Thoughts of a Vegetable

The New Year is very nearly here, and not in the way that your mum says when you are actually two and half hours away from your destination on a trip to visit relatives… it’s literally around the corner. And?

And, actually, I’m not sure. What you are reading now was written only after four false starts.

I grew up in an environment that focused a lot on the big picture, the span of existence from birth to death. And even though I could take a stab at the meaning of existence, or what I would consider a successful life, I can hardly think of what to fill my life with. Having been in school for the past thirteen years it actually a challenge to try and sort out what to do on a daily basis. I’m not a total loser though, it’s not like I just sit about every single day. But there is a fair amount of vegging in my life right now.

It’s not just that I like big picture, in many ways it’s what keeps me going. The big picture is just a synonym for Meaning, or Purpose or Understanding, all in capitals because they are the Why’s of your life, well, at least of my life. Although we can make plans, for the next hour or day or week, or even year and decade, what we will actually accomplish by the end is almost completely unknown, how we will feel is totally unpredictable. I have mentioned my anal tendencies before and the more I let them go the more I think that my life is almost living itself, which makes stressing out, about almost anything, pointless. So we (I) have lowers points, times when it seems like nothing is being accomplished, and other times when we (I) are so busy busy busy we can hardly remember to brush our teeth. All these things make up life and to not have had a little of everything is to have led a life that is, strangely, lifeless.

It’s a funny combination of grabbing every moment of joy from the moments we (I) have on earth and allowing things to come to you and dealing with them from there, I think.

For last year's words belong to last year's language

Ans next year's words await another voice.

And to make an end is to make a beginning.

~ T.S. Eliot, "Little Gidding"

Just like every single day, New Years is an opportunity to take another breath and try again. Like every day, New Years can, or can not, be a marker or the turning of a leaf, a line in the sand. Last year as my family brought in the New Year together I cried and cried, because even though I knew how screwed up so many days of 2009 were because of me, I felt like I could leave them behind, like I was given another chance. And I was.

2011 is another chance. Another try. God bless it.

May God also bless you in this new year.

Kika

Everything

After today I am tempted to start an argument in defense of the United States over the issue of size. Outside the US there is a general notion that all things in the US are big. Their size is sometimes a very good, cool thing, for example in the case of New York City, and sometimes (more often than not) it is not a good thing, for example in the country’s issues with obesity and consumerism. The reason for my temptation towards belligerence comes from the shopping trip I took today with a couple of friends in preparation for Christmas.

Our first stop was at El Rastro, the famous Madrid flea market held every Sunday morning, rain or shine. Not that I’m much of an expert on flea markets, but I feel confident in saying that El Rastro has everything…one booth sells new age-y clothes, another has a table staggering under the weight of countless cd’s, another sells lovely head massager things and nice smelling fragrances, there are stalls with underwear, outerwear, bags, plants, jewelry…you get the picture. One stall was memorable if solely to me. From a distance it looked a bit like a few other stalls that sold heavy metal belt buckles, t-shirts with skulls and motorcycles on them; generally a silvery- black selection of wares. A friend of mine needed a belt buckle for her brother so we made our way over. There wasn’t much for variety, but they were interesting to go through; a revolver, a hand of cards and a sparkly revolving dollar sign were among the fancier of the buckles. There were the usual, dark and creepiest, supposedly badass icons as well: motorcycles, skulls (with and without crossed bones), emblems of various metal bands, Confederate flags…wait, what? What on earth is that doing there? I mean a lot has made it over the Atlantic from the States to Spain; it’s confusing how much junky American paraphernalia I have seen here. But a flag of the Confederate State of America? Never mind that it was never an officially recognized State, but it’s got a rather bad reputation hasn’t it? I can almost understand Confederate flags waving south of the Mason- Dixon line, or at least be slightly amused by it, but what on earth would a Spaniard, even a very, very, badass Spaniard find in that flag to make them want to buckle their pants with it, or carry a wallet with it emblazoned on the side? I’m not even sure how many Spaniards, hell, how many non- Americans know what that flag even is!

Anyway, moving on…

After lunch we proceeded to the largest department store in Spain, El Corte Ingles. Large seems too small a word for this place; it is absolutely colossal. It’s so big it had to be split into three different buildings on one street and yet another around the corner. Each building has about four or five stores and one of the buildings has its own Metro access. My feet began to hurt just to look at it. To be honest, I did freak out a bit; really even as an American, I had never seen anything so big in my life. The term ‘department store’ never seemed so appropriate. There were the usual departments that I am familiar with, men’s, women’s, make-up, cutlery, etc. But then it got crazy: electronics, books, office supplies, sports, bread, insurance, insurance, kitchen tools, weddings, groceries…and on and on and on.

Some of my most interesting and amusing moments here in Spain is learning the Spanish view of the grand United States of America. When I tell people my nationality their reactions are generally divided into three categories. So, in response to the statement: “Soy Americana”, I either get a “Really! Que Guay, have you ever been to New York, tell me about New York!” The contrary reaction is “ahhhhh…” with a look that clearly shows they are thinking of every newscast and article that ever showed the US in a poor light. The reaction settled between the two is: “mmmhmmm” along with the look: who cares where she’s from, this is the slowest conversation I’ve ever had…honestly, and how hard is it to learn Spanish?

