It is inevitable that time passes. Change is the dimension of time. Therefore, it is inevitable that change happens.
Change. Sometimes it sounds so good and refreshing. You welcome it with open arms. A change from Bush to Obama. Yes!
Other times, change is scary. When you must abandon what you know and walk a path unknown.
But always, change is happening in our perceived realities.
And ever has it been that love knows not it's own depth until the hour of separation ~Kahlil Gibran~
Friday, December 12, 2008
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
the last 24 hours
have been testing. Last night, I broke down and for the first time really questioned what I was doing here because after staring at my electrocardiography notes and listening to the lecture for 4 hours I new less than when I began. Yes, negative learning, it's possible. Thankfully, my friend taught me what I needed to know in 1/2 an hour. It was that easy. I am writing a brutally honest evaluation for this professor who wasted my time, energy, and sanity. After going to lab this morning and realizing that almost all my classmates were equally frustrated and lost, I didn't feel as alone in this world of leads, ECGs, and tachycardias.
It continued to be a weird day for various reasons and I decided to go out for lunch, an excuse to enjoy the unusual 65 degree weather. While I was munching on a chicken wrap and musing over my ECG diagrams, an unassuming man brightened up my day with his simple kindness and thoughtfulness. He didn't know it, but with one effortless gesture of humanity he lifted my spirits more than he could ever imagine. I thank him.
I guess no act is ever too small to help a fellow human see the that the sun is only temporarily hiding behind the clouds.
It continued to be a weird day for various reasons and I decided to go out for lunch, an excuse to enjoy the unusual 65 degree weather. While I was munching on a chicken wrap and musing over my ECG diagrams, an unassuming man brightened up my day with his simple kindness and thoughtfulness. He didn't know it, but with one effortless gesture of humanity he lifted my spirits more than he could ever imagine. I thank him.
I guess no act is ever too small to help a fellow human see the that the sun is only temporarily hiding behind the clouds.
Sunday, December 07, 2008
the day for thoughts
i discover continuously that happiness cannot be sought. It is like the end of the rainbow, the harder you look for it, the evermore evasive it seems. There is no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. A wise, yet mischievous, person must have made that up so they could laugh while people sought that pot of gold like a cat chasing it's own tail, round and round and round you go ... I think this sage new that the rainbow itself, if one could recognize it, was that pot of gold. What could be more beautiful than the sky ablaze with an arch of brilliance ... the magic, the love between water and light.
jot down
You remain pure and beautiful in my heart. Maybe that was the purpose of our separation: to remain untarnished in each other. A love theme evokes our hearts blooming like an equatorial sunrise over the ocean, a sea on fire. Thank you for you.
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Recollections
I was just looking at an old photo my aunt posted on Facebook. It was a black and white photo taken sometime in 1979 so, I must have been only a few months old. In it, my little body is cupped in my grandfather's hands as he poses for the camera, holding me like a trophy. In a way, I was a trophy: the first child of his first son. This is important in Turkish culture.
Looking at that photo I had this weird sense that I was not just studying Histology to pass my upcoming exam, then pass the boards, and ultimately graduate med-school, etc., but that I was also studying to honor the pride with which my grandfather held me that summer day in 1979.
My grandfather loved his garden which he filled with poplar and fruit trees. He also loved his grandchildren. He combined his two passions and created a beautiful garden in which his multitude of grandchildren could play and frolic all day and night. He crafted a beautiful fountain from the very stones of our village which he handpicked and carried. He built a swing which we wore out and he built another and yet another. He constructed a gazebo which he later renovated. We almost never spent anytime inside. The fountain occupied us for hours. We would put marbles on the outlet, turn the water on and watch the marble balance on the stream of water. We ate almost every meal and sang songs deep into the night in that gazebo. My cousins and I pondered our futures while taking turns swinging. What would we become? Who would we marry? Kids!
