What's up?

I always say that "next week it'll get easier, I'll have more time to just hang out", and I'm always wrong. Well, this week I have three whole days when I don't have anything planned yet (although one is reserved for...the day after), so that pretty much counts as keeping the promise. I've been super busy with stuff, most of which is really nice, though. I had a party to celebrate my recent ageing, and my friends baked me a llama cake. How amazing is that? I think nobody's ever done anything that cool for me. 

Having lots of activities is nice and it keeps life interesting and changing, but somehow after a while even varying activities can start feeling numb. I hope I won't lose the thrill of participating in all the planning, schedules and responsibilities. I've been feeling somehow restless lately, and I can't quite figure out why. Do I miss something in my life, do I need something more? Am I making myself happy or just getting through life? Besides, I've had really bizarre dreams, which are too weird to even tell. However, it makes me uneasy to recognize in them needs or wishes that are not so nice to recognize, and although they present themselves in weird or non-literal ways, they are still there. Damn my dreams, I'd rather not think about that kind of stuff. Ignorance is a bliss, they say. Don't they?

One of the amazing birthday presents I got was this super popular mindfulness-coloring book for adults. When I first heard about them I thought it's crap, but when I tried it once I loved it. And now I can color as much as I want, which is actually really therapeutic. You just simply don't think about anything else while you're trying to fill each teeny tiny tree leaf with color, which is perfect for me. Speaking of perfect, the coloring book is killing my perfectionism. I don't know what's up with it, but my patience and hand-eye-coordination is just not sufficient to be excellent at it, I am having major trouble staying within the lines. It's a coloring book for adults, and my work looks like it was done by a 5-year-old, but I don't care. It's my therapy. Or, a really bad influence on my neurotic part, I haven't decided yet. Somehow I always feel a need to do it logically by some weird definition, to finish a certain stage in each image before I can take a break or quit for the day. I'm so weird, I know.

I feel like change is coming in one way or another. It makes me excited but also causes me flashbacks of the past, of the moments when I felt comfortable, happy, safe. And I know going back is not the answer, it would be a mistake to hold on too tight. Letting go on some abstract level, letting go of something I can't even grasp in a concrete sense is what I need to do. Maybe I'm just being sentimental, or scared of the unknown. All I know is that it's really hard to analyze something you can't even verbalize, but I'm staying optimistic and I'll try to get some sense into these thoughts.

To live or not to live - that is the question

Yesterday I got a good laugh when I opened my mail, as I received a document that I had ordered for some student grant application which stated my current status to be "alive". I'm glad that's been cleared now and made official. Anyway, as I was granted a life yesterday, I thought why not help someone hold onto theirs today. So, I went to donate blood, which was a nice experience just like the last five times I've done it, though I'm always questioning my decision when they take out the needle. However, as the recent theme has been living, I started to wonder what it really means. I am breathing, thinking, speaking and moving as do all the other people walking on this earth, but what does it really mean to be alive?

Repeating a day after another according to a routine is not the answer. Not even when the activities change, there could still be something missing. Writing it down, being organized and having a schedule might make it easier, but you go to bed left with a feeling of emptiness, a silent restlessness. Did I live today, did I feel one with the universe?

We sat down, drank way too many cups of tea and talked about life and love, trying to solve the mystery of existence. 

We stayed up all night talking when we were really tired but did not want to break the magic, waste the moment.

We finished a day of hard work, looked up and were greeted by a billion lights. 

I let it in, I let the feelings fill me up and I smiled, pure and lost for words.

That's when I've lived. I've lived in many other moments, too, but of the 21 years I've existed I'm afraid I haven't lived quite as many. All I can do is to remind myself to live at least one, tiny moment every single day. Because if I live every day, I must be alive, right?

Momentos pequeños

Cada vez que empiezo a escribir algo aquí, pienso un momento en la posibilidad de elegir otra lengua para el texto. Normalmente gana el inglés, pero esta vez, para variar, no. También porque, primero, pasó algo hace una media hora de que quiero escribir y segundo, he desarrollado un miedo tonto de escribir en español. No sé porque soy así; después de resolver el problema de hablar, de repente no me atrevo a escribir. De todos modos, ya es hora de que empiece a creer en mí misma, particularmente ahora que tengo un curso para que tengo que escribir cinco textos bastante largas.

Antes el problema fue mi actitud hacia los errores que hago hablando, y aunque he podido dejar de fijar mi atención en ellos cuando hablo, es diferente con textos escritos. Es como en mi texto el error sería más evidente, como revelaría mis debilidades, las que en conversación se puede olvidar o pasar en silencio. No sé, quizás son solo cuestiones de hábito y experiencia.

