Loving in London
Two years have passed since then, but even today, as I stand admiring the divine beauty of St Paul’s Cathedral, my eyes beholding the plump, perfectly carved faces of the angels on the facades, deep down I feel the dagger of sadness stabbing me in the heart. All of a sudden, the merciless wind shatters the radiance of this early spring day, and the pure sky is invaded by dark clouds laden with the promise of rain. Two years have passed like a moment, and my memories are still clinging to me, stirring a storm inside me whenever I look at this building. This was the spot where my heart first locked the Danish prince inside its treasure chest, and began an endless battle with my reproachful brain. And though he has long departed from the city, his ethereal shadow is still hanging above the land. I still see my love, my hopeless, painful, naive love revive in every shade of blue. Blue, like his jacket that lifted him up from the masses of black-clad figures. Blue, like his eyes, so vivid and yet so empty. Blue like the Thames that flowed on by my side as we walked on the riverbank in those bygone days, silent, commanding and restrained like him, but more constant, more loyal. Yes, the river is still there, but whenever I look at it, the waves twist and turn until they assemble his image to me. Alas, there is no place in London that doesn’t carry his memory. For a year, I was always under the influence of this mad, intoxicating desire, deadlier than the strongest liqueur and beautiful only in dreams. No wonder then that now every stone, every pebble, ever leaf is tainted by the dust of my love. I see him on every bicycle, I discover him in the crowd at Waterloo Station, I pass him by in front of the night-clubs of Wimbledon. I pray for him in every church, and though my pillow is no longer soaked by a sea of tears, and I no longer call myself Ophelia, I can never destroy the deceptive illusion created by his angelic beauty, an illusion that even his beastly nature couldn’t destroy. There will be no escape until I leave London, because to me London is forever intertwined with the disappointment of love.
Two years have passed since then, but even today, as I stand admiring the divine beauty of St Paul’s Cathedral, my eyes beholding the plump, perfectly carved faces of the angels on the facades, deep down I feel the dagger of sadness stabbing me in the heart. All of a sudden, the merciless wind shatters the radiance of this early spring day, and the pure sky is invaded by dark clouds laden with the promise of rain. Two years have passed like a moment, and my memories are still clinging to me, stirring a storm inside me whenever I look at this building. This was the spot where my heart first locked the Danish prince inside its treasure chest, and began an endless battle with my reproachful brain. And though he has long departed from the city, his ethereal shadow is still hanging above the land. I still see my love, my hopeless, painful, naive love revive in every shade of blue. Blue, like his jacket that lifted him up from the masses of black-clad figures. Blue, like his eyes, so vivid and yet so empty. Blue like the Thames that flowed on by my side as we walked on the riverbank in those bygone days, silent, commanding and restrained like him, but more constant, more loyal. Yes, the river is still there, but whenever I look at it, the waves twist and turn until they assemble his image to me. Alas, there is no place in London that doesn’t carry his memory. For a year, I was always under the influence of this mad, intoxicating desire, deadlier than the strongest liqueur and beautiful only in dreams. No wonder then that now every stone, every pebble, ever leaf is tainted by the dust of my love. I see him on every bicycle, I discover him in the crowd at Waterloo Station, I pass him by in front of the night-clubs of Wimbledon. I pray for him in every church, and though my pillow is no longer soaked by a sea of tears, and I no longer call myself Ophelia, I can never destroy the deceptive illusion created by his angelic beauty, an illusion that even his beastly nature couldn’t destroy. There will be no escape until I leave London, because to me London is forever intertwined with the disappointment of love.
Impressions of London
To me, London is not a city, but a patchwork of areas, each different and still alike. The traditional, the well-known, the overdone, of course, lies in the centre, in the whitewashed facades of Westminster, the quaint bell of the Big Ben, the majestic dome of St Pauls and the confident reign of the Tower over the soulless concrete buildings behind it. But those who only follow the recommendations of guidebooks will never taste the essence of London, because it is just as real in the dust-covered houses of the dull suburbs of Streatham, as in the haughty mansions of Kensington and the identikit lumps of council estates in Hackney, the hipster cafes of Shoreditch and the family-oriented teahouses of Hampstead. London is truly myriad-faced! And what a shame that the daring individualism of every borough is tainted by globalism, that slow poison that wants to control everything by rendering it familiar and harmless. London is still resisting, entrepreneurial creativity is still fighting against uniformity, but as libraries and theatres collapse and give way to chain restaurants and supermarkets, the future of this patchwork city is in danger.
As we cannot reduce London to one single image, we cannot define Londoners either. Foreigners often imagine Londoners as rigid gentlemen with a walking cane in one hand, and a top hat on their head, reading The Times on the bus and constantly apologising for everything. Well, even after two years in this city, I’m yet to meet such a gentleman. By my experience, the inhabitants of London represent every race, gender, occupation, heritage, language and belief. But London is a great blender of people. When we come here, we carry our unique soul and our special, secret dreams with us, but the daylong labour, the hopelessness of fortune, and the hours killed by the endless commute all grind us until we become part of the great joyless mass that rushes along the streets, never smiling and never noticing the 8 million others who share the city with us. London offers to satisfy all your materialistic needs in an instant, an endless row of restaurants and supermarkets feed your body, theatres and free newspapers feed your mind, and betting shops fill your wallet, but you have to repress your soul and your heart, because nothing caters for them, they have no place in the rapid, unstoppable flow of the city.
When I stroll along the South Bank, and watch the skyline gleaming in the golden light of dusk, I am still awed by the city’s mesmerising beauty. But in the loneliness of my tiny room, when my heart aches, and my soul screams for companionship, I find no consolation in the craft of London’s architects. The only thing I desire so fervently, the only thing I crave more than oxygen doesn’t exist here, and these are the moments when it is crystal-clear that I do not belong in London.
To me, London is not a city, but a patchwork of areas, each different and still alike. The traditional, the well-known, the overdone, of course, lies in the centre, in the whitewashed facades of Westminster, the quaint bell of the Big Ben, the majestic dome of St Pauls and the confident reign of the Tower over the soulless concrete buildings behind it. But those who only follow the recommendations of guidebooks will never taste the essence of London, because it is just as real in the dust-covered houses of the dull suburbs of Streatham, as in the haughty mansions of Kensington and the identikit lumps of council estates in Hackney, the hipster cafes of Shoreditch and the family-oriented teahouses of Hampstead. London is truly myriad-faced! And what a shame that the daring individualism of every borough is tainted by globalism, that slow poison that wants to control everything by rendering it familiar and harmless. London is still resisting, entrepreneurial creativity is still fighting against uniformity, but as libraries and theatres collapse and give way to chain restaurants and supermarkets, the future of this patchwork city is in danger.
As we cannot reduce London to one single image, we cannot define Londoners either. Foreigners often imagine Londoners as rigid gentlemen with a walking cane in one hand, and a top hat on their head, reading The Times on the bus and constantly apologising for everything. Well, even after two years in this city, I’m yet to meet such a gentleman. By my experience, the inhabitants of London represent every race, gender, occupation, heritage, language and belief. But London is a great blender of people. When we come here, we carry our unique soul and our special, secret dreams with us, but the daylong labour, the hopelessness of fortune, and the hours killed by the endless commute all grind us until we become part of the great joyless mass that rushes along the streets, never smiling and never noticing the 8 million others who share the city with us. London offers to satisfy all your materialistic needs in an instant, an endless row of restaurants and supermarkets feed your body, theatres and free newspapers feed your mind, and betting shops fill your wallet, but you have to repress your soul and your heart, because nothing caters for them, they have no place in the rapid, unstoppable flow of the city.
When I stroll along the South Bank, and watch the skyline gleaming in the golden light of dusk, I am still awed by the city’s mesmerising beauty. But in the loneliness of my tiny room, when my heart aches, and my soul screams for companionship, I find no consolation in the craft of London’s architects. The only thing I desire so fervently, the only thing I crave more than oxygen doesn’t exist here, and these are the moments when it is crystal-clear that I do not belong in London.
Defining Moments
She was bitter now, and scarred by life, and when she recalled the innocent days of her childhood, when all was well and life full of hope, she never remembered any cruel winter night; any assault by the piercing wind; or the barren branches of the naked trees. She only remembered the warmth of the summer sun caressing her as she lay peacefully in the soft grass. She could almost feel between her fingers the pastel glow of flowers on the open meadow; and she was once again sitting below the benevolent shade of the trees that have stood there for centuries and witnessed many great secrets. It was there in that hidden spot of earthly paradise, so close to the harsh buzz of the city and yet worlds away from it, that she began dreaming of other lives who had sat there before her, tickled by the same sun, dazed by the same sweet scent of nature that still reigned over the land in defiance of the dirt and mess that swallowed up the rest of the world. As she sat there, half-asleep and half-alert, visions of bygone figures, the flickering ghosts of the centuries danced in front of her eyes. “Come”, they murmured softly, “hear our stories, and tell it to the world!” The voice was so feeble, and her state so hazy that she could not be sure if she really heard these words, or if they were the mere children of her imagination. But the seed of a dream had already planted itself inside her, and from then on, writing, for the sake of her storytelling was her calling, her purpose, her life.
But whenever she relived this moment, sorrow immediately darkened her memories, as an envious black cloud obscures the glory of the sun. How vivid that dream once was, a true magnet of hopes, and motivation, and passion; before it was tainted by endless rejection, and the innocence of a dreamy child was killed by a grim and unfeeling world. She tried for so long, but ominous walls sprang up around her wherever she turned, and the pain that seized her when she crashed into them was now a constant companion in her life. Where has the delight of summer gone? She recalled, with a bitter taste in her mouth, her last summer, so different and so sorrowful. The year before that, she buried some of her dreams, the ones she was so fond of, and when June came, she had no hopes left except the hope of love. She recalled the vivid green grass of the tiny park, the choir of birds drowned out by the dull ticking of the clock tower. There was a multitude around her that seemed faceless, because only one face existed for her: the angelic face of her beloved, who was surely on his way, for he promised to come. She stood and waited; the clock ticked on; the multitude dispersed; the sun began to descend and she just stood and waited, on and on, until darkness engulfed her soul and she was a hopeful child no more.
