Hello? Can you hear me?

Currently my guy and I live in a place where the rumour is that your home is wired for both audio and visual monitoring of your every move. It may be true; it may not be true. I don’t care. But odd things happen and you have to wonder as well as find the humour in it.

The other day we were happily unpacking our stuff (it was packed up one year ago and we now have it back!!) when lunchtime rolled around. Not being able to get to much but spying a frying pan and realizing the stovetop just happened to be free of clutter at the moment I declared we would have scrambled eggs for lunch. My guy looked down at his feet and sheepishly said “We are out of eggs, sorry.” My reply was “Great, how do we get through the next few days without eggs? The car is broken and the only place with eggs is too far to walk to.” I wasn’t mad at him, there was food in the house, and we were rather busy with all of the unpacking so forgetting about eggs was not truly a big deal. It was just annoying at the moment. We launched into a discussion of what we could slap together from the things we could reach in order to eat and still had not come to a conclusion about 20 minutes later. And that was when the doorbell rang. We hunted down the keys, unlocked the door and the grill and made our way to the gate. There stood two women with 2 flats of eggs. Now we have lived here for more than a few months and not a soul has ever come to the door offering to sell anything. But as soon as I complained about the lack of something, and did so out loud, lo-and-behold it appears at the door. We bought both flats of eggs (60 eggs altogether and yes we will use every last one of them). After getting them all put away I looked at the ceiling and said “Thanks. I need chicken and pork too.” We both laughed and went back to unpacking.

The next morning we were trying to put stuff away, decide what to do with the packing materials, and just generally get the house in order. The doorbell rings, startling the heck out of us because everyone who knows us (ok, knows me) knows to leave us alone while we get this job done. But you may be sensing a pattern here. You would be right. After doing the unlocking business again we discover a man selling chicken, pork, and all types of fish. Hey – isn’t that exactly what we needed? We bargain for some of everything and he disappears for 30 minutes or so. When he returns he has tuna, chicken, pork, and lobster – all fresh. The slaughter in the kitchen begins. I make a graceful exit (if you can call gagging and whining “Ewwwww” a graceful exit – I do) to the other room. A few hours later the freezer is stuffed with food for the next three months, the kitchen is clean, and I begin planning dinner parties.

A “cookie lady” showed up today. I wasn’t supposed to be home, it is Thursday after all and work is the usual routine. But workmen needed access to the house and I was elected to stay home. Somehow (hmmm…… we were talking about this last night and were wondering about things like sweet and savory empanadas) she knew I would be here and just showed up with 24 sweet, jelly filled, fresh-from-the-oven empanadas. Yes, I bought them. All of them. What? Like you wouldn’t? Please. Fresh cookies? Who are we kidding here?

It seems as though I now have “people” that come and sell me food – right at my front door. And that they can, umm, read my mind. So, is someone listening in? I don’t know and I don’t care. But, just in case, - I am out of butter. Hello?? Can you hear me????

Tony, Oscar, Grammy, SAG and other assorted awards

We’ve reached the season of the awards shows. These are very confusing to me -awards given by people who make lots of money for pretending to other people who also make lots of money for pretending. Why don’t they just pretend that they have all won an award, give the money for the razzle-dazzle to charity, and spare us the agony of watching them pretend to be thrilled when they lose?

How did these awards get their names? The “Tony” is given to people on Broadway which is in New York which used to be run by the Mob who are by tradition mostly Italian so the name sort of makes sense. After all the “Al Capone” just doesn’t sound right whereas the “Tony” would gain the approval of the Godfather.

The Oscar was purportedly named after somebody’s uncle who apparently looked like the little statue. It may just be me but I’ve known several Oscars and even a few Uncle Oscars but not one of them was bald, naked and covered in gold.

The Grammy and SAG awards are the most puzzling of all. These awards are given to mostly youngish people with nary a SAG on them. Where are all the grandparents? After all the Grammy would not only be a nice way to honor a grandparent but would be practical as well. The thing is shaped appropriately – speak into fluted open end while Grandpa holds it to his ear and he can actually hear you!

And what is an ”Emmy?” Was this one named after some random soap opera actress or is it supposed to be Grammy’s friend from elementary school? Which people are choosing the “People’s Choice” award? None of the guys at the gas station got to vote as far as I can tell. If they did then NASCAR and Monday Night Football would sweep every category with Super Bowl commercials receiving the lifetime achievement award.