In the winter of 2000 my grandfather passed. Alzheimer's. Oh, did I mention, he used to wrestle too!
I love you dede.
Looking at that photo I had this weird sense that I was not just studying Histology to pass my upcoming exam, then pass the boards, and ultimately graduate med-school, etc., but that I was also studying to honor the pride with which my grandfather held me that summer day in 1979.
My grandfather loved his garden which he filled with poplar and fruit trees. He also loved his grandchildren. He combined his two passions and created a beautiful garden in which his multitude of grandchildren could play and frolic all day and night. He crafted a beautiful fountain from the very stones of our village which he handpicked and carried. He built a swing which we wore out and he built another and yet another. He constructed a gazebo which he later renovated. We almost never spent anytime inside. The fountain occupied us for hours. We would put marbles on the outlet, turn the water on and watch the marble balance on the stream of water. We ate almost every meal and sang songs deep into the night in that gazebo. My cousins and I pondered our futures while taking turns swinging. What would we become? Who would we marry? Kids!
In the winter of 2000 my grandfather passed. Alzheimer's. Oh, did I mention, he used to wrestle too!
I love you dede.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Ironies
Life is full of ironies ... they are beautiful, amusing, and sometimes eerie.
For instance, two days ago I read on the BBC that the Pope was condemning greed and criticizing the materialism that has overtaken society. Not surprisingly, he proposed devoting one's life to God as the alternative to being a practicing disciple of corporatocracy and consumerism (as though the common people have a choice in the matter). I mulled over this for a few seconds and suddenly it hit me: the irony!
I found it amusing that the "evil" Muslim "extremists" that Western-White-Judeo/Christian powers have been chastising for the anti-Americanism (which by the transitive law of algebra means that they are, therefore, also anti-democracy, anti-human rights, anti-freedom, pro-terrorism, need I go on ... ) they pledge and the Pope himself had somethig fundamental in common: an aversion to unchecked greed percipitated by the free-market system.
Furthermore, on a historical note, it made me chuckle to think that the sole reason for the Protestant reformation was a reaction to the unchecked greed and corruption that plagued the Catholic church at the time. This was a religuous institution where you could buy your way out of sins. Hmmm, seems reminicent of something more recent, doesn't it? And now, many centuries later we have the very leader of that same institution criticizing greed. It's all so interesting.
For instance, two days ago I read on the BBC that the Pope was condemning greed and criticizing the materialism that has overtaken society. Not surprisingly, he proposed devoting one's life to God as the alternative to being a practicing disciple of corporatocracy and consumerism (as though the common people have a choice in the matter). I mulled over this for a few seconds and suddenly it hit me: the irony!
I found it amusing that the "evil" Muslim "extremists" that Western-White-Judeo/Christian powers have been chastising for the anti-Americanism (which by the transitive law of algebra means that they are, therefore, also anti-democracy, anti-human rights, anti-freedom, pro-terrorism, need I go on ... ) they pledge and the Pope himself had somethig fundamental in common: an aversion to unchecked greed percipitated by the free-market system.
Furthermore, on a historical note, it made me chuckle to think that the sole reason for the Protestant reformation was a reaction to the unchecked greed and corruption that plagued the Catholic church at the time. This was a religuous institution where you could buy your way out of sins. Hmmm, seems reminicent of something more recent, doesn't it? And now, many centuries later we have the very leader of that same institution criticizing greed. It's all so interesting.
Labels:
capitalism,
catholic church,
economics,
islam,
Pope
Saturday, October 04, 2008
somewhere out there
In the midst of studying the roots, trunks, and cords of the brachial plexus Bob reminds me that somewhere out there is a beach on an island with a soft, salt scented breeze, the soothing hush of rolling waves, and the murmur of palm fronds ... that place is in all of our hearts ... "could you be loved ..."
Monday, September 29, 2008
how precious love is
and yet how we waste it ... or rather how it is wasted on us humans. It is the most awesome thing, the only thing, the raison d'etre of existence and yet ... yet we take it for granted ...
