Aboard the Celebrity Summit in March 2011, our cabin was near this lovely little library.

“You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read. It was books that taught me that the things that tormented me most were the very things that connected me with all the people who were alive, or who had ever been alive.”  – James Baldwin

Although it took me quite awhile to realize it, I connect with people primarily through reading and writing.  Even as a child I wrote long letters to friends, and had pen pals who lived close enough that we could have talked on the phone for free (even back in the days when long distance was EXPENSIVE).  But talking on the phone was not the same as reading or writing a letter.  And there was nothing in the world like reading a book.

No matter how strange or different I felt, when I read books I knew I was not alone.  That’s why I identified so deeply with this quote from Baldwin.  Books for me were and are a safe place, where I can encounter a new idea and ponder it without being immediately questioned or asked to respond.  It is also wonderful to feel as if I know people who lived decades and even centuries ago, just by reading their heartfelt words.  There are many authors, living or dead, who seem more familiar to me than some of the people I see on a weekly basis.

Written correspondence (online or via good old-fashioned snail mail) has something magical about it; there are no distracting facial expressions or vocal tones to color the meaning of the words, and this is a tricky thing that can work for or against us.  For that reason, I think we tend to take a bit more care with what we write than we do with what we say.  That’s not to say that written words cannot be vicious or defamatory, but when they are written, we can more easily destroy them or ignore them, and keep them at a distance.  Likewise, when we read words that are wonderfully encouraging or inspiring, we can keep them and go back to them again and again, not relying on memory or video as we must with the spoken word.

I hope you will carve out some time, today and every day, to engage in at least some communication through reading or writing. May you find it as rewarding as I do!

Dewey was a fortunate cat. He not only survived the freezing library drop box, but also fell into the arms of a staff loved him and a library perfectly designed to care for him.

DEWEY, The Small-Town Library Cat Who Touched the World, Vicki Myron, HACHETTE BOOK GPOUP,p22

I can feel the energy in the room, it flows like a babbling brook. Those pebbles of insight come to the surface and we ease into a grin. A grin that brings warmth and covers us all. We find our streams of interconnectedness. We become one.

Women starting over learning to reconnect. “I am not telling you anything you don’t already know,” I tell them. “I am reminding you of those truths that reside within.” And in this case there are 12 … 12 spiritual truths for starting over ;-)

Women leave my home giving hugs. They look each other in the eye with a new recognition “I am you” and “you are me.”  Their footsteps lead them back into their lives with truths resonating in their hearts.

I am filled with gratitude for the opportunity to lead this group, and I appreciate these women so much. They are so important in this journey toward getting my book out there! To help them in the process is the silver lining that feeds my soul.

Biding my time before departure

The clock ticks – continuously

Always

I free my mind to think of you

Our connection one to ponder

Recollection screaming forward

From a dream you entered

It was this moment I paused

Tis you I remembered

Scratching my mind for remnants

Pieces of shattered heart

All that I could grasp

Soul connection; deeper affection

I appeared in your presence, in time

One moment passed as I watched

You; explode as I fumbled for action

I manifest to witness your emotional unfold

Frozen in fear and confusion, you run wild

I stood up and went after you

One split second, I need no hesitation to follow

This call

We have only met twice; in physical

But I found my dream within yours

Searching deeper for the source

I looked into your eyes…

Full of tears, and skin burning red

You stopped, and looked back

I smiled and with calm held onto you

Strengthening your spirit I gave more

How can I do nothing when your heart

Is on the floor…

If we make a connection, to our feet, legs, hips, spine, heart arms, hands and head, we start to connect to our container, the vessel in which we take on this journey called life. It’s, let’s say, an entry point to understanding that we contain something great. Then we start to think about ourselves, our relationship to each other to the life we are living, the many dimensions of ourselves. If you haven’t been sad, you haven’t lived, if you haven’t laughed spontaneously and out of control, you haven’t lived, if you haven’t felt isolated or rejected, you haven’t lived, if you haven’t felt like you belong to something greater…we should talk.

Let me just say, orienting ourselves to our greatness isn’t easy. Making choices to get there is tough stuff, but when we do it, when we believe in ourselves, we actually believe in the divine, the greater cosmic connection. Since you are going to get into an argument, you are going to find yourself in deep sadness. Find ways to believe in a greater goodness about yourself, helps you believe in the greater good of humanity.

I allow myself to rest. I allow myself to step out from the roller coaster of taking on too much and then having no resources left to rebound. I allow myself to admit that I cannot manage everything and everybody. I allow myself that I am im-perfect and that it’s actually special to have edges and less shiny sides. I allow myself to start getting up in the morning without jumping out of the bed and being in a rush already. I allow myself to take time to be ready for the day with doing nothing, except breathing and being fully present and in my body. I allow myself to be homesick and wish to have more support from my family at home and to have more support where I live. I allow myself to be honest to myself that I cannot know everything at work and I allow myself to delegate to others. I allow myself to realize with doing too much I keep myself from really doing “something”. I allow myself to cry if I am in the mood to do so. I allow myself to ask for support. I allow myself to disburden myself from too much weight from my “so willing” shoulders. I allow myself to show that I am really vulnerable at present. I allow myself to change my mind if I could find out that something does not serve me any longer. I allow myself to say “No” in order to say “Yes” to myself. I allow myself to be honest with myself and with others. I allow myself to be the real Me, which is at present suffering from taking on too much, looking for help from outside and deeply knowing that the only person who is capable of my life is ME.