Awards should not be given to people who play make-believe every day while being paid zillions of dollars and are hailed as role models. Look – here is someone who fakes their way through life – be like that! No, all awards should go to the every day folk struggling through life. Imagine some of the awards:

Best Actress – Mom for her believable interest in “4th Grade Concert”
Best Actor – Uncle George for his slapstick performance in the comedy “Thanksgiving Day Football Game”
Best Supporting Actress - Aunt Miriam for the gut-wrenching melodrama “I Was Always There For You”
Best Supporting Actor - little brother Jimmy for his finger-pointing role “It Wasn’t Me”
Best Animated Short – young Johnny for “Flip Book: Monster Chasing Stick-Man”
Best Musical Score - Grandma for “5-Bean Salad”
Best Sound Effects - Dad also for “Grandma’s 5-Bean Salad”
Best Cinematography - Victoria’s Secret. This isn’t an actual person but every man would, of course, vote for this and so would every woman who refuses to admit to wearing ‘Comfy Panties by Target.’ It also helps that the only other contender in this category was “Speedos for Men’ which no self-respecting person on the planet would vote for.

These are awards that would be worth watching.

Dads and Daughters

My girl came down from where she lives and took my guy to a ballgame for Father's Day. They made their way into the city, wandered around, enjoyed a drink and a nosh and then yelled and screamed and cheered their team to a thrilling win. They came home glowing, full of stories and supremely happy. Not because their team won but because they had a whole day together.

My theory had always been that when a little girl is born and her father looks into her eyes for the very first time she reaches up with that tiny hand and promptly wraps that big 'ol man around her wee small pinky. And plays him like a yo-yo for the rest of his life...... "Daaaaaaady. Daaaaaaady. Daaaaaady." Of course they both love it. Daddy is the only man in her life for a long time. He is the benchmark against which all other men are judged. He is the superhero of her childhood and the protector of her young life as a woman. Eventually all little girls do "leave" Daddy when they find the man who meets the standards that Daddy set. And jealousy and confusion set in and the relationship gets a little strained for a short period of time. But there comes the point when they begin to become friends and to not only enjoy time together but to need it. My guy and girl have reached that point and I am the lucky by-stander of their joy.

I have two pictures which I will not share here. For me they are too personal. Both are of my guy and girl together. One is when she was just 13 and we were on vacation and they leaned into each other, contented, joyful and at peace with themselves, each other and the world. The other is the exact same picture only taken at the ballgame last night - 14 years later. Same two people. Same contentment in each other's company. Daddy and his little girl. It was the best Father's Day ever.

I Drove the Get-Away Vehicle

There are all sorts of sad sights to be seen in Africa. Poverty, disease, drought, famine, child soldiers, animals of every kind being sold as food…. you name it and you will eventually see it. But even among all of that, there can be hope, freedom, and hilarity. There was a road I traveled frequently – wait, before I go further let me say that the word ‘road’ is used in the loosest possible sense of the word; dirt path used for years is a more apt description. At any rate, on this road was always a man selling puppies and those puppies had a ‘babysitter’. The babysitter was a small spider monkey. It not only watched the puppies and kept them in line but also observed everything going on around it. It was unnerving at first to see such a thing but, like many other sights, it soon became just a part of the neighbourhood and if I saw the monkey watching me I would wave. Just being neighbourly, you know. This went on for months until one day the monkey had company. About 10 other monkeys worth of company and they were all chained together with a rope. It was apparent that the new monkeys were not happy about the situation and I couldn’t help but wonder if they were to be sold as food or pets. The babysitter must have also had the same thoughts as I watched him worry the rope binding them all together. Again, like all such things, it became part of the routine to drive by and see the gang on the “corner” and wave if my ‘old friend’ was looking. Then came the day I got stuck in the dirt and spent a minute or two extracting the vehicle before continuing past. This was evidently the “moment” the monkeys had been waiting for. As everyone around was entranced with watching the white woman jockey her vehicle back and forth while revving the engine the monkeys worked their way out of the rope and made a break for it – straight towards me. Up and over the vehicle and off in the distance they went. There was quite an uproar as the monkeys made their great escape; everyone was yelling and rushing at me and I concentrated on getting out of there as fast as possible. What I did not know was that about 6 of the monkeys, including my 'old friend', had taken refuge on the top of my vehicle and that was why the locals were rushing it. After a few kilometers there was a banging on the roof and people were pointing and yelling in my direction. It seemed that the best course of action was to keep driving and get to the safety of my compound. Only to discover the guards there were freaked out, yelling and pointing at me and refusing to open the gate. Just as I started to become truly concerned, a little furry hand reached down and slapped the front window. Ah-ha! The little light bulb in my head popped on and the realization that all the yelling, rushing, pointing and banging was to point out that there were monkeys on board finally dawned. As soon as the vehicle came to a complete stop, the monkeys descended from their perch and scattered as fast as they could. It seems my little 'old friend' was pretty bright. He (or maybe she) watched me drive by, got to know the vehicle and waited patiently for the right moment. You have to give credit where credit is due. The great escaped had been well planned, the time was right and the poor, unwitting sap (me) drove the get-away vehicle like she was born to it. Good thing they didn’t let me on the plan. My nerves would have ruined the whole thing!

