My Constellation of Stars

#52Essays2017
Week18

Lately I have been working harder on the things I am passionate about. I have been photographing Bernard much more, as well as dogs in foster homes, from Pupstarz Rescue. I have also been photographing everything I find beautiful- nature, buildings, landscapes, places; and whenever I'm not shooting, I sit on my desk and edit new and old photos. Photos that have never been edited, or ones that have already been through photoshop with several layer masks upon them. I get to create and bring new life to photos that were long gone and forgotten. I love writing about the process. Writing about how it makes me feel. These pieces are mostly for myself. They are handwritten. Just like photography, I write about what makes my heart turn, in good and bad ways. If there is an event in my day that was significant and had an impact on me, I write. If I see something that makes me dream, I write. If something happens to someone else, but it hurts me as if I carried the person's heart in me for a while, I write.

I photograph and write because I let out what I fail to execute in any other way. Verbally, words don't flow as well as they do when I write. Verbally, sceneries and soulful eyes can't be described as they are in my photos. I express myself best through art, and that is what I want to do. Forever.

However, because I've been doing this so much more, I'm becoming familiar with the feelings I get when I'm fully immersed in what I love. I'm becoming accustomed to relentlessly create. Therefore, not only have I been feeling amazing about it, I've also been hearing the little voice of depression make it's way back into my life. During the hours that I am immersed in photographing, editing, and writing, in other words, creating, I am on a high like no other. I'm in my zone. A zone I do not want to get out of. A high I do not want to come down from. But I have to, not because I have to eat, shower, and sleep, but because that is simply not part of my everyday life. It doesn't pay the bills, it doesn't feed me. So when I come down of the high, I don't gracefully hit the ground. I hit it hard. So hard it hurts.

The first few days I kept it to myself. I tried to ignore the feelings and push them aside. As if this would work. I should know better. Then I decided to honor my feelings and be fully aware of these emotions. I am entitled to let myself feel whatever I want to feel because there is nothing more real than my raw emotions. I told John about it. And although he was very understanding and kind to give me suggestions and advice, I just needed him to listen. Because the advice he was giving me were things I knew well I had to do. They were the things that got me out of hell, so I knew I had to to put them into practice. I just needed listening ears. I just needed to vent. So I let out all of my emotions. It hurt, but I also freed myself from them, because I was then able to see clearer.


I am lucky to have a job I enjoy, with children that make me laugh and families that trust my knowledge and capabilities to help and teach their children. I am also lucky to have all the time that I have to do what I love. I do count my lucky stars, even though sometimes I forget to do so. But I also count the stars that are farther away, not yet at my reach, because those are the ones that I will relentlessly work for. Stars that I am not sure if they even align. Perhaps my dream job hasn't been invented yet. But somehow I will find a way to integrate photography of dogs and beauty, with writing that comes from the heart and do them both for a living. I'll not only align those far away stars, but they'll become a constellation I'll form on my own, and I'll count each and every one of them every chance I get.

Empathizing With a Rap Song

#52Essays2017
Week 17

"There are certain emotions in your body that not even your best friend can sympathize with, but you will find the right film or the right book, and it will understand you" - Bjork  

** or the right song **

On Sunday morning I jumped into a friend's car to head to a rooftop sunrise shoot. As I stepped in I asked for the music to be changed as he was listening to rap.
My liking in music is very dependent on the lyrics. Music with words that tell a story I can identify with travel deep. Even if the song has no real connection to my life or any experience, my empathetic self feels what the singer is relaying as if he/she is living it, and I hurt or rejoice for them. I am not a fan of rap and hip-hop, because for me, there is nothing significant about 'I got a glock in my rary' or 'I'm so gangsta prissy chicks don't wanna f*** with me' --- I can't. I try to be open to things as much as possible. But those words just don't do it for me. It does for others, but not for me.