Maybe it’s the fact that the Spanish, non-American version of grand scale consumerism is rather classier or cultured or they take it more seriously and therefore put more effort into it that there isn't so much negative focus on Spanish consumerism. But, really, I don’t want to get defensive or rude about it. America is what it is. The rest of the world is what it is. Yes, jokes on America can, and do, get old, but it's an easy target. Okay, a very easy target.

It’s too late in the day to get into arguments, so subjects like the role of patriotism and ex-patriotism, consumerism, America’s global image and all the rest will have to wait until I am rather more well- informed…perhaps in about 30 years or so?

Hope your holiday preparations are bringing more joy than stress, or at least enough joy to make up for the stress…remember, a little goes a long way, if you let it.

May the love of those around you hold and keep you.

Kika

Decisions.

“Good decisions come from experience, and experience comes from bad decisions.”  ~Author Unknown

When I was younger decisions would really make me nervous. Maybe it was due to paranoia about how I would look to others or perhaps because I took myself a bit too seriously. I eventually came to the conclusion that having an aneurism every time I buy clothes, or choose a direction to go in when semi-lost perhaps wasn’t the most efficient use of my energy. I also realized that often it was the decisions I didn’t think about much, or at all, that got me where I needed to be, or helped me realize something I wasn’t expecting to believe or understand. Often it was these decisions that allowed me to begin to move past the paranoia and my over-serious attitude.

One such decision occurred a little over a year ago, a week before Thanksgiving. For the past three years I had been working to grow my hair out into luxurious locks that I could swish around with a graceful swing of my head. My entire life and personality makes that last sentence entirely oxymoronic. Not to say that my long hair wasn’t very silky and swish-able. Rather it was the head that it was attached to that made swishing and graceful tossing impossible. I will be honest: I was, at times, a bit vain about my hair, even though I was well aware of exactly how far I was away from a career with Garneir. Anyway, about a year ago I decided, for some reason, that I wanted a haircut and I needed a change. Just to make it very charitable and justifiable, I decided to also donate my hair to Locks of Love. I have a friend who used to be a professional hairdresser and so, as usual, I went to her to get it cut. In order to donate one’s hair it is required to send strands at least ten inches long, and although my hair was long and lovely, it was that long. But I was determined. So when my friend, holding a pre- bundled bunch of hair and  showing me with her fingers exactly how much of my hair was coming off, asked me if I was sure I just said ‘yes’ and closed my eyes. When she finished I put my hand up to feel my head and met only air. My head felt light, I felt different. I looked in the mirror and had to check twice to believe I was looking at myself. All my hair was gone.

For the next week or so I received a million different comments on my new style, some appalled and others ecstatic. Honestly, it did take me a couple days to get used to it myself, but by the third day I realized that, nearly by accident, I had made the decision that helped me see what I looked like, the image that reflected who I was and my personality the best.

Who we are, our intrinsic ‘I’ that makes us beautifully unique isn’t something that we create, rather it is discovered over a lifetime of experience. I figure that if everyone was themselves, their true selves rather than the images we project to others, it would be a helluva lot easier to get on in this world. You are wonderful, why make it harder for others to see that by projecting an image that, somehow, the world has generally agreed is cool or acceptable?

Because of this experience, and others like it, I began to try and put aside my self-image or the opinions of others when making decisions by not really thinking too hard about them. It’s not really a perfect system and it has gotten me into a sticky situation or two, but I wouldn’t exchange that for what I have now…an amazing haircut!

Where ever you are, I’ll send you a bit of our 58 degree (Fahrenheit) weather from here in Spain to keep you warm this week. Have a great week.

Kika

Nerves

12/3/2010

You gotta sing if you Spirit says "Sing!"

I love singing; there really is no two ways about it. Anyone who has had to live with me for any amount of time knows this. Unlike many, I do not restrict my singing to the shower. My singing seems to spill out into every room, and sometimes even the streets. Here in Spain is no exception. When I was not as settled in my singing was quieter and less often, mostly restricted to little ditties for the nine month old baby. As I became more and more acustomed to my new home the singing, predictibly, became louder and more frequent. One day I was in the kitchen with the baby, cooking or cleaning or some other such productive task, when I began to sing, as is my habit. I really got into it, belting out the notes as passionately as I could and hitting the high notes with all my confidence. Then I looked at the baby (his name is Bruno). His brow was furrowed, his bottom lip stuck out and trembling and a piteous whine of anguish was issuing from his mouth. I was confused at first, but didn’t stop singing until his whine had escalated to a wail and I realized what was wrong. I stopped singing and scooped him up, trying not to drop him because I was laughing so hard.

I told his dad about the incident later on and he offered the explanation that both his sons were sensitive to loud noises and thus it was my volume, not my pitch that frightened Bruno. That made sense...after all, he didn’t seem to mind my little lullabies before. What was I to do? I can’t just sing lullabies all the time! Yesterday we were in a similar situation in the kitchen and I began to sing, but quieter and with less force. Whenever he seemed to begin to crumble I would distract him with a toy. Eventually I was singing and he was smiling…at the same time! I certainly doubt it was because I was singing that he was smiling, but I’ll take what I can get.

I’ll add this bit, just because Bruno’s brother, Leo, would feel left out if I didn’t. As of right now, with my level of understanding and competence in Spanish, my speech is punctuated with correction from whatever native speaker I am conversing with. Leo decided to get in on the fun today when I asked him “Que tal?” and he immediately replied, “No, Que tal”. That’s what I said!

May there be thousand reasons for you to laugh this weekend.

Kika