Much, much love, admiration, connection and a deep hug

Barbara

imagine our distress when we enter the world of adults, no longer insulated from the magnitude of choice and consequence. we suddenly encounter things we don’t know how to do. we feel ill-prepared or worse, incapable. our hyper-inflated self-esteem violently bursts.

to assuage this alien feeling of inadequacy, we often turn to our birds-of-a-feather for advice. but typically, they do not have a perspective all that different from our own, and these relationships can become safe harbors for collective self-pity and stagnation.

in that moment i turn to stories. stories i read about, or that i overhear from one table over. stories real and imagined. stories of people who are older and/or wiser than me. stories i can superimpose onto my own little life and imagine various future outcomes of my present dilemmas.

i listen with particular care to those stories that have evolved into fables: simple and succinct anecdotes that chisel through outcrops of racing heartbeats and hot tears, sleepless nights and knotted stomachs, to reach the crystalline clarity that comes only with deep, difficult reflection and plenty of time.

i internalize those wisdoms with a hunger, eager to apply them in my own life. of course no amount of advice can replace learning things the old-fashioned (read: hard) way. regardless, i will listen to stories. because the most important lessons, like those regarding love and work, courage and resilience, are timeless and universal. because i am not special. and because i have a lot to learn.

“It takes courage to be connected”
- Hedy Schleifer

Hedy has talks of the sacred space between two people, crossing the bridge without judgement  so that we can connect human essence to human essence. It is a lovely speech.

How do you feel about her stance? Have you had a moment of pure connection with someone else recently? I would love to hear your story! Share below in the comments!

The title says it all doesn’t it? The most talked about and hated rumor has come to an end, and not even at the official announcement.

Xbox chief Don Mattrick told Spike TV “No, you don’t always have to be connected. Gamers can calm down; we’ve got you covered.”

Now an interesting sidenote is that while a constant connection isn’t required a connection is still required. Confused? its OK I’ll walk you through it. Over on the official Xbox One FAQ the first question asked is “Does Xbox One require an “always on” Internet connection?”

The answer replies: “No, it does not have to be always connected, but Xbox One does require a connection to the Internet. We’re designing Xbox One to be your all-in-one entertainment system that is connected to the cloud and always ready. We are also designing it so you can play games and watch Blu-ray movies and live TV if you lose your connection.”

The wording here is the confusing part. There are parts of the Xbox One that do require an internet connection which are the same parts that the Xbox 360 require. Xbox Live, Netflix, social networking and Internet Explorer are all examples of services that require a connection. There is the business of activating your games as well since all are to be installed and don’t require the disc to run. Will that part require a connection as well or will there be another way to activate your game? There isn’t enough information to be certain.

Basically while we have much more information then we had a few days ago we are pretty much still in the same spot that we were. Both consoles have been announced and a lot of features and positive aspects have been showed off but the hard questions remain unanswered from both camps. Hopefully E3 will shed some light on the topics that will actually help us all decide what console to put our money on this holiday season.

Wound round my neck

And made of lead.

Fill my heart with warmth,

‘Till brimming full

It glows with red.

Cup my heart

In your strong hands,

And tell me that it’s

Worth the sand

That trickles from

This hour-glass;

‘Til beating fast

It knows once more

The kiss of light

That makes it bleed,

With need,

Desire

And lustful seed.

Restart this aching

Chest of mine,

With soothing words

Of touch sublime.

Release, rekindle

Love’s strong truth

So that I can lay

Here close to you.

Your pulse beside

My pulse; inside

My skin, my flesh

My bones.

Pinned against

This mortal wall

‘Til I submit

My primal call;

A lightning charge

Discharged and freed

Electrifying; breathless

Lead me speechless

Restless, chasing

Speed; the dawn

Rising neath

Midnight’s cloak,

Soaked with all

Misdeeds revoked.

]]> http://geekwatchhq.wordpress.com/2013/05/22/science-bulletins-mystery-brain-cells-now-linked-to-memory/ Wed, 22 May 2013 21:14:12 +0000 Sarah Simpsons http://geekwatchhq.wordpress.com/2013/05/22/science-bulletins-mystery-brain-cells-now-linked-to-memory/ A recent study has shown a connection between neural cells known as astrocytes and our brain’s ability to remember what we see. When we concentrate on visual input, the brain releases a chemical that stimulates astrocytes. In mice, memories of visual patterns were stronger when their…

Let me start of by saying that I am a little depressed today and that I am not sure if this post will make much sense, but I feel that maybe if I just write what is floating about my head and jot down my feelings, maybe then I will feel a bit better.

Last Saturday was my Birthday.

