Under the Sea

I come from a large family of educators. Hard working people with strong values who believe that learning is a lifelong endeavor, that we must be open-minded, compassionate, and tolerant. That we must teach, mentor, and guide others as we not only bestow knowledge, but also evolve, redefine, and transform our own way of thinking…constantly challenging paradigms, looking at things from different perspectives, and in courteous and gentlemanly fashion, debate opinions, beliefs, and schools of thought as opposed to just accepting the status quo, or blindly accepting information as fact or doctrine.

The photograph in the picture you see before you is one of my favorites. It is of me and my father during a family beach trip when I was just a boy. As I was looking for Captain Morgan’s treasure snorkeling, my mask kept fogging up, causing me to surface and momentarily halt my meticulous scanning of coral and rock along the clear, ocean floor. Seeing my frustration, my dad patiently came over to help. He showed me how to ensure a proper seal and fitting, but he also taught me that you could spit onto the glass inside the mask and spread the saliva (preferably not with your fingers), to prevent the moisture build-up. I watched intently as he dipped the mask in the water after coating it and then had me put it back on.   

I never questioned this unconventional problem-solving method because it hadn’t been the first time that he’d shown me how to troubleshoot on the fly. Miraculously, my mask didn’t fog up anymore, and I was able to get right back into the game, gazing at tropical fish, looking for seashells, and of course, the hidden treasures awaiting my discovery.

As is the case with most of these teaching moments, in hindsight, I realize how much more my father was really imparting than just that singular lesson. It wasn’t so much that one could simply prevent a mask from fogging up with spit, it was also, beyond the surface, a series of life lessons that I would eventually carry with me for the rest of my life. In the moment my dad took to show me a life hack, he embedded in my mind a way of thinking and looking at the world. He showed me that oftentimes there are unusual or unthought of ways of problem solving…essentially, how to think outside the box as it were. He demonstrated, that even out in the ocean devoid of tools, you can solve a problem using your immediate environment, or even your own body, but that you have to look, be open-minded, and willing to accept that your answer might lie where you least expect it.

This picture is on my dresser for the specific reason to remind me at the dawn of each day to remain open-minded to new ways of thinking, to challenge conventional paradigms, to seek and impart knowledge, and to be compassionate and patient with others who may be struggling. This photograph serves as an aide-mémoire to always look in unexpected places for a solution, to help others whenever possible, and that even out at sea, without tools or technology, you can defog a snorkeling mask, and that oftentimes, the greatest treasures in life are not buried in the sand or even found under the sea at all, but waiting to be discovered within us. 

Life

We’ve been in one of the worst droughts in history. On my way out of work today I noticed it was raining outside. Not the usual, lazy and short-lived drizzle that teases the parched earth, but a hearty, heavy rain that causes rushing currents that sweep the streets, wiping things anew. It was beautiful, like the sultry walk of a woman from whom you’ve been away for a long time. As she saunters towards the bed, the morning beams slanting through the window set her legs aglow, while the breeze gently plays with the bottom of the dress shirt she borrowed. The coalescence of familiarity and magnetism in this moment makes you smile, wanting both for the feeling to never end, but also to be replayed over and over again in slow motion like the melodic nostalgia of your favorite song on repeat.

I admired the vigor with which it fell. A coworker stood beside me for what seemed like a half an hour. At first we shared short vignettes of the last time either of us had seen such a downpour, and the places we had lived where similar displays were commonplace. Afterwards, we stood in perfect silence…only the sound of raindrops throwing themselves upon the window could be heard. The world before our eyes glistening wet like the fading watercolors on a painting being sprinkled with tears.

The ride home was not as evocative, but equally dazzling. The rain had been accompanied by lightening and strong winds that bullied the weak and sun battered trees who lacked the strength to entrench themselves against the onslaught. Sirens flared and police cars blocked streets, while highway ramps were littered with debris, fallen branches, and toppled trees. Parking lots were peppered with growing puddles and once hurtled shopping carts that lay on their sides as though dying cattle. Thunder rumbled its warning in the distance like an angry god.

I was reminded that life is never without this quintessential display of duality, in one moment a nostalgic flirtation, a venerated remembrance, an appreciation of nature’s ineffable talents. On the other, a reminder of our vulnerability through a breathtaking exhibition of nature’s might as though we were mere game board pieces helplessly being scattered about…falling where we may.

