I still haven't found what I'm looking for...

thecharlottelu:

Every family has a story. What’s yours?

The other day, I was at this darshini (South Indian vegetarian breakfast restaurant) at the unearthly hour of 8am. I was running some errands with my Mom and feeling out of sorts because 1. I’m not a morning person whatsoever, 2. I generally dislike South Indian breakfast foods, and 3. I hadn’t had any caffeine yet.

So my Mom and I were sitting upstairs in the airconditioned section, because I wanted to avoid the madding morning crowd downstairs. We spent some time carping at each other because we were tired and hungry, and in frustration, I started scrolling through Tumblr on my phone, ignoring her and mentally cussing the low network signal.

I looked around and saw that the only other occupied table was the one next to us, where an elderly snowy haired couple sat, calmly sipping their coffee. They were both immaculately dressed, her with her floral dress and string of pearls and him in his semiprofessional attire and sweater vest. Her curled white hair was reminiscent of another era, and she gazed out of the nearby window, occasionally touching her husband’s hand and pointing out a bird or passing car of interest. They didn’t speak. Her husband would look at each sight and smile quietly, nodding. I noted the plain gold bands on their wedding fingers, tarnished by the passage of the years.

The waiters were obviously well acquainted with the couple, and without being asked, they first brought in two plates of idlis (rice cakes), that are accompanied by a bowl each of chutney and sambhar. Wordlessly, the husband handed his chutney to his wife and she placed her bowl of sambhar on his plate. They began to eat; slowly, unhurriedly. I felt strangely calm just watching them and their effortless silence. Once they were done with the idlis, the waiter brought them two plates of dosas (savoury crepes… kind of). Again, they exchanged chutney and sambhar bowls, ate peacefully, and leisurely paid the bill.

After some muted conversation and serene smiles, they rose to leave, clasping hands and nodding and smiling at the waiters. The old man caught my eye and smiled genially. I’m generally too shy to talk to strangers, especially older people, but I couldn’t let them go without blunderingly asking, “How long have you two been married?”

He stopped, ruminating. “A very long time,” he said, looking at his wife questioningly. She smiled at me. “Many years now.” Then they left, still hand in hand.

Of late, my Mom’s constant nagging about marriage is making me even more commitment phobic than I already am, and aging is something that terrifies me greatly. I identify with every lyric of the song “Forever Young,” because to me, aging represents a monotonous similarity and lack of stimulation and excitement… just as marriage does.

But sitting there, watching that lovely elderly couple, I found I was envious of them and their contented happiness. I can’t remember the last time I was wholly content- perhaps I’ve never been. Perhaps old age, and marriage, aren’t things to fear after all. It’s only unhappiness and regret that I should strive to avoid.

Louisa May Alcott, Little Women

GPOY GPOY GPOY

the-hopeful-heart:

from Impossible 2 Possible (https://www.facebook.com/Impossible2Possible):

The Mayonnaise Jar and Two Cups of Coffee

When things in your lives seem almost too much to handle, when 24 hours in a day are not enough, remember the mayonnaise jar and the 2 cups of coffee.

A professor stood before his philosophy class and had some items in front of him. When the class began, he wordlessly picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was.

The professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar. He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.

The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with an unanimous “yes.”

The professor then produced two cups of coffee from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar effectively filling the empty space between the sand. The students laughed.

“Now,” said the professor as the laughter subsided, “I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life. The golf balls are the important things—your family, your children, your health, your friends and your favorite passions—and if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full.

The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house and your car.

The sand is everything else—the small stuff. “If you put the sand into the jar first,” he continued, “there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff you will never have room for the things that are important to you.

“Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Play with your children. Take time to get medical checkups. Take your spouse out to dinner. Play another 18. There will always be time to clean the house and fix the disposal. Take care of the golf balls first—the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand.”

One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the coffee represented. The professor smiled. “I’m glad you asked.

It just goes to show you that no matter how full your life may seem, there’s always room for a couple of cups of coffee with a friend.”

mishalmoorebloggyblog:

As seen on Facebook. (posted by Homestead Survival)

A sweet lesson on patience. 