On our way back from the shoot, he tried educating me about the specific rapper he was listening to when I got into his car. He tried convincing me that not all rap and hip hop is meaningless. That there is actual art created in it, and life messages being transmitted. He provided examples of what this singer/songwriter raps about, and how his style is so unique. I listened, liked what I was being told, and decided to give it a try. And so he played it, and I tried listening to rap as I do other genres. Listen closely, feel, relate.

I listened to Logic, a 27 year-old rapper, singer, songwriter, and record producer. The first song I listened to jumped from different perspectives in such a genius way. It integrated the fatality of an accident, talking to 'God', and the explanation of a theory of life; more specifically how little we know about it. Genius I tell you.

But then I listened to a song that prevented me from swallowing the bread I was eating. I had a knot in my throat throughout as I listened to its every word. Never in a thousand years did I think a rap song would make me feel the way that song made me feel. The song is titled "Anziety"

"Ima make it someday somehow"
what you telling yourself
But you ain't focused on what's important: mentality, health

Speech within the song-

It was December in sunny Los Angeles California
in the heart of Hollywood
I stood next to my wife in a line surrounded by hundreds of other people
on our way to watch Star Wars
When suddenly I was engulfed with fear and panic
as my body began to fade
In this moment my mind was full of clarity
But my body insisted it was in danger
........
And soon enough I found myself in a hospital bed being told
what I went through was anxiety
.......
The doctor said it was anxiety
But how could it be anxiety?
How could anxiety make me physically feel off balance?
How could anxiety make me feel as though I was fading
from this world and on the brink of death?
.......
Derealization
The sense of being out of one's body
I'm not here
I'm not me
I'm not real
Nothing is
Nothing but this feeling of panic

Every word was familiar. His description of anxiety as feeling physically off balance, fading away, panic, and on the brink of death punctured through my heart.
An anxiety I dealt with alone for as long as I can remember. Anxiety and depression I kept as a secret to not add to my parents' list of worries. I was 'strong' in their eyes, I was the family's anchor, how could I possibly weaken? If I fell, my family would too, I thought.

Anxiety and depression is real. And even more real is the silence that surrounds it. It's a silent killer the creeps in and suffocates, slowly. Oh so slowly.

It's like having a constant voice poking fun at you for feeling helpless, which makes you feel even more helpless, because you know the voice is right. The voice is heavy as it pushes you down making it impossible to get out of bed upon waking up. It plays and replays nerve racking and sorrowful events making sadness the most known and familiar feeling. The voice thumps in rhythm to your racing heart, making it louder and deafening. This voice never leaves. It becomes quieter sometimes, so quiet that you may think it's gone for good, but it comes back. Without announcing its return, it comes back well fed, bigger, louder, and more aggressive.

The voice becomes so deafening that there comes a point when its sound waves knock you into a hole. A deep dark hole, so deep that light isn't visible when looking up. I was in there. I tried climbing out, by ignoring the feelings and pushing them aside as I always did, but this time it didn't work. And the fact that I couldn't get out made matters worse.

Until I embraced my emotions, I learned to listen and talk to my heart. To free myself from my own mind because it was distorting and intensifying what my heart was feeling. I had to learn to accept that my heart was a little different. It felt too much. It felt my feelings and others' as well. Once I accepted that about myself, I was no longer at the mercy of my emotions. Because I let myself feel, and then took control of my thoughts, which in turn took control of those feelings before they controlled me.

There is nothing wrong with sadness, and feeling nervous. But when they forcefully want to become your best friends, your mind tends to listen and welcome them in. Controlling my thoughts through self help books, yoga, meditation, mindfulness, positivity, and putting ME first, helped me climb out of the hole, as if they slid in a long ladder and helped me out.

11:11 and Eyelashes

#52Essays2017
Week 16

Last week, as I was with one of my students during a session, I noticed a long eyelash on his rosy cheek.
I stopped teaching, told him to stay still and took the eyelash. I placed it on my index finger and said to him, "Look sweetie, this is your eyelash. Close your eyes, make a wish, and blow at it"

He didn't question me. He closed his eyes for what seemed like an entire minute, opened his eyes and blew. He was excited. His little smirk told me so.

