access to the resources needed to also reach their potential. This is what motivates to me to get out of bed in the morning, this is what drives me to write, and this is what pushes me to better my own writing. I want to be able to persuade others to write with a similar conviction: to strive for difference, to use written words to educate, motivate, inspire, and ultimately to instigate change.

Brandon Pozernick offers the quote by Ben Mitchell in his assignment ‘I write to say what I cannot speak’ and reflects that we express ourselves more completely and concisely in written word than through verbal communication. The themes I discuss in my narrative: my mothers death, the inspiration of Maya Angelou and the betrayal of loved ones are intimate experiences entwined with similarly intimate emotions that I would be incapable of relating to family, friends or strangers in a conversation. I was comforted to know I am not the only one who writes to convey topics that cannot be spoken.

I think it’s also important to mention what I have learnt through this analysis exercise. I have learnt the importance of focusing on one single point in order to develop an argument or theme throughout a narrative. This helps to hold the reader’s attention without distraction. I find the three momentous events I discussed in causing me to write are enthralling but that’s because they hold personal meaning. I mustn’t delude myself that others will feel the same way without the story being skillfully retold. Moving forward I will spend longer carefully considering and selecting one key point to narrate in my rhetorical essay.

Considering skillfully written narratives ‘why I don’t write’ is written exquisitely. We repulse at the image of the enlarged testicles, we squirm in our seats through the power of Aislings’ details and rejoice in the perfectly selected metaphors that transport us to the taxi scene: we sit along side mother and child. Although it adds to further deprecation of my own attempt, also grounds me: I am at the beginning of my journey as a writer, I am in the opening chapter of my own narrative. I have so much to learn. Writers like Aisling set the standard setting the example of how it should be done, keeping us in the frame but sat below in awe, driving us with the desire to be the best that we possibly can.

Upon reflection and now conclusion to this synthesis, my aspiration is that by working through this course I will better equip myself to challenge, influence and motive others, either to write, to take action or to change their behaviour or the behaviour of others for the good of the wider community, be it locally or globally. My hope is that through the sharing and analysis of our collective works we will all understand to a greater extent the perspectives and realities of others around the world. As argued initially, we will never write for the same cause or utilise the same techniques, format or vocabulary because of our unique and individual life experiences, however my hope is that a greater number of people will now harness their talent for more benevolent and meaningful ends.

“later that night
i held an atlas in my lap
ran my fingers across the whole world
and whispered
where does it hurt?

it answered 
everywhere
everywhere
everywhere.” 

“every mouth you’ve ever kissed
was just practice
all the bodies you’ve ever undressed
and ploughed in to
were preparing you for me.
i don’t mind tasting them in the 
memory of your mouth
they were a long hall way
a door half open
a single suit case still on the conveyor belt
was it a long journey?
did it take you long to find me?
you’re here now,
welcome home.” 

Poem for a Daughter

'I think I'm going to have it,'
I said, joking between pains.
The midwife rolled competent
sleeves over corpulent milky arms.
'Dear, you never have it,
we deliver it.'
A judgement the years proved true.
Certainly I've never had you

as you still have me, Caroline.
Why does a mother need a daughter?
Heart's needle, hostage to fortune,
freedom's end. Yet nothing's more perfect
than that bleating, razor-shaped cry
that delivers a mother to her baby.
The bloodcord snaps that held
their sphere together. The child,
tiny and alone, creates the mother.

A woman's life is her own
until it is taken away
by a first, particular cry.
Then she is not alone
but a part of the premises
of everything there is:
a time, a tribe, a war.
When we belong to the world
we become what we are.

Anne Stephenson

Making Poetry

'You have to inhabit poetry
if you want to make it.'

And what's to inhabit?

To be in the habit of, to wear
words, sitting in the plainest light,
in the silk of morning, in the shoe of night;
a feeling bare and frondish in surprising air;
                        familiar...rare.

And what's to make?

To be and to become words' passing weather;
to serve a girl on terrible terms,
embark on voyages over voices,
evade the ego-hill, the misery-well,
the siren hiss of publish, success, publish, success,
success, success, success.

