For anyone who doesn’t know, besides my job at Barnes & Noble, I have a part-time job teaching adult ESL (English as a second language) to employees of Whole Foods. It’s a pretty sweet deal for the students because they don’t have to pay for the classes or even leave the store. And some of them truly appreciate it and work hard, showing up for every single twice/week class and studying enthusiastically when they’re at home.
Francisco is not one of those students. Now, he definitely wants to learn, especially because he’s been working at Whole Foods for roughly 15 years and can’t be promoted any further until his English skills improve.
And he tries. But he has some deeply ingrained bad English-speaking habits that are incredibly difficult to break and, well, he doesn’t do his homework.
Anyway, I didn’t bring him up so I could publish his progress report, but I wanted to give a little background.
So, the other day Francisco was telling the story of a party a friend once threw him when he was working at a Whole Foods in Palo Alto. This is how he tells it:
“She make me a party and she rent a, it’s a, how you call? Like a when you have wedding?”
“A reception hall?” I ask.
“Yes, well, and we have dancing and carne asada. I make the salads and also some soup. We have DJ he play the música, and it was the best party in my life: water for EVERYBODY!”
He says this last part while spreading his arms wide to illustrate the amount of people who enjoyed this particular aspect of the party. His eyes are all lit up, like he is just so proud for having pulled off water for everybody.
“Water?!” I ask. “What do you mean? You just served water?
“Yes,” he says, still beaming his self-congratulatory smile, “for everybody.”
I was laughing, but I was also trying to figure out what was so special about this water and his ability to procure it for everybody. Was it a drought year? Was it that they were extra hot & sweaty from dancing and he was happy there was enough for everyone? And who serves water at a party anyway?
His classmates were all laughing at him until he clarified that he was talking about aguas, fresh drinks they make in Mexico using water and other things like rice or fruits (horchata, tamarindo, those sorts of drinks). He was proud because he made the drinks, and apparently they were a big hit. Oh, he hates alcohol and wouldn’t allow any of his guests to drink it, so I guess he figured he’d better have a good alternative.
Somehow, despite the fact that he speaks English a lot better than my beginning students, Francisco’s particular brand of miscommunication always makes me have to try (often horribly unsuccessfully) and stifle a giggle.
The other day he was talking about how he bought a house in a town called Madera and was going to be renting it out. It’s a big house, but he’s renting part of it to a family of three for only $300/month. We were all intrigued, wondering how he’d make the payments if he had to pay rent here, too, and he was charging so little.
“Oh,” he said. “There’s another man, he wanna stay there. I gonna rent him a room for $300/month and 3 horses.”
“Three horses?” asked Rosi, another student.
“Yes, $300 a month and 3 horses.”
“What do you mean, you’re charging him 3 horses per month?” I asked.
“Yes, 3 horses.”
“Horses are very expensive,” said Rosi.
An image came to mind of a future snapshot of Francisco standing outside his home in Madera, surrounded by hundreds of horses, which have been breeding and making him a rich man. In the snapshot, he’s wearing his same ultra-happy smile and spreading his arms to show off the fruits of his ingenuity.
I had to come to and get to the bottom of this.
“What are you gonna do with all those horses?” I asked. "How can he afford to give you 3 horses per month?!"
“Whachyou mean?" Francisco asked. "It’s just 3 horses.”
“Oh, 3 horses total?”
“Yeah, he keep 3 horses there. I charge him $100/month each horse.”
“Oh!” The collective light bulb went on and we all relaxed a little, now that we didn’t have to go on and worry where Francisco would get the money to feed 3 new horses every month.
I love my English classes. And trying to help my students through their struggles with this language makes me appreciate it more, not in spite of all of its idiosyncrasies, but because of them.
Many concepts I teach require tangential explanations of the exceptions to the rules, the connotations if you say the thing the wrong way, the 16 alternate meanings (do you know how many ways you can use the words “pick up” together?), or the 6 words that either look just like it and mean something different, or sound just like it but are spelled differently and mean something else entirely.
You know, it feels good to know something well. And it’s FUN to meditate on a question a student asks and think, ‘how do we use that? Would that be more or less polite? And why?'
And also, my students know Spanish with an intimacy that my 2nd language learner skills will never allow me. I think it must feel good for them to know something well, too. I can see it in their faces when I ask them how to say something in Spanish, or when I say something wrong and they have to correct me.