She was bitter now, and scarred by life, and when she recalled the innocent days of her childhood, when all was well and life full of hope, she never remembered any cruel winter night; any assault by the piercing wind; or the barren branches of the naked trees. She only remembered the warmth of the summer sun caressing her as she lay peacefully in the soft grass. She could almost feel between her fingers the pastel glow of flowers on the open meadow; and she was once again sitting below the benevolent shade of the trees that have stood there for centuries and witnessed many great secrets. It was there in that hidden spot of earthly paradise, so close to the harsh buzz of the city and yet worlds away from it, that she began dreaming of other lives who had sat there before her, tickled by the same sun, dazed by the same sweet scent of nature that still reigned over the land in defiance of the dirt and mess that swallowed up the rest of the world. As she sat there, half-asleep and half-alert, visions of bygone figures, the flickering ghosts of the centuries danced in front of her eyes. “Come”, they murmured softly, “hear our stories, and tell it to the world!” The voice was so feeble, and her state so hazy that she could not be sure if she really heard these words, or if they were the mere children of her imagination. But the seed of a dream had already planted itself inside her, and from then on, writing, for the sake of her storytelling was her calling, her purpose, her life.
But whenever she relived this moment, sorrow immediately darkened her memories, as an envious black cloud obscures the glory of the sun. How vivid that dream once was, a true magnet of hopes, and motivation, and passion; before it was tainted by endless rejection, and the innocence of a dreamy child was killed by a grim and unfeeling world. She tried for so long, but ominous walls sprang up around her wherever she turned, and the pain that seized her when she crashed into them was now a constant companion in her life. Where has the delight of summer gone? She recalled, with a bitter taste in her mouth, her last summer, so different and so sorrowful. The year before that, she buried some of her dreams, the ones she was so fond of, and when June came, she had no hopes left except the hope of love. She recalled the vivid green grass of the tiny park, the choir of birds drowned out by the dull ticking of the clock tower. There was a multitude around her that seemed faceless, because only one face existed for her: the angelic face of her beloved, who was surely on his way, for he promised to come. She stood and waited; the clock ticked on; the multitude dispersed; the sun began to descend and she just stood and waited, on and on, until darkness engulfed her soul and she was a hopeful child no more.
The Many Faces of Los Angeles
My desire to see New York in bad weather came true sooner than I expected, as I made my way to the airport amidst a light drizzle. Luckily, it was soft and pleasant, far from the stingy downpour that London often experiences. Later, when I was aboard the plane heading to Los Angeles, I realised that I love flying. I don’t even know why, but I enjoy every moment of it, from the early check-in and the rigorous security screening to the moment of take-off and the actual journey. True, the seats of the economy class are so uncomfortable that every time I try to sleep I wake up more exhausted than before. But even the slight discomfort is dwarfed by the excitement of discovering a new place.
For two days, I had the chance to discover Los Angeles. And I must admit that it left me with varying impressions. It is a vast city with many districts that couldn’t be more different from one another. Of course I couldn’t visit all regions, but even the ones I did see gave me a glimpse of the contradictions that lie at the heart of the city. This is not an official guide to Los Angeles, but rather a collection of my personal impressions and feelings.
I stayed at a hotel in the heart of Beverly Hills, and I instantly fell in love with the area. It is peaceful, elegant and posh. The majority of the population lives in large, Mediterranean villas, and even the smaller buildings and the blocks of flats bear a touch of exoticism. The shopping district consisting of Rodeo Drive, Beverly Drive and Wilshire Boulevard feature all the luxury brands you can imagine, but lack the maddening crowds of typical shopping streets. Beverly Boulevard also includes my favourite restaurant, The Cheesecake Factory. I’m warning you, their cheesecakes are addictive! And I’d recommend the white chocolate latte of The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf café as well. I had a chat with the receptionist at the hotel, and she confirmed my feelings. Life in Beverly Hills is indeed peaceful and comfortable, even if it is slightly expensive.
Hollywood lacks the elegance of Beverly Hills. Its main roads are lined by Mediterranean bars, fast-food restaurants and cleaning agencies. And most of all, mini retail parks. They are complexes that contain 5-6 different shops. Every few blocks, you encounter such units, and they are quite similar to each other. They usually contain a fast-food chain (on a side note, Subway is the most common restaurant there), an Asian restaurant, a supermarket and a place that cashes cheques. The area is also ethnically diverse, as indicated by the abundance of international eateries. I even found a Jewish supermarket, where all the customers except me were Russian. Hollywood Boulevard is also full of contrasts. Here, fancier restaurants stand next to dodgy underwear shops and souvenir stores. The area that contains the famous landmarks is only a tiny fraction of the whole boulevard, but the density of passengers there is tenfold.
Downtown Los Angeles was a disappointment after the distinct character of the abovementioned areas. It is a typical big city area, with nondescript skyscrapers. It is striking only in its poverty. Most shops are in fact dubious jeweller’s stores, usually offering to buy gold. There is a high number of homeless people on the streets, many of whom appear as though broken by the vain attempt to get famous. A quick walk around the city centre was more than enough for me, and, seeking a way to escape, I quickly boarded a bus to another area.
Santa Monica is a charming seaside area. You can find the typical beach-front places here, cheap eats on the colourful pier, and more elegant restaurants slightly further away. It is quite popular, as indicated by the high number of cars in the parking lot, but it doesn’t feel overcrowded. The nearness of the sea and the pleasant warmth of the sun make it a very peaceful yet fun place to spend your time in.
Unfortunately, I could only visit a tiny proportion of the vast area that makes up Los Angeles. That’s why I hope I will get the chance to return and explore its many other districts in the future.
My desire to see New York in bad weather came true sooner than I expected, as I made my way to the airport amidst a light drizzle. Luckily, it was soft and pleasant, far from the stingy downpour that London often experiences. Later, when I was aboard the plane heading to Los Angeles, I realised that I love flying. I don’t even know why, but I enjoy every moment of it, from the early check-in and the rigorous security screening to the moment of take-off and the actual journey. True, the seats of the economy class are so uncomfortable that every time I try to sleep I wake up more exhausted than before. But even the slight discomfort is dwarfed by the excitement of discovering a new place.
For two days, I had the chance to discover Los Angeles. And I must admit that it left me with varying impressions. It is a vast city with many districts that couldn’t be more different from one another. Of course I couldn’t visit all regions, but even the ones I did see gave me a glimpse of the contradictions that lie at the heart of the city. This is not an official guide to Los Angeles, but rather a collection of my personal impressions and feelings.
I stayed at a hotel in the heart of Beverly Hills, and I instantly fell in love with the area. It is peaceful, elegant and posh. The majority of the population lives in large, Mediterranean villas, and even the smaller buildings and the blocks of flats bear a touch of exoticism. The shopping district consisting of Rodeo Drive, Beverly Drive and Wilshire Boulevard feature all the luxury brands you can imagine, but lack the maddening crowds of typical shopping streets. Beverly Boulevard also includes my favourite restaurant, The Cheesecake Factory. I’m warning you, their cheesecakes are addictive! And I’d recommend the white chocolate latte of The Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf café as well. I had a chat with the receptionist at the hotel, and she confirmed my feelings. Life in Beverly Hills is indeed peaceful and comfortable, even if it is slightly expensive.
Hollywood lacks the elegance of Beverly Hills. Its main roads are lined by Mediterranean bars, fast-food restaurants and cleaning agencies. And most of all, mini retail parks. They are complexes that contain 5-6 different shops. Every few blocks, you encounter such units, and they are quite similar to each other. They usually contain a fast-food chain (on a side note, Subway is the most common restaurant there), an Asian restaurant, a supermarket and a place that cashes cheques. The area is also ethnically diverse, as indicated by the abundance of international eateries. I even found a Jewish supermarket, where all the customers except me were Russian. Hollywood Boulevard is also full of contrasts. Here, fancier restaurants stand next to dodgy underwear shops and souvenir stores. The area that contains the famous landmarks is only a tiny fraction of the whole boulevard, but the density of passengers there is tenfold.
Downtown Los Angeles was a disappointment after the distinct character of the abovementioned areas. It is a typical big city area, with nondescript skyscrapers. It is striking only in its poverty. Most shops are in fact dubious jeweller’s stores, usually offering to buy gold. There is a high number of homeless people on the streets, many of whom appear as though broken by the vain attempt to get famous. A quick walk around the city centre was more than enough for me, and, seeking a way to escape, I quickly boarded a bus to another area.
Santa Monica is a charming seaside area. You can find the typical beach-front places here, cheap eats on the colourful pier, and more elegant restaurants slightly further away. It is quite popular, as indicated by the high number of cars in the parking lot, but it doesn’t feel overcrowded. The nearness of the sea and the pleasant warmth of the sun make it a very peaceful yet fun place to spend your time in.
Unfortunately, I could only visit a tiny proportion of the vast area that makes up Los Angeles. That’s why I hope I will get the chance to return and explore its many other districts in the future.