A NYC Taxi driver wrote:

I arrived at the address and honked the horn. After waiting a few minutes I honked again. Since this was going to be my last ride of my shift I thought about just driving away, but instead I put the car in park and walked up to the door and knocked.. ‘Just a minute’, answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.
After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 90’s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940’s movie.
By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets.
There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard
box filled with photos and glassware.
‘Would you carry my bag out to the car?’ she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman.
She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.
She kept thanking me for my kindness. ‘It’s nothing’, I told her.. ‘I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother to be treated.’
‘Oh, you’re such a good boy, she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address and then asked, ‘Could you drive
through downtown?’
‘It’s not the shortest way,’ I answered quickly..
‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I’m in no hurry. I’m on my way to a hospice.
I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. ‘I don’t have any family left,’ she continued in a soft voice..’The doctor says I don’t have very long.’ I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.
‘What route would you like me to take?’ I asked.
For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator.
We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.
Sometimes she’d ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.
As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, ‘I’m tired.Let’s go now’.
We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.
Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move.
They must have been expecting her.
I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.
‘How much do I owe you?’ She asked, reaching into her purse.
‘Nothing,’ I said
‘You have to make a living,’ she answered.
‘There are other passengers,’ I responded.
Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug.She held onto me tightly.
‘You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light.. Behind me, a door shut.It was the sound of the closing of a life..
I didn’t pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day,I could hardly talk.What if that woman had gotten an angry driver,or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?
On a quick review, I don’t think that I have done anything more important in my life.
We’re conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments.
But great moments often catch us unaware-beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

(via sukipants)

mehreenkasana:

American Team Don Hijab to Support Captain

Cheering up their Muslim teammate, a Floridian high school football team decided to don hijab before their season finale game to show solidarity with their Muslim captain who has been taunted repeatedly over her religious outfit.

“Everybody looked at us weird,” West Broward senior Marilyn Solorzano told Sun Sentinel website on Friday, April 20.

“I understand now everything she went through and how hard it must have been.”

[x]

Irum Khan had rocks thrown at her and was physically attacked more than once simply because she wore the hijab. Her team decided to show support and solidarity in this wonderful manner. Faith in humanity: Nicely restored.

tyleroakley:

humansofnewyork:

I found this man on 7th Avenue in Park Slope. He was leaning heavily on his cane, looking down, wearing a grimaced face. I felt bad for him, so I smiled and waved when I walked past. His face changed completely. He lit up, smiled wide, and gave me a cheery greeting. There was nothing forced about it. He seemed like a man who went through life looking for the smallest excuses to be happy.

I walked 50 feet down the sidewalk, turned around, and walked back to him. “I want to take your photo,” I told him, “because of how big you smiled when I walked by.”

He said: “Well I saw someone smiling at me who I didn’t even know. So I thought: ‘By God! I better do something!’”

I love this.

(Source: humansofnewyork, via oatmealista)

A powerful documentary about kids born to sex workers in Calcutta’s red light areas, Born Into Brothels is brave, inspiring, honest, and raw. I highly recommend watching it! I rewatched it last night, after a hiatus of two years, and it still made me cry, learn, and think. 

liftinglatches:

Of all of the moments in the entire series, this is the moment that breaks my heart the most. The moment after John says “You could.” The moment that Sherlock knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that John loves him and believes in him and that no matter what Sherlock says, what the papers say, what Richard Brook, Kitty Riley, or any body says John isn’t going to lose the faith that he has in Sherlock Holmes. 

timmyp10:

Chris Bishop was drinking in front of a liquor store when we met. A resident in the local homeless shelter he told me the following. 

At the age of thirteen, Chris killed his father, stabbing him with a knife after a childhood of abuse. He spent the next 18 years in correctional facilities. “When he was drunk and mad he would hold me out the apartment window and threaten to drop me to the street, eight floors below. He beat me and my mother all the time. I have been drinking ever since. To forget.”

When I asked how he wanted to be described, his eyes teared up and he said “I am human, like everyone else.” 

His EYES. I can’t.

(via periodpoops-deactivated20121009)