There’s a feeling of accomplishment when you can confidently say, “I know this. No, I KNOW this. And I can help you.”
And having something to teach to people who want to learn is rather addictive. So I’m going to grad school in the Spring and learn me some more. :)
Thursday, June 24, 2004
Sunday, June 13, 2004
God Bless Kris and His Spots
When I was a young girl, I had a prayer I would say every night.
It started with the standard little kid prayer: “Now I lay me down to sleep…” and then changed a bit, I think because my parents didn’t want me to get freaked out by the whole “if I should die before I wake” business.
Well after that part, there was a little add-on wherein I gave shout outs to all the people I knew. I still remember it, verbatim:
“God bless Mommy and Daddy
and Kris and Kisa [don't know why the talking about myself in the 3rd person; this was pre-Elmo]
and Nana and Tata [grandparents on the Mexican side]
and Oma and Opa [grandparents on the German side]
and all our aunts and uncles and cousins and friends,
and Kris and his spots,
in Jesus’ name, amen."
Kris and his spots?
As you might know, Kris is my brother.
“Spots” was the kid term my parents taught us to describe Kris’ vitiligo [vih-dill-EYE-go], technically defined as "a skin condition resulting from loss of pigment, which produces white patches."
Kris' vitiligo appeared on his hands, elbows, and knees, and the spots would alternately grow and diminish as he got older. The doctors couldn’t predict whether they would ever stabilize, so the possibility of their growing to cover a significant portion of his skin was very real.
Thinking about that prayer now, I realize it would be difficult for anyone who overheard it to know whether we were praying for the disappearance of the spots or for their continued growth and power. It almost sounds like we were hoping his skin would, everyday, look less and less like its original shade (described affectionately by my mom as “poodoo brown”) and more and more like the shade of my own (which she calls “stock white”).
But we knew. We definitely knew.
The spots were evil.
They made him stand out.
The kids at school teased him.
The spots were a kid’s worst nightmare.
So imagine my surprise when the spots earned a new place of merit in our family just the other evening.
Indulge me while I provide a little background information.
Kris is currently working as a production assistant on a Lifetime television show called “Merge.” Production Assistant is a very broad title that could refer to anything from actual technical assistance to the picking up of the director’s dry cleaning.
Kris’ position falls somewhere in-between the two. “Merge” is a quote/unquote reality show in which a couple that has recently married moves into a new place together. The designers on the show decide which of their things can stay and go, and they do a makeover on the new space once everything is in place.
Production assistants on this show work as movers. They’re the ones who put the couple’s things where the designer decides they should go. Now, there are a few production assistants working on any given episode, and sometimes the camera shots are so quick it’s difficult to tell who’s who (because even the movers, in this case, get airtime).
My mom had taped last week’s show, and we sat down and watched it together when Kris and I were out visiting last week. We were all sitting in front of the t.v. on-edge, hoping to catch a glimpse of my bro on the tube.
Sometimes we could see him very clearly and up close, and sometimes it was more of a challenge. Once, it was up for debate because only the person’s arm was in view. Was that him or wasn’t it?
Kris solved the mystery with this line:
“No, that’s me. Look, you can see my vitiligo.”
“Huh,” we answered, collectively. "We’ll be darned. That is your vitiligo.”
We joked a little about the vigor with which he reported the clue: Look, look, it’s my condition. It’s my disorder. It’s my defect. It’s ME!!
It’s me.
The moment caused me to pause, thinking how far we’d come from hoping the “spots” would just go away. Just go away!
And to be honest, they haven’t been an issue for Kris for a good 15 years. In fact, he’s always had a strong sense of self and I suspect the condition was always more troubling for my mom than for Kris. He was her child, and this was something that had the potential to cause him heartache.
Kids can be so cruel.
And yet even as he’s long past being self-conscious, to hear my brother so proudly identify himself using the condition we once saw as so threatening we tried to pray it away every single night...
...that was kind of cool.
It’s interesting the way things that make us different can change from enemy traits to ally traits in the course of a few years. I used to hate being so tall (particularly in middle school and high school, where Amazon women aren’t in real high demand). I also disliked my name because it was weird and people couldn’t pronounce it (Keisha, Keeza, Kissa?). Now I’m happy to be an Amazon woman with a weird name, partially because those things make me different.
