Betraying Love

Difficult is the recognition
If someone believes in you or betraying you is their mission
Realize that there has never been a betrayal
But a mismatch of expectation
It might hurt to hear what was kept hidden
Yet, it leads to liberation
There is an inner most private place that allows reflection
The instinct for contemplation
In friendship, close your eyes
In love, caution

The Fire Within

It burns but just the soul.

It has always been yet, except only for one or two people, no one cared to understand it. After all, it was burning, and it will burn. There apeared the risk.  It was intimidating.  Hence, keeping the distance, ignoring it, putting it off.  

As life happened it covered and faded its presence but never chilled.  It was just not to be revealed.  It silently exists.

Memories

She was sitting on a chair by the curbside after taking a long walk. She had her notebook open; a cup of tea that was almost chilled and a pen in her hand.   No word written.

The memories were faintly circulating in her head. She remembered how hard it was back in the time to think of those cheerful events and bright feelings as memories. She thought all would remain in her head as bright as the sunlight. But then the dust of time sat on her mind and she couldn't remember how she was feeling, thinking, comprehending.

All she had now was a notebook full of white papers and a head full of fainting memories.

A Midnight Mocha

A late night hot dark chocolate added to an earthy South African coffee with extra foam, listening to the sound of waves crashing on the beach.

It feels safe and serene; kids tucked in their beds in the rooms not far from the porch. He is not too far either, just fast asleep drifting in his lala land.  His skin is hot and smooth covering his manly limbs.

She doesn't mind staying up the whole night, watching the midnight sky, listening to the ocean, and writing in her notebook.

Once upon a time there was a girl who wanted to travel far and explore wide. She started from Barcelona.

Walking the Past

She knew she had to leave.

It hurt to stay. It hurt to watch the unfolding of every moment. Every second was inspired by what went. To stay was to relive it every day.

She started walking away. Hoping for a fresh start somewhere, anywhere but not here.

But anywhere she looked was a reminder. A sweet reminder with bitter thoughts. It was hopeless.

She took a deep breath with her eyes closed. Made a few prayers pleading for a clean start accepting the past. Even cherishing it. And walked into the future.

Notes from A Woman with A Bump: Delivery Anxiety

I feel scared of delivery.
I was not feeling a tiny bit anxious when I was pregnant with A. I was tired I remember, and heavy and uncomfortable. But I was looking forward to my contractions ever so calmly.
This time however, in the past few nights, I have started feeling too anxious I feel hyper ventilated. I need to get up and walk ... thinking of my favorite things not to think about this.
I feel suffocated.
What if the baby is pressing in my lungs while I need to breathe the most?
What if my stomach can't tolerate the pain and I have even more acid reflux blocking my esophageal and ultimately my breathing canal?
What if she starts moving too much pressing on my organs and give me more pain?
What if I can't breathe?
I have been trying to think about my body as a separate entity from "I". That helps to calm my nerves but what if I forget about this when I'm in labor?
What if I tear? Get completely damaged?
I try to think how much I love this baby girl and want to meet her.  But I feel scared of what she can do to my body during delivery.
I try to practice meditation, pray, and being present but what if I forget all that?
What if I die during labor after enduring so much agony and pain?
...
So, today I went to the library and grabbed several pregnancy and labor books. Opened them all to delivery and labor session and read them all, in addition to all the books and articles I had read before, getting myself prepared for the worst.
My upside down pear-shape uterus will take the shape of a canal during contractions.
The last stage of dilation, between 8 to 10cm dilation, can be the most painful time that can make my body feel exhausted, drained out of energy, and I won't have any appetite to eat to regain energy.
I might vomit. (This is something I dislike the most after feeling suffocated).
I might tear, get a swollen cervix.
I might get weak in my legs, get too tired to move, get dehydrated.
I might change my mind about pain management medicine too late.
I might get stressed out or really fearful.
There. I know now.
I have vomited before.
I have felt suffocated before.
I have been in pain before.
And I will die one day anyway.
I decided to stay open minded about whatever comes up. I am strong and it's OK to feel weak.  What I can control is stress and fear.  I will do my best.
I think I can do it. Enshala!  But I take your advise too if any.

