tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31731533129136659202024-03-12T21:31:29.525-07:00VagamundaRamblings of a modern nomadSofihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11446183821753603495noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3173153312913665920.post-57934765530832471542019-03-13T09:41:00.001-07:002019-03-13T09:41:45.281-07:00On Playing God and Letting Go<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">“Stop trying to play God”, he said, his green eyes flashing with emotion. “You want to know the when, but that’s not in your control. You aren’t God”. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">It was another cold January day (is it just me, or does January seem to last forever?), and I had succumbed to the anxiety that gripped my stomach every morning. I wanted to know how long we would feel stuck in the limbo, I wanted to know what our exit strategy was, and I wanted to know it NOW. My husband held me by the shoulders, staring into my eyes and seeing something there, something that no one else sees. And that’s when he told me to stop trying to be God.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">It is so hard to not know, to not have the answers, to not know how long this feeling of being trapped will last. But as the doors continue to close around me, as the solutions I concoct in the dead of night when I can’t sleep continue to fail, I find myself strangely at peace.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Here, in this ill-lit hallway of possibilities, with the door to teaching at Cristo Rey closed, the door to getting my teaching certificate closed, the door to teaching at St. John Neumann closed, I begin to see that perhaps it is not God’s plan for me to teach in Atlanta next year. And because these doors keep closing, I have to believe that somewhere, God is preparing to open one (or a window at least). I choose to see the doors closing and the loud thud as they shut as a sign that something better is coming, that Aslan is on the move. </span></div>
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<a href="https://f4.bcbits.com/img/a0796693122_10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="320" src="https://f4.bcbits.com/img/a0796693122_10.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">I am an anxious person by nature; I like to know where I am going before I leave, I like to have my plan laid out and my goal chartered. But right now, there is no plan. There is no guarantee that I will be able to leave this job, that my husband will find something before he gets fired in May, that I will not have to go to India, that we will be able to get pregnant. It’s just this big, blank, and empty canvas. I’m afraid, but also resolute; I refuse to bow to fear, to uncertainty, to the tyranny of the unknown. Instead, I choose to embrace the discomfort of not knowing, to actually trust in God, not in my plans. I choose to lean into the feeling of being stretched like taffy, knowing that God bends but does not break, that my Father who loves me is capable of bringing the good out of everything.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">So while part of me, the scared and anxious Sofi in the back of my brain, still thinks that I should get a teaching job tomorrow, or that Dany should have his dream job at Chemonics today, the weak yet resolute Sofi at the front of my brain accepts that this is where God has us right now. I think back to the women in my life who have had the biggest impact on me, my mother and grandmothers, and recall the struggles they had to go through as well. I feel their presence, their encouragement, their accented voices telling me to keep going, to not dare give up. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">And so I cling to God, to the Virgin Mary, to my husband, and to my family. While fortune favors the bold, God is near to the humble, the brokenhearted, the ones who long for release. For as long as I’m in this corridor, I will not succumb to the claustrophobia, will not plot my own escape, but will wait with watchful eyes and keen ears for a window to open. Because I know it will. Because I trust in God. </span></div>
Sofihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11446183821753603495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3173153312913665920.post-18879207321434553932018-12-10T11:26:00.000-08:002018-12-10T11:26:07.322-08:00Happiness, uncorked<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">I tend to experience emotions as colors, particularly when they are strong ones. Anger is a throbbing red, sadness a draining bluish-grey, and so on. And now, as I try to describe the intense happiness and deep joy I experienced on the day I married Daniel Joseph Abou-Jaoude, and in the days and weeks that followed, the color that comes to me is sparkling champagne. Its as if life suddenly became submerged in a flute of the stuff, transforming the ordinary into a golden, bubbling concoction of bliss. I feel light and airy and tingling, feeling myself-perhaps for the first time-to be beautiful and glowing, a shining bubble of golden contentedness. Everyone deserves to feel this way, if only once--to feel oneself loved, desired, and treasured, to look into the eyes of the person you love most and see the happiness you feel mirrored in their soul, to wander about carelessly in a happy glow that no care can penetrate. </span></div>
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<a href="https://cdn-az.allevents.in/banners/a2c1a8cbb994b24afd4de83730dd81f1-rimg-w720-h479-gmir" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="479" data-original-width="720" height="212" src="https://cdn-az.allevents.in/banners/a2c1a8cbb994b24afd4de83730dd81f1-rimg-w720-h479-gmir" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Every moment seemed touched by Midas, until the ordinary shone with the gleam of the extraordinary and I felt that truly anything could happen. Because my miracle did happen; I did meet and fall in love with the most incredible person, and what’s more he fell in love with me. My happiness stemmed from this realization, one that I will forever cherish and never take for granted-that in the midst of sorrow and loneliness, isolation and despair, God placed Dany in my life. From that encounter, how much has changed and how quickly!</span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-870217a3-7fff-ebdd-17ae-51770b7f519e"><br /></span>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Maybe because I had to wait so long, or maybe because even though I hoped and I dreamed, I never could have imagined how beautiful love could be. Regardless, the longing and hoping and waiting made our wedding day and honeymoon all the sweeter. Like champagne, bubbling up from unseen sources, my happiness that day and in the says since continues to emanate, golden in color, transforming my life. </span></div>
Sofihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11446183821753603495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3173153312913665920.post-2554259320801466662018-10-24T14:07:00.000-07:002018-10-24T14:07:45.238-07:00the bravest thing<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is get dressed and go to work. In the midst of stomach-churning anxiety, fear, and self-doubt, the simple act of facing a new day feels heroic. That’s where I’m at today; just getting out of bed proved difficult. For the millions of others who daily battle an invisible enemy, my struggle is a familiar one, one that they face every morning. It’s not a broken arm, a scraped knee, or any other sort of visible ailment, but trust me, in the isolating darkness that envelops me every single morning, it feels very real.</span></div>
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<b id="docs-internal-guid-9b7f89e8-7fff-7873-fa69-d6aafb3d0c9a" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">But life goes on. My choice is either to lay in bed with the covers pulled over my head, frightened and alone, or to place one cautious foot after the other on the cold bedroom floor and stand up. Today I chose to get up, to stabilize my breathe, to get dressed and go to work. I recall my list of things to help me feel better: drinking tea, breathing deeply, dressing warmly. Instead of trying to reason my way out of the sensations in my body, I try to focus on other things: the sunlight as I walk to my moto, the warmth of my coffee mug in my hand, the scratchy comfort of my wool sweater. Because one thing I know about my anxiety is that I can’t fight it head on. Like any bully, it feeds on attention and only grows more powerful when I try to argue with it. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Sometimes I forget and I try to analyze my thoughts, find logical responses, question why I feel this way. The result is always the same; spiraling thoughts of self-loathing, feeling trapped, and more than anything, the overwhelming desire to run, run from the situation, from my body, from my brain. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">When faced with danger, humans typically react in three ways: fight, flight, or freezing. I’m a flighter. And because of the anxiety that has followed me like the stench of a stale cigarette for the better part of eight years, my brain perceives ordinary situations as dangerous, even when they’re not. </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Understanding why my brain and body react the way they do helps, but only to a certain extent. Telling myself, “this is just a physiological reaction with no basis in reality” in the middle of a panic attack doesn’t make the sensations and the fear vanish, but it does provide a starting point in my journey to healing and wholeness.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdTbEwPmMtcJ0CqaSFivTd5iE_bAeOiRfEYj_-V7BaEC0FsPQQ78jCH4o-04H8GDHrtAlbN8_d_uEHuP7rSR0SdZgv4N93Btuf44TBRE90gdmLwrTqYs6pxM3bhU-jufrL0Kqrz0Nf0zs/s1600/IMG_4938.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdTbEwPmMtcJ0CqaSFivTd5iE_bAeOiRfEYj_-V7BaEC0FsPQQ78jCH4o-04H8GDHrtAlbN8_d_uEHuP7rSR0SdZgv4N93Btuf44TBRE90gdmLwrTqYs6pxM3bhU-jufrL0Kqrz0Nf0zs/s320/IMG_4938.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Because I’m not going to let it win.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Because even though I’m a flighter, I’m fighting this battle.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap; white-space: pre;">Because I deserve to life a life full of happiness, not fear. </span></div>
Sofihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11446183821753603495noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3173153312913665920.post-7277022524141072492018-06-27T10:43:00.001-07:002018-06-27T10:43:36.067-07:00Throughout my life, I have found that the best way to process emotion, be it positive or negative, is to simply sit and write. So, dear internet, that is what I am doing; writing until the feelings of worthlessness and anxiety pass away, until the keyboard absorbs the emotions that are currently wrecking havoc in my brain.<br />
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This summer, I stopped working as a teacher since I will be getting married to the LOVE OF MY LIFE in November and I wanted to shift career paths. When I say "shift career paths" it sounds so adult, so responsible and well-thought out. All I know is that I could not continue working at the school, attempting to teach Spanish grammar (me! grammar!) to kids who could not care less about anything that they couldn't download from the app store.<br />
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I had felt this way about teaching since my second year, as if I was a round peg in a square hole, a teacher who preferred to spend her summer at an archaeological dig in Palestine than running a summer camp and making some extra cash. I loved the students, I really did, but I couldn't deal with the mind-numbing routine, with the apathy, with the <i>boredom</i>. I think what really sealed my decision was when I began looking at Masters in Education programs and heard a tiny voice inside say "I don't like this, I don't want to take these classes or learn these things". For me to not want to take a class signifies that it holds zero value to me.<br />
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I have fought and wrestled with my decision. It was only after meeting Dany and with his support that I decided to leave, with no clear plan of what to do or where to go. Back to school? Private sector? Public? And most importantly, <i>doing what?</i> What can I actually do? I feel that I have this old, beat up tool-box with the most random skills. Experience with kids? Check. Knowledge of a dig site? Check. Elementary Arabic? Check. Relevant work experience? Uncheck.<br />
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So this is where I am--a former teacher with no job and no direction. Dany and I made the decision that I would not work full time until after we get married so that we could take a long honeymoon, but part of me is regretting that decision. I just want to DO something, feel myself be valuable and needed. Which is perhaps the reason God wants me to not have a job right now--because I need to learn that my value does not come from my job or how much I make. And I know that, I swear I do...it just gets a little stuck on the way from the head to the heart.<br />