What We Should Learn from Vienna
I went on a trip to Vienna recently, and I couldn’t help noticing certain aspects that make life very pleasant there. After all, it is held to be the city with the highest quality of life for a reason. Take its main shopping street, Mariahilfer Strasse for example. It might be even longer than Oxford Street, and contains at least as many shops, but it’s far from being as crowded. And for some reason, the tourists (and locals) who visit it retain their common sense. They don’t walk extremely slowly, don’t stop in the middle of the road all of a sudden… – in general, they don’t forget that there are other people around them. By contrast, Oxford Street is a place where one loses all humanity. However much I strive to be polite and kind to others, when I have to walk down Oxford Street, I find myself pushing through everyone, and elbowing my way forward, like everyone else around me. Someone once suggested that in a similar fashion to cars on roads, people should also be regulated into walking in a certain direction on the pavement. I think this would be a reasonable measure to avoid the pandemonium that is permanent there (and in other central locations).
Or let’s look at the attitudes of passengers on public transport. Nobody eats smelly takeaway, or in fact any type of food on vehicles, nobody does their make-up on the morning train, and nobody pushes everyone out of the way to get on a carriage first. In general, there is more awareness of others around. Of course Vienna has its own popular public places, such as the Prater, a huge amusement park, and on pleasant days it can see a large volume of visitors, but people in general have a more relaxed attitude. The anxiety so common on London’s vehicles and streets seems to be unknown here.
As a lover of theatre, it struck me that the Viennese regard theatre with more respect. When taking a look at theatregoers, one can sense the attention and effort that they give to the occasion. Everyone makes sure that they wear an appropriately formal outfit, they sip champagne and snack on canapés in the foyer during the interval, and give a standing ovation to the actors at the curtain call. Theatregoers in London, on the contrary, seem to lack this respect. They see nothing wrong in going to the theatre in jeans and trainers, and during the interval they remain in their seats, eating crisps in the auditorium. At the end, some of them even leave before the actors take a bow, and even those who stay rarely give a thundering round of applause. Sure, it’s great to have a casual approach towards theatre, but I would prefer to see a bit more consideration and respect for the actors who bare their souls in front of the spectators.
But before anyone would retort that I can go back there if I feel like this, I would like to clarify that I still prefer London. Vienna with its 1.7 million inhabitants is far too quiet and peaceful for me, and the Viennese seem too conservative and intolerant. I love the vibrancy of London, a city that really never sleeps. I am awed by the landscape of central London every single time I walk there, and I relish everything that the city offers: the abundance of culture, the energy of the different nations, the wide variety of gastronomy, the beauty of the riverside, and the tranquillity of parks. But my love for London is not blind and unbalanced. I can look at it with a cool head, and thus I can also see what should be improved. We cannot forget that more than 8 million people have to live together in a limited space, and to prevent the city from becoming a living hell we must crawl out of our self-centred worlds, acknowledge that we are not alone, and show more respect towards others. This is how we can ensure that London remains the wonderful city that it is.
I went on a trip to Vienna recently, and I couldn’t help noticing certain aspects that make life very pleasant there. After all, it is held to be the city with the highest quality of life for a reason. Take its main shopping street, Mariahilfer Strasse for example. It might be even longer than Oxford Street, and contains at least as many shops, but it’s far from being as crowded. And for some reason, the tourists (and locals) who visit it retain their common sense. They don’t walk extremely slowly, don’t stop in the middle of the road all of a sudden… – in general, they don’t forget that there are other people around them. By contrast, Oxford Street is a place where one loses all humanity. However much I strive to be polite and kind to others, when I have to walk down Oxford Street, I find myself pushing through everyone, and elbowing my way forward, like everyone else around me. Someone once suggested that in a similar fashion to cars on roads, people should also be regulated into walking in a certain direction on the pavement. I think this would be a reasonable measure to avoid the pandemonium that is permanent there (and in other central locations).
Or let’s look at the attitudes of passengers on public transport. Nobody eats smelly takeaway, or in fact any type of food on vehicles, nobody does their make-up on the morning train, and nobody pushes everyone out of the way to get on a carriage first. In general, there is more awareness of others around. Of course Vienna has its own popular public places, such as the Prater, a huge amusement park, and on pleasant days it can see a large volume of visitors, but people in general have a more relaxed attitude. The anxiety so common on London’s vehicles and streets seems to be unknown here.
As a lover of theatre, it struck me that the Viennese regard theatre with more respect. When taking a look at theatregoers, one can sense the attention and effort that they give to the occasion. Everyone makes sure that they wear an appropriately formal outfit, they sip champagne and snack on canapés in the foyer during the interval, and give a standing ovation to the actors at the curtain call. Theatregoers in London, on the contrary, seem to lack this respect. They see nothing wrong in going to the theatre in jeans and trainers, and during the interval they remain in their seats, eating crisps in the auditorium. At the end, some of them even leave before the actors take a bow, and even those who stay rarely give a thundering round of applause. Sure, it’s great to have a casual approach towards theatre, but I would prefer to see a bit more consideration and respect for the actors who bare their souls in front of the spectators.
But before anyone would retort that I can go back there if I feel like this, I would like to clarify that I still prefer London. Vienna with its 1.7 million inhabitants is far too quiet and peaceful for me, and the Viennese seem too conservative and intolerant. I love the vibrancy of London, a city that really never sleeps. I am awed by the landscape of central London every single time I walk there, and I relish everything that the city offers: the abundance of culture, the energy of the different nations, the wide variety of gastronomy, the beauty of the riverside, and the tranquillity of parks. But my love for London is not blind and unbalanced. I can look at it with a cool head, and thus I can also see what should be improved. We cannot forget that more than 8 million people have to live together in a limited space, and to prevent the city from becoming a living hell we must crawl out of our self-centred worlds, acknowledge that we are not alone, and show more respect towards others. This is how we can ensure that London remains the wonderful city that it is.
Musings about 3-Day Long Weekends
Weekdays often seem infinitely long, and by Friday, you can only see a mass of exhausted faces around you. Even a joke warns us not to have a crucial operation on that day. I wonder: is it because we do not get enough time to rest?
I believe that the amount of free time given to us does not suit our modern lifestyle. I do not know when the system of 5+2 was introduced, but it surely happened in a calmer and slower time in history. At the very beginning, Sunday was the only resting day, but I guess that when the pace of life and the pressure increased and eventually became intolerable over the course of years, Saturday wwas also conceded. In our times, the pace moved up yet another gear, life became even more stressful, and the pile of tasks lying on our shoulders never stops growing. I feel that the amount o free time should adapt to this unpleasant but inevitable tendency. Maybe it is time to add another day to the weekend…
Such an addition would have several benefits. Essentially, it would enable us to sleep more, which is undeniably advantageous in itself. But this would also mean that we could be more relaxed and, in consequence, more focused during the working days. This would result in a decrease of road accidents, an increase in productivity at work, and better grades for students. People would not need to resort to destructive means to combat their feeling of exhaustion, as they would have enough time to ‘recharge their batteries’. In addition, they would be able to spend more time with their families, which would bring a positive change in our age when families and relatinships fall apart due to too much time devoted to work and not enough for love and emotions.
But unfortunately, however favourable this would be, I know that it is not going to happen anytime soon. Less working time would come with a lower salary, and the plague of financial crisis forces us to hold on to every penny we can earn, as even a slight decrease in our wages would be a severe blow. Nevertheless it’s still nice to dream about three-day long weekends. And who knows? Maybe one day they will become possible…
Weekdays often seem infinitely long, and by Friday, you can only see a mass of exhausted faces around you. Even a joke warns us not to have a crucial operation on that day. I wonder: is it because we do not get enough time to rest?
I believe that the amount of free time given to us does not suit our modern lifestyle. I do not know when the system of 5+2 was introduced, but it surely happened in a calmer and slower time in history. At the very beginning, Sunday was the only resting day, but I guess that when the pace of life and the pressure increased and eventually became intolerable over the course of years, Saturday wwas also conceded. In our times, the pace moved up yet another gear, life became even more stressful, and the pile of tasks lying on our shoulders never stops growing. I feel that the amount o free time should adapt to this unpleasant but inevitable tendency. Maybe it is time to add another day to the weekend…
Such an addition would have several benefits. Essentially, it would enable us to sleep more, which is undeniably advantageous in itself. But this would also mean that we could be more relaxed and, in consequence, more focused during the working days. This would result in a decrease of road accidents, an increase in productivity at work, and better grades for students. People would not need to resort to destructive means to combat their feeling of exhaustion, as they would have enough time to ‘recharge their batteries’. In addition, they would be able to spend more time with their families, which would bring a positive change in our age when families and relatinships fall apart due to too much time devoted to work and not enough for love and emotions.
But unfortunately, however favourable this would be, I know that it is not going to happen anytime soon. Less working time would come with a lower salary, and the plague of financial crisis forces us to hold on to every penny we can earn, as even a slight decrease in our wages would be a severe blow. Nevertheless it’s still nice to dream about three-day long weekends. And who knows? Maybe one day they will become possible…
Paris – The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
Almost two weeks have passed since I said goodbye to Paris, and now that things have begun to settle, I can look back and see it as it is – with its beauties and imperfections, its advantages and inconveniences, without being guided by my emotions and the still vivid memory of failure. Of course, Paris cannot be described in a few paragraphs – nor can any city, in fact – , but in this post I will attempt to sum up the impression that Paris gave me. Do not expect historical details – only the small bits and pieces that make life in Paris unique.
The first thing I experienced was the unusual kindness of the Parisians. When I arrived at the coach station and made my way towards the stairs to the metro, struggling with my heavy suitcases, a woman showed me another exit with escalators. A few hours later, a mother and her daughter helped me find my apartment and even offered to pull my suitcase uphill. And every time I scanned the streets with a confused look on my face and a map in my hands, someone always approached me to ask if I needed help. Moreover, although the metro compartments were often unbelievably crowded, the passengers kept a smile on their faces and accepted the situation without moaning. I could list many more examples, but instead I will just say that I was truly impressed by the friendly and calm mood that reigns over the Parisians, despite the country’s difficulties.