Music is love. Just now, I listened to a particular piece and it penetrated so deep, so fast, so unexpectedly that for a few seconds I was unhinged and overwhelmed by love ... it cut through layers of pride, ego, hang-ups, fears, etc. to the ineffable core of it all ... that place wherein there are no boundaries, no space or time ...
Music is love. Just now, I listened to a particular piece and it penetrated so deep, so fast, so unexpectedly that for a few seconds I was unhinged and overwhelmed by love ... it cut through layers of pride, ego, hang-ups, fears, etc. to the ineffable core of it all ... that place wherein there are no boundaries, no space or time ...
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Ice Cream Truck
It's 1:17 on a warm and sunny late September Sunday afternoon and I just heard the ice-cream truck go by. It's funny how one little melody can unleash a flood of thoughts, memories, and feelings. It reminded me of the simplicity of my childhood. It didn't remind me in a theoretical sense, but in a visceral way: as though for a few seconds I was transported to that dimension where that simplicity resides, somewhere under layers of growing up.
Ah to just be ... sometimes I look forward to growing old, really old. I imagine it will be a return to childhood.
Ah to just be ... sometimes I look forward to growing old, really old. I imagine it will be a return to childhood.
Monday, September 15, 2008
I don't know...
what to title this post. I am on the brink of starting the fourth week of medical school. Aaack! At times, I still can't believe I'm here. It's been such a long journey. I've been beating myself up because according to my "exacting standards" (as one friend of mine describes them) I didn't start on the right foot and everything hasn't been perfect (i.e. I have not been studying 24/7 and have not memorized every single muscle of the leg, its proixmal and distal attachments, its nerve innervations, and blood supply).
I just can't take things too seriously. Nothing is permanent and I am just a transient manifestation of love.
I want so badly a life that is devoid of emotional drama, the bain of my existence, but ... well, I have allowed it to follow me here. I wanted to start fresh and clean, but the familiar drama or rather my familiar emotional reactions are here with me. I feel like they are mocking me, those pesty feelings. I'm not sure how to shake them off, how to break old habits, but something tells me it's all up to me and in my power.
I just can't take things too seriously. Nothing is permanent and I am just a transient manifestation of love.
I just can't take things too seriously. Nothing is permanent and I am just a transient manifestation of love.
I want so badly a life that is devoid of emotional drama, the bain of my existence, but ... well, I have allowed it to follow me here. I wanted to start fresh and clean, but the familiar drama or rather my familiar emotional reactions are here with me. I feel like they are mocking me, those pesty feelings. I'm not sure how to shake them off, how to break old habits, but something tells me it's all up to me and in my power.
I just can't take things too seriously. Nothing is permanent and I am just a transient manifestation of love.
Tuesday, March 04, 2008
December 2004 - July 2005
July 11, 2005:
Lavender leaks into orange twilight
i inhale, YOU, like the smoke of this cigarette
drawing you in until my lungs are awash,
with you
seeping into my blood,
coursing through my veins,
bathing every cell of my being
until each overflows with
YOU
leaving no distinction between
the sinuous smoke escaping my lips and
the dewy halo of a crescent crowning weeping willows
clove scented red embers, sparkling green fireflies, and coy Venus winking blue
under the silver shadow of graceful poplar limbs grazing midnight
i inhale
Now, there remains only
YOU
4-23-2005
In your sultry garden of mist and haze
Tender wings spread white into the deepening inkwell of evening
To feel the silky whisper of the midnight breeze
And the secrets of time ripple silently through feathers
To soar beyond all that "is"
Sharp thorns penetrate soft flesh
Cut deep
Wounded, they bleed, these wings
Red splattered agony over snowy feathers
Broken, they graze the dust on the cold ground of your garden of mist and haze
Bleeding and Limp
But this bird will
FLY
SOAR
GLIDE....