And why inhabit, make, inherit poetry?

Oh, it's the shared comedy of the worst
blessed: the sound leading the hand;
a wordlife running from mind to mind
through the washed rooms of the simple senses;
one of those haunted, undefendable, unpoetic
crosses we have to find.

Anne Stephenson, fellow guest at Gaby's Birthday celebration

We need art to live fully and grow healthy. Without it we are dry husks drifting aimlessly on every ill wind, our futures are without promise and our present without grace.

Angelou

Writing Assignment One: the three m's that inspired me to write

I never considered myself a writer until recently. Perhaps only when contemplating this assignment did I try the term out as if it were a new pair of shoes: slightly uncomfortable but hoping they’ll wear in to fit with time. With much regret I dedicated so little of the last 10 years putting pen to paper however that changed a year ago. I want to guide you through my narrative in becoming a writer with the hope to inspire others to explore their own narratives through written word.

I had never understood writing to be something you had to work at: you were either good at it or you weren’t. I used to consider myself an adequate writer or at least someone with a passionate voice, until I began working within in a team of Ivy League graduates from the US (I’m British). I soon discovered I had been fooling myself: my writing was incomparable to those around me. I gave up. I embraced my long meandering sentences, schoolgirl grammar and unimaginative vocabulary; I resigned myself to being average and leave writing to those that were innately good at it.

Looking back there were several factors that changed my literary path leading me to this moment: describing rhetorically why I am a writer with a cause.

Firstly, although outwardly resigned and self-deprecating about my lack of skill, surreptitiously I still held to the illusion that I did have potential but was trapped behind years of neglect.

Secondly, I took a job in marketing for an indigenous women’s organisation, and I was inspired to communicate the mind-blowing work this organisation was undertaking. I wanted to capture, package and send the women’s tear-jerking stories and heart-warming successes across oceans to my western peers, sat comfortably in front of their Mac-books. I felt obliged to give justice to the narratives of women who are forced to leave their rural communities to work in slave-like conditions in urban sweatshops, never earning enough to break free from the chain-laden poverty trap. I wanted to communicate that despite North American trade agreements bringing local economies to their knees there was hope. We as consumers can make a difference by supporting grassroots organisations like AMA (amaguate.org) who offered a viable alternative through the trade of ethically made products. I believe that words carefully selected, arranged and formed into a coherent and persuasive argument will shame and empower people to stand up and change the system crushing our global friends’ countries.  This is often a timely process but written word helps us to educate, inform and empowers our communities.

Thirdly, an unexpected byproduct of this process was the sense of pride I personally felt by producing my own literary creations. Similar to one of the women’s weavings painstakingly sewn with detail for hours on end to create intricate designs, I too had a vision and worked with dedication to create it. Like a painting I splashed a blank canvas with my carefully chosen word combinations, filling it with color and passion in my own unique style, and adding my name at the bottom.

Lastly, in May of this year Maya Angelou died. To me Maya Angelou was more than a writer. She was a link to my past: she was my mum’s favourite poet. We read her poetry together as a young teenager and I would sit and watch her read her rhythmical prose in bed. As a family we selected one of Maya’s poems to read over her coffin on the day of her funeral. Later, I read her poetry to soothe my grief, to inspire my own poetry, and in subsequent years to widen my understanding of what it is to be an African American as a partner to one.

The day the news reached me that Maya had died I unraveled. Maya had been a sturdy six-foot cypress standing entwined between my past and my present, arms spread wide, palms stretched out like star fish; one hand interlinked with my mother’s and one helping to balance me during challenges of my present.

When Maya Angelou died I became unsteady; I felt bereft. I was bereft because of what she represented in my life. It was this realisation that forced me to write about the importance of this magnanimous woman for others to appreciate, using metaphors, poetic prose and detailed descriptions drawn from distant keepsakes in my mind.

It was apparent that writing had assisted in the collection and organisation of memories. As if they were instructions of a recipe that needed putting into the right order to produce an edible dish, my writing had created something tangible out of scattered thoughts. I felt relief, pride and satisfaction in completing such a piece as did my father; happy to see that the hard work and time spent building childhood experiences had not been in vain.

