[Thanks, to Yee-May.]
People come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. When you know which one it is, you will know what to do for that person.
When someone is in your life for a reason, it is usually to meet a need you have expressed. They have come to assist you through a difficulty, to provide you with guidance and support, to aid you physically, emotionally or spiritually. They may seem like a godsend and they are. They are there for the reason you need them to be.
Then, without any wrongdoing on your part or at an inconvenient time, this person will say or do something to bring the relationship to an end. Sometimes they die. sometimes they walk away. Sometimes they act up and force you to take a stand. What we must realize is that our need has been met, our desire fulfilled, their work is done. The prayer you sent up has been answered and now it is time to move on.
Some people come into your life for a season, because your turn has come to share, grow or learn. They bring you an experience of peace or make you laugh. They may teach you something you have never done. They usually give you an unbelievable amount of joy. Believe it, it is real. But only for a season.
Lifetime relationships teach you lifetime lessons, things you must build upon in order to have a solid emotional foundation. Your job is to accept the lesson, love the person and put what you have learned to use in all other relationships and areas of your life. It is said that love is blind but friendship is clairvoyant.
BrianA. "Drew" Chalker
[RIP BZK 09/19/2009]
Monday, September 28, 2009
Monday, September 07, 2009
Saturday, September 05, 2009
Philadelphia, Je t'aime
I love Philadelphia for many reasons. Some of them being (in no particular order):
a) It's highly accessible on foot and has allowed me to continue my procrastination to learn driving.
b) Murals.
c) Wilma Theatre.
d) Opportunity. This city taught me independence like no other.
e) Diversity. And I mean it. There are literally all kinds of people here.
f) Philly Diner.
g) Pretzel Run.
h) Kelly Drive.
j) Ten Thousand Villages.
k) The Rebecca Davis Dance Company.
l) Rittenhouse Square.
m) The Electric Factory.
n) Restaurant Week.
o) First Fridays.
And the last is not the least. For those of you who don't know, First Friday is a cultural event of Philadelphia where on the first Friday of every month, many galleries and museums in Old City are free to the public from about 5 p.m. onwards until 9 p.m. Many many students (since, well, only either students or very rich, or very poor really live in Philadelphia) crowd Old city on such Friday evenings. Talking, exploring, eating, drinking and bumping into old friends and enemies etc. My favorite part about First Fridays are the random artists you meet on the street and the tremendous opportunity to rediscover art that lies within that. In the past, I've met many painters displaying their amateur yet fresh ideas on the pavement, and persevering musicians serenading the pedestrians with their compositions. It's kind of like the culture of street performers in New York City, only more shy and laid-back.
Once, I met a jazz artist selling CDs of his music. He gave me a free copy when I told him I had no cash, but that I'd make up for it by giving the CD to the shelves of Drexel's radio station. I don't really know how often he was able to tune-in to listen to his music being broadcasted, but the fact that he sent me off with the satisfaction and good will of knowing that I would do just what I had promised...It truly made my day.
Recently, I met a photographer who chose to build a House of Cards on canvas and wood. Kevin and I just went up to ask him what that House of Cards was made of and he immediately asked me what part of India I was from. I was Awestruck. Not because he could tell that I was India right away, but because he could tell by the way I talked and not from the color of my skin. The conversation continued to what I did, to his travels in India, his 6-week stint in Pune as a sanyasi, to his work. "Scientists are like artists too. Scientists put facts together. Artists put different kinds of facts together," he told me. It was unforgettable because when we walked away from that man, we had left with one the most profound things we'd heard in our lives.
"Don't go looking for the meaning of life. Give it meaning."
Whenever you walk the streets of Philadelphia, don't just go looking for adventure. Look for stories.
a) It's highly accessible on foot and has allowed me to continue my procrastination to learn driving.
b) Murals.
c) Wilma Theatre.
d) Opportunity. This city taught me independence like no other.
e) Diversity. And I mean it. There are literally all kinds of people here.
f) Philly Diner.
g) Pretzel Run.
h) Kelly Drive.
j) Ten Thousand Villages.
k) The Rebecca Davis Dance Company.
l) Rittenhouse Square.
m) The Electric Factory.
n) Restaurant Week.
o) First Fridays.
And the last is not the least. For those of you who don't know, First Friday is a cultural event of Philadelphia where on the first Friday of every month, many galleries and museums in Old City are free to the public from about 5 p.m. onwards until 9 p.m. Many many students (since, well, only either students or very rich, or very poor really live in Philadelphia) crowd Old city on such Friday evenings. Talking, exploring, eating, drinking and bumping into old friends and enemies etc. My favorite part about First Fridays are the random artists you meet on the street and the tremendous opportunity to rediscover art that lies within that. In the past, I've met many painters displaying their amateur yet fresh ideas on the pavement, and persevering musicians serenading the pedestrians with their compositions. It's kind of like the culture of street performers in New York City, only more shy and laid-back.
Once, I met a jazz artist selling CDs of his music. He gave me a free copy when I told him I had no cash, but that I'd make up for it by giving the CD to the shelves of Drexel's radio station. I don't really know how often he was able to tune-in to listen to his music being broadcasted, but the fact that he sent me off with the satisfaction and good will of knowing that I would do just what I had promised...It truly made my day.
