No reservations

Watching her cry, I feel the weight of her family on her shoulders. A daughter’s anguish from watching her mother’s pain, manifested in a body connected to countless tubes in the Intensive Care Unit.

“Love one another,” she says, because you never know when they will not be there anymore. It is true, so true, and in a flashback of what happened two years ago, I remember so vividly the fear of not being able to say the things we have always felt but kept in our hearts, the traumatic thoughts of not having the chance to see those you love before they fall into unconsciousness, the fact the they do not have the knowledge that you love them so. Suddenly, the importance of work crumbles in the face of such adversity, worries about other people’s impressions and a façade to upkeep seem ridiculously silly, and all you hope for is to be able to hold their hands and tell them you love them.

Each week passes by, an oblivious rollercoaster ride of deadlines that fade into nothingness. Some days you look back at the past few months and wonder what happened during that period of time; the days seemed to have started and ended without any meaningful memories created in between. We spend hours hunched at our desk in the office, worrying about the wording of an email, which may not even be looked at for more than 10 seconds, and we stress over the promotion that might skip us by. Home becomes just a place for bed and breakfast and we don’t even realize how much has changed in the life of our loved ones. We count the pennies but miss the big bucks; we fight many wars and win them, but we lose the battle. Myopia seems to have overtaken many of us, literally and metaphorically, and short-sightedness has led to many forgetting the most important bigger picture of life, the things that matter more than those that don’t.

A conversation at the Cheesecake café with a great friend of mine kept me thinking, a thread of thoughts started not only recently. Decisions we make on a daily basis, based out of fear? Or boldness to try something new, just because we desire to? A year off work seems like a huge decision to make, just to pursue a dream, or longing, when that is the same amount of time since the start of my working life. Yet experience for me enlarges the spectrum of my understanding, makes me rooted but gives me the power to believe, and shorter-term gains diminish in light of these. Encouragement from friends who have always chased their dreams, persistent in their beliefs as well as mine, that makes me feel so much lighter.

It’s like that with so many things. Planning is great, it helps you have an idea of where you want to go; but the magic is in the boldness, of creation of doing, and of trying even if you don’t know if you might succeed. Baby steps make the journey, and building a foundation in our relationships doesn’t take place overnight on occasional birthday parties; the pretty card in the mail once every half a year doesn’t suffice if you want to be a part of their lives as much as they are a part of yours. I realize that making the effort consistently, not only when you feel like it, nor only when things crop up, is what builds the unshakable base which holds us even as we shake.

Tell them you love them, say it as often as you feel the need and want to, do it unabashedly, boldly, without reservation. Get up and do things you want to do, now, not tomorrow, not next year. Don’t hesitate anymore. In Nike’s famous household slogan – Just do it.

India’s tragic love story

India is full of beautiful palaces, monuments and buildings that spring up unexpectedly in an old town, next to a a dirty river, in the valleys.

In a history of the rise and fall of empires spanning across centuries, where the mughal rule expanded into India from central asia, the birth of one of the wonders of the world brought India into the limelight, putting it on the same stage as China, Peru, Brazil, Egypt, Jordan, Rome and Mexico. In a sad but romantic history of the dynasty of the six mughal emperors, a tale of love and the struggle for power produced a grand, beautiful tomb acclaimed by the whole world, a majestic construction built on the foundation of promise and loyalty.

The fifth mughal emperor, Shah Jahan, had many wives, but the third wife possessed most, if not all, of his affection. In a short marriage life of just 19 years, Mumtaz Mahal (whose title signified chosen one of the palace) bore him 14 children, the last of whom caused her to die in childbirth. Of these 14 children, 8 died, and of the remaining 6, there were 2 girls and 4 boys. Out of the 4 males, the last and youngest of them all eventually caused his father the greatest harm and injustice, and he became the sixth ruler of the mughal dynasty, ending the reign which lasted almost two hundred years.

Beyond the line of six descendants which she left behind, Mumtaz’s death brought down her husband, Shah Jahan who retreated into a year of mourning and shed all royal clothing to be dressed in mourning clothes. A year after her demise, he embarked on a massively planned project to build her a monument, as he had promised on her deathbed, and in the next 22 years, oversaw and specified the details of the white marbled tomb renouned among all the world. With marble inlay decorating the white pure marble, and phrases from the Koran inscribed as borders on the magnificent structure in Agra, the outcome of the project was awe-inspiring and breathtaking. Even till today, the Taj Mahal’s mist shrouded outline leaves you amazed, and from a distance, it looks like a dream turning into reality.