The next day I saw him while I picked up and waited for another student in his classroom. He walked up to me, and with sad little eyes said "My wish didn't come true."

My heart sunk. He had wished for a toy and innocently believed my every word. For a second I didn't know how to amend what I had done. But as I looked into his eyes, the words started flowing. I told him to keep wishing, but to work hard for what he wants as well. If he wants that toy, I told him to do all of his homework on time, pay attention in class, do his chores, help mommy and daddy out, and ask for the toy as a reward and be patient for when his parents can get it for him. To always wish and work hard for the wish. Those are the wishes that are most likely to come true. He seemed to understand what I said, and walked back to his seat with the same sweet smirk as the day before.

At first I thought I should have never introduced him to wish-making for every eyelash. He'll either pull out all of his eyelashes, or get his little heart broken time and time again, as this first time. But after seeing his reaction to my explanation, and knowing it will most likely stay with him more than what is taught to him during a lesson, I thought I did right.

Ever since I learned about wish-making, to stars, eyelashes, blowing birthday candles, 11:11, in no particular order, I got my heart broken several times. I'm a big wish believer. I believe in wanting something hard enough to wish it into reality. But I recently learned that as much as I wished for something, if it wasn't under my control, chances are those wishes would not come true. But for those wishes where I did have control over the outcome, I had to wish hard, and work hard to have them granted. There's no way around it. Not that I know of at least.

When I was young, I wished for my brother to get it together. I wished for him to come home early from parties. To stay home on weekends. For my parents not to argue. For my dad to be happy. For them to understand me. Those wishes weren't granted, even though I wished hard for them.
But other wishes, like getting the jobs I interviewed for, getting accepted to the college and gradschool of my choice, winning contests, etc. they did. Most, at least. Because I worked for them. I wished them every chance I got, every 11:11 am/pm I came across, every eyelash I found, the first star I saw every night. But I also did everything I could to obtain them.

I still make wishes now. The same wish over and over again. The one I now know I want more than anything. I wish to be a photographer and a writer. Full time. Do them both for a living. And just like I told my student, I'll not only wish for it, but I'll work hard for it, because one day the wish will be granted even if I blow at the eyelash when it's already gone, or I look at the time and make the wish a minute after 11:11.

My California Dreamin'. His California Nightmare

#52Essays2017
Week 15


Last week, for spring break, John and I went to California. Again. Last year we went to San Diego, this time we went to San Francisco, and spent a day in Yosemite National Park.

There's something about California that I love. The weather perhaps. The numerous hiking trails. The

greenery. The tranquility. Coming from New York, it seems like the rest of the world is much more calm. San Francisco, although very city-ish, is still quieter. On a Saturday night, San Francisco's Union Square didn't have nearly half the amount of people you see on any street of Manhattan. 

  

I love New York. Sometimes I think I love it too much. I thrive on the loud, the hectic, the variety, the crazy, the sleepless. But I appreciate the silence and calmness of the outside world as well. Whenever I step out of NYC, but stay within the country, I see vast differences, and consider the possibilities of living wherever I am visiting. San Diego is up there on the list. The differences I see between NYC and other states are not so apparent to foreigners. I learned that in a cab ride in San Francisco.


It was 5:45 in the morning when John and I took an Uber from our hotel to another hotel where our bus tour was picking us up for Yosemite. Our cab driver was from Bombay, now living in San Francisco for the past 7 months. He came with his wife following his son, as he met and married a French girl during his time in college in California. He spoke about Bombay with such love and yearning. It was beautiful to listen to and painful at the same time. John and I listened and asked him questions. I mostly wanted to know how much he missed Bombay, and if he saw himself returning eventually.

"My son and wife want to stay. So I'm outnumbered. But I do miss it. You can't cross streets in Bombay. You have to hop in a taxi to cross streets" he laughed "But as crazy as it can be, it's crazier here"

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Here, people are so worried about themselves. Only themselves. Work. Making money. Home. Eating. And the same thing over and over. They don't think about anything else. They have some fun on weekends, because they think it's the only time they are allowed to have fun. I think they are only living on weekends. That's not life."

