Say cheese!

If you know me well in real life, you probably know that I am big ball of cheese on the inside. Nothing makes me happier than cheesy/lame jokes, 80's and 90's cheesy rock ballads, and actual cheese! I think if I ever were diagnosed as lactose intolerant, I would cry and refuse to eat anything else.

Anyway... I am saying this because this short post is extremely cheesy... So consider yourself warned!

I was thinking last night about how difficult sometime it can be for me to tell people how I feel, especially when I love them. There are many reasons to this, but I have no time to delve too much into them. This is a cheesy post after all.

If that's alright, I will let James Taylor share how I feel on this one, because in fact, "love IS sunshine!"

eed

Bicycle ride

I learned to ride a bicycle in my mid twenties. Which incidentally is the perfect age to let your fear of gravity, bruises and pain attempt to destroy what would otherwise a perfectly fun and enjoyable experience. I highly recommend it! I spent the most frustrating and emotional three hours of my life falling off and getting back on that stupid bicycle. Again, I highly recommend it! (Sarcasm is really hard to translate in writing, but I think in this case, it is quite self evident...)

To this day,  I am still not sure what made me get back on that instrument of torture, a week later, after I had all but given up on my hopes of riding around town on two wheels. Was it pride, stubbornness, sheer determination? Who knows? All I know is that a week later, after the bruises, tears and cuts, I was ready to get back on. I absolutely despise the expression: "It is like riding a bike"; I cringe every time I hear it!

I am here to tell you that riding a bike IS hard! (for some people...OK...mostly me). Years later, I still have to work very hard at balancing my unwilling body on my bicycle anytime I head out. I ride around in a circle for a couple of minutes to make sure I remember that the ground is NOT my friend, unlike the brakes. Once I feel confident/secure enough to finally take off, I quickly look around and pretend that I was just watching out for cars, or waiting for friends while staring angrily at my watch.

Whatever works, right?

eed

Home: where my heart is.

I was born in Lomé, raised in Dakar, grew up too fast in Paris, and became an adult in Dayton (what's adulthood, really?!? This is for another post..).

I built my version of a home here in Dayton. I am not quite sure how it happened. One day, I was trying to escape, the next I fell in love with the Gem City. When I share this with people, almost every single time, I get this question:

"Oh, so are you married with children?".

And I really, REALLY want to say:

"No. Do I have to have those things to call a place a home?"....

Every time I talk about Dayton being my home, I get the following question: "WHY Dayton?". I am afraid I don't have a clear explanation. I guess the heart loves what the heart loves. Or maybe, I have a more fluid version of what home is...

A few years ago, I stumbled upon the term: a third culture kid (also called a global nomad) and it finally ALL made sense.

"A Third Culture Kid (TCK) is a person who has spent a significant part of his or her developmental years outside the parents' culture. The TCK frequently builds relationships to all of the cultures, while not having full ownership in any. Although elements from each culture may be assimilated into the TCK's life experience, the sense of belonging is in relationship to others of similar background."

-David C Pollock

When I read this definition for the first time...it finally all made sense. My sense of belonging was not tied to where I was born, grew up, went to school,  or anything like that...it was and still is tied to the people in my life. The people who matter to me live here, so that's where my heart will be... at least for a little while.

eed

Meanwhile in Dayton...

The things we carry- Part 2: stories

I love listening to stories. As far as I can remember, I have always either sat down to listen to stories from my father or on the radio; or made up my own. 

About a year ago, I realized that even though I loved listening to people's stories, I had trouble telling mine. I do tell my story, but I realized recently that what I essentially do is give a stock answer/story when people ask me to tell me about myself. I usually end my story at a specific point in my life, (roughly about five years ago), when everything changed, seemingly for the better. Most people seem content to stop at that point, and I often change the subject to get them to talk about themselves again.

Last year on a trip back from Indiana while trapped in a car with new friends, I could tell something was up. They asked me to share my story with them, and I started with my stock answer, with a few more details, since we had quite a few hours to kill. After I was done, someone turned to me and said: 

-"And then what happened?". 

