Soon to be Unemployed

I think I am the happiest soon to be pink slipped person in the world. It appears as though the last 3 years have passed in a blur leaving me more incomplete than I was to begin with. Now its almost over.

I threw away today, memories of a past which was filled with tears and pain, triumph, and blood My first pivot, my first look-up my first attempt at Access. All now history, a memory of what once was the reason I got up every morning.

I have to ask myself, how did I do it? What was the motivation behind getting to an office, sitting in front of an 18" monitor and scrolling up and down worksheets for three years? What made me actally think that this was the life I wanted to lead.

It was the people. The bonds, the words, the thoughts which all came pouring in like pink rain. I got up to go to breakfast with them where I got my bagel and my 20 ounce glass of water. Will I continue to drink 20 ounces a day the way I did in front of an excel screen while replying to multiple emails? I was motivated to hear those deep thought-provoking lunch conversations where we planned on figuring out the mysteries of the universe. Those days we had lunch close by, and the days we took over an hour buying ice cream and coffee for the logistics controllers team.

I will miss the instant replies to my nonsensical observations which were provided to my friends. Their responses, curded empty souls waiting to decompress but always laced wth optimism. We became cynical together. I will miss reading away messages  in between running systems reports and awaiting call backs. I will miss ordering supplies because they were pretty-not because they were needed.

Theres a lot to miss about your first job out of college. Its a memory of a time well spent, and hopefully not wasted.

But anon, time has passed and and I finally, finally get to do what I want. Make a difference, put a smile on someone else's face. Do something, take action.

Adieu Sony Adieu-'twas a nice courtship but its time that reality hit and I realize now that I can live my fantasy.

And in a few days, my fairy tale begins.

Trees

I felt the breeze caress the side of my face. It was a momentous day, eradicating any insipid thoughts of the past winter. He stood in front of me, tall and proud. His moment of glory had come and he finally had all rights to flaunt his beauty. For the first time I noticed him.

He was a Saucer Magnolia. Standing tall on West 17th Street where many others have stood before him. Perhaps it was in his amicable gait, or the way his hair spun and moved with the wind, regardless he caught my attention. In my many walks along the same street, I had never noticed him. Im sure he’s full of history, for he hasn’t moved in generations. He had seen the construction, the rallies, the victories and loses endured by the ruggedness of the city. But today, regardless of all the sentiment that lie on that street corner, the saucer magnolia was noticed. Each flower was budding hope, exuding a brilliance which cannot be appreciated but by those who saw the potential which lie on that tree. The flowers on the branches, pink and white came out of their slumber to create a breathe-taking masterpiece.  

That is exactly what this is about. It is about the ephemeral nature of beauty.  

I stand still, mesmerized by the movement of the branches in response to the wind. The work in a synchronized harmony which can only be understood by them. Why is it that for the first time in years, I finally noticed the beauty of arbor?

I nostalgically return to the early mornings of summer, as a child in the home of my grandparents. At the first sign of sunrise, an aroma would arise from under our room door. It was a sweet, seductive scent which awoke all of my senses, and left me in a light, serene sleep. I would awake with only traces of the fragrance to be appreciated.  I remember being curious about the stairs which led to nowhere. We were forbidden as children to climb the steps. Curiosity sank in and one day we stole the keys to the door and scurried on up, in search for the hidden treasure. Instead, to our surprise, we stumbled across the most beautiful garden, with the seductive aroma and intoxicating smell, which could have very easily enervated us. We were surrounded with rows of buds, and scents and aromas, full of color and vivacity, staring back at us. We stood, speechless. We had stumbled across passion, my grandfather’s love for botany.

 I look around this spring, and realize that tranquility for me has always come in the form of a tree, a plant, or a flower. In Yokohama, it was in the month of April, where for a few momentous, yet short moments, the Sakura would bloom, raining pink dust and white residue, turning my black hair, a pretty fuchsia. I remember dancing in the pink snow, in the middle of April, worrying about nothing. That moment, that street, on pause in my mind.

I remember the shade of the palm trees, which provided shelter from the blistering summer days in Saudi. When the walk from the pool to my home seemed interminable, I would find a palm and sit beneath it. I looked up to see the raw dates, waiting to ripen, and within it all found myself without a thought in the world, but dazed, I gazed up to see the rays shining through the large leaves, almost teasing me, allowing me to realize that the shade would be temporary.

Blurry Beauty

There is something about the word beauty that always bothered me. I could never pinpoint what it was, but growing up I never understood what being beautiful was about. In the beginning, I thought I was pretty amazing.