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If there's one thing I hope to learn from this time, it is to live in the present. Not ruminating over the past, not forecasting the future, but in the moment, I mean <i>really </i>in the moment. If I don't I risk driving myself insane for these next few months. I owe to my family. I owe it to my fiancé. And I owe it to myself to grow stronger from this challenge.Sofihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11446183821753603495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3173153312913665920.post-38184833522044793722018-01-30T08:58:00.004-08:002018-01-30T08:58:29.749-08:00Jaunt in JerashEver heard of Jerash, Jordon? No? Good, that makes two of us, at least until July 2017 when I quite accidentally ventured upon one of the most underrated historical and archaeological sites in the world (at least in my opinion). Located to the north of Amman, the visit to Jerash was among the most memorable experiences from my six weeks in the Middle East, which is astounding considering it almost didn't happen.<br />
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<a href="https://scontent.fatl1-1.fna.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/26907870_10156361164717223_6441092361515771472_n.jpg?oh=46abd830ba1f5f66eb400c404e8c0a11&oe=5AEFDD4F" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="533" height="320" src="https://scontent.fatl1-1.fna.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/26907870_10156361164717223_6441092361515771472_n.jpg?oh=46abd830ba1f5f66eb400c404e8c0a11&oe=5AEFDD4F" width="213" /></a></div>
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My impromptu trip to Jordan was born one night, attempting to escape the heat on a rooftop in northern Israel. As we lay on our backs, gazing at the stars, the conversation turned towards weekend travel, specifically a weekend trip to Jordan to see the ancient city of Petra. A couple of girls had gone a week before and could scarcely contain their enthusiasm for the sights they had seen, the people they had encountered, and the tastes they had savored. Their words wove an enticing tapestry in the night air, calling me to find a way, some way to also experience the wonder and majesty of those ancient places. I turned to my friend Priscila and asked her, or rather dared her, to go.<br />
Within two weeks, we found a group of Spanish priests and theology students, paid an $100 deposit, and set out for the Jordan River boarder crossing.<br />
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<a href="https://scontent.fatl1-1.fna.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/26991801_10156361165372223_9132815667967004646_n.jpg?oh=1877c02e168179182ce25eb6187e6b82&oe=5AF3853D" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="213" src="https://scontent.fatl1-1.fna.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/26991801_10156361165372223_9132815667967004646_n.jpg?oh=1877c02e168179182ce25eb6187e6b82&oe=5AF3853D" width="320" /></a></div>
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I knew little before arriving at our first stop. Jerash, or Gerasa as it was called in antiquity (and is still called in Spanish), was one of the 10 cities of the Decapolis, established by the Greeks. However, it was taken over by the Romans, who lost no time in constructing a race track, stunning amphitheater, and numerous arches and gates. In fact, Jerash is known for containing the most preserved collection of Roman ruins outside of Italy.<br />
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The place was awesome. No, not awesome like when you find a granola bar in your backpack or when you remembered to bring an umbrella on a rainy day--truly awesome, as in awe-inspiring.<br />
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The ancient city was of enormous proportions. We spent almost half the day simply walking around, and were still unable to see everything. Perhaps my favorite space, pictured below, was the Roman theatre. Yes, it was large and stately, however these more obvious attributes are not the reason the theatre captured my imagination.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxfEtd_ZFgG9VAUa2IYeohWagaqSLog5LBhboeR9QIajMyMX1-MvzDF1F88SwhuN0fhxlT8HdvxRpmAn3LiMN7KL5TBXfF_RIwKXHjqn089NO8T40ooqZFTah1nYZgtWL09dsPNzcFD7A/s1600/blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="640" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxfEtd_ZFgG9VAUa2IYeohWagaqSLog5LBhboeR9QIajMyMX1-MvzDF1F88SwhuN0fhxlT8HdvxRpmAn3LiMN7KL5TBXfF_RIwKXHjqn089NO8T40ooqZFTah1nYZgtWL09dsPNzcFD7A/s320/blog.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
As our tour guide explained, the theatre was engineered in such a way that the voices of the actors were perfectly amplified, reaching all the way up the last row of the theatre. Engineers are still not exactly sure how this technique was achieved, but I can attest to its validity. In the picture above, I stood at the center of the stage and spoke in a normal tone, while my friend Priscila climbed up to the top rows. She was able to hear exactly what I said, despite the distance.<br />
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For me, it is marvels such as the ability to amplify sound using design that fills me with wonder. The ingenuity of the ancient world is such that it continues to inspire, even in the hustle and bustle of modernity.<br />
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As we walked back across the dusty ruins, my mind wandered to the past, thinking about the people who thousands of years ago devised a way to allow even the lowliest spectator to enjoy the music of the theatre.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlt-ULlA6lcdfVY3wiu21JfApSP5F8COb0DJW5sHzWcXGbPonjA6RvtrduUzbVhrjmZti5nF_t9vJaPXSwmmMWfnJ_hPLri2PQXfjqZKuAVYz1Tda-PKqRF5-xpo-OPQW2Mu3y_ml_pv4/s1600/26907925_10156361164557223_457431623666826475_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="960" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlt-ULlA6lcdfVY3wiu21JfApSP5F8COb0DJW5sHzWcXGbPonjA6RvtrduUzbVhrjmZti5nF_t9vJaPXSwmmMWfnJ_hPLri2PQXfjqZKuAVYz1Tda-PKqRF5-xpo-OPQW2Mu3y_ml_pv4/s320/26907925_10156361164557223_457431623666826475_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Sofihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11446183821753603495noreply@blogger.com0Jerash, Jordan32.2746515 35.89607649999993632.167243 35.734714999999937 32.382059999999996 36.057437999999934tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3173153312913665920.post-78632302563322946392018-01-18T08:46:00.002-08:002018-01-18T08:46:13.085-08:00Re-thinking my wardrobeThroughout the years, I've read numerous articles with eye-catching titles such as <a href="http://www.whowhatwear.com/secrets-french-girl-style-fashion-winter-2014/slide29" target="_blank">"8 Secrets to Dressing Like a French Girl" </a> or <a href="https://verilymag.com/2017/09/the-feminine-outfit-formula-everyone-is-wearing-t-shirt-and-skirt" target="_blank">"The Surprising Feminine Outfit Everyone is Wearing" </a> in the hopes that by ingesting fashion literature, my wardrobe would go from "college slob meets school house marm" to more of a "maybe she's born with it, maybe she climbed out of a Audrey Hepburn film" type of chic. Perhaps I am exaggerating the state of my current wardrobe, but not by much. As a teenager, I prioritized fashion, seeing it as a way to separate myself from my peers and mark myself as 'different', 'polished', and most importantly to my vagabond soul, 'well-travelled'. Yet in the college years, this emphasis on standing out was replaced with the need to find something clean to throw on for the class I was already 15 minutes late for. My priorities shifted from stylish and European to cheap and comfortable.<br />