From there on writing became an addiction. I could be found at dawn in front of the glow of the screen, keys chirping like the dawn chorus outside. I lulled myself to sleep with the sound of the mouse clicking to revise the verses and lines I had written previously. I spent weekends deleting miss-spelt words, adjusting lines to flow more rhythmically, adding stops where there were misplaced commas and commas where I had forgotten to pause for breath.  

Since then I have continued to tackle difficult events in my past and present with written word. I contemplate life’s big questions about choices, aspirations, and of course love and its betrayals.

As a spoken word poet explained to an audience I was lucky enough to be part of, ‘poetry can help us find creative ways to process the world we live in’. I would extend this statement to go beyond poetry but to include all forms of creative writing. Maya Angelou wrote, ‘we need art to live fully and grow healthy. Without it we are dry husks drifting aimlessly on every ill wind, our futures are without promise and our present without grace.’ I agree with Angelou and relish in her statement so beautifully described.

Writing is a tool to enable us to lead a more meaningful, thoughtful and conscientious life. It helps us to coherently communicate who we are, the past that shaped us, to reflect on what we are currently experiencing, and how we feel about all of these things. At least this is the case for me.

The question is not whether I consider myself a writer or what is my cause; the question is how I can demonstrate the value of writing to others so they are also inspired enough to write. Perhaps that is my cause.

timorous

of a timid disposition

Supercilious

having or showing the proud and unpleasant attitude of people who think that they are better or more important than other people

insouciance

a relaxed and calm state : a feeling of not worrying about anything

A journey

I listened,
I listened to a dispute unfold and did nothing to prevent it (the so-called peace campaigner).
I saw fear,
I saw fear slowly rise to blind a child’s eyes yet did nothing to clear their vision (the proclaimed empowerer of the public).
I witnessed,
I witnessed a face contort with anguish yet lifted no finger to smooth the lines spoiling the youthful face of innocence (this from a children’s rights educator).
I followed,
I followed the fate of two people: one big, one small backed into an argument they could never win (where was my charitable hand out of the situation? Is that not our role as the benevolent middle class?)
I imagined,
I imagined the history of hurt feeding their fires of contempt and yet empathy wasn't enough to provoke me to intervene, (It appeared I had left it at the office along with my name badge and integrity).
I breathed,
I breathed like a fish under water; my mouth opened and closed trying to conjure the words that would diffuse the fight (my ‘excellent’ communication skills had somewhat escaped me).
I observed,
I observed while words were thrown like knives and yet I said nothing to deflect them (the supposed protector of the vulnerable).
I lied,
I lied to myself that help will come soon; the bus will stop and the argument will dissipate (the foolish illusion that white privilege creates); it didn’t come.
I waited,
I waited, desperately willing the conductor to appear at the top of the stairs (was this not their paid responsibility to care for those within the vehicle?); he didn’t appear.
I was stuck.
Stuck to my chair: my arms hung as heavy as paperweights gluing my hands against the seat.
I gazed,
I gazed in shock, my sheltered eyes fixated on this car-crash novella that entertained so many of the bystanders (for this was their chance to put right all that was wrong in the world).
I remained silent,
Silent; my lips pursed as if distain alone would bring their shouting match to an end.
End? This was only the beginning.
The battle cries grew louder and louder,
the crowd gathered to observe two lost soles destroy one and other (how sad to realize that this is all there was to fight for; two battered chairs and a forest of abandoned litter at their feet.)
Then my opportunity came: the opponents paused for air-
I took my chance and weaved myself around the chairs, the raised stick, the pointing fingers, clenched fists, scorning tongues, pools of tears, the vexed cries and looks of hatred, and fled to the safety of the ground floor.
“There’s an argument upstairs” I stuttered, (a pathetic description of the events playing out on the transiting vehicle)
“Let them argue,” was the driver’s response.
We had been unknowingly thrown into a chapter of Lord of the Flies.

Within this bus painted deep red to resemble a loving heart (yet as cold as a room painted blue inside), compassion had been forgotten,
As for my complicity, how can I forget my own self-imposed inertia? Is my heart so cold that it cannot be compelled to act? 
I had left the bus having done nothing to resolve the situation.