I recall the warm autumn night, back in 1989 when my father drove me back to my Girl Scouts retreat from the optometrist. He told me not to worry, that many children had glasses and that my eye sight wasn't too bad; I wasn't going blind. I told him that people, when they get older get contact lenses, and maybe by then they would have something that would correct my vision altogether. He assured me that when I was of age, I could get lenses or whatever new innovation would be out then. I had a good nights rest with my fellow scouts, eating 'smores and bananas under the Saudi sky, in the courtyard, seeing blurry objects up above.

I tried on my new glasses; they had a thick red rim and a connecting bar between the two eyes which went over the top of my nose. They covered up half of my face, but for once in a long time, objects had distinctive shapes.

With my new glasses I thought I could conquer the world. Unfortunately it was then that I realized that the world would essentially combat me.

It was at 9, that I realized that beauty did not lie in the eye of the beholder, but rather in the hands of fourth-graders. They mocked me, because I was taller than the rest, very skinny and now fully equipped with ammunition- big eye glasses. If I accidentally sat in the wrong seat, they would point and sneer, mocking at my inability to see, even with my restored vision.

I still managed to believe I was all right. Regardless of what my peers thought, I still wore my prettiest clothes and matched my socks and my pony tails and began every day with a smile.

Over time, things began to change. My classmates learned how to manipulate my version of myself and made a mockery of it. I had lost my glowing optimism and became my own worst nightmare.

By the time I was in the seventh grade, I became obsessed with trying to make myself look beautiful. I started experimenting with the curling iron, different shades of lip balm, mixing and matching outfits. Nothing seemed to work, the mirror always frowned back a dark, skinny girl with huge glasses.

No boy noticed me, instead my friends tried to help me out, by covering me up with foundation, four shades lighter than my tanned skin, and blow drying my hair so it was straighter and not as frizzy. Looking back now I probably looked like a bulimic insomniac.

I finally got my first pair of contacts when I turned thirteen. They were the Optima FW brand from the local Walmart eye center. The first morning after I got them, I woke up an hour earlier than usual to make sure I could put my contacts in. I was petrified of anything touching my face, but after an hour and a half, I was finally able to go to school, my face free of anything bulky.

Although contacts should have restored my faith in beauty, they didn't. By this time, I was convinced that regardless of how I thought I looked, no one else thought the same.
I endured years of struggle, trying to come to terms with myself and my beauty. I started wearing make-up, learning how to flatten, my rebellious hair, to give myself French manicures, but nothing seemed to cure my misconception of myself.

 In high school I became very involved in a variety of activities and became friends with people who knew how to enjoy life. Instead of occupying my time with buying new jeans and sneakers, I began to volunteer with young children and senior citizens. I became involved in running clothing drives for Christmas and fruit drives in the Spring. 

Senior year in high school, when everyone started obsessing, I stopped. There was nothing more I could do to try and make myself more beautiful. No makeup, or hair dye, or color contacts could alter what I looked like. I had to make do with myself. It was at this time, somewhere between changing for winter track and reading Hamlet, that I realized that beauty, in its purest form, is your inability to see the lack of it. During our senior awards ceremony, I received the SMILE club award. The presenters of the award said that the recipient was someone who put a smile on peoples faces every day and in doing so put a smile on her own face as well. As I went up to receive the award, I realized that if I wanted to be beautiful, I had to begin acting beautiful and believing I was beautiful, because people around me already believed it.

So I began. I learned to wear neutral lip gloss, and learned to smile genuinely. I learned to appreciate criticism, and continued to shoo away compliments modestly. I learned to walk with my head up instead of counting the tiles below. I learned to wake up with a smile and spend random moments laughing. I learned to appreciate my flaws and the deliberate imperfections which allowed me to be human. I learned to breathe.

Recently I went in for an eye check-up hoping to get a consultation about Lasik, the magical new treatment which corrects impaired vision. My doctor informed me that I was a prime candidate because my vision was stable and I fit the criteria. I thought about it.

As I sit here and write, I have on my new glasses. They are brown-rimmed and cover half of my face, but I am smiling. Because although I sometimes stumble over my own two feet, I can still look up at the blurry stars and remember, that if they can shine because they believe they can shine, well then so can I.

O Denial

O' Denial
A call of the wild, sweltering and uncertain
The poise of the trees, graceful and brisk
The summers heat, salvaging, rescuing
The silence becomes maddening.

O'Denial I beg you to stop
You Create capers in the dusk, causing daylight to dark.
I ask you to run from my sheepish sanctuary; my self-created elaboration
I ask you to forbid reality and cease my tranquil existence.

O'Denial force me not to turn to you, let me see some light
Let the sky become open and the split become dampened.
Let me bask in my triumph, and shed some truth in your treason.
Let tomorrow never come the way I wish it to be.

