I've postponed writing this for quite a while now (clearly, right, since my last post was in January). I don't know exactly what I am hoping to achieve, really. Catharsis might be one of my goals. Or, simply put, howling at the moon.
I have married a man whose faith in God goes beyond a mere declaration and who actually seeks to implement the precepts he's been taught as a little boy even when it's not convenient or cool. He is the kind of guy who will turn the other cheek. I have learned that sometimes turning the other cheek doesn't bring more blessings but more sorrow. At least that's been the case in the short run. (I am sure that time will show me that it's not turning the cheek that's been the problem but my attitude that's made a difference... Resilience or bitterness).
The truth about being a Christian is that you spend most of your time trying to be good and most of the times that won't be rewarded at all. Or if it will, it won't be with much. From a human to human kind of perspective, that is.
I have cleaned grubby toilets that the last visitor hasn't flushed or cleaned in a while to the point that faeces actually needed to be scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed... Nausea has been my constant companion. I have cleaned all kinds of hairs from all sorts of sinks, trying really hard to keep them all contained in my doubtful cloth and to then throw them in a bin or down the toilet. I have soaked dishes that haven't been washed in more than 5 days and waited patiently for the sloppy water to make me vomit so that I know for sure that been primed enough to go down the sink with hot water and a generous helping of liquid detergent. Yes, I am on a soapbox.
In the little time that I have spent as a married woman, I have learned some painful lessons. Justice has never been much of an issue for me until I have found myself in unjust situations. Painful. It's then that I've mostly been confronted with some of my ugliest demons: pride, envy, hatred even. I've let them fester and tamper with my soul until I woke up to the sore reality of my joy to live being taken away. By something that I've allowed - even invited - into my life. Until one day when I couldn't take it anymore and I went to look for God and tell Him how I felt. That day, the toilet was the only private place that I could find. And He found me there. And He comforted me. "I am the Lord that healeth thee." (Exodus 15:26)
The gospel, the way I know it, is the way to happiness. It's not the easy way. Because it doesn't focus on dispensing justice only but mercy also. Would I like to be judged by the standards of mercy? I'll probably choose to plead for mercy. Because justice is cruel. I may want it if I feel like I am being wronged but what about when I am the wrongdoer? Will I be as quick to ask for justice?
I am learning that life, as I know it, is not about ducking and diving, having stuff or jumping from one bed of roses to another. It's about becoming with the view of being. Being something better than I am now. And that will not happen when I need to clean a toilet that is already clean or a pair of pants that's already been laundered and nicely folded. It happens when the man that I love the most is hurting and I can't do anything to change that and when I have to forgive the wrongdoer as not doing it will fill me again with crap I don't need and which soils my soul. It happens when I am backed up to the wall of faith and where logic and reason tell me differently from what my faith is telling me. It happens when I need to say I am sorry, when I realise that wailing about the injustices of life won't help me have a better life.
Saturday, 10 May 2014
Saturday, 18 January 2014
Words and what they do
Right. I was walking back home on a busy road and, as it usually happens, my mind drifted to things of the past. (I guess it's a way of shutting off the noise.)
At university, I have learned things that I can't say I am actually using in my day to day life or that could be classed as "practical" or particularly marketable. I have studied linguistics, the structure of a discourse and its rhetorical elements, pragmatics, grammar, stylistics, etc. I have basically studied the ways words come to have a certain build, where they came from, how I can use them to express my feelings or to persuade an audience of an opinion or truth.
So I was just pondering on the reason why a university lecturer would consider all these subjects as being necessary for a philology student. Well, I think it's because the more I understand about a certain topic, the easier it will be to explain it in simple terms to, let's say, children in school learning about a metaphor or a verb. Probably because when one decides "to do" philology at university, they do it, as the word itself shows, because they love the Word, its power and its ability to create. Or just because they love feeling academic, talking the same language as the rest of their fellow citizens but using terms that tickle their minds and that... they will probably never use in a family environment or even when teaching children about a what a verb is and how a metaphor works.
Yes, I've studied things that some may be seen as useless. I am glad I did. There has always been in me the passion for learning but for understanding words and how they function together especially. Perhaps because all the sciences built around them engage my abstract thinking (unlike Maths) or because I have had so much to do with their destructive potential.
I find myself a bit nostalgic sometimes when meditating on the state of affairs in education these days. (Note the pompous, rather sarcastic tone.) It's all about what one can do at the end of a course. And that's what pays the bills at the end of the day. But what about those things that teach people how to speak kindly to each other to send a message across? How about learning more about our cultural roots and identity through the study of the language we speak? How about studying those things that turn us into beings with feelings and aspirations rather than merely tax payers or species propagators?