This year’s went pretty smooth compared to birthdays of the past couple of years.  It was pretty drama free.  Which is a good thing.

P really dropped some $$ on me this year.  From taking me out for the day, to getting me a bunch of gifts.  I should be happy right?

I’m not.  Well.  I am. . .I mean, I am incredibly grateful for his material generosity. . .Part of me just feels. . . sad.

Perhaps it was the execution of everything.

I’m not saying I expected him to “worship” me on my birthday.  He just felt sort of distant.  I dunno.  I can’t really explain it.

I was hoping for that feeling of intimate closeness, that aura of excitement that we were sharing a special day together.  It wasn’t so much about me. . . but us.  How excited I was to share my day with him.  I just don’t feel he was as excited.  To him it could have been just another day where we had to do shit.

And, well, I guess we all can’t be excited about the same things.  I get that.  Though it would have been nice to have shared in that excitement with someone who was as equally excited.

I feel torn about how I should feel about everything concerning my birthday.  I feel as though if I nit pick and say that this and this wasn’t what I had hoped, then it makes me appear to be ungrateful.

Yet I am not.

We drove an hour and 45 minutes from home.  We toured an old prison that was used for several movies.  We hit up a Cheese and Chocolate shop we both love.  We stopped at the Fireworks store so he could get some things.  He took me dinner at a fancy restaurant.  He bought me quite a bit of items I had listed on a website wish list.

Yet. . . I dunno. . .there was just a distance?  Lack of connection?  It was like he just threw these things in my lap and was like “here.”  Like he didn’t want to share in the moment with me.  Sure he was there, he was having a good time, yet there was no . . . again. . .connection.

Actually, that was exactly what he did with my birthday presents.  They all didn’t come in on time for my birthday, so he gave them to me last night.  Just threw them all in my lap, unwrapped or still in the packaging they arrived in and walked into the other room.

He didn’t sit down with me while I opened/looked at them.  He just sort of walked around his condo talking about this and that, telling me the one dress I had picked out that he had gotten me was probably cheaply made.

I had asked for it hoping he would find the thought of me in it alluring.

In fact a few of the things I asked for were in hopes he would find the thought of me wearing them tantalizing.  A vinyl corseted dress, wet looking thigh highs and boy shorts.

He said nothing about wanting to see me in any of it.

There wasn’t even any birthday sex.

Like I said, it wasn’t that I didn’t have a good time that day, and we were getting along, and he was footing the bill for everything. . . just something was off.

Just little things that I wished could have been more.  Different.

*sigh* I dunno what the fuck I am trying to say.

I should just be grateful we got along this year.

Shutterstock

Last Monday, as I scrolled past cat memes and cute corgi puppies on my Facebook feed, I discovered that the mother of one of my close girlfriends had passed away. On Tuesday, Facebook informed me the brother-in-law of one of my best girl friends was stabbed seven times after saving a woman from being stabbed by her husband. On Wednesday, I discovered a lump on my left breast. On Thursday, my co-worker’s husband died. By the time I crawled into bed crying Thursday night, all I could think about was boarding my Friday flight to San Francisco and how wonderful it was going to feel to hug a close girl friend of 12 years who I had not seen in six.

She and I had planned to move to San Francisco and be roommates. Then, one day, while I worked on “saving money” (read: spending money) in ATL, she’d called and said she’d booked her flight. She departed in a week. She was moving to San Francisco. I was not. That was two years ago.

Nine months ago I left ATL for Las Vegas with plans to crash with my older brother and save money so I could finally actually move to San Francisco, but all that ended up happening was that I freelanced for a bit, was unemployed for a bit, worked a shit job for a bit, and as of three weeks ago, finally got a decent job. No money was saved, just the accumulation of passed time.

And because I do not have the money to move to San Francisco, I decided the least I could do was get a buddy pass from my bro and go visit my friend. I have other close friends in the Bay Area, but of everyone there she’s the one I’m closest with and has known me longest. She’s seen me through a decade’s worth of phases (like me with a tongue ring. seriously? seriously), and heartache (he was ten years my senior with neck tattoos … need I say more?), and the many failed attempts at learning my way (too many to specify).

Nick Frost

Over the weekend we didn’t do much other than walk up and down the streets talking and drinking and hugging the way girl friends do when they haven’t seen each other in a long while. We talked about what we wanted and where we were headed. She told me she was leaving San Francisco. She hadn’t found what she was looking for. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but she hadn’t found it there. Except she had no home to return to. She’s lived in so many places, she no longer knew home.

And despite the laughter and hugs, the more we walked and the more we talked (and the drunker we got), my mind could not help but go back to all the deaths from earlier in the week.