A Weird, But Informative, Conversation

Have you ever wondered about the battle techniques of African tribesmen? Me neither. But I can now share a couple of interesting (or is that just plain odd) tidbits about those techniques. The conversation started with a discussion of the brightly coloured lizards that roam around everywhere here. They bob their heads up and down and do what appear to be push-ups when you get near them. It seems that is how the male lizards challenge intruders to their space and, as they consider everywhere their territory, we are invaders on a regular basis and so get the bob and push-up battle challenge every day. Someone then mentioned that men have some strange battle habits themselves and reminded us all of the Scots who in ancient times stripped down, painted themselves blue and tied ribbons on, um, a particular appendage. At least, he thought it was the Scots; maybe it was the Vikings because weren’t they called berserkers for getting all riled up with battle rage and foaming at the mouth? This prompted someone else to volunteer two facts about tribal warriors here in Africa. Warriors take juju bags into battle. Filled (with things I’d rather not know about) and blessed by the witch doctor and worn around the neck, these juju bags are supposed render the wearer impervious to bullets. The witch doctor rouses the warriors into a frenzy, hands out the juju and off they go to glory and victory in battle. Of course, if it doesn’t work out then it was obvious that the warrior (or warriors) did not have a strong enough faith. As we all thought about that, someone piped up with “Did you know some tribes wear dresses into battle?” It turns out that some African tribes do actually put on women’s clothing before fighting begins. Not only that but some do the full on drag queen treatment. Dress, wigs, make-up and then off to battle. Could this be to confound the enemy? Can you imagine your own reaction as a tribe of screaming drag queens come running towards you, spears high, shields waving? Or what it would look like as two tribes faced each other? Shouldn’t this be the subject of a National Geographic documentary?

Hasn’t this been educational? What to do with this information from a weird conversation is debatable but it sure will make you the hit of the next boring cocktail party you attend!

Call Me Glinda

I’m a witch. No, not like that. And not like THAT either! Actually, I don’t think I am a witch but the locals in one place we lived believe that I am. My neighbours and I shared household help – a man named Henri. Since we were all close and in and out of each other’s homes as though they were our own, it seemed normal that our househelp would split his days between our homes as well. One day Henri did not show for work. We didn’t think much of it. Illness and accidents do happen. After a week, we worried but as Henri’s family had not come looking for money we figured that whatever was wrong was not too serious. After two weeks we assumed that he had died or quit and leaned towards ‘he quit’ as we had not been approached for money. Yes, that sounds callous but it is a fact of life. We have always made sure to pay anyone we hire very well (according to the standards of the country we are in) and we understand that should illness, accident or death occur we would be expected to contribute to, if not fully pay for, the medical care/burial costs.

