THE INTERNATIONAL DAY OF PEACE

Peace.

Is there such a thing?

To be gravely honest, I have ushered in the renowned day with a conscience of tumult and restlessness - as last night I was once again reminded of what sets me apart from my academic allies, the moment I step out of that dysfunctional contraption of a School Bus and reluctantly embark into the war-zone that is my four-walled commorancy.

So now, as I ponder, I am, in fact, patiently and attentively awaiting the departure of 'the cat' so that, as the saying goes, I 'the mouse' can play. Lamentably though, the coast is, as yet, most certainly not clear.

How? But how is this any way to carry out a day of universal ceasefire and nonviolence?

And so I question once more - is there, realistically, such a thing as peace; for it has indubitably remained this idealistic , ravenously sought after, almost alien concept since time immemorial.

Truth to tell, the world pursuing peace on this yearly occasion is, to me, like the blind bull who chases after the enticing red cloak, not knowing how it looks like, where it is, or, in the least, how to find it.

So, I presume the better question holds, am I the only blind bull on the all important World Peace Day? The annual day of global unity and intercultural cooperation on a scale that humanity has never known?

21st September.

It's funny how the human race has taken to allocating single days to a specific moral virtue. An unwitting day indeed as it utterly disregards the unassailable fact that peace is not "a 'thing' that can materialize all at once, out of nothing, just because people get tired of strife and violence," but is rather "a process that takes place over time, as we learn to lay aside our self-centerdness."

It is therefore at such moments that we look to historic icons of the 'olive branch'; references of true acts of peace  - Mother Theresa, Mahatma Gandhi, Nelson Mandela, Martin Luther King, Jr... The list knows no end...
And so here are the expressions of but a few:

"All works of love are works of peace" - Mother Theresa

".. So we must fix our vision not only on the negative expulsion of war, but on the positive affirmations of peace" - Martin Luther King, Jr.

My most favored, however, is Eleanor Roosevelt's take on the pervasive subject of peace, in which she points, "It isn't enough to talk about peace, one must believe in it. And it isn't enough to believe in it; one must work at it."

No surprise this was the mentality that inspired her advocacy for expanded roles for women in the workplace, the civil rights of African Americans and Asian Americans, and the rights of World War II refugees.

And thus, we find that in order to work towards peace, one must relinquish all vices and assume a facade of purity.

If you have been a steadfast reader, as I wish to imagine, you'd know that I am ever so keen to conclude affairs with a counselling teaching from James Allen's plethora of motivational works.

Before you, a meditative poem I pray will guide you forth through the rest of this day.

The end of evil

All evil passes from us when we find
The Way of Good ; when word and deed and mind
Are shaped to Truth and Wisdom; then we see
The end of bondage and captivity.

All good is ever with us ; we but want
Wisdom to take it; we are poor and scant
Only in lacking wisdom ; that acquired,
The good is ours that we so long desired.

Be still any soul and know that peace is thine;
Be steadfast, heart, and know that strength divine
Belongs to thee : cease from thy turmoil, mind,
And thou the Everlasting Rest shalt find.

THE THREE MAGIC WORDS

Nothing could have prepared me for what I was to face between the hours of 4:00 to 5:30 pm.

Looking back, it would certainly be a downright injustice to fail to credit the book whose words remain fresh in my mind, although read lang syne.

I am talking about one of the greatest motivational books ever put to press.

Outliers: The Story of Success by Malcolm Gladwell.

Have you ever had a moment something got so unjustifiably, immoderately toilsome? So hard you were all for throwing in the towel? Abandoning the seemingly Herculean challenge?

Trust me when I say this: If there was ever such a time, it was this evening.

The water, cold and numbing, felt in itself not like a fluid, but like a thick volume of clay, and I was buried in it. It stands to reason that paddling through was like braving a tremendous load on my back.
It felt almost pointless, the struggling and scrambling that amounted to but negligible movements; and as a swimmer, you can't help but feel an inward galling bitterness, a bitterness so scorching it could burn your throat, or at least suck it dry of all moisture.

And to think that I was the very last person, even after the toddlers had finished, to exit the pool - the taunting, intimidating water body almost certainly laughing behind my back, as I, the pathetic, sloth-paced, excuse of a natator, feebly slithered out.

However, reflecting now, I did, albeit the apparent failure, march off, head high, with the firm self-assurance that I had indeed accomplished a most notable milestone.

"Never give up."

These were the three simple yet admittedly cliché words that saw me through the mammoth task. And they are the very same words that Outliers is based upon. After today, I reckon Gladwell may as well subsume me to his choice list of success stories.

Although minor, it was a noteworthy achievement- one that will see me through countless more backbreaking evenings, and especially through the ever bone-chilling Swim Meets.

And so in your case, whatever it may be, simply believe in the three magic words.

After all, it won't cost you a thing.

THE THING ABOUT RESILIENCE

Assuming the stance of a couch potato, I settled in front of the television this evening to watch the History channel, or better, to allow proper digestion of what I just had in compensation for a skipped lunch.

The 'Black Death' was on. As you'd expect, grisly images, apocalyptic contemplations, and utter societal disarray were all the rage. But even through this, I kept thinking how much of a stark contrast this had with the subsequent Renaissance or 'rebirth' period of the 15th Century.

Interestingly enough, I had chanced upon a book at the Nairobi National Library just this morning, and guess which one? As fate would have it, none other than that of the very icon and forerunner of the Renaissance movement - the one and only Leonardo da Vinci.