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As I begin to reimagine myself as a professional outside the classroom, I want my appearance to evoke the same narrative as my resumé--that of a polished, confident, and yes, well travelled woman with passion and ambition.<br />
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However, I noticed that as I began to search for 'fashion-inspo' on pinterest, instagram, and lifestyle sites, the more dissatisfied I felt with my wardrobe and with myself. I could never look like a waif-ish Parisienne model nor did I have the budget or time to comb designer clothing racks. It felt as if my body and in fact my very person was inadequate, unable to measure up to the impossible standards set up by "professional" insta-celebrities.<br />
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I decided to take a step back in the hopes of gaining some perspective, and thought back to the people in my life who's style I most admired--friends and family members who exuded a carefree yet pulled together confidence that was reflected in their style. All these women shared common attributes: simplicity, elegance, and uniqueness. For example, a dear friend would often pair a tailored pair of dark jeans with a well-knit sweater, riding boots, and a posh silk scarf. And that was it. No makeup, no "it" bag, no heels. My grandmother would sport slacks, a blouse, and a red-lip--nothing more and nothing less. These very real and perfectly-imperfect style icons prioritized a few simple staples, splurging in quality rather than quantity.<br />
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Through these reflections, I have come to realize that my style should not be something imposed, cut and copied from the instagram profiles of socialites, but rather something that spills over from within, an external sign of who I am as a person and who I strive to be. By taking the time to dress conscientiously, yet confidently, I show the world the kind of woman I hope to be.Sofihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11446183821753603495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3173153312913665920.post-45386974536234811382018-01-05T12:16:00.000-08:002018-01-05T12:16:10.864-08:00When is it too late?C.S. Lewis wrote, "you are never too old to set a new goal or dream a new dream". I wonder if he's right.<br />
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The last time I took to this blog, I was a teenager, looking forward to the multiple and drastic life changes hurtling towards me--moving, beginning college, planning my future.<br />
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Fast forward seven years, and I find myself reverting to this medium, hoping to somehow process life by airing out here.<br />
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When I first started this blog, I was a dramatic and overly emotional (no change there) teenager with an insatiable appetite for travel, adventure, and anything that could get me out of Cumming, Georgia. I was tired of the small town, the even smaller minds, and the mindless monotony of my life. After a year of mission work, I left for New York City, determined to make something out of myself.<br />
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Fast forward seven years, and I am back in Georgia, teaching at a school that also employs one of the "mean girls" I so badly wanted to escape from. Why this? Why now? As tempting as it is to think that all the work, sacrifice, and dreams were for naught, I refuse to feel discouraged. Perhaps this is a way to process the trials of the past, or a stark reminder to never settle or give up. Regardless, I am eager to learn whatever lesson I must from this experience, and then to move on. Because I think I do believe Lewis, I do believe that it is never too late and that the goals and dreams of my 17 year old self need not be relegated to the trash heap of fate.<br />
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Now comes the interesting part, the part where I take my own advice and figure out how to make those dreams into reality.Sofihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11446183821753603495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3173153312913665920.post-19617457273140804152013-06-12T08:37:00.002-07:002013-06-12T08:37:27.123-07:00In Which I Battle Body HairThe area known as the Mediterranean Crescent has long been renown for its sunny climate, healthy cuisine, and fabulous beaches. But as any female born or descended from Spain, Italy, Greece, Lebanon, Israel and the other countries that rim the iconic sea, there is a price to be paid for olive skin and lush hair. For the dark hair that gives us enviable eyelashes is often not restricted to our eyelids alone. Rather, it grows, unbidden and unrestrained, on arms, legs, upper lips, brows... It's a hard lyfe. But someone has to do it.<br />
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Once puberty hit, I realized that I was different from my white friends whose families came from inherently hairless places like Ireland and Scandinavia. Whatever, your eyebrows will fall out by the time you're 40. By the time I turned 12, I was frequenting beauty salons for a monthly wax, feeling ugly, hairy, manly. Now, as a 21 year old, I am fighting to let go of my insecurities and take pride in my rich, albeit hairy, heritage. No, I will not be growing a full beard to challenge societal and ethnic norms. But I am going to stop complaining about my body hair and do something about it.<br />
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Today begins my quest to find a workable beauty regimen, one that will rid me of excess hair and enable me to feel confident in my body. Because though Mediterranean women are hairy, they are also determined. Sofihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11446183821753603495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3173153312913665920.post-89307392932451422482011-12-26T15:27:00.000-08:002011-12-26T15:27:06.622-08:00<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The essence, the very DNA of a wanderer is the fact that they have no home, that the road itself is the only place where they feel even faintly that they belong. When I started this blog, I saw myself as one such individual, mostly because I felt out of place in my suburban high school. Yet now that I live so far from home, and now that so many of my friends live in so many different places, I again identify with the wandering spirit. The axiom "home is where the heart is" indeed rings true, for my heart is with the people I love, and the people I love are spread pretty evenly around the world. </span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.twopeasinabucket.com/peamage/2445500-2445999/2445843_600x600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://www.twopeasinabucket.com/peamage/2445500-2445999/2445843_600x600.