A very faithful Muslim, Shah Jahan’s devotion to Islam has been blended and crafted seamlessly into the monument, and the dome-topped wonder silences everyone who lays their eyes on it, even if they are not Muslims. The entrace of the Taj opens to a perfectly symmetrical garden, which is partitioned into four equal squares by water streams and fountains, like the garden of Eden as described in the Koran. The peace and serenity emanating from the surroundings of the Taj settles upon you as you walk closer to the structure, each step showing you yet another beautiful angle, whose symmetry and glazed perfection stops you in your tracks, and you unconsciously reach for your camera in an unsuccessful effort to capture the aura and presence of the Taj. One of the most photographed objects in the world, nothing can beat seeing the Taj in person. The story behind and around which the Taj has been wrapped is beyond the physical presence, it is the spirit of the emperor and his wife which spills forth romance and inspires its viewers.

Out of greed and desire to rule over his own family, Shah Jahan’s youngest son with Mumtaz killed his three elder brothers, then imprisoned his father under house arrest in the Agra fort, where he gazed at the Taj for the eight years during his arrest. So much tragedy, so much pain, yet so much love.

Just like many parts of India, and its endlessly fascinating aspects, the Taj is symbolic of India, of its history and its beauty. And unexpectedly, I seem to have fallen in love with some parts of the vast and rich heritage of this nation.

The heart of poverty

Standing in the busy street, walking by the cars bustling beside you, sitting in the comfort of the hotel-chauffered car, or squeezing among three others in a rick, one thing that hits you as you travel about India is the immense poverty in which so many Indians are trapped, and other than which they know nothing else.

Everywhere you go, you see men, women and children running, walking, strolling about without shoes or slippers, their feet bare on the soil and its elements. Just watching the people of India going about their daily lives, you immediately grasp the extent of how destitute and impoverished they are. In the cities where the nation’s increasing prosperity has flowed to some, many others are still left behind in the dirt of deficiency and lack, being trampled upon by the crowd of those who have found quick wealth. The income disparity and large gap is blindingly obvious, with flashy cars complete with white-uniformed drivers just inches away from the physically disabled beggar, whose hands quiver from days’ worth of hunger.

Driving past poor neighbourhoods in the suburbs to reach the grand gates of our five star hotel, I cringe when I see young children walking alone in the dark alleys, to huts made out of stone and dried leaves for the roofs. The bumpy rides show how badly maintained the roads are, and as you turn corners and are presented with a sight of a cow and a goat sharing their dinner at the neighbourhood trash corner, the odour of decaying rubbish and scraps of leftovers makes your stomach churn and waves of nausea wash relentlessly over you. What makes it worse is when you see and old bearded man, skinning as a beanpole, walk towards them to try his luck at the same pile of trash. It makes you turn away, from pity and also guilt, for wasting half of the chicken bryani ordered at the hotel cafe, and for making a face at the fish and chips that wasn’t as tasty as you would have liked.

At the tourist sites, homeless beggars lurk in anticipation of the donations of pity tourists often give, and it has become their occupation and expertise to stretch out their hands in a bid to get their daily allowance. Women hang their hand-made bead necklaces on both arms, and follow you non-stop asking, almost pleading with you to buy their wares. They see you are not interested and they keep dropping their prices, desperation overwhelming their greed to make a quick buck from foreignors. Babies in their arms, these women as wafer-thin from the lack of proper nourishment, and their hungry young children suck at their breasts, dried from the lack of milk. They walk around, sweat glistening on their foreheads, one child in front and one at the side, eyes wide from the draining heat yet alert to the sounds and sights of foreignors.

