On the Shoulders of Trees I Stood…

Do you have a favourite tree?

People tend to look at me funny when I ask them this question. Surprisingly, while just about anyone can pick out a favourite flower, I haven’t met too many that have an attachment to a tree.

My memories are full of trees. Perhaps this speaks to my observant nature, but I think there’s a little more to it. For those of us who have lost their motherland, there are few reminders of home around the world, so we rely on the few things that can consistently be found in foreign lands.

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On Mementos…

Image property of Hack: Dream life [Marian D.] ©2018. All rights reserved.

Human beings are collectors by design. Since the beginning of time, we have collected objects in the effort to tell, and to retain, our stories. We’ve also built, painted, sculpted, made music, and wrote in an effort to create souvenirs for our children’s children, so that they may have the chance to experience their history long after the primary actors are gone. After all, it is only in this way that they can continue the mission forward.

We are storytellers, and we are quite good at weaving the webs of memory into powerful tales that sustain us despite the grip of death.

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On Those Who Hurt Us…

When you were deeply hurt by somebody, what were your go-to-words?

“I’m done.”

“I’m fed up.”

“Whatever, I don’t care.”

“What did I expect?”

“I should’ve known better”

“I will never forgive you.”

Whatever the words were, despite the fact that they stemmed from a place of frustration and pain, they also stemmed from a place of love.

It is abundantly difficult to look those who hurt us in the eye and resort to “I love you.” If you have chosen these words above all others in a time of pain, you are one of a kind. Even when time has passed, add ten years to the memory, and most people can’t put two and two together: that pain in your stomach is a result of love, not hatred, anger, or “whatever”.

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On Blending…

Today, I’m giving you some homework. Ask a traveler, an immigrant, or a refugee about the great “melting pot” or “stew” that they are now a part of. What does it feel like to be the key ingredient?

Don’t know a traveler, an immigrant, or a refugee? Then it’s time to get out there and meet someone a little different.

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On Selective Memory…

Have you ever gotten back in touch with someone who, like a blast from the past, triggers a chain reaction of emotions? I think we can probably all relate to that.

Have you ever been unable to specifically put your finger on what actually happened? How did you meet this person? Where did you go? What did you talk about? How did you part ways? You recall the feeling, but not the occurrences.

The world always goes around full circle for me. Having lived a relatively international life, I would expect the opposite: that what (and who) goes around is unlikely to come back around. Contrary to my expectation, the world really is a very small place. While this is oftentimes an amazing realization, what really stumps me is the fact that my memory fails me so often.

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