Oh my god, I’ve lapsed into After School Special mode again.
Forgive me, but I really feel this way.
I hope that if I ever have a kid with three arms or an extra face in the middle of his back…well, I hope he or she can learn to embrace that trait and, eventually, use it to his or her advantage: “Can I lend an extra hand?” “I know my back was turned officer, but believe me, I did see the robber, and he went thataway!”
I mean really, who wants normal?
How boring.
And so yeah, God bless Kris and his spots.
It started with the standard little kid prayer: “Now I lay me down to sleep…” and then changed a bit, I think because my parents didn’t want me to get freaked out by the whole “if I should die before I wake” business.
Well after that part, there was a little add-on wherein I gave shout outs to all the people I knew. I still remember it, verbatim:
“God bless Mommy and Daddy
and Kris and Kisa [don't know why the talking about myself in the 3rd person; this was pre-Elmo]
and Nana and Tata [grandparents on the Mexican side]
and Oma and Opa [grandparents on the German side]
and all our aunts and uncles and cousins and friends,
and Kris and his spots,
in Jesus’ name, amen."
Kris and his spots?
As you might know, Kris is my brother.
“Spots” was the kid term my parents taught us to describe Kris’ vitiligo [vih-dill-EYE-go], technically defined as "a skin condition resulting from loss of pigment, which produces white patches."
Kris' vitiligo appeared on his hands, elbows, and knees, and the spots would alternately grow and diminish as he got older. The doctors couldn’t predict whether they would ever stabilize, so the possibility of their growing to cover a significant portion of his skin was very real.
Thinking about that prayer now, I realize it would be difficult for anyone who overheard it to know whether we were praying for the disappearance of the spots or for their continued growth and power. It almost sounds like we were hoping his skin would, everyday, look less and less like its original shade (described affectionately by my mom as “poodoo brown”) and more and more like the shade of my own (which she calls “stock white”).
But we knew. We definitely knew.
The spots were evil.
They made him stand out.
The kids at school teased him.
The spots were a kid’s worst nightmare.
So imagine my surprise when the spots earned a new place of merit in our family just the other evening.
Indulge me while I provide a little background information.
Kris is currently working as a production assistant on a Lifetime television show called “Merge.” Production Assistant is a very broad title that could refer to anything from actual technical assistance to the picking up of the director’s dry cleaning.
Kris’ position falls somewhere in-between the two. “Merge” is a quote/unquote reality show in which a couple that has recently married moves into a new place together. The designers on the show decide which of their things can stay and go, and they do a makeover on the new space once everything is in place.
Production assistants on this show work as movers. They’re the ones who put the couple’s things where the designer decides they should go. Now, there are a few production assistants working on any given episode, and sometimes the camera shots are so quick it’s difficult to tell who’s who (because even the movers, in this case, get airtime).
My mom had taped last week’s show, and we sat down and watched it together when Kris and I were out visiting last week. We were all sitting in front of the t.v. on-edge, hoping to catch a glimpse of my bro on the tube.
Sometimes we could see him very clearly and up close, and sometimes it was more of a challenge. Once, it was up for debate because only the person’s arm was in view. Was that him or wasn’t it?
Kris solved the mystery with this line:
“No, that’s me. Look, you can see my vitiligo.”
“Huh,” we answered, collectively. "We’ll be darned. That is your vitiligo.”
We joked a little about the vigor with which he reported the clue: Look, look, it’s my condition. It’s my disorder. It’s my defect. It’s ME!!
It’s me.
The moment caused me to pause, thinking how far we’d come from hoping the “spots” would just go away. Just go away!
And to be honest, they haven’t been an issue for Kris for a good 15 years. In fact, he’s always had a strong sense of self and I suspect the condition was always more troubling for my mom than for Kris. He was her child, and this was something that had the potential to cause him heartache.
Kids can be so cruel.
And yet even as he’s long past being self-conscious, to hear my brother so proudly identify himself using the condition we once saw as so threatening we tried to pray it away every single night...
...that was kind of cool.
It’s interesting the way things that make us different can change from enemy traits to ally traits in the course of a few years. I used to hate being so tall (particularly in middle school and high school, where Amazon women aren’t in real high demand). I also disliked my name because it was weird and people couldn’t pronounce it (Keisha, Keeza, Kissa?). Now I’m happy to be an Amazon woman with a weird name, partially because those things make me different.
