May God bless you with a restless discomfort about easy answers, half-truths, and superficial relationships, so that you may seek truth bodly and love deep within your heart.
May God bless you with holy anger at injustice, oppression, and exploitation of people, so that you may tirelessly work for justice, freedom, and peace among all people.
May God bless you with the gift of tears to shed with those who suffer from pain, rejection, starvation, or the loss of all that they cherish, so that you may reach out your hand to comfort them and transform their pain into joy.
May God bless you with enough foolishness to believe that you really can make a difference in this world, so that you are able, with God's grace, to do what others claim cannot be done.
And the blessing of God the Supreme Majesty and out Creator, Jesus Christ the Incarnate Word who is our Brother and Savior, and the Holy Spirit, our Advocate and Guide, be with you and remain with you, this day and forevermore. Amen
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Saturday, August 6, 2011
the reality of memories
The leaves of memory seemed to make
A mournful rustling in the dark.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Sometimes I really miss being home. I miss the fields of bluebonnets outside of my house, I miss the coffee my parents brew every morning, I miss swinging on the back porch with my sisters.
I miss the smell off the heat dying off during a summer nights, I miss the sound of crickets in the countryside.
I am discovering more and more that this is not my home. But then the reality that when I go home it will not be the same is almost more frightening than living in a foreign country.
In Victor Frankl's “Search for Meaning,” he writes about the deep depression that many holocaust survivors faced after finding that the homes the returned to after years of suffering were not the same.
Frankl laments over this sense of idealism we build in our minds when we hold our memories to be a current reality. How could someone's memories be so strong that they sustain a person through such a hell? How could something hold someone together, give them strength to fight day to day, provide meaning through suffering, when that memory no longer exists?
And this is the struggle of living overseas. The people who are related to my memories our real; the love I feel towards them still “is”, but this ideal life I look back on, the accumulation of all the good moments, never was. And what is even more sobering is to realize that those moments have led me to where I am now.
I am at this point where I realize, in some ways, I am still that. But now, I am this also.
Its the analogy I have used before: my native country is yellow, this foreign country I live in is blue, and now I will just be green for the rest of my life. I can learn this country's history, I can learn the language, I can analyze and study the culture, but I will always be an outsider. Also, I can go home, but I will never be the girl I was before. I will compare and have part of an outside world always living with me. And most discussions will be tuned out in my mind by this repetitive saying when people begin discussions with me that, while this is the reality of their world, this is not the reality of the world.
Sometimes I wonder if this kind of introspection is harmful. I get so frustrated with people because they never want to have these kinds of conversations; but I question if in the end there is any kind of intrinsic value to these observations. Perhaps sometimes it is better just not to think about it. Besides, what kind of memories are made out of contemplating memories?
A mournful rustling in the dark.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Sometimes I really miss being home. I miss the fields of bluebonnets outside of my house, I miss the coffee my parents brew every morning, I miss swinging on the back porch with my sisters.
I miss the smell off the heat dying off during a summer nights, I miss the sound of crickets in the countryside.
I am discovering more and more that this is not my home. But then the reality that when I go home it will not be the same is almost more frightening than living in a foreign country.
In Victor Frankl's “Search for Meaning,” he writes about the deep depression that many holocaust survivors faced after finding that the homes the returned to after years of suffering were not the same.
Frankl laments over this sense of idealism we build in our minds when we hold our memories to be a current reality. How could someone's memories be so strong that they sustain a person through such a hell? How could something hold someone together, give them strength to fight day to day, provide meaning through suffering, when that memory no longer exists?
And this is the struggle of living overseas. The people who are related to my memories our real; the love I feel towards them still “is”, but this ideal life I look back on, the accumulation of all the good moments, never was. And what is even more sobering is to realize that those moments have led me to where I am now.
I am at this point where I realize, in some ways, I am still that. But now, I am this also.
Its the analogy I have used before: my native country is yellow, this foreign country I live in is blue, and now I will just be green for the rest of my life. I can learn this country's history, I can learn the language, I can analyze and study the culture, but I will always be an outsider. Also, I can go home, but I will never be the girl I was before. I will compare and have part of an outside world always living with me. And most discussions will be tuned out in my mind by this repetitive saying when people begin discussions with me that, while this is the reality of their world, this is not the reality of the world.
Sometimes I wonder if this kind of introspection is harmful. I get so frustrated with people because they never want to have these kinds of conversations; but I question if in the end there is any kind of intrinsic value to these observations. Perhaps sometimes it is better just not to think about it. Besides, what kind of memories are made out of contemplating memories?
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