MARE-EE-SAUL?

Mahreesol. There’s a slight stress on the first syllable, a sort of leaning into the word that allows the voice to gently flow into the rest of the name. And then comes the rolled R, like a playful flip on the end of the tongue, adding a hint of subtle sensuality which can be detected only before one gets used to the pronunciation. The last syllable, with a long O sound, ties the vocalization of the sound to another word, soul and so after all is said and done one’s ear is left with the impression of an essence. My name, when pronounced in the accent of the local people, has a sort of beauty to it; when I hear mi nombre from their mouths it sounds like poetry. It also doesn’t quite sound like they are talking about me—it’s far too elegant and exotic to possibly be referring to me. It’s funny how our identity becomes wrapped up in the name we were given at birth, a name we adapt to, grow fond of…. become. I have always thought there is power in a name. Of course, since I’m named after my grandmother and mother perhaps it is a cultural notion I’m holding on to with that idea—but I’m fairly certain if the idea of a name containing power is merely a cultural one, it is an idea civilizations worldwide and throughout time have come to accept.  So here I am, in a new culture, starting down a new path in my life, with (after only 3 days) what still sounds to my ear like a new name.  And as I peer into the immediate future, to the work I’m going to be doing down here, I can’t help but think that this change, this what at times seems to be an overwhelming change, is going to be a good one.

stereo-typing

it's a charming atmosphere, the world of local coffeehouses. and if you frequent them often enough, you begin to see the different stereotypes that reside there. and as much as i hate stereotyping, i'm going to indulge a bit this afternoon, since i suppose being a twenty something year old blogging in a coffeehouse with my espresso right next to my macbook i'm a stereotype myself right now.
Looking around i see an older person sitting in the corner--probably an artist of some sort who's enjoying their daily coffee and muffin while perusing the papers. in the middle of the room is a group of university students. They quietly discuss topics ranging from Ann Boleyn and other historical figures to the band Weezer and the benefits of live concerts over recorded songs. There's the guy at the table next to me, stack of books by his computer, checking facebook while on a "study break"that ends up taking at least half an hour if not longer (i'm guilty of being a member of this stereotype many times myself). The loyal customer who knows the baristas by name has just walked in the door, all smiles and hellos, surveying the room for an empty table or perhaps another familiar face. A person that needs to use the internet comes in, paying for their time on the coffeehouse's computer, ignoring the rest of the coffeehouse's inhabitants while searching for answers on the world wide web. a table of adults are holding a casual business meeting and through it all, the baristas call out orders to be picked up at the counter.  It's a pretty typical day at the local coffeehouse and i--i feel like i'm home.

Memories

they give us something to focus on through boredom and keep us laughing when we get together with friends from our past lives. Memories link us to the selves we once were and the selves we have become. And yet, there are those memories--the ones we never speak of, even though they are always on our minds--the ones that keep us awake at night and leave us, at our most vulnerable hours, in tears.

Yes, I'm talking about memories of the heart.

The power these memories have over us must come from the raw emotion they contain and also from the walls we carefully build around them. But the very potency of such memories stem from fact that they were once true events we experienced, events that we can not move past--events we cling to because in the deepest recesses of our heart, we wish they were not merely memories, but fact--not merely forgotten truths but present moments, able to be relived not only in the security of our minds but in the reality of our world.

Such memories could be as simple as a night of fun and laughter with friends no longer a part of our lives, or as complicated and heart-wrenching as a love that is no longer a possibility.

And how do we move on?

Well, i guess that's the thing about time. whether we are willing or not, it marches onward--and we? well, by merely checking the clock we are willing participants in its construction and continuation.

After all, they say time heals all wounds.

I suppose all i can say with certainty right now is that memories are a refuge, not for the weak, but for those reluctant to give up hope. But hopefully someday those of us with even the most sentimental of hearts can move beyond the refuges of the past and into the truth of the present--fondly remembering where we are from and acknowledging to our inner most consciousness that there is always more to come, that there are always new memories to be made.

my grandmother's hands are wrinkled and wise

experience can be traced along every line

and strength can be seen in her hands lying still

now clasped for eternity, warding off further ill

my grandmother's hands so translucent and thin

i gently brush up against her cold skin

trying to grasp and hold on to something akin

to her beautiful presence once held within

my grandmother's hands have held both life and death

and now that she has taken her last breath

i can only imagine the peace she can feel--

her mortal pain has forever been healed.

bullseye.

The shooting range here in town is different than i thought it would be. it's not cold and militaristic, there aren't NRA posters everywhere and I have yet to see any sort of taxidermied animal hanging out. There's even a woman elected as one of the club's officers! Everyone is asked to clean up after themselves, and it's kept fairly tidy--considering that it's really just a big 'boy's club'. And usually there's only one or two people in there at a time, I guess the people that go there aren't really looking for company and they usually leave if another person comes in to shoot. In fact, if it weren't for the frequent sounds of gunfire it could be considered a nice place to get away and just . . . think. Which, is kinda a funny thing for me to admit because i tend to view violence in any form (even just practising it) as a mindless act--unless, i suppose, you're an assassin . . . but that's a whole 'nother issue.

I can't say that i like shooting a gun, or that i'm any good at it, (i seem to anticipate the kick too much) but i do manage to hit the target a good 65% of the time and I even get off a lucky shot every once in a while. bullseye.

i guess as happens with every new experience, i learned something about myself by going to the shooting range. i'm fairly confident that if i'm ever in the situation i'll have a very hard time shooting at a living being (i have a hard enough time shooting at the human shaped target!), and while i appreciate those who serve in our military and understand the necessity for upholding the 2nd amendment (as long as the firearm is used appropriately and respectfully), i think i might be tending more and more towards pacifism as a personal philosophy--which, is a fairly big step considering my family's long standing tradition of being in the military. Yes, this is what i learned about myself by going to the shooting range: i'm slowly turning into a leftist hippie--or maybe i've really just been one all along.

I also realized that listening to classical music on your ipod during target practise will not only be an odd juxtaposition, it will probably make you feel like a superhero villain . . .

but maybe that's just me.

YES.

11 months from now. it's a long time to wait. it's when the program I've been nominated for begins.

As long as I make it past this final review stage and all my medical and dental forms come back clean, in June 2011 I'll be setting off on what may become the biggest story of my life.

sub sahara Africa.

secondary science education.

11 months is a long time to wait for 27 months of service to begin, especially when you're as impatient of a person as i am.

is it worth it? that's the question everyone around me seems to be asking me.

psh. in my mind, there's no question about that.

the graduate.

I had a realization today as I was cleaning out my lab space, labeling the last bits of my synthesized compound, soaking in my last moments in my research advisor's lab: i'm giving all of this up. Science has been my academic passion and life for the past 8 years if not more and now, with my decision to explore the world of humanitarian works and non-profit businesses, with that one choice, I've effectively turned my back on science. Perhaps not for forever, but at least definitely for now. and I'm not really sure how I feel about that yet.