The waves of hindsight may carry an ocean of solutions, yet that day - when it mattered- I was stranded in a sea of inaction.

Inaction: lack of action where some is expected or appropriate.  

3 ways to speak English

http://www.ted.com/talks/jamila_lyiscott_3_ways_to_speak_english

It is a well known fact that men have an unfortunate tendency to avoid paternal duties, to fall delinquent in alimony payments and to ignore their children. They refuse to grasp that children are the very essence of love... In the algebra of love a child is the symbol of the magical sum of two beings. Even if a man loves a women without so much as touching her he must reckon with the possibility that his love may engender an issue and emerge into the world...

Immortality

Milan Kundera

The more indifferent people are to politics, to the interest of others, the more obsessed they become with their own faces. The individualism of our time.

Immortality

On death

I should have written before now but I found it hard to put pen to paper and find the words. I don’t know whether you know but my mom died of cancer when I was 17. I think people think I will have some good advice, I wish I did. I wish I could make the pain go away and offer light at this terrible time. I wish I could write the typical ‘time will heal’ ‘it will get better’. It will but these words fall so flat and far from being an adequate response for you at this time. Death is the most incomprehensible thing to happen to us as human beings. I think it’s something that we can never truly understand or come to terms with. Time will take us further away from the rawness of it but the absence will always be there.

The absence can’t go away: your mum is so much a part of who you are and who you have become. And in this you should find comfort. She got to see you grow up and become the man you now are; she watched you follow your passions and develop them. She watched you enjoying life and I’m sure you spent many times together enjoying times and celebrations as a family. These moments and memories are priceless and will also never go away. This can bring us comfort.

I understand that she passed sooner than you had expected. The same happened with my mom and I felt so robbed that I didn’t get the long goodbye that cancer appears to offer so many families. Where was the time to do all the things we had wanted to do together, the time to say all the things we had never said? But there would never be enough time, there will never be a right time and death will never bring us a better outcome whenever it happens. We have to be strong and assure ourselves that the pure love shared between parent and child is unquestionably enjoyed and reciprocated. The love between a mother and child does not need putting into words because it just exists. You mom died embracing that love and I’m sure feeling lucky that she had enjoyed that love for so long and into adulthood. I hope one day this will bring you comfort.

I know you have such a large, amazing network of people there for you right now (a reflection of your warmth as a friend) but if you ever need an understanding ear; right now, in a few weeks, months, years, you can always write or call. Grief is an ongoing process and there is no cut off point for when we are unjustified to feel hurt and in need of another person’s understanding.

If you find it hard to share with others how you feel (I could never talk about my grief) write your thoughts down on paper. This is something I have begun to do recently and it really helps. Noone needs to read it but it helps in the process of comprehending what is happening and organizing your thoughts in such a confusing time. Just putting pen to paper and writing how you feel can be an unexpected release. It will take some time to feel comfortable doing this if you aren’t used to writing but stick at it or at least give it a try. Alternatively in nature, garden, take comfort from la madre tierra and the solace it can bring.  And hug Ramona, she is the source of so much love and joy. I miss her terribly.

I hope if this letter helps a little but if not I hope at least it has communicated that my thoughts are with you and that there is another person in a long line of others that wants to support and be there fore you should you need anything now or later on.

The Family Business

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S2fIn8n9KEo&feature=youtu.be

Horse Chestnuts

A few things struck me this morning as I picked up the Horse Chestnut blocking my path to work. Gleaming in the sun and smooth as a polished oak table I could almost see my reflection in this discarded seed.

I realised autumn is approaching. If conkers have started to fall- the epitome of autumn in any child’s eyes- then we are certainly beginning a new season.

It dawned on me that I haven’t experienced an autumn in five years. I haven’t seen the leaves changing colours then shriveling into deep red sun dried tomatoes hung out to dry on branched lines like crisp starched underwear. I haven’t followed the leaves’ path falling effortlessly from branch to the ground like rocking cradles to create a blanket of protection against the looming frosts. I haven’t watched the nights roll in consuming days like the ivy insidiously taking over our garden. I haven’t observed a winter arrive knowing I can do nothing to stop it.