Butterfly Effect

I love movies. The visual art of story telling. The depiction of raw emotion, life, and circumstance. The quintessential portrayal of detailed, human expression. I immerse myself entirely...feeling the weight of despair, the weightlessness of space, a tree's leaves being gently carried across the screen, a pencil's scratching upon the surface of paper, a freckled smile, the sound of lips. Details, which in and of themselves, can hurl atoms through space, causing worlds to collide.

I saw two great movies this weekend. Gravity and Blue is the Warmest Color. While I normally would write an entire blog post dedicated to a single film, both of these movies, which are polar opposites, evoke similar feelings. Thus, I am compelled to address them together. One was a film about an engineer's experience in space, as well as her personal struggle, the inability to let go of a past trauma. I found it poignant and simultaneously fascinating that her experience was so traumatic and indelible, that she was unable to let go of it even in the most remote, quiet and vast locales imaginable. To carry a weight so heavy that even in the vacuum of space's weightlessness you cannot wiggle from underneath it, is a powerful thought.

Conversely, Blue carried with it a weight we've all had to bear, and with which we are intimately familiar....that of breaking up, or losing our first love. The parallel of helplessness in both movies was palpable and salient, even though the path of each female protagonist was, for lack of a better description, on entirely different tangents. One, a young woman gripping with the harsh realities and intricacies of maturation, sexuality, and the dynamic of relationships while navigating the emotional oceans of life. The other, of a woman who's life has lost all meaning and is devoid of feeling, except for one that blinds her to even the magnificence of a bird's eye view of our amazing planet. Both characters faced the eminent danger of losing air or being eternally lost in the cosmos at any moment.

Both movies were fantastic, equally moving, and powerful. Admittedly, however, they are a little stressful, but entirely worth it. Just be warned that Blue is a French film with subtitles, and has a few scenes of graphic nudity that can only be found on Cinemax or HBO. Also, it's just shy of being 3 hours long.

Although I've never been in space to watch a sunset, to witness the glow of Aurora Borealis hovering over the North Pole, or to bask in the radiance of infinite stars and the blue shimmering brilliance of Earth...I hope that if given the chance, I shall choose to stop and appreciate the view.

Olympic Trials part two: Leaping towards finality

Many years had passed since I had given up my aspirations to be an olympic bobsledder, and amazingly I still hadn't pushed my little sister into oncoming traffic, nor had I bled out or gotten rabies due to her unparalleled penchant for biting. In fact, we had been getting along better than usual...enough even to stand each other's presence long enough to play a game; to my little sister, a game of tag. In my eyes, however, training for olympic hurdles.

I have a lean build. Long wiry legs, but endowed with enough fast-twitch muscle fibers that I've always been fast and graceful...not unlike a gazelle, sans the face paint or gaudy head dress of course. Even at the age of 12, I knew that olympic hurdlers and I had something in common, and while becoming an olympic bobsledder was a noble pursuit, the lack of ice in the tropics, or appropriate equipment, would make it a challenging journey. Consequently, I had decided that I could hurtle myself to fame and fortune without a sled.

As our little "game" of tag progressed, I realized that I had egregiously underestimated my little sister's own fast twitch muscle fibers, and found that she was consistently within reach of my shadow...a distance I was determined to lengthen. I ran into the den, leaping over a futon, initiated a shake and bake maneuver around the entertainment center and my Dad's disheveled yet sophisticated network of extension cords and cables, and then I darted towards our older sister's room at the end of the long hallway.

I had to think fast, and I figured I could leap over my sister's bed and that would be enough to solidify my superior quickness and improvisational skill. I could see the finish line and one last hurdle to navigate. My little sister was so unbelievably close behind that I could feel her breath upon my neck. As planned, and like a antelope leaping over a fallen comrade, I cleared the bed, but sensed it hadn't created enough distance and the only way to finish this for good would be to entrap her in the room. After all, who can chase you behind a closed door? As I bolted from the room, I swung the door quickly in order to stymie the little speed demon's pursuit, but instead of the familiar sound of a slamming door, I heard the unmistakable sound of wood impacting a human skull.

Although the sounds was distinct and identifiable even at my age, the reality of what had just happened really didn't sink in until I heard the screaming. And not the I stubbed my toe, or even cut my finger kind of screaming, but the "oh my god I'm bleeding profusely and may not make it to see my next birthday" kind of screaming. As I doubled back to investigate, I saw what appeared to be the bludgeoning of a baby seal. Our older sister, who had been showering, was summoned by the screams, and stood before us dumbfounded and dripping wet.