"I guess you're right. I didn't think it was much like that here though. We're from New York, and I can definitely see what you're saying over there."

"Oh, I haven't been to New York, but I have heard it's worse than here."

After talking some more about the lifestyle he missed, and the one he had now and didn't yet get accustomed to, we start talking about politics. And this is how he described Americans when it came to politics:

"They're not very smart. They make decisions thinking about themselves only, and then when things go wrong, they regret having made that choice. But they don't learn from it. Because they do it again."

I stood quiet for a few seconds. I was in utter shock listening to how someone with fresh eyes, who barely has 7 months living in this country viewed us Americans. Perhaps I should've been offended. But I wasn't. I wasn't because I knew that so much of what he was saying was true. He wasn't trying to be disrespectful. We were having a conversation and he was simply voicing his views and opinions. Which are very valid if you ask me. He's not from here. He is now seeing and living life here coming from somewhere else. He can compare.

When we hopped out of the cab, I wished him well. I told him that he ever goes to NYC, to stop by 74th and Roosevelt in Jackson Heights, because he'll feel more at home with it's vast south asian shops and eateries. As we closed the cab door, right in front of us I saw a tiny restaurant 'Little Delhi', I turned around so I could show it to him as I pointed to it, but he had driven away. I then wondered if he had seen it. If we would go back home that night and tell his wife they had to dine there sometime. And then I supposed he probably didn't, because he was working, because he was making money, because in America details are so easily missed. Was he becoming Americanized without realizing? I hope not.

Is There Beauty in Fear?

#52Weeks2017
Week 14

Growing up I was extroverted and fearless. The extroversion and fearlessness lasted until middle school. I was then flooded with fears. Fear of bad grades, of disappointing my parents, my teachers, myself. Of getting caught doing, or even thinking something I wasn't supposed to. Of wanting too much. Of flying. Yes, of flying. I suddenly became deathly afraid of airplanes.

I've let go of many of my fears. I no longer care about disappointing anyone but myself. Bad grades? I'm done with school, and if there's any grading left to do, it will be on how much I learn, love and laugh in my life. So far, I'm giving myself an A+ with room for more pluses. On wrongdoing and getting caught, I only care about catching myself before I go deeper in the wrong, and if I do, find a way to dig myself out, and learn from it. Wanting too much? I want what I want, and no longer apologize for it. My wants, however, are different from what they were. I desire happiness and balance. That's all. 

But the one fear that persists is flying. * I write this as I'm sitting in between John (my husband) and a stranger, in a plane taking me from San Francisco to New York *

The day before a flight, the anxiety I've been successful at controlling for the past 2 years comes back. It lasts until I'm up in the air in a steady and smooth flight. Once I feel turbulence, it comes back full force. I close my eyes, shake my legs, breathe in and out, and pray under my breath. Pray to the universe. Pray to a God I don't know the name of, but I know is there. Once the turbulence passes, I look around me. People are sound asleep, reading, talking, watching movies. And then I wonder, why am I so afraid? Why does this happen Every. Single. Time?!

No matter how many times I fly, which I'm doing more of, I'm still terrified of being up here, somewhere in the sky, inside an overpowering, loud and shaky machine that for some reason takes control of my thoughts, emotions, and body. But why do I let it? How do I make it go away?

I hike. I love altitude when hiking, so when I travel I purposefully look for hikes that lead to beautiful sceneries from up above. I crave standing, walking, and photographing on the edge of beautiful solid earth and looking down. Down at nothing. At the abyss. John hates when I do that, but he knows it gives me such a thrill and happiness, that as much as he hates it, he just stands behind me and lets me be. 