The importance and accessibility of cultural opportunities is another remarkable feature in Paris. The city boasts at least 40 libraries, and if you register in one, free of charge, you become a member of all of them. Even better, several museums, including the Louvre, offer free entrance on the first Sunday of each month.
A propos de culture: the endless journeys in the obscure metro tunnels were often “lightened up” by travelling musicians. Of course they were beggars and not qualified professionals – but some of them were quite good. Once a whole Gypsy band got on the train. That was rather painful to tolerate…
A key element of the life of the French is the love of bread. There is at least one bakery in every street, and you can see people of all ages and classes carrying a slim stick of baguette – as naturally as one might carry an umbrella. I must confess that I fell in love with croissants and pains au chocolat, not to mention the frangipane cakes. These heavenly flavours remain one of the best memories of my stay in Paris.
A small but fun detail: a certain type of pasta is called cheveux d’ange, which means angel´s hair. Isn’t this cute?
But, despite all these, Paris left me disappointed. It seems to me that the glory of the City of Lights has faded. I did not meet the world-famous Parisiennes, who distinguish themselves by their impeccable style. All right, this might have been due to the freezing cold, which called for the warmest clothes and not necessarily the most chic ones. But still…
A reason for the point above might be the fact that commercialism has left its mark on the city that once welcomed the best artists of the world. The winter sales are of such importance that they make the headlines of every newspaper. And when you are looking for the train station from the metro at Saint Lazare, the signs direct you towards the longer way through the shopping centre – so that you are forced to see all these shops seeking attention.
Yet, while it seems that most people, regardless of age, possess a smartphone, getting internet access at home is extremely difficult. You cannot have WIFI on its own, and you are obliged to establish a phone line for 50 euros – one thing that forced me to go to the library to use a computer, and made my Sundays and Mondays unbearable, as no libraries or museums are open on these days, and thus my connection with the world was severely limited.
But even worse is the fact that one French in 3 smokes. And they smoke everywhere – at bus stops, in metro tunnels, even in train doors. While in Hungary, smoking is forbidden in all public places, no such measures were introduced in France. It is rather surprising to me that Hungary, which is generally less developed than France, could be more advanced in this matter…
Anyway, to sum it up, the glamorous Paris, with the boulangeries, the cafes and the top-notch restaurants still exists – for those who have the money to visit these places. But when you almost spend more time in the metro tunnels than on the surface, you get to know another side of Paris, that of the working classes. And this one is far from glamorous. There’s no light in the metro tunnels.
Of course my disappointment is fuelled by the fact that I did not have much luck in finding a job. But whatever the reason, one thing is for sure: I do not belong to Paris. Still, sometimes I miss it a lot. Or is it simply the certainty of my routine that I miss in these restless times, when I don’t know what I will do the next day?
Almost two weeks have passed since I said goodbye to Paris, and now that things have begun to settle, I can look back and see it as it is – with its beauties and imperfections, its advantages and inconveniences, without being guided by my emotions and the still vivid memory of failure. Of course, Paris cannot be described in a few paragraphs – nor can any city, in fact – , but in this post I will attempt to sum up the impression that Paris gave me. Do not expect historical details – only the small bits and pieces that make life in Paris unique.
The first thing I experienced was the unusual kindness of the Parisians. When I arrived at the coach station and made my way towards the stairs to the metro, struggling with my heavy suitcases, a woman showed me another exit with escalators. A few hours later, a mother and her daughter helped me find my apartment and even offered to pull my suitcase uphill. And every time I scanned the streets with a confused look on my face and a map in my hands, someone always approached me to ask if I needed help. Moreover, although the metro compartments were often unbelievably crowded, the passengers kept a smile on their faces and accepted the situation without moaning. I could list many more examples, but instead I will just say that I was truly impressed by the friendly and calm mood that reigns over the Parisians, despite the country’s difficulties.
The importance and accessibility of cultural opportunities is another remarkable feature in Paris. The city boasts at least 40 libraries, and if you register in one, free of charge, you become a member of all of them. Even better, several museums, including the Louvre, offer free entrance on the first Sunday of each month.
A propos de culture: the endless journeys in the obscure metro tunnels were often “lightened up” by travelling musicians. Of course they were beggars and not qualified professionals – but some of them were quite good. Once a whole Gypsy band got on the train. That was rather painful to tolerate…
A key element of the life of the French is the love of bread. There is at least one bakery in every street, and you can see people of all ages and classes carrying a slim stick of baguette – as naturally as one might carry an umbrella. I must confess that I fell in love with croissants and pains au chocolat, not to mention the frangipane cakes. These heavenly flavours remain one of the best memories of my stay in Paris.
A small but fun detail: a certain type of pasta is called cheveux d’ange, which means angel´s hair. Isn’t this cute?
But, despite all these, Paris left me disappointed. It seems to me that the glory of the City of Lights has faded. I did not meet the world-famous Parisiennes, who distinguish themselves by their impeccable style. All right, this might have been due to the freezing cold, which called for the warmest clothes and not necessarily the most chic ones. But still…
A reason for the point above might be the fact that commercialism has left its mark on the city that once welcomed the best artists of the world. The winter sales are of such importance that they make the headlines of every newspaper. And when you are looking for the train station from the metro at Saint Lazare, the signs direct you towards the longer way through the shopping centre – so that you are forced to see all these shops seeking attention.
Yet, while it seems that most people, regardless of age, possess a smartphone, getting internet access at home is extremely difficult. You cannot have WIFI on its own, and you are obliged to establish a phone line for 50 euros – one thing that forced me to go to the library to use a computer, and made my Sundays and Mondays unbearable, as no libraries or museums are open on these days, and thus my connection with the world was severely limited.
But even worse is the fact that one French in 3 smokes. And they smoke everywhere – at bus stops, in metro tunnels, even in train doors. While in Hungary, smoking is forbidden in all public places, no such measures were introduced in France. It is rather surprising to me that Hungary, which is generally less developed than France, could be more advanced in this matter…
Anyway, to sum it up, the glamorous Paris, with the boulangeries, the cafes and the top-notch restaurants still exists – for those who have the money to visit these places. But when you almost spend more time in the metro tunnels than on the surface, you get to know another side of Paris, that of the working classes. And this one is far from glamorous. There’s no light in the metro tunnels.
Of course my disappointment is fuelled by the fact that I did not have much luck in finding a job. But whatever the reason, one thing is for sure: I do not belong to Paris. Still, sometimes I miss it a lot. Or is it simply the certainty of my routine that I miss in these restless times, when I don’t know what I will do the next day?
Tales from the Restaurant 1.
I used to work in a trendy and popular restaurant in central London, which I do not wish to name. What’s more important is the range of remarkable people who frequent it. My job enabled me to be amongst the customers. I got to see them eating, socialising and enjoying themselves, and I often encountered striking characters who could be an entertaining addition to any novel or movie. I would like to share some of these experiences with you. There were two different groups of customers between whom I established a virtual connection. One day there was a mother and a daughter sitting together. The mother seemed a gentle, dainty English lady, with ginger hair and freckled rosy skin, while her daughter was more heavy-built and lacked her mother’s elegance. I imagined them to be on some kind of day out – my imagination running as wild as to picture the mother as a so-called ‘Sunday Mum’, not in charge of her children but seeing them occasionally. She was scrolling through the pictures of her camera, and a charming satisfaction radiated from her. But in a saddening contrast to her, her daughter was oblivious to her efforts. Buried in her smartphone, she had no interest in the world around her, let alone her eager mother. Then, a few weeks later, these unpleasant roles were played out in reverse in front of my eyes. This time it was a father and his son, a sweet, fair little boy of 10. But his father took no notice of him. More interested in an online world than in reality, he did not spare one moment for his child. The boy laid his head down on the table in a gesture of hopeless boredom. I felt immensely sorry for him. But she was no more than just a representative of the tendency of our era, when most people need their gadgets more than oxygen to survive. And to be honest, I find this tendency not only sad, but disturbing and disgusting. Recently, many spectators of the London Fashion Week shows were more intent on taking photos than immersing themselves in the world of art. Even worse is that some parents become so glued to the tiny gadget screens that they let their children die! And I hate to see a large group of friends out together, but not actually communicating with each other but fiddling with their smartphones. Sometimes I think that phones should be banned during meals in company and group outings. Now that would lead to an apocalypse…
Tales from the Restaurant 3.
She looked like a sweet little old lady, albeit sadly lonely and abandoned, who, to escape solitude haunting her at her desolate home, came down to a busy restaurant so as to be surrounded by others. But the harsh reality was far from my archaic vision of a jovial granny… Rather than settling for a small table for two, she opted for a large 6-seater, and whilst consuming her meal half-heartedly, she drew various documents from a thick folder and spread them all across the table. My curiosity was immediately roused, and every time I walked her way, I threw a quick glance at her papers. What I saw shocked and frightened me. For what the old lady was studying were a wide range of cut-outs from newspapers, as well as police reports and transcripts of interviews – all related to a murder case! Due to taking frequent trips past her table that evening, I could finally figure out the gist of the story. A couple of years ago, a young woman (the lady’s daughter, I presume) was murdered near her home, and the police proved unable to shed a light on the identity of the murderer. So the charming, candy floss-haired grandma decided to take the matters into her own hands, and worked day and night on the painful puzzle. To date, she has only visited the restaurant on one occasion, therefore I do not know whether she has succeeded in finding the man who took her daughter’s life – but I wish with all my heart that she did and thus achieved a certain sense of peace after experiencing such an unforgettable and unforgivable tragedy. |
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Tips and Tricks for Writing Poems
Someone asked me about how they could improve their poetry. This is a difficult question to answer, because poetry is not a skill that could be learned. Rather, it is instinctive and personal. However, there are little tricks that could stimulate your natural abilities.