In the cities, where the markets are still bright and much alive at ten o’clock at night, the narrow streets see cars, motorbikes and bicycles jammed next to each other. You have to weave your way through rows or parked motorbikes to cross from the streets to the pavements, which are then blocked by all the items for sale and the unending stream of pedestrians and saturday night shoppers. Children skip up the stairs to the bright and colourfully-lit shops, as the orchestra of honks and chatter make a rhythm which gives the cities their heartbeat. The word “foreignor” is labelled all over your face as you walk, flinching when a sweaty arm brushes against you, the owner never once realizing and never once turning around to apologize. This is the way things work, you don’t have much time to be worried and particular about personal space — most people here do not understand that concept. Finally, when inside an acessory shop, you feel relieved from the rush outside, but then the heat and unventilated air gushes at you, and discomfort leads the beads of perspiration that start to form. Amazed at the thousands of selections of bangles and earrings and bindis and necklaces there are to choose from, I am always at a loss, and take an extremely long amount of time to appreciate and then finally come to a decision of which to buy. I love the colours and vibrancy, but at the same time, I am also struck by the shop attendants, just young children who have to work to sell the items, whether because it is a family-run business, or because they have the work from the young age of eight. They flock anxiously to you as you enter the shop, asking what you would life. My initial irritation at having an attendant hovering relentlessly at my side slowly grows into admiration of their persistance and constant smiles and politeness. I am also always full of respect for them, for they embrace what they have without complaints, unlike us who live in large clean cities and have made complaining an elevated form of art.

Yet what really makes me feel for Indians is their kind and helpful souls, their willingness to help you push your bus when the engine doesn’t start, and their beautiful smiles when you thank them, realizing that they did it without asking for money, even if they were poor and sitting at the roadside hoping someone would stop by to buy the clothes they had hung up for sale.

India makes you want to go home, to be in the comfort of the hotel, to have the soft bed to sleep on and clean potable water running from the tap. India creates a longing to return and show your fellow countrymen what they are taking for granted, and to shake them up and tell them what so many here in this nation of over a billion do not even know they lack. India makes me ashamed of complaining, of splashing money away like water when young children work so hard just to kill their hunger. India makes me see its people in a different light, makes me appreciate and be thankful for what I do not have to go through, and makes me a little more emphathatic, and for that I am grateful.

A part of India

India is warm hot air hitting you right in the face, lingering with the smell of gee, jasmine flowers, and curries long after you have moved away from its origin.
India is smiling friendly people always ready to help you, but sometimes not for free, a tip will be good.
India is vehicles honking at other vehicles just for the fun of saying hello, and sometimes honking even when no other car is in sight.
India is the sight of people sitting on any piece of land possible, lying at the bus stop, with dirty fingernails long overdue for a wash.
India is men wearing some sarong-like cloth as underpants or pants (im not sure) and whenever they feel like it, loosening the cloth and tying it again right in front of strangers.
India is pedestrians walking right in the middle of the road, unaware and uncaring that they were that close to death.
India is girls clad in beautiful saris sitting pillion behind their husbands or boyfriends, both legs at one side in a pretty lady-like manner.
India is garlands of jasmine flowers for sale in the market, on the necks of ladies, scattered on the dirty roads.
India is the the sand on the beach, coarse under your feet, and horses parading with guardmen in dirty green uniforms.
India is smiling attendants, shaking their heads while saying yes, never about to say they can’t do something even if they really can’t.
India is cheap but good books, a pleasantly high level of English, and hotel chauffeurs in stunning white navy looking uniforms.
India is taking tea breaks whenever you want to, drinking on the roadside, oblivious to the developed world around.
India is little boys made to work their ways of our slumish poverty by dragging huge containers of tea and selling them in cups by the beach.
India is the kites in the sky, soaring through the delight of those who play with them, their companion and their happiness.
India is the selling of sugarcane juice at a roadside stall puffing much more exhaust then money made.
India is the huge income disparity between locals and foreignors, and amongst castes and religions.
India is the swamps stinking with sewage and rubbish right next to the slums in the city centre.
India is women balancing heavy sacks of rice on the top of their heads, with just one hand for help, while their men walk beside them.
India is arranged marriages that result in unhappy lives, of women and children born into a caste they have no option to refuse.
India is tv channel after channel of men and women seducing each other, before a forty second dance outbreak from forty other people that suddenly apprear in the scene.
India is polluted skies and dirty grounds, filthy with years of non-maintanance.
India is buses with people hanging off them, swerving and blasting their horns.

India grabs you from wherever you are from, and shocks you with its stark characteristics. There isn’t any one thing that doesn’t quite amaze me. India osmoses into you whether you like it or not. India is hugely fascinating, and it makes me more aware of everything.

Pitstop along the journey

What does it take to achieve what you should be doing?