A few days more went by and another neighbour approached me with an odd request. His household help, Patrick, wanted to talk to me. As Patrick also came and went in our home, it seemed strange he would not just come in and talk. My neighbour grinned and said “Oh just come out. It’s about Henri and, really, you want to hear this!” Out I went and there stood Patrick. He wouldn’t look me in the eye (stranger and stranger) and was mumbling. Since I have almost no French and his English wasn’t great, the mumbling was a problem. My neighbour just stood there trying to hide his grin and looking like he was desperately suppressing laughter. Finally, I said “Patrick, just tell me. I won’t be angry with you no matter what it is.” That was evidently the right thing to say as he then blurted out “Henri does not work for you any longer.” Not wanting to say something along the lines of “No kidding” I settled for “Oh? Why not?” Again the mumbling and not looking me in the eye began and I sighed and said “It isn’t your fault, you aren’t responsible, I won’t be mad at you.” Patrick looked up and said, “Because you are a witch and so is Madame W.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Accusations of witchcraft are still taken very seriously in this particular country and people are still stoned to death if they are believed to be a witch. So I took a deep breath and asked why. Patrick told me that Henri had related to him (and all the other househelp in the neighbourhood) how one of Madame W’s cats had strolled up to him (while Henri was working for me but had run over to Madame W's to get something) and greeted him with a cheery “Bon Jour, Henri!” And Henri came to the conclusion that since I was the dominant one (shush, the implications are obvious enough, thank you!) I must be ‘the witch’ and head of the coven and therefore he could not work for any of us but especially not me. Witches are dangerous, after all. My reaction was strange by any standard and I don’t know why I said it but it turns out to have been the perfect response: I said “Oh, Patrick, that is ridiculous. The cat could not have said Bon Jour, Henri. He doesn’t speak French; he is an American cat and only speaks English.” My neighbour almost burst a gut at that point, trying not to laugh, but the effect on Patrick was unbelievable. His eyes grew wide, he looked right at me and he gasped out “Madame, you are right. The cat does NOT speak French. Henri LIED!” And off he went to inform all the other household workers in our neighbourhood that, indeed, Henri lied and I was not a threat. My neighbour, my guy and I went into the house, shut the door and collapsed in laughter. It was just too funny. But that wasn’t the end, and it wasn’t funny at all.

The workers in the neighbourhood all knew us so once they were assured that Henri had made up the story about the cat (because I had ‘proven’ the cat only spoke English) then the rest didn’t matter as I had always been generous to them. Any ‘witch-y-ness’ on my part could be forgiven and ignored – in other words I am a good witch! The guards to our compound, on the other hand, did not know Madame W or me so well and were not reassured. They felt that we needed to be dealt with and that meant death. It took us a few nights to figure out what was going on. The guards were spending the nights trying to find ways into our houses. It needed to be reported, the guards had to be removed, new guards were brought in and I made sure to make them feel welcomed. That ended the threat but did not end the belief that I was a witch. No one tried to come after me (or any of us) again but tensions ran high and continued until a few months later when there was a coup attempt.

My guy suffers from gout and was in the middle of a rather wicked bout when the fighting broke out. He had to get to work, couldn’t drive himself and so was being picked up. As bullets were flying, it was all very nerve-wracking and, of course, the guards were on high alert. Suddenly, a vehicle shows up to pick up a man on crutches and go back into the mess. The guards stood there watching my guy with their mouths hanging open and expressions of incredulity on their faces. Our neighbour comes out, sees what is taking place, and yells - in French - to the guards “It’s ok, he’s in disguise, the crutches are secret weapons.” The guards visibly relax, high-five each other and grin madly. And off my guy goes. The coup attempt ended abruptly several hours later, my guy returned unharmed and the guards formed the belief that we, as a couple, were there to protect them from harm.

So there you have it: I’m a witch – but a good one!

Migration

It is the dry season. It is the most desperate time of the dry season when the water is nearly gone but the rains aren’t close enough to beginning to be sure of survival. The cycle of the seasons is what causes the massive migration of animals that tourists pay thousands of dollars to observe. Elephants, giraffes, antelope, and millions of other animals make for stunning visuals and great pictures. What is forgotten is that ALL things go in search of water and some of those migrations are not pretty but disgusting.