It was three weeks ago I’d video chatted with my girlfriend whose mother passed away. Her mother had been sick. We spoke about our mothers and whether or not they were so strong because they were raised by a much older generation or if it was because they grew up minorities in white, male-dominated society as her mother was Indian, and mine is Puerto Rican. We spoke about how much we admired them and wanted to be like them when we grew up. “My mother,” she wrote on Facebook after her passing, “who goes to see Salman Rushdie read with me, who sends a Diwali card to president Obama, who watches Malcolm X videos with me.”
My other girl friend whose brother-in-law would die from the stab wounds after saving a woman’s life had recently immigrated to the U.S. from Ecuador with his wife and four-year-old daughter. His daughter was there when the attack happened. My girl friend met her half siblings for the first time in Ecuador a couple of years ago, finally completing the puzzle pieces missing from her life. Over Facebook, she communicated her confusion and struggle to understand why this happened to a good man. Her sister lived in another state. I knew at the very least she wanted to give her sister a hug in person.

It’s a weird feeling to find out about your friend’s life-changing moments over an artificial medium that is simultaneously very much real. I could feel their pain, but I couldn’t comfort them; I couldn’t reach out and hug them.

I was in the office when my co-worker got the call about her husband. She’d recently come back to work after being on bed rest due to complications with her pregnancy. Her husband swapped her computer and cell for TV and pampering. She was two weeks away from having their second child, their first girl. Her four-year-old son phoned her at work. “Daddy can’t breathe,” he said. Before the phone call, she’d walked into the office from lunch with the kind of lazy sway one has on a typical, uneventful weekday—satisfied and sedated from a stomach full of one of her husband’s many delicious homemade chef dishes and the comforting confidence that comes with knowing today will be like the last. Then the call came and she ran out the door, her 9-month belly racing ahead of her as if her daughter knew she and her father were in a race against time. Two hours later we received the news. He went into cardiac arrest and passed away. He had an enlarged heart. He was 34 years young.

The more I thought about it all, the sadder it made me. Mostly, I was really fucking angry. Also: I really wanted a cigarette. I had decided to use my trip to San Francisco as a catalyst to get healthier and quit smoking, as you can’t smoke indoors in California, and then I found the lump in my breast. It was two nights before my trip. It was the first time I truly felt 30 years old. It was the first time I felt mortal. “It’s something or nothing,” a girl friend told me over Gchat. “Worse case scenario, you die. Best case scenario, you don’t. And medium case scenario, you get new perfect tits.” Then she added: “I pretty much hate my tits.” All I could think was, “But I love mine.”

The more I walked through San Francisco, the more I dreamed of moving there. It was the second city I ever romanced, the first being New York City, which I never lived in. Instead, I ended up in ATL after college. It was supposed to be a stepping stone, and for years I had a love-hate relationship with the city, but eventually I came to truly love all it had to offer. Still, after spending my entire 20s, I was ready to move on and explore something new. Ask me why I want to live in the Bay Area so badly and, honestly, I don’t have any real solid answer. I just … I like it. Sure, it’s expensive, but it’s clean and pretty and there’s so many trees, and I would rather always carry a light sweater and perpetually have fog moisture caught in my hair than sweat my vag off in this dry desert heat. And yet, as I walked around, something occurred to me: I liked San Francisco, but I was in love with ATL.

Atlanta is underrated. Not only is it affordable, but there’s always a great art or literary or music show, and our city streets have the most beautiful street art and murals and it’s sunny and grassy and the people are sweet and chill. But above all else, it’s where most of my really close friends are. And as much as I love the Internet and technology, virtual touch is not the same as real touch. Who wants an e-hug after a shit day when you can get the real deal in person? And yet … I’m not ready to return to ATL. It’s too soon, too familiar. San Francisco, like most romances I pursue, may not be the one for me, but I’d rather have my heart broken then be left wondering “What if?”

On Sunday I changed my flight and flew back home early to be with my mom for Mother’s Day dinner. As I unpacked my bags back in Vegas, I watched a TED Talk by Breneé Brown on the power of vulnerability. It was probably the accumulation of an entire week of ups and downs, but I broke down in tears as I listened to her speak. A part of me still wanted to move to San Francisco, another part of me wanted to move back to ATL, and another part of me wanted to stay in Vegas and spend more time with my mom while I still have her.

According to Brown’s studies, people who are willing to be vulnerable, that are willing to put themselves out there, live more wholeheartedly and therefore have a more satisfied level of happiness. “Let ourselves be seen,” she advises, “Deeply seen. Vulnerably seen. To love with our whole hearts even though there’s no guarantee.” I am a lot of things, but making myself vulnerable is a trait I have slowly closed myself from over the last few years, the result of crushed dreams and failed relationships. But, at my core, I know that being vulnerable is the only way to truly grow, to truly be happy.

My default nature is that of a neurotic, anxious, somewhat depressive person that overthinks most everything. But it is because of all these negatives that have allowed me to become the friendly, optimistic dreamer I am today. As I’ve gotten older I’ve realized that I’m not the only one who feels weird and lonely and anxious. That the person next to me probably feels the same way, and that I’d rather take the risk of sounding weird and lonely and anxious than not tell the person hello or flash them a smile or tell them I like their outfit or tell them to have a nice day. The result of which is usually a returned smiled and a returned compliment and a renewed sense that positivity and love have been restored in the universe.