Oh my god, I’ve lapsed into After School Special mode again.
Forgive me, but I really feel this way.
I hope that if I ever have a kid with three arms or an extra face in the middle of his back…well, I hope he or she can learn to embrace that trait and, eventually, use it to his or her advantage: “Can I lend an extra hand?” “I know my back was turned officer, but believe me, I did see the robber, and he went thataway!”
I mean really, who wants normal?
How boring.
And so yeah, God bless Kris and his spots.
Monday, June 07, 2004
The Future of Eyewear
When my brother came to visit me in San Jose last month, we took a little trip to the drugstore on the corner, where he found the best pair of sunglasses he'd ever seen. They hung lonely and faded on a revolving rack that had clearly been displaying the same glasses for at least 19 years.
The pair he zeroed in on were fluorescent yellow—faded fluorescent yellow—with a strange sort of ventilation device on the sides. They supported a fortress of lens that would prevent even the most determined ray of light from penetrating through to the wearer’s eyes. But the best feature, by far, was a faded tag attached to the center of the frames that read “Future Vision” in a 1980’s Tron-like computer font.
He had to have them.
“Hey bro, you did just have a birthday,” I said. “Put them in my cart.”
This was before I flipped over the Future Vision tag and discovered that inflation had somehow retroactively caught up with these babies: their original price tag read “$12.99.”
We nearly peed our pants laughing.
“For those?!” Kris asked. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
We went back and forth. I said I didn’t mind paying that, that I just wanted to see him happy in the way that only these beauties could make him.
He thought $4.00, the price on a nearby (albeit less exciting) pair was more like it.
So we took both pairs to the front of the store and pleaded our case. The counter man looked at me, looked at my brother, looked and the glasses, looked at my brother, and said, “$4.00.”
Kris beamed a victory smile and then turned to take the comparison glasses back to their rack. The counter man mused in his thick Middle Eastern accent, “He looks very happy now.”
“You have no idea,” I said.
Kris wore those glasses for the weekend and then carefully packed them up for his return to Hollywood, where people apparently share his aesthetic sensibilities. He’s been standing on street corners and had cars pull over, their drivers asking where they could get a pair just like his.
“Sorry,” he says, “you’ll have to go to San Jose.”
Recently, he was wearing his Future Visions on a street in Hollywood when a homeless man approached him and asked him if Kris wanted to buy the sunglasses he had to offer. It seems the man knew his audience because my bro snatched up this pair (brown monster shades with the word "sport" written in gold on the side), which immediately took top billing in his sunglass wardrobe.
Well, I’m in Colorado right now visiting my parents. They flew Kris and I both in, and Kris was kind enough to bring both pairs to share with us.
You’ll find us all modeling them below. Please don’t be jealous. I know it must be heartbreaking to realize there will likely never be another pair quite like the Future Visions, or another homeless man offering quite the same pair (for 50 cents) in YOUR neck of the woods, but I hope these pictures will be enough to bring you at least some of the joy we’ve experienced here this week.
The pair he zeroed in on were fluorescent yellow—faded fluorescent yellow—with a strange sort of ventilation device on the sides. They supported a fortress of lens that would prevent even the most determined ray of light from penetrating through to the wearer’s eyes. But the best feature, by far, was a faded tag attached to the center of the frames that read “Future Vision” in a 1980’s Tron-like computer font.
He had to have them.
“Hey bro, you did just have a birthday,” I said. “Put them in my cart.”
This was before I flipped over the Future Vision tag and discovered that inflation had somehow retroactively caught up with these babies: their original price tag read “$12.99.”
We nearly peed our pants laughing.
“For those?!” Kris asked. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
We went back and forth. I said I didn’t mind paying that, that I just wanted to see him happy in the way that only these beauties could make him.
He thought $4.00, the price on a nearby (albeit less exciting) pair was more like it.
So we took both pairs to the front of the store and pleaded our case. The counter man looked at me, looked at my brother, looked and the glasses, looked at my brother, and said, “$4.00.”
Kris beamed a victory smile and then turned to take the comparison glasses back to their rack. The counter man mused in his thick Middle Eastern accent, “He looks very happy now.”
“You have no idea,” I said.
Kris wore those glasses for the weekend and then carefully packed them up for his return to Hollywood, where people apparently share his aesthetic sensibilities. He’s been standing on street corners and had cars pull over, their drivers asking where they could get a pair just like his.