O'Denial you grant me sanctity in your abrupt treachery
You allow for falsities to become realities
You give me no certainty that, which may be, already is.
I ask you to stop. I ask you to stop.

O'Denial it's so easy in your way, so simple to fall into your graces
I wish I could reside in your company for eternity
But I know I am wronged, my spirit softened, my pride compromised
For you are a fallacy, self-created interpretation of my misery.

O'Denial I will not let go. I will not let go.
Although I know you are brute in your ways, I am facetious in mine
It is your will that is tested against my raison d'être.
raison d'être, raison d'être what could it be.

O'Denial, O'Denial, O'Denial

Anomolies

The walls were covered with paintings of lands never been seen before by either one of them. Amethyst-colored water and coral covered clouds. The sky was a hue of mandarin just thirty seconds before the sun had set completely. They took their seats in the restaurant. The silence between them became deafening. They skimmed the menus, reading every last word, translating, silently trying to pronounce the French. Their eyes read the letters but their minds cried out in agony, despair. Here they were, at their loneliest moment sitting across from their histories.

As the waiter poured water, both of their minds riffed through the ages. It was at the falls in Niagara many years ago when they scurried together through the tubes and water slides playing hide and seek, cheering each other on. The sun gleamed high above as they ran around, in circles, holding hands while they soaked up the rays flying through the water slides and tripping over their feet, jumping in circles until they became dizzy and fell on the foam mountains, intoxicated by laughter. They each took a sip.

They sat caressing the stems of their glasses with their immaculately manicured fingers. They crossed and uncrossed their legs numerous times trying to act natural and pretend that all was customary. You could hear them breathing; their hearts scurrying for air. Silence.

The bread and butter were set on the table. Both stared at their empty plates, neither attempting to reach for the appetizer, because neither was really hungry. The memories were vivid, of the sunny days in the garden when they picked flowers and gently broke off the petals to create long nails in a variety of colors. Pink for the thumb, red for the ring finger. They would sit for hours counting rocks with their long nails, pretending to be extraordinary. They would brush their hair behind their ears and watch the petals descend off as they giggled interminably. It would never rain that summer.

As the gloom of the clouds culminated over their heads, rain fell from their eyes. Without a word being said, all of their thoughts turned the deserts in their hearts into an oasis of dejection.

They remembered the summer they visited their grandparent's home. The thermometer never fell below 40 degrees Celsius. It was smoldering and suffocating and they wore the thinnest of shear clothing. Showering became as essential as breathing. They spent the days on the highest rooftop which provided an incomparable view of Lahore. They would see kites, purple and green cutting each other off, spools of thread flying through the air. Each wave of wind that brushed through their hair was a wind of blessing, and acknowledgement that the warm summer would be over soon and they would return to their normalcy with snow covered trees and French fries.

The food came and they stabbed at it. The greens were put to the side, salt and pepper was passed. They swallowed slowly, each bite savored like each memory of times past.

There was the occasion when they baked cinnamon rolls and painted the deck a shade of mahogany. The trees whistled the tunes of autumn and the cool breeze brushed against their arched backs. They devoured the desserts- each iced-coated roll, while watching the Bodyguard, the reward for a job well done. They fell asleep midway through. Head-on-Shoulders.

As the dessert menus were taken away they glanced at their watches. Two hours passed. Hardly any words uttered. Why had they come? What was to be said now that the years had passed and their lives had taken turns in perpendicular directions? What could be said of the memories?

They recalled that late evening in the car when they discussed God, and men and hopes and dreams. When shattered images of reality struck them in their backs and the mean words uttered crushed their souls. When the memories of recent days were blockaded by instruments producing cacophony. Where not a word was heard, not a statement was said that wasn't meant to be less than the truth, where the end result was the realization that they were intrinsically now different.

They had stopped confiding in each other. They would go through the motions of consideration, the other simply wouldn't understand. They wouldn't attempt because the languages were the same, the dialects, different. What had begun as a quest for love and happiness had turned into a battle for self-discovery and assertions.

So they ate in peace, spoons clicking against the coffee cups, sips being taken, sighs, just short of breath. Napkins were folded and put on the table.

The check came and they both instinctively reached for their wallets, pulling out their credit cards and quickly grabbing for the insert. With both cards in the leather folder, they waited for the other to say a word, something. Anything. But there was silence.

The waiter split the total on both cards, and gave two receipts. Both signed but neither got up. They sat, their, heads down, manicured hands folded. No eye contact.

The picture above them showed the setting of the sun, where tomorrow was painted, as another day with emerald skies and pomegranate water, where change was inevitable but the day would come nonetheless.

They got up, walked out and left, in opposite directions.