The first step is to find your motivation for writing poetry. Let me give a personal example. When I started writing prose as a child, I tried my hand at poetry as well because I thought that it was a natural companion to prose. I was wrong. My words felt forced, my rhymes unnaturally thrown together, and my general themes empty and meaningless. I believe this was because I had no profound motive or, urge to write poetry. I simply wanted to do it for the sake of doing it. Because every teenager writes poems. But as I could find my voice in fictional prose more easily, I abandoned my feeble attempts at poetry for a few years and concentrated on what worked for me. Then a couple of years ago I went through a very tough period. As failure after failure marched into my life and everything was collapsing around me, I desperately sought something to hold on to, something that would relieve me of my sorrow, and that would revive my dying hope. All of a sudden, words, couplets, vivid images flashed up before my eyes without being forced. They flowed naturally into the riverbed dug by my sadness. I felt a pressing urge from within to transfer my deepest emotions to paper and thus distance them from myself. I never enjoyed writing a diary, but my hidden, most repressed sentiments called out to be acknowledged and expressed. They found their natural expression in the form of poems. And I slowly discovered in myself a talent to write poems. But above all, this talent stemmed from my motivation to express myself through poetry. So, my advice to you is the following: reflect a little and find out what poetry gives to you. Why do you want to write poems rather than a journal, or prose? What do you want to express through poetry? Do you feel the urge to translate your thoughts into verses? Or is it only because everyone else is doing it?
Following on from the first points, it is of equal importance to let poetry conceive naturally and speak for itself. Do not sit down with the definite intention of writing a poem, because what comes out of that will be mediocre and commonplace. Instead, do something completely unrelated. Do some housework. Listen to music. Go for a walk. Suddenly, a spark will hit you, and words make an unexpected visit. You may not come up with the full poem in a second, but at least you have some foundation to start constructing the poem on.
Having said that, it is advisable to look at the works of other poets for inspiration However, their poems should only provide the basis that could spark your own ideas. Study their poems and try to identify any recurring themes or techniques in their works, but don’t try to copy them. It gets you further if you experiment with your own style. Try writing different forms of poetry, e.g. haiku, limerick, sonnet etc, to find out which one fits you the best. Of course, you can alternate between different forms, if you discover a talent for more than one of them.
I admire poems that are laden with mythological references and foreign phrases, because they give an indication of the poet’s wide knowledge, and they also inspire me to conduct further research in these fields. If you wish to enhance your poetry and make yourself more accomplished, then build up a solid base of general knowledge you can draw inspiration from. Look at topics such as mythology, history and Latin phrases, then try to weave these references into your poems.
However, don’t worry if the words you come up with are simple. Yes, the pressure to flaunt a wide vocabulary is ever-present in our lives. But overly compicated and long expressions are unnecessary, and do not even improve your poems. After all, isn’t constructing beautiful lines using the simplest phrases a better proof of masterful skills than sticking together the fanciest, most incomprehensible words dripping with kitsch?
Do not get bogged down by the alleged necessity to put rhymes into your poems. I believe that a good, catchy rhythm is far more important, as it can give a sense of direction to you, and can serve as a magnet that draws the words. Free verse is wonderful if you don’t enjoy being confined to s certain count of beats, as it allows you to turn any form of rhythm into poetry. Read your poems aloud to see how the verse flows, and identify any errors in the rhythm.
Do you struggle to come up with topics to write about? You don’t need to embark on a ‘treasure hunt’ for ideas. Simply observe the most mundane elements and everyday actions of life. Can they be metaphors for deeper, universal truths or messages? For example, you can write a descriptive poem seemingly about rainfall, but the deeper meaning behind it could be sorrow or depression.
To produce well-written poetry, it is also important to have an understanding of the technical aspects of writing. Research features such as alliteration, metres, assonance, syntax etc. Here’s a link to a glossary of terms:http://www.poetsgraves.co.uk/glossary_of_poetic_terms.htm. Of course you don’t have to incorporate these into your poems, but you will benefit from possessing a basic knowledge.
And the most important is to write, write, write. Experiment, make mistakes, scrap everything, start over, try something else. The more you write, the more developed your poetry becomes. Just as singers have to constantly train their voices, a poet also needs to train their ‘poetic voice’ endlessly.
Someone asked me about how they could improve their poetry. This is a difficult question to answer, because poetry is not a skill that could be learned. Rather, it is instinctive and personal. However, there are little tricks that could stimulate your natural abilities.
The first step is to find your motivation for writing poetry. Let me give a personal example. When I started writing prose as a child, I tried my hand at poetry as well because I thought that it was a natural companion to prose. I was wrong. My words felt forced, my rhymes unnaturally thrown together, and my general themes empty and meaningless. I believe this was because I had no profound motive or, urge to write poetry. I simply wanted to do it for the sake of doing it. Because every teenager writes poems. But as I could find my voice in fictional prose more easily, I abandoned my feeble attempts at poetry for a few years and concentrated on what worked for me. Then a couple of years ago I went through a very tough period. As failure after failure marched into my life and everything was collapsing around me, I desperately sought something to hold on to, something that would relieve me of my sorrow, and that would revive my dying hope. All of a sudden, words, couplets, vivid images flashed up before my eyes without being forced. They flowed naturally into the riverbed dug by my sadness. I felt a pressing urge from within to transfer my deepest emotions to paper and thus distance them from myself. I never enjoyed writing a diary, but my hidden, most repressed sentiments called out to be acknowledged and expressed. They found their natural expression in the form of poems. And I slowly discovered in myself a talent to write poems. But above all, this talent stemmed from my motivation to express myself through poetry. So, my advice to you is the following: reflect a little and find out what poetry gives to you. Why do you want to write poems rather than a journal, or prose? What do you want to express through poetry? Do you feel the urge to translate your thoughts into verses? Or is it only because everyone else is doing it?
Following on from the first points, it is of equal importance to let poetry conceive naturally and speak for itself. Do not sit down with the definite intention of writing a poem, because what comes out of that will be mediocre and commonplace. Instead, do something completely unrelated. Do some housework. Listen to music. Go for a walk. Suddenly, a spark will hit you, and words make an unexpected visit. You may not come up with the full poem in a second, but at least you have some foundation to start constructing the poem on.
Having said that, it is advisable to look at the works of other poets for inspiration However, their poems should only provide the basis that could spark your own ideas. Study their poems and try to identify any recurring themes or techniques in their works, but don’t try to copy them. It gets you further if you experiment with your own style. Try writing different forms of poetry, e.g. haiku, limerick, sonnet etc, to find out which one fits you the best. Of course, you can alternate between different forms, if you discover a talent for more than one of them.
I admire poems that are laden with mythological references and foreign phrases, because they give an indication of the poet’s wide knowledge, and they also inspire me to conduct further research in these fields. If you wish to enhance your poetry and make yourself more accomplished, then build up a solid base of general knowledge you can draw inspiration from. Look at topics such as mythology, history and Latin phrases, then try to weave these references into your poems.
However, don’t worry if the words you come up with are simple. Yes, the pressure to flaunt a wide vocabulary is ever-present in our lives. But overly compicated and long expressions are unnecessary, and do not even improve your poems. After all, isn’t constructing beautiful lines using the simplest phrases a better proof of masterful skills than sticking together the fanciest, most incomprehensible words dripping with kitsch?
Do not get bogged down by the alleged necessity to put rhymes into your poems. I believe that a good, catchy rhythm is far more important, as it can give a sense of direction to you, and can serve as a magnet that draws the words. Free verse is wonderful if you don’t enjoy being confined to s certain count of beats, as it allows you to turn any form of rhythm into poetry. Read your poems aloud to see how the verse flows, and identify any errors in the rhythm.
Do you struggle to come up with topics to write about? You don’t need to embark on a ‘treasure hunt’ for ideas. Simply observe the most mundane elements and everyday actions of life. Can they be metaphors for deeper, universal truths or messages? For example, you can write a descriptive poem seemingly about rainfall, but the deeper meaning behind it could be sorrow or depression.
To produce well-written poetry, it is also important to have an understanding of the technical aspects of writing. Research features such as alliteration, metres, assonance, syntax etc. Here’s a link to a glossary of terms:http://www.poetsgraves.co.uk/glossary_of_poetic_terms.htm. Of course you don’t have to incorporate these into your poems, but you will benefit from possessing a basic knowledge.
And the most important is to write, write, write. Experiment, make mistakes, scrap everything, start over, try something else. The more you write, the more developed your poetry becomes. Just as singers have to constantly train their voices, a poet also needs to train their ‘poetic voice’ endlessly.
The Milkman
The story below is the fictionalised account of a true event that happened to me last September.
I was a black stroke of paint on the grey canvas of dawn, my heart pale and too afraid to beat, as I walked home after a late night shift. I was no stranger to late shifts, and so far navigated through night-time London without the smallest degree of fear, but now I found myself in a place frightening in its foreignness after a disastrous move executed with haste and without enough consideration, madly in love and blinded by the vain promise of hope. I regretted it as soon as I crossed the threshold of my new life. But there was no way back… so there I was, wandering down the faintly lit streets stretching before me like a sombre serpent, pursued by a merciless breeze, accompanied solely by the broken accords of music not loud enough to hide the silence reigning over the land. To fight my awakening fear, I quickened my steps and, keeping my eyes on the road ahead, I dashed forward with firm determination towards the bleak comfort of my new home. My feet pushed away the pavement harshly, and the end drew ever nearer. Only ten minutes more, and I’ll be at home. Only two more songs…
But all of a sudden a curious creak cut through the silence, and my blood froze in my veins. I did not dare to look around, just marched ahead coolly, but my anxious legs drove me on at a frantic pace, and my heart pumped in my chest as though it wanted to break through and run away. The creak grew louder and louder until it was almost screaming into my ears. I threw a nervous sideways glance towards the source of the noise.