This is a question which has been invading my conversations, my thoughts, my dreams. What is that stirring in the heart that tells me I need something more than a day job, more than an occupation, more than a monetary obligation? What is that which keeps me awake at night, tossing and turning in my bed, causing my mind to tick non-stop, in search of an answer, to find that which would consume me with passion and purpose and drive? That is what has been driving me to question people and their motivations for their search for the ultimate goal (what is that goal, by the way?) and why they have chosen that as the final destination. It is also that which makes me ponder in deep desire of knowing, why others don’t seem bothered by a mundane and unmeaningful contribution as much as I am, if even at all. Why does the final goal have to be some place high up in the ladder, no matter which ladder you are climbing, and why do you even need to climb a ladder in the first place?

One year of work has passed, and if not for anything else, it has made me understand myself just slightly better, and each day I find the lack of purpose and significance more and more replaced by the push and urgency of a need to do something which contributes and adds value, more than just through counting of millions and the impact on a region, a division or even an entire corporation. Lehman is the best proof that an entity once hailed as an infallible god can overnight turn into shambles, its employees displaced from their previously enviable jobs. In just a few days, it turned from leader in the forefront to name in history, all for the wrong reasons. An organization whose power and might diminished and forgotten, is now substituted by other companies who have, because of the way things have fallen in place, happen to be at the right place at the right time. Corporations come and go, and employees, are similar to cogs in the machines, replaceable and easily disposed of. I don’t see myself as an employee; the word is too short-term to be of any deep significance to the people around. I have always wanted to be a value-adder, a contributor, but not just work-wise, but in all aspects, especially in the area of relations. I want to leave impacts which are lasting, and respected.

Maybe for some, this seems like a lofty notion, idealistic like a schoolgirl, silly and impressionisic. A year ago, some people told me very blankly that I am like that because I come from a pretty well-off family and did not have financial worries to tie me firmly planted on the ground, and so think and feel that notions like these are most important in a job. They said that one year later, when I had worked longer and interacted more with people who have worked for a long time already, I would withdraw my fluffy and frivolous ideals and realize my place in the practical ground, and stay there firmly rooted. I said that I hoped I would never become like that. They said let’s see. A year later, more questions pop up in my head, and instead of feeling more at home with my job and being satisfied with what I do (despite enjoying some of the tasks I have), I have gravitated more towards an immense desire to rethink and draw a new direction in my life. Technically speaking, there is one more year to think through what I would like to do, which path I would prefer to take, among the many. Yet I have a feeling leaving the pondering till a year later will be unbearable; I have already begun to consider many options that might make me feel more able to impact and influence people, in the ways that would count and last.

There are about 4 more months left of the year, and knowing how time flies, I dont suppose it will slow down anytime soon. The last 12 months have taught me a couple a things. That some people are friends right from the start, friends who encourage you and give you advice willingly, and there are some that will always remain colleagues and nothing more. And I was fortunate to have a manager who was also a friend, at least for once. Thankfully, when she changed jobs to be just a colleague, I lost a great manager, but I still have a great friend. I also learnt that most bosses do not stand up for you nor praise you when you have done something well, but that if you ever have the great chance to work for a boss worthy of your respect, you will praise him or her and their reputation will far exceed their areas of responsibility. I also realised that alot of times the limelight doesnt shine on people who have worked so hard to enable things to run smoothly, and that hard workers aren’t necessarily the most appreciated, but these are the unsung heroes who everyone else hail in their hearts and minds. I have also discovered that while many people do not personally impact your life in the long run, we take their impressions and thoughts of us much too seriously that they deserve to be taken; but the worst thing is that we realise that their opinions do not count, because in the first place they did not care two hoots while making the comments that bother you for ages. It has taught me to think carefully first about who honestly matters, not just because they give you your performance ratings, but more because they shape your life and it’s values, and because they truly put in effort and thought into what they do and say to you. And I know for sure that if you treat others with sincerity and respect, they usually reciprocate.

I still haven’t figured out a whole lot of things; I think the journey thus far has showed me I need to impact and influence people, but I am still wiping the mist off the windscreen in order to see clearly. If anything, the last 12 months have not been a waste of time, although I still am unsure about the career path I would like to take. The path less travelled, it may be, but till I can decipher the direction of my inner compass, I will try to appreciate the best of any situation I am put in. And the best are the lessons learnt.

Life’s little surprises

I often remember Mannheim days with extreme fondness, with plenty of love and happy thoughts. One day I remember especially well is the day Faye brought back a cake and I saw her walking home with it, with me sitting on the number 60 bus. Somehow I knew the cake was for me. I remember being so happy when she really did surprise me in the room with it!! And to my greater surprise, she told me that Shawn my wonderful cousin had actually contacted her via facebook to coordinate the surprise for me!