I try not to reminisce about my childhood, too much has changed, too much is now missing. Yet, in that split second when I spotted this golden gem, I was transported back to being the eight-year-old girl I must have once been. Back to a time when all the entertainment I could possibly want was wrapped up in a green covered shell. I relived that child-like wonder this morning, scrabbling to collect all the fallen treasures in my reach. I carried them in to the office between the creases of my arms and elbows like a first-time parent might carefully cradle a newborn child.

In preparation for the annual conker wars I would laboriously bore holes into these precious stones attempting to push through a string as if it were as simple as a needle and thread. How I avoided severing a finger in the process I still have no idea. I remembered the annual amnesia of childhood hope; forgetting my destiny was to loose in the first round every single year. Not even the nicest of boys would risk their reputations to give me a fighting chance.

I remembered my mum driving me after school in a hopeless search for the biggest, shiniest, strongest chestnuts: my key to fame and trophies. I remembered discovering not conkers but a stolen safe concealed under the branches of a Chestnut tree, evidence in a crime that I was too young to comprehend. What disappointment in hearing that these riches were not ours to keep but boy did we have a story the next day to tell to our friends!

Lastly, at the proud age of thirty when my confidence has finally started to wear in to fit the body with which I was blessed, it struck me that the Chestnut I found today reminded me so very much of something else reclaimed. Tucked neatly away into a padded bed like a solitary pea in a pod, unblemished by the sun’s rays, the weathering wind, the rain, and the hurt of human touch, it dazzles in the sunlight unearthed for the very first time. It is an interesting comparison, one I would not have made at eight years old. I decided tonight this allegory merited writing down.

The more I live, the more I want depth. Depth of familiarity, depth of purpose, depth of friendship, depth of understanding, depth of knowing. I want to tell stories with depth, texture, sadness, humor, triumph and defeat. There is a magic and a mystery in those depths that is utterly missing in superficial declarations, and in the best one-liners. Depth entails complexity. And we want things stripped down to their essence. But the real essence is in the details, not in the generalizations. And it entails investment. It entails grit. It entails hurt. But I don't want to run from it.

Pauline

http://www.ted.com/playlists/87/spoken_word_fireworks

The danger of silence

http://www.ted.com/talks/clint_smith_the_danger_of_silence

That space in between.

That space in between;

that space between the going and the coming,

that space between the ‘I’ll be there soon’ and not arriving,

That space in between the waiting and no longer waiting.

The paralysis: 
the hanging-

the waiting.

Cos he said he was gonna come home soon but he’s not yet back and I’m tired. Tired of waiting, tired of hearing it all before, hearing it once, twice, three times tired.

Tired of waiting on a half-truth that becomes truth with the number of times it’s told over and over.

I was brought up to have faith in the words people say; I want to have faith in the words people say; faith in honesty, yeah you heard me, I want to have faith in honesty. What happened to honesty?

Yet faith and honesty ain’t dragging his ass back home any quicker.

And so here I am sat waiting; the independent woman that I proclaim to be, depending on his anticipated arrival; calling him, texting, hanging-

on his every god.damn.word. or lack there of.

Searching -

for a trace, his trail, a sign, a reason, an excuse for not being here now.

Because he said he was coming and I believed. Had to, wanted to, simply must do, believe. Believe he will come; has to come, wants to come, simply must do-

come.

Love is Not Enough

n 1967, John Lennon wrote a song called, “All You Need is Love.” He also beat both of his wives, abandoned one of his children, verbally abused his gay Jewish manager with homophobic and anti-semitic slurs, and once had a camera crew film him lying naked in his bed for an entire day.

Thirty-five years later, Trent Reznor from Nine Inch Nails wrote a song called “Love is Not Enough.” Reznor, despite being famous for his shocking stage performances and his grotesque and disturbing videos, abstained from all drugs and alcohol, married one woman, had two children with her, and then cancelled entire albums and tours so that he could stay home and be a good husband and father.