Then a curious and unexpected sight greeted me. There rode merrily a tiny white car, not bigger than the toys I used to play with in more carefree times. On the driver’s seat sat the milkman, the old-fashioned relic of more tranquil ages long bygone, a jovial, cheerfully plump figure with a sunny smile who made peace with the kingdom of night and thus laboured unafraid. He grinned at me and shouted an energetic “Good morning!” to me. I immediately felt my stomach-gripping fear dissolve, and my heart filled with a pleasant warmth. In his brief presence, I knew, I was safe.
I saw him three more times that week before I left my job. Whenever I braved the frightful journey, he was there, comforting me with his mere presence, forever cheerful and benign, his beaming “Good morning” crushing the overwhelming power of the night. It was only during our last meeting that a puzzling thought hit me. I always finished work at different times, and yet, I could be sure of his company no matter the time. I looked at him with an unintentional hint of confusion sitting on my face, and he winked at me as though he read my mind. I understood the truth immediately: this jolly chap was none other than our Heavenly Father himself.
The story below is the fictionalised account of a true event that happened to me last September.
I was a black stroke of paint on the grey canvas of dawn, my heart pale and too afraid to beat, as I walked home after a late night shift. I was no stranger to late shifts, and so far navigated through night-time London without the smallest degree of fear, but now I found myself in a place frightening in its foreignness after a disastrous move executed with haste and without enough consideration, madly in love and blinded by the vain promise of hope. I regretted it as soon as I crossed the threshold of my new life. But there was no way back… so there I was, wandering down the faintly lit streets stretching before me like a sombre serpent, pursued by a merciless breeze, accompanied solely by the broken accords of music not loud enough to hide the silence reigning over the land. To fight my awakening fear, I quickened my steps and, keeping my eyes on the road ahead, I dashed forward with firm determination towards the bleak comfort of my new home. My feet pushed away the pavement harshly, and the end drew ever nearer. Only ten minutes more, and I’ll be at home. Only two more songs…
But all of a sudden a curious creak cut through the silence, and my blood froze in my veins. I did not dare to look around, just marched ahead coolly, but my anxious legs drove me on at a frantic pace, and my heart pumped in my chest as though it wanted to break through and run away. The creak grew louder and louder until it was almost screaming into my ears. I threw a nervous sideways glance towards the source of the noise.
Then a curious and unexpected sight greeted me. There rode merrily a tiny white car, not bigger than the toys I used to play with in more carefree times. On the driver’s seat sat the milkman, the old-fashioned relic of more tranquil ages long bygone, a jovial, cheerfully plump figure with a sunny smile who made peace with the kingdom of night and thus laboured unafraid. He grinned at me and shouted an energetic “Good morning!” to me. I immediately felt my stomach-gripping fear dissolve, and my heart filled with a pleasant warmth. In his brief presence, I knew, I was safe.
I saw him three more times that week before I left my job. Whenever I braved the frightful journey, he was there, comforting me with his mere presence, forever cheerful and benign, his beaming “Good morning” crushing the overwhelming power of the night. It was only during our last meeting that a puzzling thought hit me. I always finished work at different times, and yet, I could be sure of his company no matter the time. I looked at him with an unintentional hint of confusion sitting on my face, and he winked at me as though he read my mind. I understood the truth immediately: this jolly chap was none other than our Heavenly Father himself.
The Miracle
God loves us so much that He is willing to perform miracles for us. These miracles happen constantly in our lives, and it’s only because of our ignorance that we so often fail to see them. It’s a beautiful revelation when you suddenly find it in a seemingly everyday situation. I had such a 'lightbulb' moment’ today.
I come from a huge family, with 5 sisters, 5 uncles, 3 aunts, 21 cousins and an infinite number of second and third-degree cousins and other distant relatives, not to mention the accompanying partners and children. My grandparents have a spacious house in the countryside, and at least once a year this huge family gathers together to celebrate various family holidays, such as birthdays or Christmas. Sometimes there are over a hundred guests present. You can imagine how much food it requires to feed so many hungry people. But I cannot remember a single occasion when we suffered from a lack of food. And this is where I suspect God’s miracle. I never saw my grandmother coming home struggling under the weight of loaded shopping bags. I often peeked inside the cupboards and fridges, and while there were various items inside, they were never chock-full. Sometimes my grandmother asked us to pop out to the supermarket round the corner to buy something she ran out of, such as a packet of pasta. One packet! Yet, at lunchtime, the long tables were laden with steaming, fragrant dishes. Everybody ate to the point of being stuffed, thanks to multiple servings from the bottomless pots, and for many days to come we would try to finish off the leftovers. Even when we had to return home, there was still more than enough surplus food left to fill dozens of containers with.
Where does all this food come from? Jesus once fed thousands with a mere loaf of bread – could he be doing the same for our family? After all, the prayer my grandparents say before each meal invites Jesus to be their guests. I believe that He accepts the invitation each time and joins us at our meals, ensuring that the little food that is provided will multiply to feed the crowds. Either that, or maybe my grandmother does her shopping in secret, when everybody is away or asleep, and then she hides the food in an underground cave. But with my childish, joyful optimism, I’d like to believe that there is indeed a miracle taking place at every family meal. But our tables can only abound in food because we are eager to pass on Jesus’ love to each other.
God loves us so much that He is willing to perform miracles for us. These miracles happen constantly in our lives, and it’s only because of our ignorance that we so often fail to see them. It’s a beautiful revelation when you suddenly find it in a seemingly everyday situation. I had such a 'lightbulb' moment’ today.
I come from a huge family, with 5 sisters, 5 uncles, 3 aunts, 21 cousins and an infinite number of second and third-degree cousins and other distant relatives, not to mention the accompanying partners and children. My grandparents have a spacious house in the countryside, and at least once a year this huge family gathers together to celebrate various family holidays, such as birthdays or Christmas. Sometimes there are over a hundred guests present. You can imagine how much food it requires to feed so many hungry people. But I cannot remember a single occasion when we suffered from a lack of food. And this is where I suspect God’s miracle. I never saw my grandmother coming home struggling under the weight of loaded shopping bags. I often peeked inside the cupboards and fridges, and while there were various items inside, they were never chock-full. Sometimes my grandmother asked us to pop out to the supermarket round the corner to buy something she ran out of, such as a packet of pasta. One packet! Yet, at lunchtime, the long tables were laden with steaming, fragrant dishes. Everybody ate to the point of being stuffed, thanks to multiple servings from the bottomless pots, and for many days to come we would try to finish off the leftovers. Even when we had to return home, there was still more than enough surplus food left to fill dozens of containers with.
Where does all this food come from? Jesus once fed thousands with a mere loaf of bread – could he be doing the same for our family? After all, the prayer my grandparents say before each meal invites Jesus to be their guests. I believe that He accepts the invitation each time and joins us at our meals, ensuring that the little food that is provided will multiply to feed the crowds. Either that, or maybe my grandmother does her shopping in secret, when everybody is away or asleep, and then she hides the food in an underground cave. But with my childish, joyful optimism, I’d like to believe that there is indeed a miracle taking place at every family meal. But our tables can only abound in food because we are eager to pass on Jesus’ love to each other.
The Miracle of Love
~ Paris, 1887 ~
Old Marcel Rollande, once the respected professor of history at the Sorbonne, was sitting in the salon of his draughty flat, and watched the world rush by under his window. Christmas was already lurking behind the corner, the air was filled with the hints of cinnamon, chocolate and hazelnut. Snowflakes danced merrily in the piercing wind, and the million festive lights of the balustrades put the moon to shame. But the excitement didn’t reach up to Monsieur Rollande’s flat. He didn’t celebrate Christmas since the death of his beloved wife, Hortense. Five years have passed since she became a forever beautiful, forever warm memory, but time has stood frozen ever since for Monsieur Rollande. His whole life took up the habit of mourning, and from that moment on, all light, warmth, joy, the soft ring of laughter were absent from the little apartment on the Boulevard Saint Marcel. Old Rollande passed his days sitting in an armchair, reminiscing about the happy days that fled him, and his night-time dreams brought dear Hortense back to him, young and vivid as she once was, the orange blossoms of her bridal veil still sitting on her dark hair. He needed no companion besides his memories, the ghosts of beloved souls visiting him from time to time. After 55 years of celebrating with his dearest, Christmas became a celebration of love and family ties, and now that these ties were irreparably broken and love robbed from him, Rollande needed no Christmas either.
But this year all was different. One day an old colleague, the eminent Professor Lefebvre wrote to him and recounted the tale of a bright but impoverished student of law, who was in desperate need of cheap lodgings after his landlady increased his rent on the room he inhabited in the slums of the Montmartre. Lefebvre knew very well that his retired colleague lived on a modest pension from the university, and that he had an unoccupied bedroom in his flat. Taking his student as a lodger would, Lefebvre argued, bring benefits to both. Rollande hesitated a great deal. He has grown accustomed to a solitary life. He was content with his memories, and did not wish to be disturbed by a lodger. But he often worried that his pension would not suffice for his living costs. Therefore, he consented at last.
The arrangements did indeed prove beneficial to both parties. Rollande realised that he very much enjoyed having a fellow human by his side. And Paul Leclair was worthy of living with the excellent professor. He was modest, dutiful, hardworking and full of promise, and gave the respect that Rollande deserved. Buried in his heavy books during the day, he let the professor reminisce on the glory of the past. But when the evening came, the old teacher and the young student sat together in the salon, and kept each other company. Sometimes, Rollande told stories of his life, while at other times he let the student talk, and he listened with real interest. This is how he learnt that Leclair had tender feelings for the local grocer’s daughter, a pretty red-haired girl. Leclair’s passionate declarations of love brought this long-gone emotion back to the little flat.