I must have looked puzzled, because he looked at me again and repeated his question... 

I was in shock... I did not know what to say to him. After a long pause, I looked at him and said: 

-"Hmmm.... I don't know. Life happened, I guess. I don't know..." . 

How does one forget their own story? Does the daily grind take over? Does the need to meet basic materials things become more important than our need to make an impact in our world? Do the questions we ask in our young years become so irrelevant that we stop seeking answers? 

I just stumbled on an old daily planner while spring cleaning. It was not a "dear diary" kind of journal, but I just noted one or two good/bad things that had happened that day. I may need to start doing this again. 

A single line of history a day is better than fading away without a trace...

A day in the life

eed

The things we carry. Part 1: things

I moved to a new neighborhood a few months ago, and I was shocked at the number of things I have accumulated over the years. I never realized for example that I owned so many purses. When did that happen? Growing up, I promised myself, I would never turn into my mother who owns an ever increasing collection of purses... Today, there is container full of purses, I may wear one day, in my basement.

Basements, by the way, are a terrible thing! I never had one, and now I wonder how full it will get by the time I move on to my next destination. Everything seemed to fit all crammed together in my own bedroom apartment (sans basement), and with double the space (plus basement), I wonder how every even managed to fit. Moving on....

I sometimes wonder why I need to own so many pens. I mean, I am never going to use them all...but you know what, almost every single one of them has a special place in my heart. Some were given to me, some were purchased in special places, some were stolen borrowed from special places (Do not judge me! It is better than stealing towels!), some I have owned for years, and they simply remind me of a special time in my life.

I like to call myself a self aware/practical hoarder. I tend to keep things with sentimental value for a long time, until one day, the need for uncluttered space takes over. (The second bucket of pens did not survive the move...).  My life is this constant battle between the need to see clearly ahead and the need to hold on to my past, which I know is not uncommon. Although, I have often wondered where the sweet spot would be. Is it the place where we instinctively know to make room for bigger and better things? Is it the place where older things do not matter as much anymore, and their mere presence does not mean that I have failed in some way?

Wouldn't I like to know...

eed

PS: The purses will find their way to Goodwill by the weekend...promise!

PPS: Actually, basements are great! It doubles as my personal home gym, so I shouldn't be so hard on mine.

Holes

I have been obsessed with the song called "Holes" by Passenger, which is basically about carrying on after going through hard things. I really don't have anything else to add to his lyrics, except that I agree with them.

"We got holes in our hearts,
We got holes in our lives,
We got holes, we got holes,
But we carry on...."





Good night,

eed

Stagant

Growing up, I was convinced that the word stagnant was synonymous with death. Any health science instructor in a sub Saharan Africa can attest to that: "Always fear stagnant waters: they are a powerful health hazard". Stagnant waters are magnets for mosquitoes, which carry malaria, and potential death. I would know I have caught it twice.

I can still hear my 8th grade geology teacher telling us in class: "beware of stagnant waters". In the cold Ohio winter, stagnant waters can hide slippery ice and you may end up falling and hurting yourself (and your pride) if you don't pay attention. 

I have been stagnant in some areas of my life for quite some time now. There are many reasons for this, I suppose. The most obvious one being fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of rejection, fear of success.... I often tend to hesitate on the third step of the journey. The first ones are always exciting, new and full of hope. The more I keep on though, I start talking myself out of my any decisions I have made. Some people call it being cautious, other being indecisive. Your pick...

Don't get me wrong, I love to rest and be still. After I got home from work yesterday, I spent 96% of my time in my pajamas. It would have been a full 100% if I did not mind shoveling snow in them. I think what happens to me is that I start getting too comfortable in stagnant waters, and decide to hang out longer than I need to. Someone should invent a "stagnant water" test that would send you reminders, when it is time to move on.

I like to dream of what my life would be like it I were not so afraid of disturbing stagnant waters. Maybe I need to stop dreaming and get to it. I am getting tired of being stagnant. 

eed