Recently I read an article that said people shouldn’t talk about their promotions or breakups or illnesses over Facebook because nobody cares and it’s inappropriate. If that’s the case, then what the fuck is social media for?! Oh, yes, please, tell me about how you’re at Denny’s or at the supermarket buying toilet paper. I not only enjoy sharing life’s smallest and largest moments over Facebook, but I also enjoy that of my friends’. Facebook has allowed me to connect and stay in touch with so many close friends, and I especially don’t know what I would have done without it during my move to Las Vegas.

Our desire to connect is hardwired in our DNA. It’s part of what makes us human. The truth is you and me and all of us want to feel special. It’s easy to think nobody is listening, that nobody cares, but that’s not true. We exist, even when we don’t think we are. But it’s a horrible feeling, when you think you aren’t being noticed, when you feel discarded and invisible. It’s why I’m such Facebook slut, clicking “Like” on so many people’s shares. It’s the reason I post so damn much. You don’t have to “Like” it, but it just might resonate with you, and that’s reason enough for me to share.

Like last week, when a friend shared the beautifully produced video that brought to life David Foster Wallace’s commencement speech at Kenyon College in 2005. I loved the piece so much I posted it on my wall, shared it with friends, and e-mailed to the creative department I work in, hesitant that my work peers would think me weird or over-sentimental. The day before her husband passed away, I saw her watch it on her computer just three feet away from me. And while other co-workers e-mailed me to tell me how much they loved it, she didn’t mention anything to me. I figured she hadn’t liked it. Which was perfectly okay, of course.

And then I sat at her husband’s memorial. Bob Marley’s “Could You Be Loved” played as photos of her husband played on a large flat-screen TV. He was a big guy, which everyone said had an even bigger heart. It was ironic he died of an enlarged heart, as if he’d love too much. His mother stood up and spoke about how he always tried to make everyone feel special, how he made her feel like a super hero.

Finally my co-worker stood up to speak. She said she hadn’t prepared a speech, but she recalled this video someone sent her about a commencement speech an author gave at a college. It was the video I’d sent her. She talked about how life was all about perspective; about living in the present and appreciating what you have, and that her husband lived like that every single day. I kinda lost it at that point. I thought about all the things in life we never think people notice and how much beauty exists.

I have this running joke with close friends where I say I hate people, because I do kinda believe that we’re all selfish pricks only looking out for our own backs. But even so, I really kinda do love everyone. I’m a ball of love. And sitting in that memorial I just thought about the deaths and love lost the past week, about how I wasn’t there to hug my friends during their time of loss, about how much I miss my friends, about how my mom is my best friend and I never want her to leave me. I thought about the lump in my breast and that New York Times article Angelina Jolie wrote about her double mastectomy and about how I don’t want to be sick; about how I don’t want to die. I prayed. I said, “I don’t know who you are, or where you are, or if you even exist, but thank you for my life for I am blessed.”

After the memorial, I stepped outside the building into the hot desert sun and fought the urge to smoke a cigarette. I’d only broken down and smoked one on Saturday since I’d quit, and I was determined not to break down again. Standing there in my all black outfit, I looked at the Vegas Strip in the distance. I stared at the fake pyramid and the fake New York City and the fake Seattle and all I could think was “This is a dumb fucking city.” I mean that with no disrespect to anyone who is from Vegas or lives here or loves it here, but this place is not for me. It’s hot and it’s plastic and the more I stared at the strip in the all I could think about was how Vegas was a fantasy of all these other great American cities it would never live up to. It was like one vulgar, sweaty porno flick sticking its middle finger to love and romance. “I can’t stay here,” I mumbled under my breath.

Riding in a co-worker’s car, I set my thoughts aside as we bullshitted on the way back to the office. Soon the traffic became sluggish as we approached a car accident. “I hope that’s no one from the office,” my co-worker said. “I can’t,” I responded.

When we got to the office, we heard the news. Three of our co-workers were in a car crash, including two of the women in our copy editing department. Of us five, one’s husband had passed away, and now the other two were in a car crash, one of whom is seven months pregnant and was rushed to the hospital after experiencing contractions. In the end, none of them suffered severe damages, but they still needed to be taken to the hospital and monitored. It turns out the lady who crashed their car was high on oxycodone and a bunch of other pills.

After hearing all this, I gave into my new daily routine and went to the bathroom and cried. The entire week had been a pile of what-the-fucks flung in every direction, smearing against the walls upon impact. I cried because I was angry for everyone’s loss, I cried because I was sad for their loss, and I cried because I was so effing happy to be alive. I was happy to have my family and friends, even if some were far away.

I thought about how short life is and half the time it feels like we take it for granted and worry about really dumb shit—like me being sad about losing my favorite leather jacket at the airport on my way to San Francisco. I was actually upset about losing a fucking jacket, an inanimate object. My mom had bought it as a Christmas present for me when I was 21. “It’s too masculine,” she’d said. “I like it,” I replied. Black with zippers, when I wore it I felt like a cross between Joey Ramone and Joan Jett. It’s true I felt like a badass when I wore it, but I don’t need a leather jacket to remind me I’m strong, same as I don’t need heels and a dress to make me feel like a woman. The only real thing in life that make me feel badass are me myself and I, and my rad-as-fuck friends and family. You are not your your khaki pants, and I am not my leather jacket.

