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.

"Da Hurst" and Jackson Heights

#52Essays2017
Week 11


I work in the neighborhood I grew up in. In the elementary school I attended as a child. The neighborhood I lived in until I was 15 years old, and went back to every weekend since I moved, because everything kept me attached to it. I couldn't let go of it. The streets, the people, the scents, the food. The familiar. It was my home. Elmhurst "Da Hurst" as we called it, and Jackson Heights, Queens.

I grew up in a one bedroom, turned 3 bedroom apartment. An old, four story building with huge bedrooms commonly converted into multiple bedroom apartments for the commodity of big families, or multiple families living in it. We were rather a small family. A family of 4, and our dog. The large bedroom had a sheetrock down the middle dividing my parents' room from mine and my brother's. Once my brother turned 13, and I 7, my parents thought it was important for each of us to have our own space. Thus, they divided our small space even further. I ended up with a tiny 10x6 'room'. Just enough for my twin-size bed and a night stand. I loved my room. It was my sanctuary.

This was the norm where I lived. I knew because I learned from friends, who aside from living with their immediate families, they also lived with aunts, uncles, cousins, and/or grandparents, in tiny one bedroom apartments, or studios.

Year after year, I filled my tiny room's walls with diplomas, certificates, and drawings. Until I turned 15. My parents then bought a one-family house in Woodhaven, Queens. A new neighborhood. Quiter and cleaner. With more houses than buildings. More trees than stores. Although in the same borough and a bus ride away, it was too far for me. Woodhaven wasn't Elmhurst. It wasn't Jackson Heights.

Let me tell you why where I grew up in, exactly two blocks south from Roosevelt Avenue and the 7 train was, and is so special.

The people. Both neighborhoods are inundated with Latinos. Although from different countries and backgrounds. We speak the same language. We understand each other. Having neighbors that know and appreciate your food, your language, your customs, your struggles, is comforting. As a kid, growing up with other Latino children in school, in my building, and in my block, contributed to my sense of identity. I played with children who looked like me. I spoke to them in the language that was spoken to me at home. We sat on our stairs eating the same or similar foods. We played similar games. We used similar phrases. We had similar clothing styles. We were raised alike. We celebrated the same holidays and had the same traditions. And if there were particular traditions or holidays that differed, we were still so young that we learned about them, adopted them, and celebrated them too. My mom's best friend is Colombian. She was our next door neighbor. She was more like my second mom. If I wasn't home, I was in hers, listening and dancing to cumbia, salsa and vallenatos as she cooked. Eating arepas and sancocho several times a week. I grew up braiding my culture with others, and ended up with a solid, colorful, long braid of cultures that were made into one. It was distinctly mine.

My building was so small that all of us knew each other. Some neighbors were closer to others. There was a group of neighbor friends who watched important soccer games outside, in front of the building. I joined them every time. Who took the television outside and how they made the connection is beyond me. But it's one of my fondest memories. The World Cup and Copa America games were unforgettable.

A very symbolic and iconic person in Jackson Heights is a Colombian man who rides his bike entertaining passerby's. His beard is always dyed colorfully, he wears a dress, has a parrot on his head, and carries a poodle in his arms. He makes pit stops and tells jokes, and interacts with people, many who know him by name. Even those who don't, wave at him every time he's seen. He's carefree, jolly, free-spirited. He spreads a little bit of all that as he rides his bike through those noisy, busy streets.

The food. There was nothing like buying tamales from the lady on the corner of 90th and Roosevelt on Sunday mornings. Or drinking cafe Colombiano at a young age every morning before going to school. The aromas coming from Latino restaurants and street vendors all through Roosevelt avenue, disguised the polluted air and called you in as you passed by. The scents of your building, or your friends' buildings at dinner time were so inviting, that if your neighbors and you were more like friends and family than mere neighbors, you knocked their door and helped yourself to a plate.

The noise. The lady in 82nd and Roosevelt with her supermarket cart yelling "obleas, obleas, obleas, salpicon, avena!" The lady on the opposite corner shouting "bateria, bateria, bateria!" The loud preacher on the other corner trying to save souls and reassuring their entrance to heaven. The deafening, always crowded and iconic 7 train. A train that takes hardworking, beautifully blended and an incredibly diverse amount of people to their destination. A train that everyone in Queens has a love-hate relationship with.

The diversity. Yes, Elmhurst and Jackson Heights is home to Latinos. But both neighborhoods are also homes to an incredible number of different countries and cultures. Jackson Heights is one of the most diverse places in the city. Walk from 74th street to Junction Blvd on Roosevelt avenue, and back on 37th avenue. and you'll feel like you're walking through different countries. Restaurants and stores on and near 74th street are predominantly South Asian. Colorful sari and jewelry stores envelope you. Keep walking up and you'll go from hearing Indian and Bengali music to Mexican cumbias and rancheras. You won't miss the delicious scent of Mexican tacos, and mazorca con queso coming from restaurants and food carts. As you journey on, in between 82nd and 90th streets you'll encounter an overwhelming number of Colombian, Peruvian, and Ecuadorian restaurants. You won't know whether to have bandeja paisa, pollo a la brasa, or bolon de verde for lunch. Countries and cultures in Jackson Heights are so intricately sectioned, but at the same time so beautifully blended, I think it's safe to say that the neighborhood is the physical definition of New York's melting pot.