One of these two men had a clear and realistic understanding of love. One of them did not. One of these men idealized love as the solution to all of his problems. One of them did not. One of these men was probably a narcissistic asshole. One of them was not.

In our culture, many of us idealize love. We see it as some lofty cure-all for all of life’s problems. Our movies and our stories and our history all celebrate it as life’s ultimate goal, the final solution for all of our pain and struggle. And because we idealize love, we overestimate it. As a result, our relationships pay a price.

When we believe that “all we need is love,” then like Lennon, we’re more likely to ignore fundamental values such as respect, humility and commitment towards the people we care about. After all, if love solves everything, then why bother with all the other stuff — all of the hard stuff?

But if, like Reznor, we believe that “love is not enough,” then we understand that healthy relationships require more than pure emotion or lofty passions. We understand that there are things more important in our lives and our relationships than simply being in love. And the success of our relationships hinges on these deeper and more important values.

THREE HARSH TRUTHS ABOUT LOVE

The problem with idealizing love is that it causes us to develop unrealistic expectations about what love actually is and what it can do for us. These unrealistic expectations then sabotage the very relationships we hold dear in the first place. Allow me to illustrate:

1. Love does not equal compatibility. Just because you fall in love with someone doesn’t necessarily mean they’re a good partner for you to be with over the long term. Love is an emotional process; compatibility is a logical process. And the two don’t bleed into one another very well.

It’s possible to fall in love with somebody who doesn’t treat us well, who makes us feel worse about ourselves, who doesn’t hold the same respect for us as we do for them, or who has such a dysfunctional life themselves that they threaten to bring us down with them.

It’s possible to fall in love with somebody who has different ambitions or life goals that are contradictory to our own, who holds different philosophical beliefs or worldviews that clash with our own sense of reality.

It’s possible to fall in love with somebody who sucks for us and our happiness.

That may sound paradoxical, but it’s true.

When I think of all of the disastrous relationships I’ve seen or people have emailed me about, many (or most) of them were entered into on the basis of emotion — they felt that “spark” and so they just dove in head first. Forget that he was a born-again Christian alcoholic and she was an acid-dropping bisexual necrophiliac. It just felt right.

And then six months later, when she’s throwing his shit out onto the lawn and he’s praying to Jesus twelve times a day for her salvation, they look around and wonder, “Gee, where did it go wrong?”

The truth is, it went wrong before it even began.

When dating and looking for a partner, you must use not only your heart, but your mind. Yes, you want to find someone who makes your heart flutter and your farts smell like cherry popsicles. But you also need to evaluate a person’s values, how they treat themselves, how they treat those close to them, their ambitions and their worldviews in general. Because if you fall in love with someone who is incompatible with you…well, as the ski instructor from South Park once said, you’re going to have a bad time.

2. Love does not solve your relationship problems. My first girlfriend and I were madly in love with each other. We also lived in different cities, had no money to see each other, had families who hated each other, and went through weekly bouts of meaningless drama and fighting.

And every time we fought, we’d come back to each other the next day and make up and remind each other how crazy we were about one another and that none of those little things matter because we’re omg sooooooo in love and we’ll find a way to work it out and everything will be great, just you wait and see. Our love made us feel like we were overcoming our issues, when on a practical level, absolutely nothing had changed.

As you can imagine, none of our problems got resolved. The fights repeated themselves. The arguments got worse. Our inability to ever see each other hung around our necks like an albatross. We were both self-absorbed to the point where we couldn’t even communicate that effectively. Hours and hours talking on the phone with nothing actually said. Looking back, there was no hope that it was going to last. Yet we kept it up for three fucking years!

After all, love conquers all, right?

Unsurprisingly, that relationship burst into flames and crashed like the Hindenburg being doused in jet fuel. The break up was ugly. And the big lesson I took away from it was this: while love may make you feel better about your relationship problems, it doesn’t actually solve any of your relationship problems.

The roller coaster of emotions can be intoxicating, each high feeling even more important and more valid than the one before, but unless there’s a stable and practical foundation beneath your feet, that rising tide of emotion will eventually come and wash it all away.