In the bathroom, I pull my shit somewhat together and head back. As I walk into the office, Otis Redding’s “Sitting On the Dock of the Bay” streams from a computer. I don’t know that I’ve ever truly heard the lyrics to the song until this morning.

I left my home in Georgia
Headed for the ‘Frisco Bay
Cuz I’ve had nothing to live for
And look like nothing’s gonna come my way

That was the moment. As soon as I heard those lyrics, I decided I am going to apply for jobs in San Francisco, because, FUCK IT, that’s why. I don’t want to fantasize with a city, I want to experience it in real life. I may not be able to move at this very moment, but I can’t continue waiting to live today tomorrow. So I’m applying for jobs. And I’ve decided that if and when I get one, I’m going to give myself two years there. If I don’t find whatever it is I’m looking for, whatever experiences my soul seeks, I’m headed back to my home—Atlanta, GA.

It’s not eloquent to say this week has fucking sucked, but you know what? THIS WEEK HAS FUCKING SUCKED. It shouldn’t take tragedy to make us live our lives, but, hey, it’s easy to forget. Luckily, I’ve been reawakened. Life is short, and then you die. And I just want to live and laugh and love and connect as much as I can before it’s too late. [tc-mark]

You should like Thought Catalog on Facebook here.

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“Men, created and called to move into relationship with others, feel the fear of aloneness differently. In their aloneness, men fear weightlessness. Do I have what it takes to move into community, into soul-to-soul connection? To risk that my moving will have no visible impact? To move toward others who might not value my movement?”

Dr. Larry Crabb, Fully Alive, Pages 107-108
To be released June 1, 2013
Pre-order today through your favorite local or online store!

Complimentary Group or Individual Study Guide-Available for download June 15, 2013 through NewWay Ministries
Fully Alive DVD Curriculum-Available January 15, 2014 through NewWay Ministries

I put a request for a hummingbird feeder on FreeCycle, an awesome service where people can offer and request items, all for free. The next day, I had an offer to my request and I went by and got the feeder. I was thrilled and put it up that day!

Immediately, the hummingbirds found it and have been regularly visiting us, enjoying their newfound food. I love watching them. They are so beautiful and light. So many of them have unique coloring and markings. I marvel at them and just feel a sense of joy and a quickening of my heart whenever they come visit our yard. They somehow make me feel more connected to nature when they come around.

I was sitting outside in my comfy chair given to me by one of my best friends, reveling in the little piece of paradise I was creating, watching the hummingbirds, our Holland Lop rabbit, named Houdini, and our sweetheart puppy dog, Ginger, and just thinking how happy I was with these 3 Hs: hummingbirds, Houdini, and hound!

Then, yesterday in yoga class, I was surprised and thrilled when a sweet little hummingbird showed up, peering in at us through the wall-length windows in our second story yoga studio. The lithe little bird hovered at the windows, getting all of our attention, and lightening our hearts, making us smile and comment on the sweetness. It felt very magical, like he was communicating with us.

And, today, listening to a radio show on Hay House radio, as I sometimes do while working, the host, Michael Bernard Beckwith, commented out of the blue during a caller’s question, that he had just seen a hummingbird fly by and that whenever he sees them, it reminds him of his mother. It touched my heart, and with my attention on repeated events, I decided to research if there is any symbolism to the hummingbirds.

Of course, there is! One of the most striking facts I learned is that the hummingbird’s wings move in an infinity motion… signifying eternity. And several people commented that hummingbirds have appeared during their parents’ passing, reminding them that their parents’ spirits were free, happy, and ever-present.

In his blog, A Light in the Darkness, Matthew James wrote about hummingbird symbolism, noting, “Because of its speed, the hummingbird is known as a messenger and stopper of time. It is also a symbol of love, joy, and beauty. The hummingbird is also able to fly backwards, teaching us that we can look back on our past. But, this bird also teaches that we must not dwell on our past; we need to move forward. When the hummingbird hovers over flowers while drinking nectar, we learn that we should savor each moment, and appreciate the things we love.”

He goes on to say that “The hummingbird has powerful spiritual significance. In the Andes of South America the hummingbird is a symbol of resurrection. It seems to die on cold nights, but comes back to life again at sunrise.

 The hummingbird is the creature that opens the heart. When the hurt that caused us to close our hearts gets a chance to heal, our hearts are free to open again.

With hummingbird consciousness, we learn the truth of beauty. Our life becomes a wonderland of delights in flowers, aromas and tastes. We laugh and enjoy creation, we appreciate the magic of the present moment, and the magic of being alive.

The hummingbird teaches us the medicinal properties of plants and how to work with the energy of flowers to heal ourselves and others. Hummingbirds teach us fierce independence. They teach us to fight in a way where no one gets hurt. They teach us courage. Having the courage to refrain from creating new trauma by communicating non-violently toward ourselves and others is an important part of healing. Recovering lost parts of ourselves enables us to become healthily independent.