Still, Rollande had no intentions whatsoever to celebrate Christmas. He may have liked Leclair, but he could never feel the sentiments that he once felt for Hortense. Long, long ago Christmas was the time when heated embraces protected the two lovers against the cruel cold. This year, the winter that raged outside and which crept slowly inside through the windowsills was vicious and merciless as ever, but the promise of an all-conquering warmth strayed far from the professor’s house. He expected Leclair to spent the holidays with his beloved, and he was perfectly content in his armchair, surrounded by his memories.
But Rollande was wrong. However much he lived in the shadowland of the past, even he couldn’t help noticing that his young companion’s lively red cheeks were covered by the sickly, greyish mask of sorrow, and the wrinkes of worry gathered on his smooth forehead. His soft, gentle smile that greeted every morning with enthusiasm, faded into a barely concealed frown. One evening as they conversed over a stimulating glass of port, the professor ventured to ask:
“How are your studies going? I assume you are quite overloaded with coursework.”
“Oh, on the contrary. My studies are going well, and I am enjoying my rest over the winter break.”
“Why, then, this gloomy mood? A young soul such as yourself should rejoice and celebrate in this season of festivities.”
Leclair emitted a sigh so pathetic that Rollande unwittingly found himself in the grip of melancholy.
“I have no reason to rejoice this Christmas. I am a great deal unhappy.”
Rollande recalled the passionate days of his youth, and nodded in understanding.
“By my experience, it has to be a person of the fairer sex to make one so unhappy as you seem to be.”
Leclair buried his head behind his trembling hands to hide his nascent tears.
“It’s not the fairer sex, but the wretchedness of impossible love.” he exclaimed in agitation.
“And why would that love be impossible? You have always spoken hopefully about Mademoiselle Delacoeur’s interest in you.”
“Oh yes, I still believe that she also fancies me at least a little. I wished to ask for her hand in marriage at Christmas. But I have heard rumours that a fellow student, the son of a baron, also intends marry her. What chances have I got against someone who can satisfy all her desires? I can’t even give her a ring as a token of my love! But if she doesn’t become mine, I will have nothing to live for. I shall die of sorrow.”
Rollande shook his head with all the vigour left in him.
“Do not speak thus, my young friend. True love is the greatest treasure a man can give and a woman can desire. Do not be rash in dismissing yourself. Christmas is a miraculous time, you may well be surprised!”
“Oh, I cannot celebrate this year. I’m too miserable.”
Rollande, all of a sudden, felt his lonely heart enlarge and fill with the warmth of sympathy. He himself was far beyond the light-hearted pleasures of life, but he couldn’t bear to see a young boy already given up and resigned to the cruel turns of fate. He couldn’t give material assistance to Paul, because the student was proud in his poverty and would never accept something that he didn’t work for. And what valuables could he give? He was poor himself!
But he couldn’t accept to see Leclair have a joyless Christmas.
“Oh, let us not subject ourselves to foolish talk! Christmas is a rare occasion when joy is permitted even to the most miserable. We ought to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ with all our heart, because through him there is hope for all of us.” he declared with the tone of someone who would not accept opposition.
Leclair consented, though more to show his gratitude to the old professor than out of real conviction. But the spirit of celebration soon seized him. They joined what little means they possessed to prepare for the festive day. On the afternoon of the 23rd, Leclair was to go out in pursuit of a handsome piece of turkey, while Rollande, suddenly regaining some of his youthful vigour, dressed the house in festive ornaments he once used abundantly in happier times.
Leclair dutifully arrived, with the desired meat in one hand and a finely wrapped Christmas present in the other.
“On my way home, I couldn’t help stopping at the celebrations on the Champs Elysées. By my faith, they were delightful! A choir sang carols while children danced around a giant Christmas tree. There were gift boxes under the tree, and the people picked them up rapidly. However, I succeeded in rescuing one for ourselves. I say, if we cannot have gifts, let us have a gift box to deceive us under the tree!
“Very well, very well.” Rollande nodded approvingly, but he seemed to be miles away and lost deep in thought.
A cruel gust of wind blew in through the window left ajar, and a shiver ran through Rollande. Leclair leapt to the window and closed it promptly.
“Would you like a cup of hot milk to warm you up?” he asked with genuine concern.
Hot milk was the favourite beverage of Monsieur Rollande, and he was grateful for the proposition. Leclair walked out to the kitchen, and when he returned to the salon a few minutes later, he found Rollande in the same pensive position, almost becoming part of his favourite armchair. Leclair gave him his cup. Rollande was silent for a minute, while he sipped his milk with delight. Leclair busied himself with the decorations. He presently took hold of the gift box. As he lifted it up, he stopped and gave a confused look before he shook the box tentatively.
“By my faith, it seems that there is something in this box.”
“Now that is an interesting idea. Why would there be anything in a decorative object?”
“Maybe it is a game set up by the government to reward the lucky ones who pick the right box.” Leclair replied, refusing to let the disbelief of the professor destroy his enthusiasm. “It can’t hurt if I take a look inside…”
He removed the thick layers of paper with care, until a plain cardboard box became visible. He shook it. There came a rattling sound that was hitherto muted by the rattling of the wrapping paper. With awakened curiosity, he lifted the lid and peeked inside.
He froze as he reached in and pulled out a small object that lit up the dim room.
“What have you found?” asked Rollande eagerly, leaning forward in excitement.
“Oh heavens, this is… this is a ring!”
And there it was, a ring with a heart-shaped amethyst stone. Rollande leaped to his feet.
“A miracle! You can see that the old saying about Christmas miracles is true!”
Leclair stood still in confusion, then, overcome with sentiments, rushed to Rollande, and gave him a warm embrace.
“Thank you!” he exclaimed.
“Thank the Lord, not me!” Rollande replied, himself full of emotions and not wishing to give in to them. “And now, go to her and ask for her hand.”
“But… what will you…”
“Do not worry about me. I will be perfectly at peace with my milk. But you must hurry and ask her before someone else does!”
It didn’t take long to persuade the young student. The magical fire of love heated him, and he couldn’t bear to stay still. He almost forgot to take a coat as he rushed away like a puppy bewildered by a ball.
Rollande watched him from his window and thought about his wife. He did have a lot to give: a happy marriage filled with love and joy. And he hoped that the ring, the token of their unbreakable love would pass on its magic to anyone who possessed it.
~ In memoriam Roland Guillaumel ~
~ Paris, 1887 ~
Old Marcel Rollande, once the respected professor of history at the Sorbonne, was sitting in the salon of his draughty flat, and watched the world rush by under his window. Christmas was already lurking behind the corner, the air was filled with the hints of cinnamon, chocolate and hazelnut. Snowflakes danced merrily in the piercing wind, and the million festive lights of the balustrades put the moon to shame. But the excitement didn’t reach up to Monsieur Rollande’s flat. He didn’t celebrate Christmas since the death of his beloved wife, Hortense. Five years have passed since she became a forever beautiful, forever warm memory, but time has stood frozen ever since for Monsieur Rollande. His whole life took up the habit of mourning, and from that moment on, all light, warmth, joy, the soft ring of laughter were absent from the little apartment on the Boulevard Saint Marcel. Old Rollande passed his days sitting in an armchair, reminiscing about the happy days that fled him, and his night-time dreams brought dear Hortense back to him, young and vivid as she once was, the orange blossoms of her bridal veil still sitting on her dark hair. He needed no companion besides his memories, the ghosts of beloved souls visiting him from time to time. After 55 years of celebrating with his dearest, Christmas became a celebration of love and family ties, and now that these ties were irreparably broken and love robbed from him, Rollande needed no Christmas either.
But this year all was different. One day an old colleague, the eminent Professor Lefebvre wrote to him and recounted the tale of a bright but impoverished student of law, who was in desperate need of cheap lodgings after his landlady increased his rent on the room he inhabited in the slums of the Montmartre. Lefebvre knew very well that his retired colleague lived on a modest pension from the university, and that he had an unoccupied bedroom in his flat. Taking his student as a lodger would, Lefebvre argued, bring benefits to both. Rollande hesitated a great deal. He has grown accustomed to a solitary life. He was content with his memories, and did not wish to be disturbed by a lodger. But he often worried that his pension would not suffice for his living costs. Therefore, he consented at last.
The arrangements did indeed prove beneficial to both parties. Rollande realised that he very much enjoyed having a fellow human by his side. And Paul Leclair was worthy of living with the excellent professor. He was modest, dutiful, hardworking and full of promise, and gave the respect that Rollande deserved. Buried in his heavy books during the day, he let the professor reminisce on the glory of the past. But when the evening came, the old teacher and the young student sat together in the salon, and kept each other company. Sometimes, Rollande told stories of his life, while at other times he let the student talk, and he listened with real interest. This is how he learnt that Leclair had tender feelings for the local grocer’s daughter, a pretty red-haired girl. Leclair’s passionate declarations of love brought this long-gone emotion back to the little flat.
Still, Rollande had no intentions whatsoever to celebrate Christmas. He may have liked Leclair, but he could never feel the sentiments that he once felt for Hortense. Long, long ago Christmas was the time when heated embraces protected the two lovers against the cruel cold. This year, the winter that raged outside and which crept slowly inside through the windowsills was vicious and merciless as ever, but the promise of an all-conquering warmth strayed far from the professor’s house. He expected Leclair to spent the holidays with his beloved, and he was perfectly content in his armchair, surrounded by his memories.
But Rollande was wrong. However much he lived in the shadowland of the past, even he couldn’t help noticing that his young companion’s lively red cheeks were covered by the sickly, greyish mask of sorrow, and the wrinkes of worry gathered on his smooth forehead. His soft, gentle smile that greeted every morning with enthusiasm, faded into a barely concealed frown. One evening as they conversed over a stimulating glass of port, the professor ventured to ask:
“How are your studies going? I assume you are quite overloaded with coursework.”