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Living away from home and in fact acutely aware of the veracity in Faulkner's words, "You can never go home again", I renew my commitment to blogging about my experience as a wanderer. Not necessarily because someone is going to read it (though I welcome any and all readers), but because it is my story, my struggle, and I want to document this period of my life. It is truly a gift from God that I intend to make the most of (or "aprovechar" a Spanish word that does not translate but more appropriately encapsulates the sentiment). </span></div>Sofihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11446183821753603495noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3173153312913665920.post-79527039182374091442011-07-29T20:13:00.000-07:002011-07-29T20:13:42.480-07:00In less than a month I will be living in New York City. IN LESS THAN A MONTH I WILL BE LIVING IN NEW YORK CITY. Just in case you didn't catch it the first time. My summer reading is done, my payment and immunization forms are in order, and I have registered for my classes. I can't believe that I am on the cusp of joining the largest human experiment that is New York. The sheer size of the city is daunting, not to mention the incredibly diverse people that inhabit one tiny island. Oh, and did I mention that I am also starting college? After having taken a year off from school?<br />
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Obviously, there is a lot of shopping to be done, as well as packing, planning, and deep cleansing breathes. Yet I feel that my preparation for New York cannot just center on the external; I must embrace the fact that in a few short weeks I will be plunged into a new and completely different environment than I have ever experienced. Yes, I am well traveled. But I have lived in the same state for 12 years, and practically all my life in the Deep South.<br />
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Though I am a tad (okay, maybe very) apprehensive about the change, I know what I love and what I am passionate about, and I have complete faith and confidence that by trying my best and applying myself, I will succeed. Yes, there will be challenges, and knowing myself, I will freak out. But the important thing is to forge ahead. Allow me to close with a rough translation of a corny Spanish song by Diego Torres, "Es mejor perderse que nunca embarcar".Sofihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11446183821753603495noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3173153312913665920.post-41712489669531454512011-06-27T15:13:00.000-07:002011-06-27T15:13:40.397-07:00The best summer ever?This blog post (after a ridiculously long hiatus) marks the middle of what I have decided will be the best summer of my life up to now. Of course, I hope that each summer will surpass the previous one in terms of excellence.<br />
My summer truly began with the end of my missionary year, an event that I had eagerly anticipated. While I in no way regret my decision to take a year off between high school and college, I was ready to go home. The delights of the city beckoned me, and I was eager to move onto the next phase of my life, that of college student, and dare I say it, intrepid world traveler. Preparing for college in two months, endless city adventures, and an ambitious summer reading list promise to keep me occupied for a good while.Sofihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11446183821753603495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3173153312913665920.post-49654446066215015842011-01-13T09:21:00.000-08:002011-01-13T09:21:50.036-08:00"Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game"Fear is a big deal to me. I know what it's like to be paralyzed by it ( a cold, throbbing feeling emanating from the pit of my stomach through to my extremities) and how it feels to be defeated by it. I have never considered myself a coward, but I am a far cry from being the strong, courageous woman I want to be.<br />
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When I was younger, the Lord of the Rings movies hit theatres, inspiring a new generation to delve into the classic books by J.R.R Tolkien. I remember being captivated by the character of Eowyn, the niece of a king who valiantly fought for the freedom of Middle Earth, as well as killing the infamous witch king who could be killed by no man. I wanted to be like her, a passionate and beautiful princess who did not allow evil to paralyze her. It was not that she was fearless; what really made her appealing was the fact that she overcame her fear with courage and sacrifice.<br />
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My New Year's Resolution this year is to work on being courageous. Every morning and night, I pray that I may no longer be afraid. In new situations, I work hard to push myself, rather than allowing my fear to take control. Of course, fear still plagues me. But as Mia's father in the Princess Diaries says "Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the realization that something is more important than that fear."Sofihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11446183821753603495noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3173153312913665920.post-29833465011688578042010-12-28T09:45:00.000-08:002010-12-28T09:45:21.957-08:00As most of you know, I recently suffered a tragedy in that my classic camel peacoat was recently stolen while I was stumbling around Jacksonville International airport in the early hours of the morning. This beloved coat had been a gift from my fashion-conscious father nearly 4 years ago, and needless to say I was devastated by this loss. However, there is hope in the most bleak situations. I recently encountered an inspiring picture on one of my favorite blogs, The Sartorialist, that made my heart palpitate with longing; the most chic, luxurious coat, a navy blue stunner with the most flattering cut. Perhaps the loss of my coat is the chance for a new fashion beginning, an opportunity to reshape my winter wardrobe.<br />
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A coat similar to this one will hopefully be mine...once I win the lottery :).Sofihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11446183821753603495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3173153312913665920.post-20859035412843206562010-12-27T18:26:00.000-08:002010-12-27T18:26:10.831-08:00Christmas and such...I am not an advocate of plastic surgery, but check out the blog's facelift! With the help of my tech-savvy (and incredibly patient) sister, I replaced the boring and bland black background with an image depicting a busy train station (the url is, in fact, tales from the traincase). I also added a touch of femininity with an exciting coral pink header! I love makeovers!<br />