I remember skyping with Shawn as I ate the bday cake, very very happy that he had actually bothered to do all that. I can still remember the exact cake, it was chocolate coated and there was a banana on the top. I loved it.

I also remember how on the eve of my birthday I was skyping with Shawn before the dinner Faye had booked me for, and she was telling me that it was just the two of us but that I should dress up cos it was my birthday. Then when I arrived at the restaurant, I got a huge shock when I saw 20+ guests gathered at the Istanbul restaurant all beaming at me! And then later at night where half the party adjourned at my hostel to celebrate and party even more.

I think it doesn’t take a lot to make me happy, just some simple gesture and kind words and I treasure the friendship/ thought for life. Faye did the same for me last year when she brought a bouquet of flowers for me for my bday, taking me completely by surprise.

I think life is beautiful, when you are surrounded by friends and family who care and share so much.

I still remember the first day in Mannheim, our first lunch as we walked through the Turkish quarters, eating at DBO doner, as we bought a sim card for communication in Mannheim. I remember drinking in the sights and sounds of the city, smelling the freshness of summer’s end ushering in autumn’s majestic entrance, the sunshine spilling though Crystal and Jengyin’s sky windows in Hafenstrasse, and their kind offers of biscuits and chocolate.

I have a sudden longing to return and see Mannheim again, to walk next to the Schloss and its large white-framed Baroque windows. To tread down the cobbled streets along the Hauptbahnhoft, and dance in Zapattos. I want to sit down behind Hafenstrasse on the grass, in the heat of summer, lying on nothing but a mat and eating butter pretzels, drinking beer and listening to music blasting from Aaron’s laptop. Watching him cook the weisswurst in the hot water and giving us an introductory course on slicing the German sausages.

I want to return to Mannheim, and replay all the memories, so many made, and especially those with you.

Life’s little surprises, are so beautiful.

Mannheim was one of them.

Random Scribbles

To a place and back
you leave your heart there
the bits of light that flashes so
glows with the fire of your soul
That summer glow
I am in love with the seasons
Of life, of love, of emotions running high
The willowy trees swaying in the light warm breeze
Birds in the silhouetted sunset
gliding through the air
No continuing thoughts in ordered fashion
Just whimsy dreams and longing passion
All stages set for their performance and
Here we wait in reverence
You followed the road,
Not often travelled,
Whose least trodden path
Takes you down the yellow wood
Brilliant beams of gold
From heaven stuns through
The thick green canopy.
I am there, somewhere.

A Mother’s Heart

She yearns and she pines for her daughter’s return
Her safety and her love
A mother gives her all to her little daughter
Dresses her up and cuddles her
When her daughter is a baby,
All she wishes is for her to grow up
So they can talk about life and love and girly stuff
And as the little girl grows up and finds
Her friends among them and boys as well
A mother there she in the back seat dwell
Girlfriends and movie nights and sleepovers too
A daughter is caught up with all in school
The mail in the post she waited for
A shadow of the car trailing away as she goes for a date
Her mother watches from the window pane
‘My little girl has grown’, then says her name
Little whispers of shy words now said but
No longer to her mother
The girl is grown and delights in another
The baby daughter who used to twirl in front
Of the mirror showing mother and daughter
Now stands tall and upright in her gown
As she walks down the isle to her other
The crowd is watching as the father guides her down the path
Happy yet sad to release his daughter
Into the hands of another man
Yet while the father eventually lets go
Her mother is the one whose tears fall silently
A smile breaking into crystal beads
Of love, of memories and of silent joy
She sits in the pew as her daughter glances
Into the eyes of her new found partner
Into the life she will now own, no longer attached to her mother
And as the church bells chime their blessed union,
The bride gathers her train and turns around
She blows her mother a butterfly kiss
Dear mummy you I will dearly miss
But a mother-daughter bond will not fall apart
Nor break because of an added son
But their unity becomes stronger because very soon,
Her daughter becomes a mother too.