Recently, I met a photographer who chose to build a House of Cards on canvas and wood. Kevin and I just went up to ask him what that House of Cards was made of and he immediately asked me what part of India I was from. I was Awestruck. Not because he could tell that I was India right away, but because he could tell by the way I talked and not from the color of my skin. The conversation continued to what I did, to his travels in India, his 6-week stint in Pune as a sanyasi, to his work. "Scientists are like artists too. Scientists put facts together. Artists put different kinds of facts together," he told me. It was unforgettable because when we walked away from that man, we had left with one the most profound things we'd heard in our lives.
"Don't go looking for the meaning of life. Give it meaning."
Whenever you walk the streets of Philadelphia, don't just go looking for adventure. Look for stories.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Revelation # 1
So I thought and I thought and I realized something.
Men never grow up. They just move from simple toys to more sophisticated ones.
You read this here first.
Men never grow up. They just move from simple toys to more sophisticated ones.
You read this here first.
About Time
For those of you who actually read this, I apologize for the extended absence. However, I think by now you are pretty accustomed to my irregularities. Well, I thank you for persevering.
I recently visited my family in India for about one and a half months, and collected some of the most precious memories of my life. The visit was really cool in a lot of ways. I was able to celebrate my birthday with my own family after four long years. And when I saw the 2 kilo cake my mother had ordered for me, I was able to realize that some things never change. I might be older now, almost ready for marriage by their standards, but somewhere in their heart, I am still that little girl who used to cut cakes on her birthday.
My mother perhaps gave me the most memorable present this birthday. She told me the story of my birth. I mean, literally an account of how I refused to pop out. The year I was born my parents still lived in a run down apartment-like place above a district eye hospital where my father worked. Because my father couldn't get off from his job, my mother had to go to the general nursing home herself, accompanied by my aging grandmother on a rickshaw. I cannot even imagine what that must have been like. Going through the badly constructed, bumpy roads of my hometown, on a rickshaw, ON a rainy day, with constant, painful contractions that were making her cry. Puts in perspective the pains your mother goes through to bring you into this world, right?
She finally got to the hospital and was admitted by a doctor. She'd been having pains but I wasn't moving at all. So they gave her Oxytocin injections to increase the contractions and make them more powerful. My mother was screaming and crying in pain, with my grandmother holding her hand and my father pacing up and down outside her ward. I still wouldn't move. Five days passed but still no movement. My father was beginning to get worried. The doctor told him that my mother might need an operation, a Cesarean, but for that she will have to be moved to another, bigger city, since such operations could not be performed in my hometown due to lack of facilities. However, my mother was in no condition to be moved. Finally, a big, fat nurse had this idea that she will manually assist in pushing the baby from the outside. My mother watched horrified as the nurse got onto her bed, straddled across her and began pushing downwards from the top of the abdomen. It was pain beyond belief, my mother tells me. This went on for a few minutes, and then finally her child popped out of her uterus.
"You looked like a lizard!" said my mother. "We had thought that after all that trouble, I was going to give birth to a mini-giant."
"Gee, thanks Mummy. That makes me feel so good." I am special.
She told me that since that day she swore she wasn't going to have anymore children. I have two younger sisters.
I recently visited my family in India for about one and a half months, and collected some of the most precious memories of my life. The visit was really cool in a lot of ways. I was able to celebrate my birthday with my own family after four long years. And when I saw the 2 kilo cake my mother had ordered for me, I was able to realize that some things never change. I might be older now, almost ready for marriage by their standards, but somewhere in their heart, I am still that little girl who used to cut cakes on her birthday.
My mother perhaps gave me the most memorable present this birthday. She told me the story of my birth. I mean, literally an account of how I refused to pop out. The year I was born my parents still lived in a run down apartment-like place above a district eye hospital where my father worked. Because my father couldn't get off from his job, my mother had to go to the general nursing home herself, accompanied by my aging grandmother on a rickshaw. I cannot even imagine what that must have been like. Going through the badly constructed, bumpy roads of my hometown, on a rickshaw, ON a rainy day, with constant, painful contractions that were making her cry. Puts in perspective the pains your mother goes through to bring you into this world, right?
She finally got to the hospital and was admitted by a doctor. She'd been having pains but I wasn't moving at all. So they gave her Oxytocin injections to increase the contractions and make them more powerful. My mother was screaming and crying in pain, with my grandmother holding her hand and my father pacing up and down outside her ward. I still wouldn't move. Five days passed but still no movement. My father was beginning to get worried. The doctor told him that my mother might need an operation, a Cesarean, but for that she will have to be moved to another, bigger city, since such operations could not be performed in my hometown due to lack of facilities. However, my mother was in no condition to be moved. Finally, a big, fat nurse had this idea that she will manually assist in pushing the baby from the outside. My mother watched horrified as the nurse got onto her bed, straddled across her and began pushing downwards from the top of the abdomen. It was pain beyond belief, my mother tells me. This went on for a few minutes, and then finally her child popped out of her uterus.
"You looked like a lizard!" said my mother. "We had thought that after all that trouble, I was going to give birth to a mini-giant."
"Gee, thanks Mummy. That makes me feel so good." I am special.
She told me that since that day she swore she wasn't going to have anymore children. I have two younger sisters.
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