February 17, 2005
Scent of time
Etched into memory of rock and sand
Infiltrating recollections preceding existence
On wings of seamless gold
Traversing the then new, now old moments
The reflection of your face, a stranger before today, now in all my past forever
December 2, 2004
I was prepared to go the ends of the earth for you, to taste the last drop of time. My heart, an endless field unfolding before you. You permeated the deepest crevices of my soul, like drops of water seeping into the coils of smoldering desert sand.
One yawning winter night I was walking down this road and you opened your door…
inside, luminous and enchanting.
I was timid, but your silent invite beckoned invisible. I approached your door, bold and brave. And you faded into darkness.
Standing at the steps of your house, I peered in for you. But I could not see you, hear you.
I called your name, first a whisper, then louder. The only reply was the silent echo of my voice resonating from unseen walls inside. So …
I waited as the night sunk into itself and silence blanketed the earth.
I waited ...
The stars ducked behind thick clouds and the gentle breeze morphed into a gusty wind, whipping the night open.
I waited …
A shard of light pierced through the viscous black and
I waited …
Her majesty raised a rosy face coyly from behind endlessness, soft and demure at first. Then her unbridled radiance flooded the banks of night.
I waited …
and I waited as the cool rain mixed with my hot tears.
I waited at your open door which you neither closed nor attended to.
Hope was my dearest friend and most unforgiving foe. She would not let me go.
But each drop from the spring of my eyes was a drop of your memory, your hope, your promise expunged from my soul … floods and torrents … I thought it would never end … the bottomless ocean.
But there is an end. Ay, there is a change disguised as an end.
Now in the bashful red and orange waves of the autumn sea the leaves of hope fall crimson gold to the ground giving way for the blossoms that shall steal in the lacey twilight of Bahar.
December 5, 2004
My mother is always telling me splendid stories of her childhood and youth. Each imbued with rich tradition.
Just this afternoon as my mom, dad, and I were sitting at the table digging our teeth into succulent, ruby kernels of pomegranate she told us how in the winters of her youth they used to eat pomegranate at the Turkish Bath. It was a tradition, like so many others, lost. No one ever goes to the Turkish Bath these days. They are left for the tourists who wonder wide eyed into an exotified, not to mention sexualized, place of forgotten history. I could go on and on about the Turkish Bath, Hamam: about it's splendid arches and pillars, about the marble fountains, and the light filtering through the perforations of its magnificent dome mingling with the mist of hot water to create an exquisite chiffon wrapping itself around you. I could go on, but I won’t. This is not about the Hamam, it’s about traditions. The winter Hamam expeditions marked with pomegranate feasts have been replaced by short, urgent showers taken in small, efficient, stoic modern bathrooms. Now, I’m not rejecting change and progress. Nor, am I clinging on to the past. But I am lamenting. Lamenting, beauty lost. Beauty dethroned by pragmatism. Where are the traditions? The traditions of the past are like fine lace: delicate, intricate, time consuming and subtle. How does one characterize the traditions of today? Now we eat pomegranate on a Sunday afternoons in December in our kitchen. One could argue that this is a tradition in itself. My parents eat pomegranate not simply for the taste of it, but for the memory of it … what will my memories be? What will I tell my children about pomegranates? I will most likely tell them how I used to eat pomegranates during winter and how their grandmother used to eat them at the Hamam as a child. Call it nostalgia for a past I never experienced. Call it what you may … but I sense those traditions of the past, those patient, reflective, unhurried traditions are endangered.
