Becoming genuine

I am always trying to reach my ideal self. In an ideal world, Alison would...

1) Be more spiritual

2) Be more disciplined (With regards to my academics, responsibilities and  jogging)

3) Be more kind and in touch with other people

4) Be hotter - body wise (Yes it is an overlap with the ideal self)

5) Have a resume that would melt potential employers and future school admission officers hearts.

I try to get to my ideal self by forcing myself to do things that I don't particularly enjoy. I thought that if I did it for long enough, I would be able to cultivate the habit and eventually enjoy it. Slowly, everything became duty and obligation... not to anyone else or any organization, but to my ideal self.

I think after my episode of severe burnout a month ago, I had to reach deeper within myself than I normally would. I have been trying to figure out what truly brings me enjoyment, not some far-fetched notion of future happiness, but pleasure in the here and now.

I am now in the process of re-examining my relationships, and I guess I am realizing that if I have to write the names of some people on a list to remember to keep in contact with them, maybe it is saying something about my feelings toward them. If I am cringing as I write another cover letter about the person that I supposedly am, or the activities that I supposedly like, or the values that I supposedly hold, maybe that is saying something about who I want to be as well.

I won't deny that it is very difficult for me to accept and even endorse my own feelings and needs, especially when concerning my professional ideal self. However it is time I try be a little more genuine. After all, I do believe that if I am doing something that I really like, I would excel at it.

Camps

I've been forced to go to 2 camps in the past 6 months. Honestly, that is too much for a normal human being of my age. I spent 4 years of my life digging holes in the ground and collecting sticks for fire. Nowadays, I just want to sleep in a real bed. But no, they want me to sleep on the ground, to pee in the bushes, to learn about leadership and teamwork. Don't get me wrong, I love nature... it is the communal aspect of camp that scares me the most. They keep wanting me to TALK to SHARE to OPEN UP. The most recent camp even forced me to write a reflection paper on what I have learnt. So here goes... watch me transform what I hate most about camp, into something to be advocated for.

Talk

Walking and talking, that is what we did. Sitting and talking, cooking and talking, helping and talking, that is what we did. For two days, we talked, and we talked, and we talked. We talked about school, about dreams, about our disappointments and our triumphs. We talked at the base of the hill, mid way up the hill and at the peak of the hill. There were many attempts by both instructors and uBuddies alike, to relate our climbing of a physical hill to the metaphorical journey of ups and downs that life is. I see the connection in the talking. On the hill as in life, we are constantly talking, constantly striving to confirm our identity in other people’s affirmations, constantly striving to build the social connections that are so fundamental to our mental health. So we talk.

From all the talking, different identities, personalities across the spectrum start taking shape. The more we talk, the more detail gets etched into our sketch in other people’s minds. We start filling out, becoming multi-dimensional, our bodies swelling with words. Through talking, we exist, we become real.

When we talk, we gain new understanding into our experiences, our hurts, and our carefully nursed wounds. Talking helps us re-organize the information in our minds. Talking opens closed doors and creates a path for revival. When we talk and others listen, it feels undeniably good.

Therein lies the secret behind a caring campus – the power of talking. Talking is therapeutic, and it establishes connections with others. So, uBuddies talk. We talk to reach out, to help, to change. We talk to the school body via e-mails, we talk via signboards, and we talk with mouths, our hands and our hearts. Most importantly, uBuddies listen to other people talk, because we know the power behind speech. So we talk.

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My duplicity and ability to conform never cease to amaze me.

Rose Tinted Glasses in Middlemarch

In Middlemarch by George Eliot

"His efforts at exact courtesy and formal tenderness had no defect for her. She filled up all blanks with unmanifested perfections, interpreting him as she interpreted the works of Providence, and accounting for seeming discords by her own deafness to the higher harmonies. And there are many blanks left in the weeks of courtship, which a loving faith fills with happy assurance."

I have honestly never seen such a comprehensive and hilariously mocking description of the phenomenon of wearing rose tinted glasses when looking upon one's preferred person.

Moving

I've lost it. It took two weeks for me to feel ready enough to re-read it. I've lost it. I've lost that folded over piece of paper; that powerful piece of paper. Its existence made me sorry, and the loss of it took away my first good day this semester.

I was just starting to feel operationally ready again when it decided to disappear, vanish, go poof.

I find that I am unable to look forward to what is to come. It can be said that I have currently lost sight of my ikigai and my ability to enjoy life as it is.

For now though, I know what keeps me moving. The act of reading seems to be sufficient to keep me out of bed.

Transit

There is something inherently muddled about travel. The crossing from day to night in an unnatural amount of time, the awake but unfocused mind and the push and pull of vague emotions.

My sense of restlessness and loss is always heightened when I travel alone which; I guess is the only way I travel now. If I were to try conjure up a reason, I would attribute it to the futility of mindless purpose that characterizes traveling. Traveling is always about getting from one point to another. A to B to C to D. The reading, the eating, the thinking, the aimless wandering, the drifting from chair to chair, the waiting for gate after gate to open, all of it driven by lackluster wants, all of it meaningless. The entire process is like a bare and ghastly version of life. The exception is that in transit, one cannot pretend that any of the filler activities undertaken have real purpose.

In transit as in life, we are constantly preoccupying ourselves with petty distractions and drivel, waiting for the next step, striving for the next goal. Meanwhile though, we are caught, stuck behind gates which open only to lead us to another impasse.

I fear that I am not really moving anywhere.

Photography on Trips

It's odd, but I do feel the social pressure to document my trip a little. I remember that I used to take photographs, write and observe to a ridiculous extent. Time however has proved that the extensive documentation serves no purpose but to remind myself of the type of person that I used to be. Now, instead of finding my camera a necessary delight, I find it quite tiresome. I'd much rather stick my hands in my pockets and stride unencumbered down the streets of wherever I happen to be with my head looking up instead of through a camera lens. Instead of trying to capture the moment for future reliving, I'd rather just enjoy it there and then.

Perhaps its because of the nature of photography. To take good shots requires great concentration and an eye for composition. Its terribly annoying to be looking around at everything trying to ascertain if it makes a good picture. Worse still if I don't, because then all my pictures would stir up in me a rising discontent and dissatisfaction which rather taints my enjoyment of the day.

So I choose to leave my camera behind, and I rarely regret doing so.

Durham

Spitalfields

Where Monica Ali's Brick Lane was situated...

Today's trip to the Geffrye Museum

Kenwood House

London has been a blur of cold air, the metro, red buses and the muddy waters of The River Thames. It is beautiful, but for the last few days, I just kept feeling like something was missing. There was a disconnect somewhere.

Therefore today, I tried to find the England that I have always imagined as a child. I grew up reading Austen and the Bronte sisters; the England in my head has always been a mass of green, dotted with stately estates and acres of parks.

The Kenwood House. I even managed to see an incredible self-potrait of Rembrandt.