“Sorry,” he says, “you’ll have to go to San Jose.”
Recently, he was wearing his Future Visions on a street in Hollywood when a homeless man approached him and asked him if Kris wanted to buy the sunglasses he had to offer. It seems the man knew his audience because my bro snatched up this pair (brown monster shades with the word "sport" written in gold on the side), which immediately took top billing in his sunglass wardrobe.
Well, I’m in Colorado right now visiting my parents. They flew Kris and I both in, and Kris was kind enough to bring both pairs to share with us.
You’ll find us all modeling them below. Please don’t be jealous. I know it must be heartbreaking to realize there will likely never be another pair quite like the Future Visions, or another homeless man offering quite the same pair (for 50 cents) in YOUR neck of the woods, but I hope these pictures will be enough to bring you at least some of the joy we’ve experienced here this week.
I Should be the Coach!
I was thinking maybe it would be nice if the Lakers actually showed up for the next game of the Finals.
Sunday, June 06, 2004
Clarification
I just want to add something to my last post.
I think I was insensitive in comparing relationship endings to Spring Cleaning. In doing so, I did not mean to imply that the people involved were in any way comparable to things that should be thrown away and forgotten about.
What I mean to say is that, sometimes, assessing things leads to the conclusion that something in one's life isn't working, perhaps for either party (important to note)--and SOMEbody has to do the breaking up.
When I said that somethings were "dead," I did not mean to say the people involved were no longer of any use, just that relationships themselves can grow stagnant.
I hope that was the way my words were taken, but in the event that they weren't taken this way, I apologize for my insensitivity and for any part of what I said that came across as flippant or trivializing.
I've been through a breakup that rendered me very much lost and in despair, so I know what it's like...and it's no trivial thing.
To anybody whose feelings I hurt, please accept my most sincere apologies.
I think I was insensitive in comparing relationship endings to Spring Cleaning. In doing so, I did not mean to imply that the people involved were in any way comparable to things that should be thrown away and forgotten about.
What I mean to say is that, sometimes, assessing things leads to the conclusion that something in one's life isn't working, perhaps for either party (important to note)--and SOMEbody has to do the breaking up.
When I said that somethings were "dead," I did not mean to say the people involved were no longer of any use, just that relationships themselves can grow stagnant.
I hope that was the way my words were taken, but in the event that they weren't taken this way, I apologize for my insensitivity and for any part of what I said that came across as flippant or trivializing.
I've been through a breakup that rendered me very much lost and in despair, so I know what it's like...and it's no trivial thing.
To anybody whose feelings I hurt, please accept my most sincere apologies.
Thursday, June 03, 2004
I Don't Wanna Look at the Moon with You
It’s Spring Cleaning time.
I’m speaking for myself, first off. The other day I used a barbeque & Trivial Pursuit party I was hostessing as a good excuse to give my room and bathroom the old once over. Except it was more like a twice or thrice over. I even ended up re-painting a nothing-colored dresser that had long sat sadly in the corner of my room begging for life.
I gave it pink—bright magenta pink—which shut it up real good.
The cleaning felt great; seeing such a tangible change was inspiring.
But that’s not the kind of cleaning I was really referring to.
Spring also brings about a different kind of cleaning: one that’s at once more subtle and more palpable. Spring, it seems, is a time for break-ups.
All around me, my friends are losing their honeys. Some of these relationships have been years in the making. Others have spanned a few precious months. But when it comes to breaking up, time spent together is not necessarily relative to pain experienced when it’s officially over. (Except it doesn’t seem to me that many relationships truly are officially over these days. It’s like getting back together is the new breaking up. But anyway…).
What is it about this time of year?
Is it really some kind of unconscious clearing out? I know it’s painful to think about it that way, especially for those who have felt the sting of an empty bed lately, but I can’t help but think the witnessing of Springtime rebirth all around can rub off on the humans a bit:
What’s blooming?
What needs re-seeding?
What’s longing to be pruned?
What is—beyond any doubt—dead?
I once broke up with a boyfriend around this time of year, but I think that actually had more to do with my birthday coming. Just like I once broke up with a boyfriend soon after my grandfather died. Just like I was once broken up with just before Christmas. I think events like this trigger an inner Gallup Poll that asks (and asks loudly), “Is this where I want to be in my life?” “Is this the person I want to be celebrating with now?”