Lavender leaks into orange twilight
i inhale, YOU, like the smoke of this cigarette
drawing you in until my lungs are awash,
with you
seeping into my blood,
coursing through my veins,
bathing every cell of my being
until each overflows with
YOU
leaving no distinction between
the sinuous smoke escaping my lips and
the dewy halo of a crescent crowning weeping willows
clove scented red embers, sparkling green fireflies, and coy Venus winking blue
under the silver shadow of graceful poplar limbs grazing midnight
i inhale
Now, there remains only
YOU
4-23-2005
In your sultry garden of mist and haze
Tender wings spread white into the deepening inkwell of evening
To feel the silky whisper of the midnight breeze
And the secrets of time ripple silently through feathers
To soar beyond all that "is"
Sharp thorns penetrate soft flesh
Cut deep
Wounded, they bleed, these wings
Red splattered agony over snowy feathers
Broken, they graze the dust on the cold ground of your garden of mist and haze
Bleeding and Limp
But this bird will
FLY
SOAR
GLIDE....
February 17, 2005
Scent of time
Etched into memory of rock and sand
Infiltrating recollections preceding existence
On wings of seamless gold
Traversing the then new, now old moments
The reflection of your face, a stranger before today, now in all my past forever
December 2, 2004
I was prepared to go the ends of the earth for you, to taste the last drop of time. My heart, an endless field unfolding before you. You permeated the deepest crevices of my soul, like drops of water seeping into the coils of smoldering desert sand.
One yawning winter night I was walking down this road and you opened your door…
inside, luminous and enchanting.
I was timid, but your silent invite beckoned invisible. I approached your door, bold and brave. And you faded into darkness.
Standing at the steps of your house, I peered in for you. But I could not see you, hear you.
I called your name, first a whisper, then louder. The only reply was the silent echo of my voice resonating from unseen walls inside. So …
I waited as the night sunk into itself and silence blanketed the earth.
I waited ...
The stars ducked behind thick clouds and the gentle breeze morphed into a gusty wind, whipping the night open.
I waited …
A shard of light pierced through the viscous black and
I waited …
Her majesty raised a rosy face coyly from behind endlessness, soft and demure at first. Then her unbridled radiance flooded the banks of night.
I waited …
and I waited as the cool rain mixed with my hot tears.
I waited at your open door which you neither closed nor attended to.
Hope was my dearest friend and most unforgiving foe. She would not let me go.
But each drop from the spring of my eyes was a drop of your memory, your hope, your promise expunged from my soul … floods and torrents … I thought it would never end … the bottomless ocean.
But there is an end. Ay, there is a change disguised as an end.
Now in the bashful red and orange waves of the autumn sea the leaves of hope fall crimson gold to the ground giving way for the blossoms that shall steal in the lacey twilight of Bahar.
December 5, 2004
My mother is always telling me splendid stories of her childhood and youth. Each imbued with rich tradition.
Just this afternoon as my mom, dad, and I were sitting at the table digging our teeth into succulent, ruby kernels of pomegranate she told us how in the winters of her youth they used to eat pomegranate at the Turkish Bath. It was a tradition, like so many others, lost. No one ever goes to the Turkish Bath these days. They are left for the tourists who wonder wide eyed into an exotified, not to mention sexualized, place of forgotten history. I could go on and on about the Turkish Bath, Hamam: about it's splendid arches and pillars, about the marble fountains, and the light filtering through the perforations of its magnificent dome mingling with the mist of hot water to create an exquisite chiffon wrapping itself around you. I could go on, but I won’t. This is not about the Hamam, it’s about traditions. The winter Hamam expeditions marked with pomegranate feasts have been replaced by short, urgent showers taken in small, efficient, stoic modern bathrooms. Now, I’m not rejecting change and progress. Nor, am I clinging on to the past. But I am lamenting. Lamenting, beauty lost. Beauty dethroned by pragmatism. Where are the traditions? The traditions of the past are like fine lace: delicate, intricate, time consuming and subtle. How does one characterize the traditions of today? Now we eat pomegranate on a Sunday afternoons in December in our kitchen. One could argue that this is a tradition in itself. My parents eat pomegranate not simply for the taste of it, but for the memory of it … what will my memories be? What will I tell my children about pomegranates? I will most likely tell them how I used to eat pomegranates during winter and how their grandmother used to eat them at the Hamam as a child. Call it nostalgia for a past I never experienced. Call it what you may … but I sense those traditions of the past, those patient, reflective, unhurried traditions are endangered.