An Unexpected Trip to Paris

Work summoned me to Paris.  It was a couple hectic days with early morning raise, metro rides, hospital visits, and case summaries.  All the work part ended up being super good, thank God!  Made all the hardships of the recent months feel rewarding.
Paris was cloudy and rainy and colder even perhaps compared to Odense.  But it was busy none the less, particularly many pedestrians despite the cold, which is one feature I admire in big cities.
I learned how my life style in US is unhealthy and against the rhythm of my body.  I need to feel the air on my skin, cold or hot, and I need to walk.  In my life in California, I need to carve out time for such walks while both in Odense and Paris I had to walk, a lot, and it all felt good and natural even more so on my pregnant body.
I got the opportunity to spend the last evening with friends and relax.  It was such a great pleasure.
My last transit via Frankfurt was uneventful.  Even though the security guy on US flights seems not to have changed, I was familiar with his borderline rude gestures and interrogations.
The business lounge and priority boarding lines can be quite interesting sometimes, as if when some people gain status they lose common sense of society and rights.  For example there was a lady ready to board the plane and was insisting that she was the beginning off the line.  But she was not even standing behind the gate but rather further away.  Plus her seat is predetermined, there wont be any loss or gain whether or not she is the first on board or the 10th.  That was enough for me to pray that she was not my companion in the eleven hour ride.  Thankfully, she was not.  And even better, my companion ended up being a young and polite gentleman who was also a product manager with technical background. We got to chat about work and societies and politics and movies and foods. It was easy to chat with him.  His companionship made the trip feel shorter and more pleasant. Plus I could sleep a few hours in the flight which was what my body  needed desperately.
I got to watch Hemingway and Gellhorn (TV 2012) which was a nice coincidence to the leisure book I am reading, The Paris Wife.  It was enough to know Nicole Kidman and Clive Owen were staring in it and that it was about Ernest Hemingway, my new passion.  I really enjoyed watching it.  I got to know how writing was a challenge even for greatest writers like Hemingway in the book I was reading.  Then, in this movie also, Martha Gellhorn said once "there is a lot happening [in the war] but when I sit down to write, nothing."  I liked it, although not even a emote comparison but I had felt the same thing exactly many times.  The other coincidental matter about the movie was the depiction of the Franco era in Spain.  Funnily, I got to hear about this part of Spanish history through Dr G.G. in Denmark over the 2nd day lunch.  Made me wonder at the world connectivity even at such trivial level.  Or is such matters like hearing the story of a fascist via person born and raised in a communist country and then watching it in an american movie really that trivial?
Wars.  And all the boys and girls who watched their mothers die in front of their eyes living their tiny little hands stained with their innocent bloods. "little by little I am getting really angry" as Gellhorn sited from a young boy in the war.
It should have been really tough and dark living in 1920-1945 era in the world with all the enmities and famines.
Now the reality of this time is the enmity against particular religions.  Such a pity!
On the subject of love Gellhorn said "the greatest enemy of love is boredom" and not jealousy.  Made me wonder.  Hemingway had written to Gellhorn "love is infinitely more durable than hate"; why is that?  To me, hate is not the opposite to love, hate is an excess anger, and hence can be coexisting with love.  But the opposite of love?  I think it is disappointment.
I took the 280 route back home which was indeed a pleasure.  Particularly since it was sunny in California after a week of rain, mist, and clouds in Odense and Paris.  The good music I was listening to made everything even more likable.
Now out to a carved out time to walk in the fade sub of this Sunday afternoon.

The Story of Two Books

A chilly autumnal afternoon, a sweetened cup of tea, a pair of slippers, a blanket, and two books.  And such a contrast!
I am reading Shirin and Khosrow's story from Nezami's book of poems, of course in Farsi.  The story goes back centuries and this version is from about 800 years ago.  Nezami starts the book with praising God and thanking him for giving him the talent to write.  The he talks about love.  Oh!  Such an amazingly lovely depiction of love.  Finally after praising the prophet and the king and all he starts the story of Khosrow. Such mystery!  Such beauty!  Such elegance in his words!  What is the most apparent to me this time (every time I read a book I find a new appearance) is its simple purity and its pure simplicity.  How fortunate I feel to be able to read and comprehend Farsi for such treasures in our literature!
I am reading Picture if Dorian Gray, by Oscar Wilde, from 1890.  I must say, I am enjoying the writing.  And I am most curious to know where it all ends.  The emphasis by Lord Henry Wotton on beauty and fulfillment of senses is interesting to me.  And the helplessness in Dorian admitting to impermanence of beauty.
In both books there are much depictions of the apparent beauties: faces, hair, bodies.
Both books refer to lust, a lot.
Yet, the former book has a sense of love in it the latter lacks.  Hence, it feels more moral, more humane even perhaps.
No conclusion yet though, as I am still in the middle of both books.  Perhaps, to be continued.