I am often asked how can I not be afraid of heights, especially being so vulnerable standing on an edge with outside factors circulating, such as wind, a wrong step, feeling dizzy, etc, but feel afraid being in a plane, which is more secure. I am not quite sure what the answer is, but after thinking long and hard about it, I believe it's about control and trust. The control I have over my own body when standing on a precipice, and the trust I have in me that my body knows what it's doing and what it's feeling. I don't feel that while in a plane. I'm enclosed in a machine, up in the sky, flown by a pilot I do not know. My body then reacts to the lack of control. It wants to trust in itself but it can't because all power has been snatched away from it. 

I'm still flying. As I type, the plane is somewhere over Denver. There's moderate turbulence according to my app and what I feel. But I'm not shaking my leg. I'm obviously not closing my eyes. And I'm not praying. I'm on my phone typing away. Controlling my thoughts as I'm writing. My body is still at the mercy of this airplane, but my thoughts are coming back to me. They're quieting. My emotions aren't recklessly slipping away from me and doing as they please. My heart beats at a faster rate than usual, but it's not loud enough for me to hear, as it usually feels like when I'm in here. 

I perhaps won't ever get over this fear completely. I don't plan on not facing it either, because I want to travel and explore as that is part of my happiness; so getting on a plane and being 35,000 ft above ground is necessary. But writing through a flight, writing about what is going on in my head and chest throughout seems to help. Have I found a way to not only ameliorate my fear of flying, but create something beautiful out of something scary?

The Two Zones

#52Essays2017
Week 13


The school I work in provides us with professional development meetings every six weeks or so. As a speech and language therapist, it gives me more insight on what my kids are doing in the classroom, and for teachers it gives them time to plan as a group for the upcoming units. Last week, before any talking about future units occurred one of the assistant principals dimmed the lights and showed us a 5 minute TED Talk. It was about two important 'Zones' - the Learning Zone and the Performance Zone. Both zones are vital in all we do. We're either in one or the other. But for many reasons, we are typically stuck in one zone. We're stuck in the Performance Zone. Day and night. 24/7.

In all we do, work, hobbies, parenting, LIFE, we are usually in the performance zone. We perform. We do. We repetitively act on how and what we already know. This is how he explained it. I listened and knew it to be true. At least for me, in many aspects, it is true. As much as I hate to admit it, it felt as if it was being said solely to me. Loud and clear, with a dark background, and headlights on him. "Get out of the performance zone only, because nothing ever grows there" - ok Angie! Once again, this is it. Get out of it.

The performance zone is the zone that I am mostly in. Because when I perform I do what I know. I'm good at it. I've mastered it. I've already done it so many times that I know what to expect. The results are good, therefore I do it over and over again. It's pretty much my comfort zone.
I am typically in my performance zone at work with my kids. The materials, tasks, and strategies I use work, and the kids love them, so I use them over and over. Can I add more to my repertoire? Of course. Do I? Yes, but not as often as I would like to.

I also find myself in my Performance Zone in my art. With my photography and writing. Not because I love being there, but because it's what I know well and I like the results. When photographing, I usually have three or four compositions that I love. My hands tightly gripped on the camera swiftly, and automatically turn to those well known angles. The post processing is done with tools and programs, and clicks and shading that I am familiar with. Little frustration there. In writing, only my journal pages witnessed the bleeding of my pen. I read entries out loud or to a few friends, but nothing more.

But then I look back at photos I took 2 or 3 years ago, and realize I have been in the Learning Zone many points since, because I see growth. The lighting, colors, composition, focus, cleaner shots with less distraction. I can now pay attention to the entire picture, my subject and what surrounds it. The few workshops and classes I took, and self-taught practices brought me here. I look back at old journal entries and compare them to the ones I write now, as well as these essays, and realize my craft has improved. I no longer keep my writing in journals and for a few to know about, but publish them in a blog, weekly. And it's because at several points I've been in the Learning Zone in writing too. Inspiring workshops, more reading on the craft of writing, and giving myself more discipline in my writing practice, also brought me here. My Learning Zones merged with my Performance Zones, which is absolutely fine. That's the point. Learn it well, learn it deeply, put what I learn into practice, make it familiar, make it be a part of me. But I need to keep going back to my Learning Zone as much as possible. Because growth should never stop. Especially for the things I love.