Monday, February 04, 2008
08-01-2006:
I linger there, where the earth sighs: night
you don't write, you don't call ... and I miss you. Your words are the much anticipated rain after an arduous drought, your laughter voluptuous drops on my parched throat.
I attempt to recall the innocence of childhood ... the pureness, the bliss of being present in only the moment for lack of knowledge of anything else: unencumbered by notions of right or wrong, impressions or opinions. Before a rift forms between our heart and our words ... my hands extended across space, fingers in the wind, children know...
I love you because you smell of childhood ... eternal ... single ... one and everything.
I linger there, where the earth sighs: night
you don't write, you don't call ... and I miss you. Your words are the much anticipated rain after an arduous drought, your laughter voluptuous drops on my parched throat.
I attempt to recall the innocence of childhood ... the pureness, the bliss of being present in only the moment for lack of knowledge of anything else: unencumbered by notions of right or wrong, impressions or opinions. Before a rift forms between our heart and our words ... my hands extended across space, fingers in the wind, children know...
I love you because you smell of childhood ... eternal ... single ... one and everything.
Embers
And May 9, 2006 in the gooey thick of a rocky relationship, desperately trying to focus my plundered mind on the MCAT I found inspiration and hope in words ...
It's been a while since I went deep sea diving in the enchanted, liquid forest of words ... searching for just the right pearl(s) ... just the right shape, just the right shade of blue or pink or cream ... to make that necklace I found in the coaxing dunes of slumber
But, yesterday and today I dived to feel the ocean absorb all of me into her bosom ... to rediscover what I had shunned for so long ...
Paulo Coelho wrote a book titled Eleven Minutes. It stirred something in me and rekindled my desire. Thank you, Mr. Coelho wherever you are.
It's been a while since I went deep sea diving in the enchanted, liquid forest of words ... searching for just the right pearl(s) ... just the right shape, just the right shade of blue or pink or cream ... to make that necklace I found in the coaxing dunes of slumber
But, yesterday and today I dived to feel the ocean absorb all of me into her bosom ... to rediscover what I had shunned for so long ...
Paulo Coelho wrote a book titled Eleven Minutes. It stirred something in me and rekindled my desire. Thank you, Mr. Coelho wherever you are.
January 26, 2007:
Love is exciting, n'est-ce pas?
Even science, with its dense collection of factual minutia, research protocols and statistical analyses, confirms that love is, indeed, an altered physiological state.
But any warm blooded human whose heart ever revved up after an almost imperceptible, yet undeniably tangible gaze into the eyes of the beloved knew this to be true sans proof of fluctuating hormonal levels.
You know what I’m talking about. All of a sudden you have a keen sense of blood rushing through your veins for the very first time. And to think, you didn’t even know you could actually feel your veins. But here you are hyperaware of every previously disregarded inch of your body.
I don't know about laterlized brain function or platelet serotonin transporter, but I know that the sound of my heart pounding against my ribcage drowns everything else out when I'm in your presence.
Love is exciting, n'est-ce pas?
Even science, with its dense collection of factual minutia, research protocols and statistical analyses, confirms that love is, indeed, an altered physiological state.
But any warm blooded human whose heart ever revved up after an almost imperceptible, yet undeniably tangible gaze into the eyes of the beloved knew this to be true sans proof of fluctuating hormonal levels.
You know what I’m talking about. All of a sudden you have a keen sense of blood rushing through your veins for the very first time. And to think, you didn’t even know you could actually feel your veins. But here you are hyperaware of every previously disregarded inch of your body.
I don't know about laterlized brain function or platelet serotonin transporter, but I know that the sound of my heart pounding against my ribcage drowns everything else out when I'm in your presence.
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