Before I could entirely process what had transpired, my sister's head had been wrapped in quickly soaking towels and was carried away to the hospital leaving a trail of blood droplets along the shiny marbled tiles, the image of white towels turning pink to be forever seared into memory. I was left behind to mop up the mess and to ruminate, once again, over the fact that I may have killed my little sister...for real.

Needless to say, my olympic dreams were thwarted for good, and now I watch them on tv knowing the true extent of the difficulties one must overcome to accomplish such a feat. I don't know if I'll ever reconsider olympic aspirations, but at least for the meantime, writing is pretty safe. At least for my little sister anyway.

Speed Racer

The rains here are short lived, but they still flood the streets like the ones from my childhood. It would rain in the tropics for days at a time, leaving children no recourse but to play in it, braving colds, broken glass, tetanus, and tape worms. Although warned, we never thought of such things, but were more concerned with perfecting the slide during muddy soccer games or simply splashing around.

We would dismantle wooden clothes pins and use the cement curbs to sand and shape the heads into a point. The torrential rains would create a fast current between the edges of the roads and the curb which were used as rapids upon which to race our boats. We would yell and cheer them on as we sped barefoot along side them until the end of the street. It never mattered who won. We were too eager to run back to the start line to watch our litte speedboats dunk, spin, and wind through the gray, gushing river over and over again. 

London Olympics: Hearts of Gold

I've been watching the Olympics rather religiously. It was a tradition of sorts in my family, and it seems that the ritual has stuck. After all, who cannot appreciate the world's finest athletes competing, sacrificing, and fighting for gold. There is no lack of drama, back story, media hype, and suspense. Perfectly sculpted bodies, with laser-like focus, disciplined, and meticulously trained keep us on the edge of our seats as they run, flip, fly, dive, kick, paddle, reposte, fling, spike and shoot.

The margin for error at this level of competition can be a hair off center, a splash, an extra hop, a perry, a point, or hundredths of a second. The majesty and poetry of what their bodies are capable of doing is inspiring, jaw-dropping, and often downright unbelievable. With steeled nerves, icy veins, and expressions that indicate their minds are on parallel planes, they take their positions...gravity is defied, time slowed, and sometimes for only mere seconds, they captivate millions. On this stage, heroes are made, naysayers quieted, nations shocked, hopes shattered, careers forged, and dreams fulfilled.

The true magnitude of what these athletes can accomplish boggles my mind. Some show such resilience and perseverance, while others succumb to pressure and scrutiny. While we all love to see our respective countries victorious, I think we allow ourselves to be consumed by whether or not a medal is won. Such seductions are inevitable, easy even. However, my attention is often stolen by an athlete who is simply grateful and humbled by the opportunity to compete, tasked with carrying not only their own aspirations, but those of an entire country.

A couple of nights ago, I was watching men's gymnastics and saw an unlikely competitor, an underdog from Ireland that had overcome amazing adversity. The announcers mentioned the sacrifices this young man had made simply to make it to the games in London. They alluded to the support from his family, all the bake sales and car washes, scrounging together enough funds to compete in various events. But that isn't all. He overcame countless injuries, a botched leg surgery that left him with extensive nerve damage and doctors that told him he would never walk again. Later, he suffered a brain injury that threatened his gymnastic hopes again.This too he overcame. With such a display of tenacity, resolve, and sheer will, who could not wish him the best? Who among us could not root for him?

I don't want to take away from any other athlete's success, plight, or their similarly daunting obstacles. Please revel in the dominance of the USA's women's beach volleyball tandem of Misty May-Treanor and Kerry Walsh. Cheer for the Michael Phelps's, the Dana Vollmers, and the Ryan Lochtes. I certainly did, but don't forget that the hope of some countries rests upon the shoulders of young men with torn rotator cuffs, on surgically repaired legs, and damaged brains...upon the dreams of boys so brave that they defied doctors and science, simply refusing to give up.

In my mind these are the true champions. Not the privileged with unfettered access to facilities, unlimited resources, or those endowed with impressive frames or inherent physical prowess, but those who were laughed at, ridiculed, and told no. Kieran Behan did not win a medal in this Olympics, but he won something more grand than gold: not only was his dream of reaching the Olympic stage realized, but he walked away with our hearts and knowing that he has set an example for everyone who will ever face adversity, or have to hear the unsavory echo and seemingly insurmountable weight of the word no. It is this aspect of the human soul that makes me truly awestruck and fraught with compassion. Winning an Olympic medal is undoubtedly an impressive feat, but sometimes just getting there is in a class all its own.

