Mom's World in Herself

“For one human being to love another human being: that is perhaps the most difficult task that has been entrusted to us….That is why young people, who are beginners in everything, are not yet capable of love: it is something they must learn. ..But learning time is always a long, secluded time, and therefore loving, for a long time ahead and far on into life, is solitude, a heightened and deepened aloneness for the person who loves. Loving does not at first mean merging, surrendering, and uniting with another person (for what would a union be of two people who are unclarified, unfinished, and still incoherent?). It is a high inducement for the individual to ripen, to become something in himself, to become world, to become world in himself for the sake of another person.”

-Rainer Maria Rilke

In order to fully love someone else, you must be unapologetically yourself, and grow your own rich inner world in order to give something meaningful to someone else. My mom has sacrificed in her life to be a wife and mother, but her world in herself has always been rich with passions, values, and causes.

It's through my mom's world that I found my passion for reading, and education, and social justice. To be generous, but have boundaries, to dance if you feel like it, keep an open mind about people who are different, and be kind to strangers who seek out conversation. That you never stop learning, or creating goals for yourself, and to dream big. That amidst the low points in life, there's always something to celebrate. And if you can't find it, there's always wine until you do...

I'm still young and a beginner in everything, but my mom has taught me how to create my own world in myself, so that I may be giving, and loving, to other people.

I love you, mom.
Happy Mother's Day!

Comments

Because Ernie Said So

I've gotten a request to update the blog... sorry guys, I'm new to this!! I don't have any new stories to post, but I will dig through the archives and maybe pull out a poem, eh? ::10 minutes later:: Ok, I believe I've found one. It's called Parts For Cento. A cento is a poem that basically collages other lines of poems/stories/whatevers that are either yours, or someone else's. Enjoy. Parts for Cento My face is a map of the world- suffocate me all you need, I won’t breathe but it’s okay I trick myself into thinking that it's going to be different this time it’s always just shades of the same You hear she’s a beautiful girl No more words just the sound of resplendent tongues colliding.

My May Social Media Break

When I was in college I used to intentionally leave my phone in my dorm a few nights a week to go "off grid" and immerse myself with my friends. I refused to buy a smartphone until I graduated, and even then I was reluctant, because "I have a Nook, and an iPod and a computer, why do I need all that in my phone?" I'd say, as I slung my 40lb bag on my shoulder. Katy Bowman, my favorite guru on movement, and movement ecology, speaks to the idea that in "outsourcing" many of the things we do every day, we've lost intentionality, and the movements associated with those intentions. One example would be the invention of backup cameras in cars (except for mine, I'm still rocking that 2005 model). Before, you had to turn your head over your shoulder, look back, and scan the area. Now, you just need to look down at a screen. The movements in our cars are different than they used to be, and perhaps less involved. When I had a separate e-reader, musi...

God on My Tour

God met me at the bus stop. he held my hand, commented on my sweater and said I was good to be prepared. I climbed on the seesaw, the thick metal digging at my thighs, but I carried on for childhood's sake. "I'm just going to look at the view," he said, "stay where I can see you." The tour started moving, making way up the hill. I dismounted the seesaw, imagining it was a horse; a longing pain in my chest. I scooped up my black backpack, trudged through nettle as tall as I am, cursing under my breath for the itches on my ankles and the narrowness of the road. I followed trustingly, like a donkey led down the Grand Canyon. Moans gurgled in my throat, I didn't want to take this journey. One foot pressed on leading the other. one, two, one, two. Ahead a chestnut poked her head over the gray stone. My aches melted, the grunts subsided. I stroked her face, looked in her marble eyes like a traveler sees water in the dessert. I pressed on to Sylvia's grave,...

Cara Writes

Search This Blog