Friends. My nearest and dearest friends are the same kids I met in elementary school, and journeyed middle school and High School with me as well. The same ones who lived a few buildings from mine, or no more than 3 blocks away. Many have moved, and some have stayed. But they all know exactly what I am talking about. They are familiar with every word. They may even be able to add things I've missed. Because they lived it. We hung out in front of their buildings everyday after school eating Wise chips, Doritos and Twinkies. We cut school together. We knew each other's parents. We had the same dreams of making it in life meanwhile loving every bit of where we were from and doing life the way we did. We get together now and talk about the good old days, our neighborhood, the streets, and how easily it was to get lost in them and end up on the wrong path. Not because our neighborhood was overly dangerous, but because due to the socioeconomic, educational and immigrant status of families, parents are forced to work excessive amount of hours, and children end up raising themselves. We saw many friends get lost. Not from our close-knit group, but many that we grew up with, talked to, and even hung out with. They walked down the wrong path to their own downfall and demise. And although we know this about the streets we walked on, we loved it and love it still. Because it shaped us. Because wherever we go and whoever we may become, Elmhurst and Jackson Heights, comes with us.



Working in my childhood elementary school as a speech-language therapist is probably not much of a coincidence, or because there are no positions for me in other schools. Of course there are, and much closer to where I live now. But there are still strings that attach me to these neighborhoods. There's beauty in listening and understanding my kids' lives. Not by trying to put myself in their shoes and feeling pity, but by actually having walked in their shoes and recalling the familiarity of what they are going through and feel. There's beauty in appreciating the honesty and rawness of their feelings as they share their experiences with me. Experiences and feelings I know all too well, or saw those close to me live them.

Growing up I wanted more. I wanted less noise, less crowd, a bigger home, cleaner streets. I wanted an 'upgrade' on all that surrounded me. It's not that I didn't love or enjoy my neighborhood. I did. But I had an unfulfilled desire for more. Perhaps my imagination made satisfaction an unrecognizable concept. Although I have now what I wanted back then, I miss my neighborhood. I appreciate the noise, the crowd, the streets. I come back everyday for work. But when I am back to visit a friend, or obtain something that only Elmhurst or Jackson Heights can give me, I walk down memory lane. I smell the air I smelled before. The sights take me back and I cherish every corner. I am beyond grateful to have grown up in an immigrant neighborhood. To have been exposed to a different type of knowledge. One that books can't teach. I am grateful to have thrived here. There's no where else I would have preferred to grow up in.


* This blog post inspired me to collaborate with a friend. One I grew up with, and knows these words to be true. We will embark in a photographic journey that has our hometown in the heart of it. * 
Stay tuned :)

Photos taken by: Davidson Miranda 

Oh My Dog!

#52Weeks2017
Week 10

This is probably the piece that has been the most difficult to start. Yet, the subject is what I love the most in life. What has taught me most in life. What motivates me. What occupies the softest part of my heart. Dogs. Especially my dog, Bernard. I just love him so much. I love them all. I'll tell you how much.

When I was in 2nd grade I accidentally saw in the news how dogs were being tortured in Korea. My parents had no time to turn the TV off or change the channel, as my mom and dad fumbled through the couch and cushions looking for the remote control to no avail. I had seen enough. I didn't sleep that night. I cried so much I can still feel the heaviness in my chest when I think back to that night. I was hurting for them. At the time my two best friends were Asian. I didn't know exactly from what country. But at that age we're learning about life, and we create our own categories, and I immediately placed them in that group. The next day I saw them, and did not want to speak to them. So I didn't. I later told them as my voice quivered, why I was never going to speak to them again. Again, I was in second grade. I didn't know any better. My teacher spoke to me, and called my mother. I learned I was wrong, and so I apologized to my friends, who accepted my apologies, or probably had no clue as to what I was talking about or apologizing for, and we quickly became friends again. However, the image that was recorded in my brain, still produced the same pressure in my chest. The same sadness. The same anger.

I loved dogs so much that in elementary school I was convinced I was going to be accepted to Cornell University to their veterinary program. Until I soon learned that my responsibilities as a veterinary included performing surgeries, watching them pass away, and crying with families as they said their last goodbyes. That's when I changed my mind.

In 5th grade, I found several of my dog brother Wolfy's puppy teeth around my house. I collected 4 and took them to school to show them off with pride. They never returned home with me, as I lost them in the cafeteria. That night I hugged him and cried into his fur. I had lost a treasure.