On another note, I am happy to report that for the first time in 138 years, Atlanta has had a white Christmas. However, it is now December 26, and I am heartily annoyed with the white stuff, namely because it is cold and wet. Snow also has the distasteful tendency to freeze, and therefore cause a hazard to those who lack Olympian coordination. <br />
Nevertheless, the Christmas season is a time to celebrate, not complain. As a special gift to you, my dear and few readers, I will highlight an assortment of intriguing Christmas customs from around the world...enjoy!<br />
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Nothing says Merry Christmas like charging at friends and family on horseback with ceremonial lances: at least that is the case in Ethiopia. Rather than wake up to the stereotypical bulging stockings and trimmed trees, Ethiopian children are most likely roused by the sound of angry men and whinnying horses.<br />
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<span id="goog_511903441"></span><span id="goog_511903442"></span>Sofihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11446183821753603495noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3173153312913665920.post-84847674163760535482010-12-08T10:50:00.000-08:002010-12-08T10:50:04.879-08:00Dali: Mustachioed Man of MysteryA few weeks ago, I had the great pleasure to witness firsthand the late works of the Spanish Surrealist Salvador Dali. My family made the cultural pilgrimage at my behest, and we arrived ready to soak in some serious surrealism. The exhibit was well planned, and though crowded, provided plenty of room to simply meander around and take in the art. It began, as most things do, at the beginning, providing a brief overview of the late artist's early life as well as some of his first works. One of my favorites from this period was one aptly titled "<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><i>Debris of an Automobile Giving Birth to a Blind Horse Biting a Telephone"</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">(1938)</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHnb1HkCzvUvQ-Vd73QMoDovISkWX4grWVXEjZbL-iYPxeqt8m3GgH-_RIODas8135MzgCvZXD5WQ3Qme5Bi0KM2A-UPuImYVCfNX8bCO6O9pm6NHJ8vzWwnnCkpeIww-bh_eSQZTrCAj7/s1600/CRI_159188.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHnb1HkCzvUvQ-Vd73QMoDovISkWX4grWVXEjZbL-iYPxeqt8m3GgH-_RIODas8135MzgCvZXD5WQ3Qme5Bi0KM2A-UPuImYVCfNX8bCO6O9pm6NHJ8vzWwnnCkpeIww-bh_eSQZTrCAj7/s320/CRI_159188.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">I loved the Picasso-y feel and I thought the combination of organic and inorganic material perfectly expressed the political and cultural upheaval that was not only shaking Spain but the whole world. Dali's later works are devoid of classical surrealism, as he was expelled from that group after his acceptance of the Catholic faith and his Old Masters' inspired pieces. Though I throughly enjoyed some of his more well known works, such as "Christ of St. John of the Cross" or "Santiago el Grande", I was confused and perturbed by the plethora of rhinoceros horns that cluttered his work. </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.philosyphia.com/wp-content/uploads/dali-christ-of-st-john-of-the-cross.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://www.philosyphia.com/wp-content/uploads/dali-christ-of-st-john-of-the-cross.jpg" width="179" /></a></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', Verdana, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">Were they a reference to a Freud? Were they just a random shape the artist liked? By the end of the exhibit, I felt throughly disgusted by rhinoceros horns. Also towards the end of the exhibit, I became a trifle weary of the large emphasis on Dali's volatile and eccentric personality. I felt that the museum overly portrayed Dali's antics and personal relationships, and though it is often enjoyable and informative to see the personal side of an artist, in the case of Dali, it was overwhelming. Let me provide you with an example. Near the end of the exhibit, there was a 4 minute video of Dali hanging upside down and not moving being projected on the wall. Four minutes. I just don't understand how or why someone would want to watch a middle aged Spanish man hanging upside down and not doing anything for 4 minutes, no matter how famous he was. Despite the hiccups at the end, I had a great time with my family and learned a great deal about an artist I knew very little about.</span></span></div>Sofihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11446183821753603495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3173153312913665920.post-42383873282636742602010-10-06T16:45:00.000-07:002010-10-06T16:45:36.720-07:00Have we been Wrong about Rights?Its difficult to clip a toenail, much less flip through a newspaper, without seeing or hearing the word "rights" flung about as if they as essential, if not more so, than oxygen. I am so sick of this talk of so called rights! Please do not misunderstand, I do not think that women should not have the vote or that minorities should be marginalized, but I do believe we need to put an end to the madness. People have the right to sue for practically anything, even something as ridiculous as burning one's tongue on fast food coffee (hence the overwhelming warnings that "COFFEE IS EXTREMELY HOT HOTTER THAN LAVA HOTTER THAN HELL PLEASE DO NOT SUE US!!!!" or something to that extent.<br />
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</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://blogs.seattleweekly.com/dailyweekly/warning_coffee_mug.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><blockquote>However, there are some "rights" that are more malicious in nature; a girls right to kill her unborn child without her parents' knowledge, the right of two men to be "married", the right of children to kill their elderly parents, etc. etc. I think it is time for our society as a whole to take a look at what a right truly is and to ask itself a few questions; namely, what is a right? Is it the ability to do whatever I want? What about if it infringes on the rights of others? What if it is harmful to society or myself? Should I do everything I have a right to do, or am I bound to a higher law? Are rights always right? </blockquote>Dear America, instead of wasting time and money on costly lawyers to argue your "rights", why not invest some thought into what you are really entitled to, and whether it is a right, or a privilege.Sofihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11446183821753603495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3173153312913665920.post-28924684201534683652010-09-30T14:40:00.000-07:002010-09-30T14:40:07.449-07:00Can it be? Is it Possible? The slightest hint of fall in the airI thought it would never come. The "official" first day of fall had come and gone in Jacksonville, and the weather remained hot, humid, and sticky. Going out of doors required donning workout gear and extensive hydration. And though the mercury never dips below 80, there is the slightest taste of fall in the air; that certain nippiness that makes you want to grab a chunky knit sweater and eat a slice of apple pie, even if you don't like apple pie. Fall is probably my favorite season. Not only is the weather delicious, but it makes me think of newness and rebirth in a way spring never could. For, I associate the fall with the new school year, freshly sharpened pencils, bright red ribbons, and spiced apple crisp. As my eloquent father would say, "Sofia no hables tanta mierda", but in a season such as this, nothing can deter me from sharing my excitement about the new season.