Comments welcome :)
At university, I have learned things that I can't say I am actually using in my day to day life or that could be classed as "practical" or particularly marketable. I have studied linguistics, the structure of a discourse and its rhetorical elements, pragmatics, grammar, stylistics, etc. I have basically studied the ways words come to have a certain build, where they came from, how I can use them to express my feelings or to persuade an audience of an opinion or truth.
So I was just pondering on the reason why a university lecturer would consider all these subjects as being necessary for a philology student. Well, I think it's because the more I understand about a certain topic, the easier it will be to explain it in simple terms to, let's say, children in school learning about a metaphor or a verb. Probably because when one decides "to do" philology at university, they do it, as the word itself shows, because they love the Word, its power and its ability to create. Or just because they love feeling academic, talking the same language as the rest of their fellow citizens but using terms that tickle their minds and that... they will probably never use in a family environment or even when teaching children about a what a verb is and how a metaphor works.
Yes, I've studied things that some may be seen as useless. I am glad I did. There has always been in me the passion for learning but for understanding words and how they function together especially. Perhaps because all the sciences built around them engage my abstract thinking (unlike Maths) or because I have had so much to do with their destructive potential.
I find myself a bit nostalgic sometimes when meditating on the state of affairs in education these days. (Note the pompous, rather sarcastic tone.) It's all about what one can do at the end of a course. And that's what pays the bills at the end of the day. But what about those things that teach people how to speak kindly to each other to send a message across? How about learning more about our cultural roots and identity through the study of the language we speak? How about studying those things that turn us into beings with feelings and aspirations rather than merely tax payers or species propagators?
Comments welcome :)
Wednesday, 15 January 2014
How Reading Turned into a Necessity
It all started with not being able to express myself. Writing essays in primary and high school were always a torment. Structuring my thoughts and finding the right words to deliver them posed a great mental barrier that I could hardly surpass. Repetitions were ripe, set patterns in which I could write my paragraphs were the crutch that helped me limp to the end of a mechanical and lifeless sentence.
Reading was a chore up until I was 14. My mum kept pestering me with: "reading will improve your vocabulary". It annoyed me to high heaven! (Probably because I was fully aware of how much my vocabulary needed improving). "Kenilworth" by Walter Scott was the first book that I read with my mum's challenge in my head. I don't remember anything that I read in that book. Just that it was about princes and castles and love matters, etc. (I am awful when it comes to remembering story lines! I only seem to remember fragments of information that made an impression upon my mind because of their moral or artistic sides.) And since then, I can say that my passion for reading started.
I soon realised that my mum was right. But there was so much more to reading. It uncovered universes uniquely designed through their laws, characters and moeurs, as the French would put it. Those universes enriched and brought light to mine. They helped me understand people a lot more, they helped me improve my vocabulary as my patient mother prophesied and opened my mind to Understanding and Wisdom. Nonetheless, I don't profess to be wise or of sound understanding; just to have dabbled a bit with the said concepts to create some kind of "normality" and morality for my universe.
When it comes to characters, something occurred to me as I was finishing the trilogy by Dave Pelzer: that when I read a book for a while (and I have been spending quite a bit on these ones), some characters become part of my life. Like friends almost. Picking up the book to follow on with the story is the equivalent of saying Hi to these faceless people. Or trying to help solve their problems or getting some inspiration for how to solve mine as I see how they solve or don't solve theirs. Reading really stops my brain from going dead. But it doesn't stop here...
Reading was a chore up until I was 14. My mum kept pestering me with: "reading will improve your vocabulary". It annoyed me to high heaven! (Probably because I was fully aware of how much my vocabulary needed improving). "Kenilworth" by Walter Scott was the first book that I read with my mum's challenge in my head. I don't remember anything that I read in that book. Just that it was about princes and castles and love matters, etc. (I am awful when it comes to remembering story lines! I only seem to remember fragments of information that made an impression upon my mind because of their moral or artistic sides.) And since then, I can say that my passion for reading started.
I soon realised that my mum was right. But there was so much more to reading. It uncovered universes uniquely designed through their laws, characters and moeurs, as the French would put it. Those universes enriched and brought light to mine. They helped me understand people a lot more, they helped me improve my vocabulary as my patient mother prophesied and opened my mind to Understanding and Wisdom. Nonetheless, I don't profess to be wise or of sound understanding; just to have dabbled a bit with the said concepts to create some kind of "normality" and morality for my universe.