If I could do less robotic performing and doing, and instead, do more learning, exploring and asking, I would be able to balance out my time in each zone, and prioritize the more important one. The Learning Zone.

Walking on Pretzel Sticks

#52Essays2017
Week 12


Yesterday I came across a video on Facebook of a man that stopped a fight between two african american teenagers. The video was recorded by one of the teenagers in the 'audience'. I say 'audience' because the fight had a crowd watching. They were their 'friends' who were amused by what was going on as they recorded, and laughed while they fought. This man, or hero, I should say, came in between them and not only stopped the fight, but asked them to look around. To look at their 'friends'. To observe how they recorded and laughed. They laughed at their anger, at their experience. They laughed at them. One of the teens involved in the fight breathed fast and heavily. He was visibly more angry than the other one. The video then jumped from the fight to the man receiving an award for having done what he did to and for these minority kids.

Unfortunately these common events don't always have a person like him to intervene. Most don't.
I could rant about how this is the government's fault. Because I believe it is. Not all may think so, but I do. Because it doesn't take a genius to figure out that our system is flawed. That it has failed them. It doesn't take a genius to come up with a list of these flaws and add bullets under each one with possible solutions. For example, getting rid of biased standardized educational curriculums and tests that continue to leave and push behind minority children even further. Putting them at a disadvantage from the very beginning of their educational journey, setting them up for failure. Or fixing the welfare system, that to me, is a bandaid or a cover up that disguises the true intentions of keeping them there generation after generation with little to no room for escape or growth. Or how about the disgusting use of third grade data to plan for prison beds? How dare they make a beautiful little boy into a number and reserve a bed for him in prison! Perhaps doing something about the education system to prevent the present and future minority third graders to fail, is a much better idea. No? Is it much more complicated than this? Absolutely. But we all know that proactivity is better than reactivity, so to me, it comes down to not caring enough to do anything about it. And when they pretend to do something, it's exactly that, pretending.
Ok, I did rant a little bit, but I'll stop there, because we cannot do much about that aspect. We have no control over that. But there are other things we do have control over. Which I will get to.

Going back to this particular event, the brave man was presented with an award. In the small ceremony, he was accompanied by his mother and the two teenagers he helped. Or better said, saved. Both teenagers are two of the lucky few who encountered someone in their lives who saved them from a future that has a path paved for them already. Thank the universe and all the heavens for these people. Because they're the ones who give these kids a chance at shifting the route of their destination. Sometimes these people are loving and strict parents who provide love and much needed discipline. Sometimes it's a teacher, a friend, a mentor. People who don't give up on these kids. People who take action time and time again, or simply do something amazing at the right time and the right place for someone who needs it at that specific moment in time. For this man, it was his mother. He spoke with tears in his eyes about living in the projects and going down the wrong path. But she never gave up on him. When he was young, she broke pretzel sticks and lined them up in the middle of their kitchen table, and explained the line to be the good path, the path he needed to be on, and the rest of the table being where he shouldn't be. Imagine that. What are the chances? But it's the sad truth. It's the world they face.

Many of these people are ones who've lived through it. People who needed a person like themselves when they were young. Others are people who are able to put themselves in these kids' shoes. Who don't look passed others' misfortunes. Who use what they have to help as much or however little they can. Wether they have a lot, have a little, have been through it or not, they're compassionate people. They are what this world needs more of.

We should thank them. For doing what they do, and being who they are. But more than thanking them, we should be one of them. Now, I am not saying to join a youth group and become a mentor 20 hours a week. We cannot, and should not do what is not in our hearts. But we can all be better people for ourselves and others, and make small differences. We can all do a little something. A little something that changes the mindset, or at least plants a little seed of thought into a young mind. Provide advise, listen and understand before judging, a hug. Sometimes that is more than enough. By doing this, their pretzel path of good becomes a little thicker. They'll have more room to walk on, and less chance of stepping onto the table.