We battled an invasion of ants in the past weeks. Big ants, medium ants, little ants, just ants, ants, ants. They were everywhere – the kitchen, the hallway, the bathroom, just everywhere. The tiny sugar ants are a way of life here. They are always in search of food, especially sweet foods, and you learn to take precautions against them – store things in rubber-ring sealed glass jars (the ants chew through paper and plastic) or in the freezer and clean-as-you-go while cooking – that keep invasions to a minimum. The other ants do not usually make appearances indoors. The appearance of all types of ants in mind-boggling but orderly numbers was unnerving. We tried spraying them (nearly asphyxiating ourselves in the process), cleaning the entire house with bleach and mopping the floors with PineSol almost hourly. Nothing worked; in fact, the invasion seemed to become worse. Then it occurred to me that we weren’t being invaded but were in the midst of a migration. Our frantic cleaning was increasing the amount of water available to these creatures and they were communicating this as fast as they could to others. Because we cook more than most in our building (we entertain a great deal), we had the most water flowing and so became the destination of choice for all those ants in search of life-sustaining water. My guy decided to up the stakes and put out ant traps that allow the ants to enter, pick up some poisoned food and return to their nest. This kills them at their source and ends the invasion. He had the (truly) brilliant idea of wall mounting the traps to keep the ants off the floors and counters. We watched in fascinated horror as the invasion mounted over the next three days. The line of ants circled the upper part of our walls as they marched in perfect lines in and out of the traps and back to their nests as fast as they could. As one young visitor noted “It’s like the Indy-500!” Not all the ants made it back or they died as they returned for more, we aren’t sure. Ant corpses of all sizes littered the floors and counters requiring several full-scale move-and-empty cleanings of the kitchen and bathrooms. It seems to have worked, as the ants have not returned, maybe having learned this is not the ‘place of good water’ they thought it was. This experience made me rethink migration. Somewhere in my heart I had romanticized the massive search for water. The truth is that it is a desperate search for survival and not all survive. I never thought that I would play a part – a deadly part at that – of a migration.

You're It!

Driving outside of your own country is always a challenge. Road signs are different, the rules are different, even the roads themselves are different (sometimes paved, sometimes dirt, sometimes gravel, sometimes not much more than a trail). Driving in a third world country is a special challenge. Not only are all of the above applicable but frequently one shares the roads with pedestrians, animals, vendors, carts drawn by oxen, donkeys or humans, people who have no concept of vehicles, and so-called VIP’s who have their own flashing lights, sirens and men with guns to make you move out of their way or at least make you feel threatened when there is no possibility of moving out of the way. There is also the challenge of drivers who are afraid of driving, afraid of their vehicle or, worse, have no driving skills and are not afraid of flaunting that. I once read a line in a book describing traffic in India. The author noted that approaching an intersection it occurred to her that the traffic jam looked as though all of the vehicles had been scooped up into a dice cup, shaken, and tossed back out. It’s a much nicer way of describing what I simply call a cluster f*#@k! I have lived in countries where traffic is a game played by millimeters, horns have their own language (and woe to those who do not understand it or how to get those dulcet tones from their own horns), shopping is done from the comfort of your own car, and distance is measured in hours per mile. Dealing with what is known in Nigeria as “go slows” no longer bothers me. For everyone who commutes on a daily basis and complains about the 90-minute trip around the Beltway (Washington, DC area folk get that reference) I say, “Hey – traffic is moving. Sit for 3 hours without moving while in sight of your destination then we’ll talk.” Ok, I complain when I am on the Beltway too so I do understand but, really, it can be worse. Where I live at the moment is worse. The streets are paved, the roads are wide, there are traffic cops and lights that may or may not work (that goes for both the lights and the cops), and relatively little traffic. Sounds good, doesn’t it? Imagine a 6 lane divided highway with two cars going in the same direction that you are going. One is in the far left lane, one is in the far right lane and you are in the middle lane. You would like to go past them as they are moving very slowly. But the car in the right lane begins to drift (slowly) toward the middle lane. The car in the left lane does the same. You must slow down to avoid hitting both of them so you slow down and decide to move to the left to go around them. Now they both begin drifting back to their original positions. There is no way to get around them as they drift with no rhyme nor reason to the pattern of the drift. Now add 25 (or 50 or 100) more cars to the same scene and they all drift inexplicably across the lanes. The only time any of these vehicles speed up is in a residential area (and then it is 65 miles an hour down the street) or when approaching an intersection. The driver of a car making a left turn will look to the right while pulling out to turn across oncoming traffic. A car parked on the side of a road (or highway) will pull back into traffic at the speed of a tortoise without ever checking for traffic. I will not even attempt to describe intersections except to say the descriptions earlier in this blog are both accurate. Accidents here are frequent and deadly. Buckling up is essential. It won’t save your life but it sure makes finding the bodies easier. I have come to the conclusion that driving here is like playing pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey. Only everyone else is blindfolded, the room is only 12’x12’, 50 people are playing and you must avoid being stuck by the pin.