Happy Mother’s Day! to all mothers & mothers-to-be : )

Strokes of Impressionism

It is the intensely clear turquoise of a little girl’s eyes that stops me in my busy tracks, holding my world still for that fraction of a second. It is the myriad of aromatic smells wafting from a bakery amidst the bustling morning crowd, which intoxicates me to lift my neck; head tilted back as my eyes close in one satisfied moment, and just take it all in. The blind busker in that little corner of the jam-packed street, swaying with his livelihood, the accordion, and his slightly off-tune songs, he makes me slow down, relax and enjoy the random snippets of a morning which otherwise would have dissolved into nothing but a blur of city rush.

As a search begins to make some sense of an existence which at times projects itself to be mundane, un-meaningful and lacking impact, a realization comes quickly that like a beautiful Monet masterpiece, our lives are greater than the sum of individual events which we experience, but the beauty which emanates from within is captured from a wider, bigger, overall perspective.

Monet’s impressionism form of art dictates that they are best viewed further rather than nearer. According to Wikipedia, impressionists used “short, ‘broken’ strokes of pure and unmixed color, not smoothly blended, as was customary, in order to achieve the effect of intense color vibration… Characteristics of Impressionist paintings include visible brush strokes, open composition, emphasis on light in its changing qualities, ordinary subject matter; the inclusion of movement as a crucial human perception and experience, and unusual visual angles.”

At close view, the un-harmonized strokes and stark colors feel garish, too intense and vivid for the audience to appreciate. Too harsh compared to the finer strokes employed in other competing forms of art; somewhat queerly disjointed.

I’d like to imagine that the impressionist brush strokes are the individual events in our lives; that they should always be bold, strong and passionate, vividly alive with the richness of life and love; not blended into someone else’s achievements, watered down and faded. That even as individual strokes, they tell a story, albeit just a small part, but whose character is shown strong, daring, and unwavering. Like confidence deliberately marked on an originally plain white canvas, showcasing each stroke of color in a light of its own. As life runs its course, and wisdom increases in each one of us, the changing illumination on these strokes of events display a different side to them, one which has never been cast before. And these strokes tell our story, each one of the vivid, pure tones.

Purchase delivered: Experience

There are conversations that linger in your mind for a while after the speakers have returned to their daily lives, and recently these conversations have been resonating with the same frequency and heartbeat of my questions to life.

In the last month or so, I have been either the initiator or participator of engaging discussions whose individual impacts on me have transformed into compounding and increasingly urgent needs for me to know why I am where and what I am. I used to think when reminiscing on old times and looking at time-stained photographs, that we tend to believe that each instance in our lives are the best that our lives are, up till then. But frequent and subsequent contemplations of this theory convinced me that is not true. Many encounters with peers and elders alike have showed me that many are not happy where they are; perhaps they had made a wrong choice some point in time and unwittingly suffered the consequences of their actions. Or perhaps they simply chose not to reach for what they wanted, and as a result paid for it with an unsatisfactory existence.

Jonny Jr mentioned the fact that humans are intrinsically beings who need freedom of choice (amongst others in the Maslow’s hierarchy of needs); and it is often the limitations that are already in place that constrain our spectrum of choices, frustrating those whose lot in life determines they be the unfortunate few with restricted choice.

Another friend commented, on a totally separate occasion, that given limited resources, particularly resources called time and money; we should use them to attain things with the most lasting utility. Material possessions have the ability to make us incredibly happy and proud; for just one moment, before shoving us into the spiral of unending covetousness. I understood this the moment I started working and earning my own keep; suddenly every bag looks like it needs to be adopted by you; each watch seems to tick and coax you hypnotically to pick it up, and once you do so, you find something else that calls out to you. There’s an unending stream of utility in buying material goods; with the fine print that you also need an unending stream of finances. It seems that given the limited time and health that we have, a generally agreed purchase which would provide energizer-battery-style long-lasting utility is, and always will be, experience.

If at any point in life, you are the sum of all your past experiences, then shouldn’t we make a conscious effort to increase the experiences that we have all the time? The lasting impact every scenario life places us with usually makes up a piece of the puzzle we are trying to fix. But at the same time, we do not buy our paths in life off the shelves as we would a jigsaw puzzle in Toys ‘R Us. Our puzzle in life is akin to a painting yet unfinished; and each decision we make results in the coloring of that little piece of the ultimate picture that is unraveled to us in tantalizing candy bits and pieces. And the more we choose to value experience over the mere attaining of a goal while dreading the journey, the more texture, vibrancy and hues our paintings will exude.

And so, let me finish my sales pitch. Buy experience; but never, never at a discount.