It is not commonly known that the fluttering wings of the hummingbird move in the pattern of an infinity symbol – further solidifying their symbolism of eternity, continuity, and infinity.

By observing the hummingbird, we see they are seemingly tireless. Always actively seeking the sweetest nectar, they remind us to forever seek out the good in life and the beauty in each day. Amazing migrators, some hummingbirds are known to wing their way as far as 2,000 miles to reach their destination. This quality reminds us to be persistent in the pursuit of our dreams, and adopt the tenacity of the hummingbird in our lives.”

I also just realized that a hum sounds a lot like the Om sound, which is an ancient, vibratory sound that induces healing.

I’m so grateful for these amazing creatures showing up in my life and delighting, teaching and reminding us to playfully enjoy our lives and pursue our dreams without end. Just what I needed, at the perfect time. Awesome nature.

Today I decided to offer something else than empathic listening for feelings and needs, and do a ‘just listening’ exercise.  I invited her to bring her open heart and clear mind to the table, while I shared my feelings and physical sensations.  If I would tell a story or share a thought, she could say “That’s a thought, not a feeling.  What are you feeling?”  After seven minutes we would shift roles.

She is open and adventurous and was up for the experiment.  So we started.  First me, then her.  Seven minutes is a long time.  Seven minutes sheer attention is quite something.  It feels uncomfortable.  I want to explain, I want to reassure.  Without the stories, I feel naked.  Nope.  That’s a thought, not a feeling.  What am I feeling?  I don’t know.  I am stuck in thoughts.

My whole life I wanted to be heard, I wanted to be seen, and now that I get full attention, I am scared.  What will she think of me?  Will she think I am a nut case?  Will she  think I am a nervous wreck?  Will she laugh that the only feelings I have are fear in all it’s variations?  Why is only fear coming up?  Why don’t peace and calm come along?  Fuck!  Why don’t I  have sweet and happy feelings?  Why can’t I prove how mindful I am?

Then I calm down.  It is like being on a boat on the river.  We see this, we see that, we get stuck, we get unstuck, we go in loops, we float by.  And there is just the being in the boat.  Just watching, just observing.  Just being.  That’s it.  It is not a listening exercise, it is a being exercise.  Just being in the moment.  Right here, right now, and enjoying whatever comes up.  Or not.  And accepting all of that.

Silica (silicon dioxide) – Libyan Desert Glass, a impact glass found in the Saharan Great Sand Sea of the Libyan-Egyptian Libyan Desert. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It is magnificent.

It is large for what it is – as wide as my palm, and thick enough that I can’t wrap my hand around it completely – an almost irridescant pale, yellow-green color.

In many places on its surface it is reminiscent of photos of the moon, pock-marked with what look like miniature impact craters, with sand on some parts of the surface, and some specks of sand caught within, as well.

It weighs in at nearly 134 grams, which is considered large for a specimen of Libyan Desert Glass – most of them are closer to the size of one’s thumbnail – chips. Not this one, though [and the one shown in the accompanying photo is not the one that I have, but it gives an good representation. The one I received yesterday is larger than this, and a little more "greenish"].

It is endlessly fascinating to me; the texture, the wind-swept surface features, and the fact that, even today, scientists still aren’t certain as to its origin.

They know how old it is by dating traces of Iridium in the glass; 28 – 29 million years old, and the most accepted idea is that a meteor was involved in its creation. A little too much science here, maybe, but Libyan Desert Glass is nearly 98% pure silica – higher than any other naturally formed glass – and it required a temperature of at least 2800 degrees to melt the sand in this way. That is hotter than the hottest volcano.

So, they speculate as to its origin. The MOST accepted theory to-date is that an unstable meteor exploded in the air before reaching the surface, with an estimated force of a 100+ Megaton blast, that sent clumps of sand skyward where it was melted by the intensity of the heat, and then cooled to a solid as it rained back down upon the sand.

It is only found one place on earth; the Great Sand Sea that straddles the Libyan/Egyptian border, primarily on the Egyptian side. It is one of the most inhospitable environments in the world, with no water or civilization for hundreds of miles in any direction. Only the hardiest and most-prepared souls venture out to collect these beauties

You are supposed to have a permit, which the governments of the area are very stingy about granting, but that doesn’t stop some adventurers, who add the risk of going to prison to the hazards of the desert.

Now you have had a little geology lesson of sorts! But I gave all of that background so that I could say something else.

Maybe because of the intense energy involved in its formation, maybe because of the mystery of its cosmic origin, maybe because of its relative rarity . . . maybe because of all of those things . . it has totally captivated me. All of the many other mineral specimens that I have, from all over the world, seem to have become subservient to this hefty chunk of natural glass from a far away desert.

Its energy, in my little world, quite clearly proclaims, “I’m the boss.” All of the other minerals are like serfs in a medieval kingdom in comparison.