By the time I'd finished this marvelous read, about the chronological play-by-play of a life that was altogether full of leaps and milestones, I was, as millions were, left in complete awe. Dumbstruck. Speechless. Lost for words.

He was, and remains, one of a kind. A type of ideal almost supernatural individual, practically heaven sent to inestimably catapult the standards of man.

The purpose, however, is not to laud his unsurpassable feats, but to vividly illustrate, through his fine example, as well as that of the contrastingly dreaded Black Death, the importance of Resilience.

Resilience was, I believe, the ubiquitous theme that carried on through the 14th and 15th century- from such a widescale pandemic that is the unforgotten Black Death, to the singularity of a man; but alas! Not any Tom, Dick and Harry, but the maestro himself, by whom everything touched turned to eternal beauty.

And so, as one reflects upon the transition from one of the most gruesome, soul-devouring plagues to arguably history's most reminisced flourishing periods, one cannot help but feel that the Resilience of this age is what saw it through this untamable scourge, up to a time of renewal and reconstruction. Of discovery and possibilities never before imagined. I reckon it was the rise of the brilliant blazing raven from the ashes; a sort of initiation from death-bringing winter to life-giving spring.

Leonardo himself was not spared of a life wrought with challenges and hurdles, and among the worst being his sworn enmity with Michelangelo. Needless to say, they had gotten off on the wrong foot and ever since despised each other. However, the sharp tongued Michelangelo did once go so far as to not only look down upon painting as a discipline, but Leonardo's notoriety of leaving work unfinished.

It is however at this point that we see the James Allen magic come into play. Leonardo was, as Benzimra reports, hurt deeply; but did he brood or so much as sulk? No. The contrary in fact. He painted the Mona Lisa, the world's most famous portrait ...just to show Michelangelo what a painter could do.

It's funny- the Black Death made its debut in Italy, and so did Leonardo practically a century later. And so Italy, through its rich history stands undeniably as the prototype of Resilience.

Take heart.

THE ROAD TO PARADISE

You must be envisioning that clean open traffic-free stretch of tarmac, lined with towering, dancing palm trees, that transitions smoothly up to a sunset-soaked shoreline.

Nay.

That is, as I have come to dreadfully discover, not at all how it is meant to be.

I have for a while been indulged in the engrossing book "Mind Is The Master" by the sage and spiritually fulfilled James Allen, whose words have indeed echoed through the ages. As he rightfully affirms, "...what success you achieve will be beyond human computation, and will never pass away; and what influence and power you wield will continue to increase throughout the ages...". And so we find his influential words overcome moth and pestilence, and offer a roadmap for the willing - into Paradise.

I wish to talk about the experience I had today:
" Torrential tears and bitter mourning, not over the loss of someone, but of something; something that could have 'been', that was right within my grasp and at that moment lost forever, as though a butterfly that has escaped from captivity.

A butterfly, beautiful and graceful, whose flight- the epitome of freedom, airy and effortless. Freedom which, I came to later learn, had to be attained through a passage of sorrow and loss.
Loss indeed is purifying in itself. Misfortune is a lesson, a step closer to, yes, Paradise. It is, as I further came to comprehend, inescapable, but as Allen adds, avoidable, only through enduring selflessness.

And so I sat down and offered my supplications and settled, remained patient and faithful to the Universal Law. And as sure as the sun doth shine, a call came, and it was the call I had been waiting for, praying for, longing for - and here it was, ensconced within my palms.

It felt unreal and my mind spiraled with the tangible anticipation for both good and bad news. And indeed it was good AND bad news. That I did not succeed in getting what I wanted, but what I NEEDED. "

Surely, may the James Allen legacy live on and on...

TEARS ROLL DOWN MY HEART

Tears roll down my cheeks... in my mind. And my heart grieves at the cold shoulder of a soul mate, heaven sent, so pure in love, yet so hard and cold; a paradox of sorts.

Emptiness, discontent, restlessness... and I wonder - is it healthy to place all your love in one? That they hold your heart, your life in their hands?

How deceptive and unforgiving are the heart and mind, that they made me idolize one so highly, and yearn, and long, and burn for their love, their acceptance, their touch - whose warmth I feign with the smooth snuggle of my pillow, come dusk, come dawn...

It's a lonely way, I know.

I pray, I look to the Great, to align our paths, me and the one..

REJECTION -TILL DEATH DO US PART

Rejection.. a sting, a real tangible sting in the heart; better, a boot to one's very soul.

It is something someone of my biological and psychological predisposition must live with. We were first acquainted as far back as my memory recalls, and it has made it a mission to assert a presence, a loud unfazed presence in my personal world.

So, then, should I cry now that rejection has once more dealt its sinister card? Should I once more roll up in the confines of my closet and let out a muffled cry, lonely, cold?

Or should I concede, wave the white flag? I think I half have already, having vowed to a life of celibacy only recently.

Maybe that's life; some people are just bound to have but their own mere shoulder to cry on. To wear the same brave face. To share a bed with emptiness, with a fantasy that will never be, till death do us part.

Why did I set myself up for rejection, by giving the one my whole heart, only to be denied, locked out, deprived?

So once more I wince and curse.. to the coming long, lonely, melancholy dusk.

The worst thing about it is that I am now lost, abandoned at a crossroads, with nothing and no one to cling to.

I must once again lick my own wounds, pat my own back, and, to my greatest contempt, mend my own heart.