"TRAUMA!" Or "I Was Forced To Watch The Auditions"

Over the years, living in places that are desperately poor and/or violent, a great many things – coup attempts, tanks in the streets, children with weapons, people being stoned to death, bombs going off – have happened that should have left me traumatized. Somehow I have managed to cope with all of them. This weekend, though, my friends made me sit through some of the auditions for American Idol. Now I am traumatized! This is what passes as entertainment? People stepping up and playing out some fantasy or delusion of grandeur for the amusement of all? Why does the Coliseum keep coming to mind? Perhaps the judges need to wear togas with red sashes and simply give a thumbs up or thumbs down to the – and I use this term lightly – contestants. I now understand why Randy, Paula and Simon (yes, now that I have seen one audition episode I can speak of them as though they are personal friends – that’s how this works, right?) are they way they are. We are witnessing three separate reactions to the horrors they experience every audition day. I am fairly certain that they were wholly unprepared for what they were to face when they first signed their contracts. As to why they continue, I assume that once a mind has snapped, there is no reason not to continue with the same patterns. That and now that the rest of the world has seen what they must endure, who would accept the position? Paula’s seeming craziness is clearly an attempt to cleanse her mind of sights such as need-a-chest-wax guy and the even worse sight of the same guy AFTER the chest waxing. Randy is fond of words such as ‘dog’ because what else can he call these poor, deluded souls that would be allowed on TV? Simon isn’t really mean; he is in self-defense mode and clearly the healthiest of the three judges. When he slips and attempts to encourage someone who had some talent peeking out of the rest of the wreckage that they call themselves, those people attack him for not instantly granting all their wishes. I’ve only watched this monstrosity once but two cases come to mind: Glitter girl – she would make a good lead singer in a cover band says Simon (or is that Simon Says). Not bad, one can achieve local fame and a decent living, especially in Philly, from such a gig and culture-hero Simon has given his blessing. But, no that was not the scenario that Glitter Girl had constructed in her fantasy and so she unleashed her self-proclaimed ‘actressing’ skills to tell the world that Simon is an evil troll lurking in the recesses of humanity waiting to destroy all that is good and pure. The other was Princes Leia – while her voice wasn’t bad, her appearance was, ummm, distracting. Evidently she wasn’t aware that the judges were tasked with finding an AMERICAN IDOL, not an American intent on bringing a sub-culture to the fore. Again, her fantasy did not go as so meticulously planned and a rant ensued. Her twist? There wasn’t enough diversity amongst those chosen. The show cleverly proved her wrong by showing a wide assortment of those chosen for disappointment in Hollywood. Because, of course, the diversity among the past winners of this oddity wasn’t clear enough (and you must live on some other planet if you are not at least aware of the past winners – oh, wait. I get it now. We’re talking Princess Leia – she just got back to Earth. Now her rant makes sense).

It was a disturbing evening for me. My friends – and my guy – enjoyed watching the various oddities display themselves and the fall-out that occurred from the rejection endured. They enjoyed watching the judges send poor souls with no hope of anything other than humiliation to the superficial Holy Grail that is Hollywood. They speculated on whether or not these people truly believed they have talent or whether friends and family were playing a cruel joke on these sad human beings (the “Moses” man singing “Let My People Go” springs painfully to mind). And I cringed, speculated and laughed right along with them. Images are seared into my brain and sounds are recorded into my memory that will forever haunt me. Questions like “These are my friends? What does that say about me?” will plague me the rest of days. The trauma is complete. My baser instincts have been exposed and my own delusions of grandeur exposed. They will watch more of the auditions, I will not. I will attempt to lift my soul and soar above the madness. Until “Dancing With The Stars”, “So You Think You Can Dance”, “Ghost Hunters”, or any one of the myriad “Your House is Ugly and So Are You” shows comes on.

2007 is done! 2008 is here!

It's been a long time since I've written anything. My guy and I took a long vacation and then the holiday season started. Now, the long, difficult year of 2007 has ended. The new 2008 year will bring lots of changes and that is something to happily anticipate!

The events of the past year (and nearly dying is truly a BIG event) have forced me to reevaluate my life and how I am living it. My thoughts are still muddled about this. However, I came across a quote from Mother Theresa and it seems to mirror my thoughts so here it is:

"Life is an opportunity, benefit from it. Life is a beauty, admire it. Life is a dream, realize it. Life is a challenge, meet it. Life is a duty, complete it. Life is a game, play it. Life is a promise, fulfill it. Life is sorrow, overcome it. Life is a song, sing it. Life is a struggle, accept it. Life is a tragedy, confront it. Life is an adventure, dare it. Life is luck, make it. Life is life, fight for it!"
-Mother Teresa


May your New Year be a blessed one!