“Oh, on the contrary. My studies are going well, and I am enjoying my rest over the winter break.”
“Why, then, this gloomy mood? A young soul such as yourself should rejoice and celebrate in this season of festivities.”
Leclair emitted a sigh so pathetic that Rollande unwittingly found himself in the grip of melancholy.
“I have no reason to rejoice this Christmas. I am a great deal unhappy.”
Rollande recalled the passionate days of his youth, and nodded in understanding.
“By my experience, it has to be a person of the fairer sex to make one so unhappy as you seem to be.”
Leclair buried his head behind his trembling hands to hide his nascent tears.
“It’s not the fairer sex, but the wretchedness of impossible love.” he exclaimed in agitation.
“And why would that love be impossible? You have always spoken hopefully about Mademoiselle Delacoeur’s interest in you.”
“Oh yes, I still believe that she also fancies me at least a little. I wished to ask for her hand in marriage at Christmas. But I have heard rumours that a fellow student, the son of a baron, also intends marry her. What chances have I got against someone who can satisfy all her desires? I can’t even give her a ring as a token of my love! But if she doesn’t become mine, I will have nothing to live for. I shall die of sorrow.”
Rollande shook his head with all the vigour left in him.
“Do not speak thus, my young friend. True love is the greatest treasure a man can give and a woman can desire. Do not be rash in dismissing yourself. Christmas is a miraculous time, you may well be surprised!”
“Oh, I cannot celebrate this year. I’m too miserable.”
Rollande, all of a sudden, felt his lonely heart enlarge and fill with the warmth of sympathy. He himself was far beyond the light-hearted pleasures of life, but he couldn’t bear to see a young boy already given up and resigned to the cruel turns of fate. He couldn’t give material assistance to Paul, because the student was proud in his poverty and would never accept something that he didn’t work for. And what valuables could he give? He was poor himself!
But he couldn’t accept to see Leclair have a joyless Christmas.
“Oh, let us not subject ourselves to foolish talk! Christmas is a rare occasion when joy is permitted even to the most miserable. We ought to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ with all our heart, because through him there is hope for all of us.” he declared with the tone of someone who would not accept opposition.
Leclair consented, though more to show his gratitude to the old professor than out of real conviction. But the spirit of celebration soon seized him. They joined what little means they possessed to prepare for the festive day. On the afternoon of the 23rd, Leclair was to go out in pursuit of a handsome piece of turkey, while Rollande, suddenly regaining some of his youthful vigour, dressed the house in festive ornaments he once used abundantly in happier times.
Leclair dutifully arrived, with the desired meat in one hand and a finely wrapped Christmas present in the other.
“On my way home, I couldn’t help stopping at the celebrations on the Champs Elysées. By my faith, they were delightful! A choir sang carols while children danced around a giant Christmas tree. There were gift boxes under the tree, and the people picked them up rapidly. However, I succeeded in rescuing one for ourselves. I say, if we cannot have gifts, let us have a gift box to deceive us under the tree!
“Very well, very well.” Rollande nodded approvingly, but he seemed to be miles away and lost deep in thought.
A cruel gust of wind blew in through the window left ajar, and a shiver ran through Rollande. Leclair leapt to the window and closed it promptly.
“Would you like a cup of hot milk to warm you up?” he asked with genuine concern.
Hot milk was the favourite beverage of Monsieur Rollande, and he was grateful for the proposition. Leclair walked out to the kitchen, and when he returned to the salon a few minutes later, he found Rollande in the same pensive position, almost becoming part of his favourite armchair. Leclair gave him his cup. Rollande was silent for a minute, while he sipped his milk with delight. Leclair busied himself with the decorations. He presently took hold of the gift box. As he lifted it up, he stopped and gave a confused look before he shook the box tentatively.
“By my faith, it seems that there is something in this box.”
“Now that is an interesting idea. Why would there be anything in a decorative object?”
“Maybe it is a game set up by the government to reward the lucky ones who pick the right box.” Leclair replied, refusing to let the disbelief of the professor destroy his enthusiasm. “It can’t hurt if I take a look inside…”
He removed the thick layers of paper with care, until a plain cardboard box became visible. He shook it. There came a rattling sound that was hitherto muted by the rattling of the wrapping paper. With awakened curiosity, he lifted the lid and peeked inside.
He froze as he reached in and pulled out a small object that lit up the dim room.
“What have you found?” asked Rollande eagerly, leaning forward in excitement.
“Oh heavens, this is… this is a ring!”
And there it was, a ring with a heart-shaped amethyst stone. Rollande leaped to his feet.
“A miracle! You can see that the old saying about Christmas miracles is true!”
Leclair stood still in confusion, then, overcome with sentiments, rushed to Rollande, and gave him a warm embrace.
“Thank you!” he exclaimed.
“Thank the Lord, not me!” Rollande replied, himself full of emotions and not wishing to give in to them. “And now, go to her and ask for her hand.”
“But… what will you…”
“Do not worry about me. I will be perfectly at peace with my milk. But you must hurry and ask her before someone else does!”
It didn’t take long to persuade the young student. The magical fire of love heated him, and he couldn’t bear to stay still. He almost forgot to take a coat as he rushed away like a puppy bewildered by a ball.
Rollande watched him from his window and thought about his wife. He did have a lot to give: a happy marriage filled with love and joy. And he hoped that the ring, the token of their unbreakable love would pass on its magic to anyone who possessed it.
~ In memoriam Roland Guillaumel ~
God vs. Gurus
It is without doubt that spirituality is gaining popularity. Websites and newspaper articles wax lyrical about mindfulness, travel agents earn fortunes with their spiritual retreats, and there are regular meditation courses even in smaller cities. More and more people, disillusioned with a selfish and cruel world, set out in pursuit of something beyond its limitations. But while we are ready to accept the existence of supernatural forces, why do we reject religion so stubbornly? This could be a sign of the selfishness of our times. The old-fashioned, traditional sense of community is often sacrificed at the altar of individual goals. Everything around us tells us that we, our dreams and our desires are above all else. Others matter less and less. Eager to pursue our dreams, we turn to supernatural beings because we believe that they can help us. We are attracted to guardian angels because they can ward off danger. We rush to return to our past lives through meditation because they nurture the illusion that not our current mistakes but events in a different lifetime are responsible for our failures. We meditate to empower ourselves and shut out a cruel world. We gladly dip into the warm pool of spiritualism, because it comforts us with encouraging messages: we are valuable, therefore we should only accept the best and never compromise or give up on anything. And most importantly, they give the impression that we are in charge of our lives, and we can even control supernatural forces. By contrast, religion cannot offer such an appealing message. God says that we are born to be humble servants, not haughty rulers. And even harder to stomach is the fact that God is not a magician who will make all our wishes come true. In fact, it is us who have to submit ourselves to His will. But we abhor the idea of not being in control, living for others, and not only for ourselves. In an individualistic society, it is unthinkable to put our dreams on hold to help someone else. In addition, in a time when ‘anything goes’, we are unwilling to live by the moral guidelines of righteousness set by the Bible. We don’t think that anyone has the right to tell us what to do. In short, unlike our spiritual gurus, God does not say that we will glide smoothly through life. We will inevitably experience bumps on the way, and at times God will lead us into darkness, in order to draw us closer to Him. Following God means sometimes accepting suffering and knowing that He will set everything will right in the end. But many people are unwilling to suffer even momentarily, because it goes against the world’s governing principle of instant gratification. It is promising that an increasing number of people are beginning to realise that there is something beyond this life, beyond human understanding. However, we miss the point if we only accept the pretty side of the truth. While we are keen to invoke otherworldly spirits, we do not consider what will happen to us after we die. We put all our hopes in this life. That’s why FOMO is so prevalent. We want to experience everything to the fullest in this life. But our earthly life is only a tiny fraction of the life that God intends us to have. True, we may have to give up on some of our dreams, and embrace suffering, but all earthly discomfort and glory will pass, and we will eventually reach our final destination in heaven, where eternal happiness is our reward for a righteous life. |
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Happy Women's Day!
This day should not only celebrate women, but also female unity. Women are often mean, engaging in destructive rivalries, gossiping, and rejoicing in the faults and failures of others. The world is harsh enough with its pay gaps and old-fashioned expectations. Let's move forward together. Let's be supportive rather than critical. Let's help each other be the best version of themselves, thus becoming our best selves too. Let's cheer for each other. One woman's success is every woman's success.
This day should not only celebrate women, but also female unity. Women are often mean, engaging in destructive rivalries, gossiping, and rejoicing in the faults and failures of others. The world is harsh enough with its pay gaps and old-fashioned expectations. Let's move forward together. Let's be supportive rather than critical. Let's help each other be the best version of themselves, thus becoming our best selves too. Let's cheer for each other. One woman's success is every woman's success.
Beauty Begins on the Inside
I love fashion, and I put a lot of effort into choosing my outfits. I also rarely leave my house without makeup. But while getting ready in the morning, an unnecessarily angry thought prompted me to ask myself: do I put the same effort into beautifying myself on the inside? After all, my soul and heart are just as important as my physical appearance. In fact, outward beauty is meaningless if it is paired with an ugly personality. So while I won't give up on clothes and cosmetics, I hereby promise myself that I will start my morning beauty routine on the inside. Are you with me?
I love fashion, and I put a lot of effort into choosing my outfits. I also rarely leave my house without makeup. But while getting ready in the morning, an unnecessarily angry thought prompted me to ask myself: do I put the same effort into beautifying myself on the inside? After all, my soul and heart are just as important as my physical appearance. In fact, outward beauty is meaningless if it is paired with an ugly personality. So while I won't give up on clothes and cosmetics, I hereby promise myself that I will start my morning beauty routine on the inside. Are you with me?