3. Love is not always worth sacrificing yourself. One of the defining characteristics of loving someone is that you are able to think outside of yourself and your own needs to help care for another person and their needs as well.

But the question that doesn’t get asked often enough is exactly what are you sacrificing, and is it worth it?

In loving relationships, it’s normal for both people to occasionally sacrifice their own desires, their own needs, and their own time for one another. I would argue that this is normal and healthy and a big part of what makes a relationship so great.

But when it comes to sacrificing one’s self-respect, one’s dignity, one’s physical body, one’s ambitions and life purpose, just to be with someone, then that same love becomes problematic. A loving relationship is supposed to supplement our individual identity, not damage it or replace it. If we find ourselves in situations where we’re tolerating disrespectful or abusive behavior, then that’s essentially what we’re doing: we’re allowing our love to consume us and negate us, and if we’re not careful, it will leave us as a shell of the person we once were.

THE FRIENDSHIP TEST

One of the oldest pieces of relationship advice in the book is, “You and your partner should be best friends.” Most people look at that piece of advice in the positive: I should spend time with my partner like I do my best friend; I should communicate openly with my partner like I do with my best friend; I should have fun with my partner like I do with my best friend.

But people should also look at it in the negative: Would you tolerate your partner’s negative behaviors in your best friend?

Amazingly, when we ask ourselves this question honestly, in most unhealthy and codependent relationships, the answer is “no.”

I know a young woman who just got married. She was madly in love with her husband. And despite the fact that he had been “between jobs” for more than a year, showed no interest in planning the wedding, often ditched her to take surfing trips with his friends, and her friends and family raised not-so-subtle concerns about him, she happily married him anyway.

But once the emotional high of the wedding wore off, reality set in. A year into their marriage, he’s still “between jobs,” he trashes the house while she’s at work, gets angry if she doesn’t cook dinner for him, and any time she complains he tells her that she’s “spoiled” and “arrogant.” Oh, and he still ditches her to take surfing trips with his friends.

And she got into this situation because she ignored all three of the harsh truths above. She idealized love. Despite being slapped in the face by all of the red flags he raised while dating him, she believed that their love signaled relationship compatibility. It didn’t. When her friends and family raised concerns leading up to the wedding, she believed that their love would solve their problems eventually. It didn’t. And now that everything had fallen into a steaming shit heap, she approached her friends for advice on how she could sacrifice herself even more to make it work.

And the truth is, it won’t.

Why do we tolerate behavior in our romantic relationships that we would never ever, ever tolerate in our friendships?

Imagine if your best friend moved in with you, trashed your place, refused to get a job or pay rent, demanded you cook dinner for them, and got angry and yelled at you any time you complained. That friendship would be over faster than Paris Hilton’s acting career.

Or another situation: a man’s girlfriend who was so jealous that she demanded passwords to all of his accounts and insisted on accompanying him on his business trips to make sure he wasn’t tempted by other women. His life was practically under 24/7 surveillance and you could see it wearing on his self-esteem. His self-worth dropped to nothing. She didn’t trust him to do anything. So he quit trusting himself to do anything.

Yet he stays with her! Why? Because he’s in love!

Remember this: The only way you can fully enjoy the love in your life is to choose to make something else more important in your life than love.

You can fall in love with a wide variety of people throughout the course of your life. You can fall in love with people who are good for you and people who are bad for you. You can fall in love in healthy ways and unhealthy ways. You can fall in love when you’re young and when you’re old. Love is not unique. Love is not special. Love is not scarce.

But your self-respect is. So is your dignity. So is your ability to trust. There can potentially be many loves throughout your life, but once you lose your self-respect, your dignity or your ability to trust, they are very hard to get back.

Love is a wonderful experience. It’s one of the greatest experiences life has to offer. And it is something everyone should aspire to feel and enjoy.

But like any other experience, it can be healthy or unhealthy. Like any other experience, it cannot be allowed to define us, our identities or our life purpose. We cannot let it consume us. We cannot sacrifice our identities and self-worth to it. Because the moment we do that, we lose love and we lose ourselves.

Because you need more in life than love. Love is great. Love is necessary. Love is beautiful. But love is not enough.