When I was 9, I tried refuting our family pastor's theory that animals don't go to heaven. I felt especially offended with his remark as my younger brother, Wolfy, was a dog. The pastor had not died and gone to heaven. He didn't have a family member who walked down from heaven and given him the 411. How would he know? I refused to believe him. So, after the sermon, I decided to ask him where he had obtained that information from. "The Bible" he responded. At 9 years old, my heart learned that the Bible wasn't a reliable source, especially if it stated such things; and second, God, no matter what religion, was the definition of love, why would he reject animals? What was so special about us humans? I asked for the verse, but he didn't know it. I then, tried to prove my point as to why animals did go to heaven. And lastly, I decided that not only the Bible, but he, also, was no longer reliable to me. Wolfy was going to heaven, no matter what he said, no matter how he or anyone thought life after death worked. No one knows how that's going to go down anyway. The only thing I was sure of was that Wolfy was more deserving of a heaven than him, and most people I knew.

Growing up, whenever I was asked about my siblings, I always said I had two. Wolfy was the first one mentioned. My response was something like this "I have two brothers, Wolfy is the youngest, he's a German Shepherd/Husky mix, and my older brother, Jose." I got some laughs, some weird looks, some "me too!" The answer I gave wasn't to be cute, to be funny, or to obtain any type of response, it was just the truth. It was my truth.

I taught my dad to love dogs. He grew up not having any pets, and the only reason he accepted Wolfy was because I begged for him. I taught him to understand them. To pet them. I showed him that they had feelings and emotions, through numerous books I borrowed from our local library, and by giving him examples of Wolfy's behaviors that reflected his emotions. I cried when he didn't show Wolfy affection the way I thought only Wolfy desereved. Until he did. Until I saw him cry when Wolfy passed away. Then I realized my dad had changed. His heart now had a soft spot for dogs because I was stubborn. Because I didn't accept bland treatment or indifference. Because he had to say hi and bye to him upon entering and leaving our home. Because he had to wear a birthday hat and sing happy birthday to Wolfy for 13 years. Because I insisted and didn't accept anything but love from his part towards Wolfy. Because Wolfy himself taught my dad how to love dogs. How to love him.


After Wolfy's passing, Bernard came into my life. My fur-son. He has taught me and continues to teach me a whole different set of life lessons. He has helped me discover some layers of myself I probably wouldn't have discovered, had it not been for him. Because of Bernard I say with pride, that I am a dog photographer. He motivates me. He pushes my boundaries. He's not only my muse but somehow he has guided me to other dogs, to shelter dogs. To use my talents to help them. I am now an artist member for HeARTS speak, a global community of artists and advocates who provide their professional services pro-bono to save the lives of shelter pets through art. All because of Bernard.

I look at what I do and where I am now, and look back at all my experiences with Wolfy, Bernard, and dogs in general. They have taught me so much. So much more than college courses, than books I've read. They have taught me loyalty, compassion, love, friendship, unconditionality, forgiveness, happiness, joy, self care, and more importantly, to live in the moment.

They have taught me the real deal. The important things in life. Life lessons taught without a board, without a book, without a word. They were taught through example, through simply living.

Thank you Wolfy. Thank you Bernard. Thank you beautiful dogs!

In the Midst of the Unknown

#52Essays2017
Week 9


When tia was diagnosed with stomach cancer 12 years ago, it was a shocker to the family. She was 49 years old. She was the 6th of 8 siblings. She was my caregiver during my parents' long work hours. She was the strong one, the funny one, the glue that held the family together. 'Anyone but her', I'm sure everyone thought. One of her sisters traveled to the states to care for her during the time span of radiation and chemotherapy. Her husband worked, and her children were too young; 15 and 9.

The entire family had faith a miracle would happen. A religious faith that kept everyone going. Everyone prayed incessantly. Tia's family in Peru gathered to pray the rosary and light up candles to different saints. I had never seen, experienced and felt so much faith and hope before. So many acts of religious beliefs. Their belief that a miracle would occur was strong. However, from the start, the prognosis was not a good one. She was given 6 months to live with chemo and radiation. Perhaps less without it. Given the prognosis, some may view these acts of faith as being in denial.

Tia was diagnosed in October, and passed away on a rainy day in June of the following year. Thirteen days after her daughter's 10th birthday. Yes, she outlived the 6-months prognosis. But the prayers and faith, if they had anything to do with it, only gifted her those 2 extra months.

The way I see it...
Faith is a wonderful thing. It's a powerful feeling and belief for good and beauty in the midst of the unknown. In the midst of tragedy. And although I was one of them, who prayed and believed, or wanted to believe that she would be ok, something in me didn't believe as hard as the rest. Now I understand what that something was. It was the not yet discovered understanding of life. The knowledge that we have very little control over it. Yes, faith still is a beautiful thing. I think what makes it beautiful is that it makes us feel like we have some control over a situation, "if I have faith, it will happen." If it does happen, it was because of faith. If it doesn't, our faith wasn't strong enough.

I have faith in many things. I feel it. However, I think there is one universal truth, regardless of who we are, our beliefs, our religion, and the strength of our faith, or lack thereof, we can't control life, and we must accept it as it comes. Because life does as it pleases, and asks for no one's permission, and most likely cares very little about our hopes.

Still... we must believe that it'll be nice, and play out in our favor once in a while.

RIP Tia