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://thejewishstar.files.wordpress.com/2008/09/apple-pie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://thejewishstar.files.wordpress.com/2008/09/apple-pie.jpg" /></a></div>Sofihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11446183821753603495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3173153312913665920.post-1166240753709502412010-09-15T16:01:00.000-07:002010-09-15T16:01:02.862-07:00Oxfords: mannish fad or a claasic rennasiance?It has recently come to this fashionistas attention that a certain article considered indispensable for the suave and sophisticated man in the 1920's is now making its way back into fashion, this time into women's closet. But do these shoes have staying power? Or are they only a passing fad that entices our fancies and thins our wallets?<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://secure.campaigner.com/accountsmedia/155285/Put-away-the-sneakers-FINAL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://secure.campaigner.com/accountsmedia/155285/Put-away-the-sneakers-FINAL.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>i think i ll wait awhile before investing in my own pair of oxfords, just in case it does prove to be merely another blip in the long history of fantastically faddish flops. Or that i end up looking like this guy<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://a1.twimg.com/profile_images/500388985/wooster_bigger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://a1.twimg.com/profile_images/500388985/wooster_bigger.jpg" /></a></div>Sofihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11446183821753603495noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3173153312913665920.post-83583417020029339462010-09-08T06:27:00.000-07:002010-09-08T06:27:56.172-07:00Not my will...the most diffiuclt phrase !!!I think I have underestimated the virgin Mary. Living under the rule of obedience is SO DIFFICULT!! the simplest action requires forethought and permission, and one is not free to merely traipse about idly. There is a schedule to follow, commitments to be fulfilled, and tasks to be achieved. Suffice to say, my pride and independence have been dealt cruel blows! Though this is a good thing, it is nonetheless painful and humbling.<br />
Believe me when I tell you that as a society in general we have underestimated the power of obedience, not to mention the immense strength that is requiered to bend the will!<br />
This trial would be unbearable were it not for my conviction that in the long run it will make me a better, stronger person...Sofihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11446183821753603495noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3173153312913665920.post-78869260688507106102010-08-19T14:44:00.000-07:002010-08-19T14:44:29.401-07:00Living on $2,000...for a whole year$2,000. That is the amount of money currently residing in my solitary bank account. Since I will be working as a volunteer this year, I will have no time for working. Which means that my little bank account has a lot of work to do. True, my lodging will be provided, and my generous parents are covering most transportation costs and food; yet the little purchases that add a little spice to life (such as gum, shampoo, clothes, snacks, etc. etc. ) will be my responsibility, as well as a fee to cover other expenses.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Why can't there be money trees?</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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And did I mention that there are two AMAZING trips that at the end of the year? That are UNBELIEVABLE? And also EXPENSIVE? I am alluding to a pilgrimage to Israel and World Youth Day in Spain. I know money can't buy love, but it seems as if it can buy a whole lot of useful things. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.starclustermusic.de/artists/beatles/beatles/cover/sfbe6401.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="315" src="http://www.starclustermusic.de/artists/beatles/beatles/cover/sfbe6401.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Sofihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11446183821753603495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3173153312913665920.post-10468206077092207582010-08-17T18:19:00.000-07:002010-08-17T18:19:06.117-07:00Are You Still There?I know it may seem as if I have fallen off the face of the earth, but I am, in fact, alive. My time has been consumed by departing for coworker training and adjusting to the lifestyle of a missionary. Why have I not shared this intriguing experience with my beloved readers you may ask. The reason, dear audience, was shoddy internet. But I'm back, ready to inspire you with my amazing life!<br />
I may have pratted on and on that I was spending the next year in Spain, the country of my heart, but this is no longer true. A spat of trouble with my visa has caused me to forgo living in Spain. Instead, I will be working in Jacksonville Florida! No doubt you are in shock, dear reader, but do not worry, so was I. Yet as I continue to process this sudden and unexpected twist of fate, I see the hand of God more and more clearly. The proximity to my home, temperate weather, and apostolate opportunities are ideal for me. oh and THE BEACH! Anyway, be expecting updates about life in jacksonville, coming in the near future<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://condosjacksonvilleflorida.com/images/jacksonville-florida-map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="210" src="http://condosjacksonvilleflorida.com/images/jacksonville-florida-map.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Sofihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11446183821753603495noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3173153312913665920.post-76632349433654488132010-07-06T07:49:00.000-07:002010-07-06T07:49:35.067-07:00The World Cup: a time to celebrate the global community...and oggle soccer playersAs referenced in my previous post, the World Cup is in full swing. I absolutely LOVE the World Cup, because unlike other similarly named events (the world series, etc.) it actually includes the whole world, and gives us all the opportunity to share in one of life's greatest pleasures: soccer.<br />