When it comes to characters, something occurred to me as I was finishing the trilogy by Dave Pelzer: that when I read a book for a while (and I have been spending quite a bit on these ones), some characters become part of my life. Like friends almost. Picking up the book to follow on with the story is the equivalent of saying Hi to these faceless people. Or trying to help solve their problems or getting some inspiration for how to solve mine as I see how they solve or don't solve theirs. Reading really stops my brain from going dead. But it doesn't stop here...
Tuesday, 17 December 2013
London - Part 1
Moving from a quiet village near Wales to London caused, not unexpectedly, some shock to my system. In St. Owens Cross, this little village in Herefordshire, the nearest bus stop was 30 minutes away if you decided to face the lonely countryside and walk to reach it. In London, the bus stop is 2 minutes from your doorstep. And before you get out of your house, the anticipation of the noise produced by drills and buses and horns from impatient drivers takes all your serenity away.
I only lived in London for a few months, I've had varied experiences there but I still have mixed feelings about it. The crowds, the multitude of faces and smells, all almost at the same time, I found them overwhelming. The constant racket seemed to seep deep into my brain and linger there long after I got inside and left it behind. With so much going on around, one would have the feeling of being in a place where things happen. And they do. But the gap between one's daily activity and one's inner life is getting wider.
There was a girl one day somewhere near Victoria Station. The reason why I remember her was because of the thought that I had as I was looking at her. Headphones in her ears, reading a book. All on her own, in a place where there was lots of traffic and therefore lots of noise. Now: I associate reading with finding a quiet place, where comforting takes place. This girl was looking for that in chaos. And that's what London does to you: it opens your eyes to the fact that life is more than rushing and doing, it's also about breathing and recovering, about taking time out to reconnect with yourself and with God. London can rob you of the meaning you knew you had in life.
The tube is a monotone worm creeping through the insides of the city, always with a purpose, gorging people and deepening the sense of solitude in the middle of masses of anonymous faces. We all have a story to tell. We all travel with our stories on our backs wherever the tube takes us. To a destination we've set out for ourselves before buying the ticket, to a place where our face is identifiable with that of someone that's loved and that has a name and a personality, and yearnings and regrets...
I only lived in London for a few months, I've had varied experiences there but I still have mixed feelings about it. The crowds, the multitude of faces and smells, all almost at the same time, I found them overwhelming. The constant racket seemed to seep deep into my brain and linger there long after I got inside and left it behind. With so much going on around, one would have the feeling of being in a place where things happen. And they do. But the gap between one's daily activity and one's inner life is getting wider.
There was a girl one day somewhere near Victoria Station. The reason why I remember her was because of the thought that I had as I was looking at her. Headphones in her ears, reading a book. All on her own, in a place where there was lots of traffic and therefore lots of noise. Now: I associate reading with finding a quiet place, where comforting takes place. This girl was looking for that in chaos. And that's what London does to you: it opens your eyes to the fact that life is more than rushing and doing, it's also about breathing and recovering, about taking time out to reconnect with yourself and with God. London can rob you of the meaning you knew you had in life.
The tube is a monotone worm creeping through the insides of the city, always with a purpose, gorging people and deepening the sense of solitude in the middle of masses of anonymous faces. We all have a story to tell. We all travel with our stories on our backs wherever the tube takes us. To a destination we've set out for ourselves before buying the ticket, to a place where our face is identifiable with that of someone that's loved and that has a name and a personality, and yearnings and regrets...
Thursday, 12 December 2013
Moving
I have moved a lot throughout the years and that has become a little bit of a trauma in my life. The lack of stability, of roots, as they say, has impacted the way I think and my efforts to integrate into new groups. There was a time when moving became as normal as going to the loo :) Well, not as often, but you get the picture. Having to let go and to start anew became routinely almost but the sorrow, the discomfort and insecurity seemed to take larger proportions and to get increasingly numbing at the same time.
My greatest worries were: how long am I going to be in this place for? will I afford to keep paying for it? where will I shelve all my books? what clothes can I get rid of before the move? how many times will I have to repeat the story of who I am, why and how I got there and what are my plans for the future? will it be cold in winter? how will I get along with the people I live with? how far is the library from where I live?
Now: it's a little bit different when you move to and within a foreign country. I guess one of the big differences is that moving has been a little less stressful in England rather than within Romania. For some reason, England equals freedom to me. I am as "bereft of material possessions" in Blighty as I was back home but I feel more... carefree, for lack of a better way of expressing the feeling. I guess it's because Romania still bears some dark associations in my head - with persistent feelings of inadequacy that I wasn't aware of and not knowing or not being aware of something makes everything worse. The UK, with its politically correct culture, has offered access to understanding and thus to knowing why I feel the way I feel.