About a Boy

When my sister asked me to be a guest writer on her blog, my initial thought was that she must have gone crazy, obviously forgetting my penchant for sarcasm, innuendos, and fanfare. Not the first choice for mommy-blog material. Even though I often push boundaries or flirt with impropriety, I also venture into the contemplative caves of the mind, and peer deep into the reflective pools of my subconscious, asking questions, turning over rocks, and creating ripples. I suspect this is where she wants her readers to go...and not waking up naked with a hangover, next to a monkey smoking a cigarette.

While my sister and I do share a love for baseball, movies, books, and dogs, we couldn't be more worlds apart. For instance, we both talk about boobs...me for my adoration of them and her for their ability to sustain life. She lives on the East coast, and I on the West. She is family oriented and domestic, while I live the whimsical, risk-taking life of the hopelessly romantic bachelor. She has four amazing sisters...and I win have been blessed with five.

I don't suppose most guys are raised in such an equally nurturing, yet hormonally volatile environment. And truth be told, while I never got to watch what I wanted on T.V., or use the bathroom without a wait, I was bestowed a unique perspective into the female psyche. I'm certainly not going to sit here and tell you that I am a guru in such matters, but I am privy to the source of many female-specific behaviors that usually stupefy my less intelligent, neanderthalian brethren. Okay, well perhaps I don't have the actual answers as to "why" they do what they do, but I do have a fairly fool-proof crisis management and survival guide, which I personally think is more practical anyway.

Growing up with five sisters is kind of like being raised by wolves. You're allowed in the den and are considered family, but they can still tear you up if you get out of line. I'm not exactly sure where I'll go with my post, but I've lit the fire, and within the cauldron, something mysterious brews...

Great Expectations...

The past few days have been a mixture of disappointment, contemplation, reminiscing, and revelation. I've had a chance to spend a considerable amount of time with my Dad driving around taking pictures and thinking about the old days. I can't express how much things have really changed here. Many places we go, the ones we can get to anyway, no longer look the way they once did. Skyscrapers, overpasses, shopping malls, casinos and the like now pepper once sparsely populated areas. Prices have shot up, along with toll roads, and construction sites. A subway station is being built, large sections of the city's inner sanctum look as though a giant worm has tunneled his way across town. A metro rail is good in many ways, but the project is long, and strains an infrastructure already bursting at the seams. An old tropical landscape slowly transforms into a formidable metropolis like it's Northern counterparts.

Much of what has changed saddens me. It makes me feel even more out of place in life. This was the one place on the planet I felt like I was inherently a part of...at least more than any other. And now, this too has slowly turned its back on me and has begun to walk away. Nostalgic epiphanies notwithstanding, today was exceptionally nice. I went out with my Dad taking pictures, and hiked up a hill that overlooks the whole city...letting the juxtaposition of being in a jungle that towers over a booming city marinate in my mind. After the hike I had fresh empanadas and a papaya milk shake, the familiarity with the native food was comforting...as well as the price.

Earlier in the day my Dad and I had gotten haircuts together. He doesn't have much left, but I admire that he likes to keep what remains well groomed. For only four dollars, I can't blame him. My haircut was as good as I remember them being, but the service was not. I have been sobered by the realization that people do not have as much pride in their jobs as they used to. Difficult to say if this is due to a new generation, a loss of faith in the economy and government, or a result of wealthy foreigners and drug dealers inflating prices and alienating the poorer class.

Taking pictures of my old neighborhoods and those of my childhood friends brought with it a great sense of peace, happiness, and fulfillment. Although I couldn't remember exactly which houses everyone lived in, I could remember how I felt spending time there, which is a million times better. Much of my longing for these earlier times is not entirely because of how the Panama Canal Zone was physically, but also because it represented a simpler life, unfortunately one that no longer exists. I think I'm coming to the realization that this trip has a lot to do with letting go...surrendering to the shift in the cosmic current and shedding regret or desire of an imaginary place on the spectrum of space and time. I too must grow, construct new beginnings, blossom, and to stretch towards the infinite...ever hoping that the foundation holds steady.