Sure, it might be crazy to talk about rocks and minerals having energy, or a consciousness that can be felt. But then again, it would be even MORE crazy to argue with it

Keep Soaring,

Rising Hawk

The beginning of the film introduces people to each of the main characters and there are essentially four separate stories that end up interconnecting with each other by the end of the film. There is a couple who has had trouble communicating recently after the death of their young child, forcing Cindy (Paula Patton) to turn to an online chat room designed for people who are dealing with grief, which ends up causing them a lot of trouble, due to her identity being stolen. Another story exists between Nina Dunham, a reporter who attempts to convince Kyle, a young webcam performer to do a story with her on the corrupt industry of online sex shows. The remaining characters are linked from the beginning as two teenage boys that like to make trouble play a horrible prank on another kid in their school who lives a sheltered life, causing great drama for him and his family. As the film progresses, we see that one of the boys, Jason, has a troubled life at home with a mother who has passed away and a father who is a former cop and does not treat him well. What started as a mean prank led to him feeling like he finally had someone to talk to, and Jason and his friend pretended to be a girl in school in order to get Ben (a loner with no friends) to feel like he had a connection with someone in a very mean act that was sickening to watch.

In an excellent film-making technique that will remind viewers of Oscar nominated films such as Crash, Traffic and others in recent times, we are given a snapshot of certain people’s lives before they start to become connected with each other. With a film like this, it is hard to give away too much of the plot without revealing how certain characters will come in contact with one another, and as a result the best thing to do with a film like this is to go out and see it for yourself. This film is emotional and shocking and at other times very disturbing, but it is well worth seeing and sends an important message to people all over the world about the dangers that can come from being too attached to technology.

Since a large amount of people use Facebook, it seems that the story that involves Ben and the cyber bullying that is done to him by the two boys at his school is the most disturbing and easiest for people to connect to. Jason and his friend Frye invent a fake profile for a girl that does not exist and proceed to torment him by making him think that he has a real girlfriend, which leads to very serious consequences. Too often these kinds of things happen, and a similar incident even happened to a middle school student where I grew up before social networking was around. It is important for bullies to know how severe the actions that they commit can be to other people, and this film does a great job of showing that. In a very odd, although well played role, Ben’s father is played by Jason Bateman, who up until now has been known for his comedic work. His dramatic acting skills are truly displayed in this film as someone who is a father that does not pay enough attention to his son and is then forced to get involved and show that he cares only after something bad happens to him. Their family has plenty of trouble communicating, but through this incident it seems that they will become closer and more loving toward one another.

Jason realized that what he did was a terrible thing and admitted that he did not mean for it to go as far as it did, eventually feeling sorry and wishing there was something that he could do. He goes to where he is to see him  and ends up having a strange encounter with his dad, finding it comforting to be around a dad that is being emotional, opposed to his own who never shows him any love. While some of the characters commit terrible actions in the film, they somehow still get audiences to feel bad for them later on as they attempt to make up for what they did. This film also deals a lot with guilt and about people feeling that they are responsible for something, wanting to right their wrongs and make it better. Ben’s sister Abby especially feels terrible knowing that he did not have any friends in school and did not do something more to help him or talk to their parents more about the issue.

This film deals with just about every type of crime and action that can exist within the world of the internet including sex cams, identity theft, cyber bullying and the drama that can be caused from someone using chat rooms and hiding it from a spouse. This film also does a great job at making viewers take a look at their own lives and it seems that the idea is that it will convince people to disconnect from certain devices in order to have more of a connection with the real world. Fortunately in the way that it is constructed, we do not feel like we are simply taking a look at each of these people’s lives from the outside but we are thrown in and feel the emotions of each of the characters in this film in a very powerful way. Another thing that is so great about this film is the fact that it truly makes people think and take a look at their own lives and will also be stimulating for post-viewing discussions.

As it tackles an important subject matter and a necessary one in today’s society, a film like Disconnect is worth seeing for anyone who is living in today’s technologically run world.

This film is well deserving of a 4.5 out of 5 and it is highly recommend that everyone go see it when they get the chance. Go disconnect from the technology in your own lives. It will most likely change the way in which you view the world and those around you. This film was much more than what I was expecting.

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Daily Prompt: Goals

When you started your blog, did you set any goals? Have you achieved them? Have they changed at all?

I began my blog on April 7, 2011, so I’ve been at it for two years. Looking back to beginning it, I was so taken with the idea that I could design a blog to my own liking with the WP themes and looking forward to the prospect of writing on it whenever I wanted, that I think I didn’t set goals. I just knew I wanted to write about the connection between epilepsy and writing, should there be one.

And I have found that, for me, there is a connection, in that writing about having epilepsy is enormously healing. I have met some wonderful friends in the blogosphere along the way, and whether we share having epilepsy or not, this has been a great satisfaction. So in that way I feel that goals have evolved and I would say that I continue to achieve them.

What changed is that I used to have two blogs. The other one was devoted to writing. In addition, I was a very active participant on the blog 20 Lines or Less, where I continue to be a co-editor. I have made my writing blog private because I found I was doing the majority of my writing on Brainstorms and 20 Lines and I didn’t want to run the risk of spreading myself too thin, therefore making each blog less effective.

With 369 followers, I am thrilled with the progress of Brainstorms, and I plan to continue writing here indefinitely. I thank my readership.