Entonces, la cosa que pasó. De hecho, no fue nada muy especial y para algunos quizás hasta sin importancia, pero tuve una conversación excelente con mi padre. Claro que normalmente hablamos de muchas cosas, de su vida y la mía, pero por una vez hablamos en serio. De su trabajo, de gestión de recursos humanos, de nuestras experiencias del liderato. Y no muchas veces he oído mi padre explicar tanto de un tema con todo detalle y un entusiasmo grande y evidente por lo que está pensando y contandome. De alguna manera me sentí orgullosa de él y me di cuenta de que somos muy similares. Compartimos experiencias, principios y intereses; creo que por sus palabras empecé a entender de donde vienen ciertas características de mi personalidad. Y por una vez, no fue solo un consejo de él a mí ni una explicación de mí a él; fue una conversación recíproca y por algún motivo, me derritió el corazón.

Together

It is funny how people can be connected. Connected by an event in the past, merely by a brief, shared moment that unites you in a look exchanged or an apology stuttered. Or by time spent together that has come to an end, binding you together in the memories. Or in an agreement never spoken, which unites you through distance, silence or time.

In secrets that can never be told, which are the hardest ones of all. Knowing too much, aware of the fact that ever saying it aloud would damage the other, willingly or not, can haunt you. Being caught between people's lives while they haven't got the faintest clue you are stuck in there, it tests your loyalty. To them, to the greater good, to yourself.

In an imaginary world that has yet to come true, in the stage of dreams and hopes. And even though it has never happened, and might never happen, you're tied together in a thought and you feel the connection already beginning to grow. 

It could be there for real, or it could be just a fantasy. It might unite you, it can drive you apart. After all it is only a hunch, a feeling of belonging in some strange level. But the thing is that once the connection has been made, it never goes away.

Under a sky full of stars...

... last night, after a long day of activities, being organized and in charge, surrounded by noise and laughter of the youngsters, I was feeling good. Tired, relieved, successful, small compared to the universe. I had my last camp maybe ever this weekend, and I have to say that this really is an end of an era. Six years and countless camps later, as many as seven only this year, I can honestly say that I've learned things I couldn't have anticipated when I started all this.

A camp is an organized, sweet chaos that consists of the total scale of emotions, operating with and for people, challenging yourself and being active and responsible twenty-four hours a day, up to nine days in a row. It doesn't even really matter who it is aimed at, though I've mostly done those for youngsters, it is always a very comprehensive experience. No matter how hard I try, I couldn't describe it exactly, or even if I could, you wouldn't understand, not if you haven't done it. Of course there are people who work on camps and might wonder what is so special about these ones, but I really believe that the orthodox camps have a special feature like no other. The religious aspect of the camps is the part  I have never really pondered in this blog, but I don't feel the need for it; it is personal, and that sort of  personal conversations people must earn.

This past camp year has been probably the most educating one, mainly because I have spent so much time in that environment. I already wrote some things after the last longer camp in July, but I feel like this part of my life with all its lessons is something I need to talk over to process and cherish everything I've gained. The reason for this year's significance is not only the high number of camps; it's also a stronger aspect of reflection in relation to my previous experience as a leader, as a part of a team and as a woman.

I find my flaws more easily, for example. Not in a self-loathing way of blaming myself for everything that went wrong, but I feel that I am more capable of admitting that alright, this is where I could have acted differently or that this speech I gave was not sufficiently informative or clear. I am more aware of what kinds of features I appreciate in people and what gets on my nerve, regarding others as well as myself. I've also learned how important it is to look deeper than the surface to understand people, and even though one might judge, make assumptions or doubt others merely based on actions or appearances, there is always, always something more. Something, that makes the person who they are for real, and often acknowledging that might be just what that person needs.

I am grateful for all the opportunities I've been given in this field and I will surely be able to exploit this whole experience in my future profession. I will hold dear all the memories of laughing hysterically after a few not-so-well-slept nights, improvising a play that keeps changing, sitting by the campfire gazing at the stars, immersing in conversations about everything and anything and going to sleep at night with a smile on my face for a job well done. And anywhere I go, I'll know that there could be someone whose life I've been a part of, which is a pretty nice feeling

When the night falls

The mind is a curious place. It can make you remember, or make you forget. Self-defense and self-destruction, separated by a fine line. In it we can live another life, be another person or just curl up under a warm blanket and stay still.

It can produce words, the keys to the histories so rarely told, however complicated or shameful. The bridge between the imaginary and the real, from the heart to the lips. The answers to the questions, hidden within. Words; the downfall, the salvation. The power, the companion.

The home of emotions, although they always seem to crush your heart instead. The place of reason, of logic, and the nest of memories. Of knowledge, which really is all I have.

And I wonder how I can look into my eyes and still wonder what she looks like.