Sometimes I'd wake up and not remember exactly where I was. I'd try desperately to make the place where I'd "landed" feel like "home". The feeling of not belonging anywhere, of not finding your place is daunting.
When I was 18, I moved into a room right across from the high school building into one of those old and cold houses with tall walls and very little light that Brasov is heaving with (the view that I had from my window was of a very narrow road leading to a cemetery and a mental health hospital). I laid in bed for a nap after tidying all up and started crying. The thought that this is not a punishment came into my mind and I calmed down. I had moved on my own and was resenting my parents for not being there for me. (Little did I know that they were struggling at home...)
The time when I really got "fed up" with moving was in Ross-on-Wye, Herefordshire. I had left a very unhappy situation and came into the life of a family of 8 that taught me that home, well, you take it with you wherever you go. Home is not necessarily a physical place. It's a state of mind rather. If home is security, then if I feel secure I can feel at home. Feeling at home depends on me really. It's accepting and letting go of the past, mourning for a while for what was lost but then tidying yourself up to look the Future squarely in the face. Home is accepting that mistakes and sadness are part of the natural course of life and that dreading them will make experiencing them even more intense than they really are.
My greatest worries were: how long am I going to be in this place for? will I afford to keep paying for it? where will I shelve all my books? what clothes can I get rid of before the move? how many times will I have to repeat the story of who I am, why and how I got there and what are my plans for the future? will it be cold in winter? how will I get along with the people I live with? how far is the library from where I live?
Now: it's a little bit different when you move to and within a foreign country. I guess one of the big differences is that moving has been a little less stressful in England rather than within Romania. For some reason, England equals freedom to me. I am as "bereft of material possessions" in Blighty as I was back home but I feel more... carefree, for lack of a better way of expressing the feeling. I guess it's because Romania still bears some dark associations in my head - with persistent feelings of inadequacy that I wasn't aware of and not knowing or not being aware of something makes everything worse. The UK, with its politically correct culture, has offered access to understanding and thus to knowing why I feel the way I feel.
Sometimes I'd wake up and not remember exactly where I was. I'd try desperately to make the place where I'd "landed" feel like "home". The feeling of not belonging anywhere, of not finding your place is daunting.
When I was 18, I moved into a room right across from the high school building into one of those old and cold houses with tall walls and very little light that Brasov is heaving with (the view that I had from my window was of a very narrow road leading to a cemetery and a mental health hospital). I laid in bed for a nap after tidying all up and started crying. The thought that this is not a punishment came into my mind and I calmed down. I had moved on my own and was resenting my parents for not being there for me. (Little did I know that they were struggling at home...)
The time when I really got "fed up" with moving was in Ross-on-Wye, Herefordshire. I had left a very unhappy situation and came into the life of a family of 8 that taught me that home, well, you take it with you wherever you go. Home is not necessarily a physical place. It's a state of mind rather. If home is security, then if I feel secure I can feel at home. Feeling at home depends on me really. It's accepting and letting go of the past, mourning for a while for what was lost but then tidying yourself up to look the Future squarely in the face. Home is accepting that mistakes and sadness are part of the natural course of life and that dreading them will make experiencing them even more intense than they really are.
Tuesday, 10 December 2013
Remembering
Autumn seems to have the same savour as it had in the past. Back in the time when I was in high school and then at university. The light of the sun changes its feel and the air gets a bit less caressing. I often think of the time when I was in Brasov, living in one of those post-WWII houses with tall walls and very little light seeping through the windows because of their awkward positioning and architecture. I see and feel the same things that I did then. A bit shy, anxious about the future but eager to get on with it and do my best.
Walking through the streets of that old medieval city has always made me feel like I lived in a different time period. Walking to school or to university was never a boring process as there were so many building to see and analyse and so many potential stories to imagine about the lives of the people who lived in them throughout the years. About their dreams and lifestyle, about their way of perceiving life and people they came into contact with. There were other times when the buildings almost vanished as my mind was clouded with worries about the future, about not being good enough or about failing to meet expectations I had set for myself and that I thought my parents had set for me.
I am so different now. I have learned more about how to live in the present, about how to stay afloat when things get tough and about how to take responsibility for my own actions and even for my own feelings. I have stopped blaming my parents for “faulty" behaviour patterns and for things that “they did to me”. I guess that this is part of entering the world of adults and really getting on with it. Determinism plays only a limited part in my life now. I am more in control of my emotions and of what makes me me. I can’t say that I’ve reached a stage where nothing touches me. If anything, my sensitivity has increased but I am no longer a victim to it. I am still human and that feels like it’s the way it is supposed to be.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)