Motorcycle Musings

I know, I know...it's been a while. I'm not really sure what to say. I haven't quite been suffering from writer's block or anything, I just haven't quite been in the mood to express how I feel per se. I've left the majority of the anger and self loathing for my diary, and decided what is left, a few philosophical musings if you will, should be posted here. My life has been going through a transition period... job hunt, graduating school, reassessing friendships, etc. And while I usually welcome change, this one in particular has presented some sobering epiphanies, such as: perhaps I'm not meant to be a writer, love is a faint memory, and I'm pretty sure I'm gonna need a root canal.

Life is truly fascinating, and not always in the speechless adoration of a sunset kind. Sometimes it's more like the morbid magnetism of a motorcycle accident, seducing our eyes to ingest the potentially macabre manifestation of Newton's Laws as we drive by. Sometimes we're frustrated and inconvenienced passersby, sometimes we're the motorcycle, and in other cases, we're the motorcyclyst who wonders how his life became a wreck. This is the risk one takes by driving a bike I suppose, or not using hand signals.

As we all know, life isn't comprised of an endless network of perfectly paved tunnels and highways devoid of cars, but an intricate web of twists and turns decorated with rocks, potholes, pedestrians, rain, and inevitably, other motorists. To say that navigating all of these obstacles is a challenge would be an egregious understatement, and to top it all off, you're not given a map, or a manual. We're merely comforted with the knowledge that crashing isn't a question of "if", but of "when".

My birthday is quickly approaching, and while I have no qualms about my age or getting older, I'm not entirely sure where all that time went, or what in God's name I was doing seemingly wasting it. I was raised in a laid back culture, one with an entirely different attitude and outlook towards the concept of time than the U.S. Consequently, I've always scoffed at people hustling about, planning, setting goals, in states of constant worry, and stressing over one thing or another. Maybe the busy ants and squirrels toiling away gathering and accumulating things know what they're doing after all, but hard as I try, I'm programmed to only go where the wind blows, and to amass only as much as I can carry.

Frankly, I don't think this strategy has worked out too well, but who really knows whether or not flossing everyday would have prevented the root canal. Perhaps it was meant to be. Perhaps it has always been a question of "when" and not "if". In either case, the timing is perfect. Just like life I've noticed. Everything working in perfect harmony and balance, just as it should be...ants toiling, squirrels collecting, suns setting, and motorcycles careening towards their inevitable state of rest.

Baby I love your way...

When I was in junior high school, I was in love with a girl named Rachelle. In fact, I was so in love with her, that when she broke up with me, I cried like a baby. Well, technically, she broke up with me after I confronted her about making out with my best friend Francisco, but who’s really keeping track? She remains the only girl I ever cried over. Oddly enough, one of my biggest regrets in life was telling her that I thought the song she dubbed "our" song was stupid, before I had really listened to the lyrics and let their simple, yet powerful meaning sink in.

I remember the night it happened, no not when I saw her making out with Francisco behind the gym, although I do remember that day as well. I mean the night she called me and told me to turn on the television. I remember talking to her while the video to "Baby I love your way" by Blue Mountain played in the background, the bright glow from the t.v. screen casting shadows across the room that danced to the music. She told me to listen to the song, and that she had decided it was ours. Before the song had even ended, I told her that it was stupid and that we should pick another one. I don't remember exactly why I thought this, or what my alternate suggestions were, but what I do know is how much I've grown to love this song, and how every time I hear it, I think about how much I regret hastily showing my disapproval to someone who was expressing something so heartfelt and loving. I of all people should know how meaningful songs can be.

When I was nine, my mother passed away from breast cancer and one of the ways I would comfort myself would be to play Smokey Robinson's "Just to See Her" on my older sister's record player. I would lie in her bed listening to the song over and over again until I had cried myself to sleep. I guess I thought that if I recited the lyrics to the song enough times, that I would be granted the opportunity to see her again, as not being able to say goodbye was a huge point of contention in my life for a long time. Both songs share such simple affirmations, but represent extremely powerful sentiments.

As I drove home tonight from a friend's house, a familiar song played on the radio. I sang out loud to it as I normally do. Moonlight had already tucked the city in, and the night's cool breeze flowed through my hair. Street lights projected long shadows across the pavement that reminded me of that regretful night. The gift wrapped nostalgia brought a smile to my face. I'm not sure why this one memory is seared so vividly in my mind, or why it has left such an indelible impression. I just know that I won't ever take such a moment for granted again. Interesting how life chooses to teach us sometimes isn’t it?