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Today is the first round of the semifinals, and my team, Spain, is still alive. Spain has never made it this far, and its previous dismal performances has branded the world class team as "underachievers". Yet thanks to fervent prayers and intense cheering, the best country in the world is still in the running for the trophy. Tomorrow, Spain faces Germany, who is heavily favored to win, yet could La Furia Roja surprise once again?<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://i.telegraph.co.uk/telegraph/multimedia/archive/01536/spain_1536291c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://i.telegraph.co.uk/telegraph/multimedia/archive/01536/spain_1536291c.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Sofihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11446183821753603495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3173153312913665920.post-83599425773229922812010-07-05T18:04:00.000-07:002010-07-05T18:04:43.620-07:00Greetings from the ATL! The 404!As I type away, I am sitting in the cozy "sun room" of the place I now call home. Located in the heart of stylish Atlanta (aka Virginia Highlands), I absolutely love it here...everything is accessible!<br />
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Let me give you some anecdotal evidence to prove my point. As many of you know (hopefully), the World Cup is in full swing, and since soccer is my life, this tournament is my idea of paradise. In the past, my family's lack of cable has proven to be a real stumbling block to my soccer-viewing pleasure. Yet due to our proximity to a myriad of unique and eclectic sports bars, this is no longer a problem. On the day of a given match, I simply walk 3-5 minutes, order a coke with lime, and take my place with the regulars at the bar, ready to cheer on my team.<br />
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Another problem, that of my family's perpetual tardiness to Sunday mass has also resolved itself, mostly because our parish is no longer 35 minutes away. My exercise regiment has improved since I no longer fear wandering yokels or pernicious pooches waiting to sink their teeth into my flesh. I now jog on pedestrian friendly roads, and the exciting city scenery keeps the routine fresh. I love the CITY!!!Sofihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11446183821753603495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3173153312913665920.post-36578306011857612172010-05-24T08:17:00.000-07:002010-05-24T08:17:48.360-07:00Discovering the Lost GenerationSchool is over. The days of waking up early, fumbling with my uniform, and somehow dragging myself to the edifice of learning I call school are past. Aside from my AP classes, I had long ceased to care about the other subjects (mainly math and science), yet the amazing literature I encountered in the aforementioned AP classes (both in English and in Spanish), has left me craving for more. On a recent visit to the library, I found myself in the classics section, which had previously been quite daunting. To condense my rambling narrative, I have discovered my love for the modernist authors, particularly Hemingway and Fitzgerald. Known as the Lost Generation, the literature of this period was marked by desolation, disillusionment, and despair.<br />
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World War I had left the world in tatters, and the young men that walked away from that horrible struggle found themselves changed forever. The widespread destruction and dehumanization of the individual was not something they could forget, though they tried to by plunging their despair in wild parties, excessive alcohol, and a generally vapid lifestyle.<br />
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Perhaps you are wondering why I am fascinated by such depressing literature. Most of the works end in despair and an aching unhappiness tainted by a lack of self fulfillment. Yet, these works are in their way redemptive because they highlight the impossiblity of the human condition without hope. Hope makes dreadful situations bearable, it allows a person to persevere through the most trying circumstances. When this hope is placed in anything other than the love of God, the result is the utter despair of the Lost Generation.Sofihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11446183821753603495noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3173153312913665920.post-32450468852907730202010-04-18T12:01:00.000-07:002010-04-18T12:01:15.451-07:00The Perils of FacebookThe title of this post might sound like I am going to warn you against putting sensitive information on your Facebook profile, or to never accept friend requests from strangers. While I do advise you to use caution and discretion, but that is not the purpose of this post. I am simply advising you to be careful with Facebook, because it is literally changing the way we communicate with one another. To be frank, I hate Facebook. The only reason I still have one is to keep in touch with friends who live far away and to look at pictures. Let me give you some reasons for my abhorrence of one of the most popular websites.<br />
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When you chat with someone, or even write on their wall, it is completely different than calling them up, writing a letter, or even sending an email. You don't see the other person's facial expressions, hear their tone of voice, observe their body language, etc. Also, if you are writing in a public place, such as a comment box or someone's wall, the conversation will quickly become skewed to attract the attention of others. Letters and emails are far more personal, not to mention calling a friend up and actually checking up on them.<br />
As Facebook evolves, I have noticed a disturbing trend. Instead of talking about interesting, meaningful topics, most people fritter away their time commenting on stupid posts or status updates. Rather than a build a conversation, people deconstruct a topic until their is absolutely nothing to be said about it. <br />
This leads me to my last point, which is how Facebook somehow steals time from you. It is far too easy to get completely distracted, until you find yourself 2 hours later stalking some kid who played soccer with you when you were 7 years old.<br />
Having said that, I will still keep my Facebook. It is important for keeping up with friends and family, especially now that I will be graduating soon. However, I will watch how much time I spend on it, an ensure that my conversations/comments are meaningful and constructive.Sofihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11446183821753603495noreply@blogger.com1