My friend just told me about watching the full moon with her man last night and thinking how she’d watched the full moon on a previous occasion with somebody she felt less-than-thrilled about moon gazing with. The same thing happened to me before. I was on a date when the man said we should go for a drive and look at the moon, and I was so happy when driving circumstances prevented it from happening.
The voice inside me was screaming, “I don’t want to look at the moon with you!”
Or maybe it was, “I don’t want to look at the moon with you.”
And that date was a first and a last.
A full moon is nothing to be trifled with.
The moon, you see, should only be shared casually with coincidental bystanders, or passionately with good, good friends or the honey of your heart’s desire.
And when the full moon or the brilliance of Spring or a birthday or a major holiday comes around and the honey you’re with is not of your heart’s desire…well, that’s a tough day. That’s a real tough day for everybody involved.
I want to wish a personal rebirth to all those who are aching right now. I wish there were something I could do to make it feel better, but I know I can’t. A breakup without mourning could only come after a relationship that was insignificant to being with. I know yours were not of that category and so I hope your healing processes are thorough and—ultimately—refreshing.
Kahlil Gibran wrote, “when you experience sorrow, know that you are weeping for that which has been your delight.”
May you take this time for personal growth and, in the end, find someone with whom you can relax, someone who wants nothing more than to watch the moon with you.
I’m speaking for myself, first off. The other day I used a barbeque & Trivial Pursuit party I was hostessing as a good excuse to give my room and bathroom the old once over. Except it was more like a twice or thrice over. I even ended up re-painting a nothing-colored dresser that had long sat sadly in the corner of my room begging for life.
I gave it pink—bright magenta pink—which shut it up real good.
The cleaning felt great; seeing such a tangible change was inspiring.
But that’s not the kind of cleaning I was really referring to.
Spring also brings about a different kind of cleaning: one that’s at once more subtle and more palpable. Spring, it seems, is a time for break-ups.
All around me, my friends are losing their honeys. Some of these relationships have been years in the making. Others have spanned a few precious months. But when it comes to breaking up, time spent together is not necessarily relative to pain experienced when it’s officially over. (Except it doesn’t seem to me that many relationships truly are officially over these days. It’s like getting back together is the new breaking up. But anyway…).
What is it about this time of year?
Is it really some kind of unconscious clearing out? I know it’s painful to think about it that way, especially for those who have felt the sting of an empty bed lately, but I can’t help but think the witnessing of Springtime rebirth all around can rub off on the humans a bit:
What’s blooming?
What needs re-seeding?
What’s longing to be pruned?
What is—beyond any doubt—dead?
I once broke up with a boyfriend around this time of year, but I think that actually had more to do with my birthday coming. Just like I once broke up with a boyfriend soon after my grandfather died. Just like I was once broken up with just before Christmas. I think events like this trigger an inner Gallup Poll that asks (and asks loudly), “Is this where I want to be in my life?” “Is this the person I want to be celebrating with now?”
My friend just told me about watching the full moon with her man last night and thinking how she’d watched the full moon on a previous occasion with somebody she felt less-than-thrilled about moon gazing with. The same thing happened to me before. I was on a date when the man said we should go for a drive and look at the moon, and I was so happy when driving circumstances prevented it from happening.
The voice inside me was screaming, “I don’t want to look at the moon with you!”
Or maybe it was, “I don’t want to look at the moon with you.”
And that date was a first and a last.
A full moon is nothing to be trifled with.
The moon, you see, should only be shared casually with coincidental bystanders, or passionately with good, good friends or the honey of your heart’s desire.
And when the full moon or the brilliance of Spring or a birthday or a major holiday comes around and the honey you’re with is not of your heart’s desire…well, that’s a tough day. That’s a real tough day for everybody involved.
I want to wish a personal rebirth to all those who are aching right now. I wish there were something I could do to make it feel better, but I know I can’t. A breakup without mourning could only come after a relationship that was insignificant to being with. I know yours were not of that category and so I hope your healing processes are thorough and—ultimately—refreshing.
Kahlil Gibran wrote, “when you experience sorrow, know that you are weeping for that which has been your delight.”
May you take this time for personal growth and, in the end, find someone with whom you can relax, someone who wants nothing more than to watch the moon with you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
