Close your eyes, as "sight" has very little to do with what Mr. Bocelli does anyway. Use your own God-given insight instead. Open the lids of your third eye chakra and discover the hidden ear within. When you find it, you will know, as your boundless emotions will lift you to heavenly heights upon the soaring wings of this musical masterpiece.
Let those who have souls to hear with, listen! Feel the melodic message being voiced to you through Andrea.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Are You the Driver or the Passenger in Your Life's Journey?
I came across this story that needs to be rendered verbatim. Its depth and breadth in meaning and profundity need NOT any layering of any kind, except to say: Visualize yourself sitting in that metaphorical cab, if you will, and assume the role of either driver or passenger as you must, and try to experience life's journey from point "A" to point "B" as it unfolds. Additionally, to be enlightened in realms of deeper understanding, just reverse seats in that proverbial cab and you'll acquire even greater moral mileage; you will experience the mysterious twists and turns of life's journey as you approach your final destination in this world and, without warning, you may find yourself standing before the gateway of the great beyond. The following is the story.
I arrived at the address where someone had requested a taxi. I honked but no one came out. I honked again, nothing. So I walked 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 1940s 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, and 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 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. '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.
I arrived at the address where someone had requested a taxi. I honked but no one came out. I honked again, nothing. So I walked 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 1940s 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, and 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 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. '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.
Friday, May 15, 2009
You Don't Have to be Sick to Get Better
Ask yourself this question: "If I could get better without getting sick, would I still wait for the heavy fists of fate to break down my mind's locked door before opening it myself willfully?" The answer might seem like a resounding "No" and yet people remain stubbornly closed-minded to this simple notion of reasoning -- Something must go awfully wrong in our lives before we could hear life's urgent knocks on our doors, or feel its unmistakable presence at our doorsteps. And even then, at that crucial moment in time, the vast majority of us would rather take a squint-eyed peek through the dark peephole in the door than open it.
Much like a house, our minds reside within an edifice of walls with windows and doors which we control -- with our free will, we open them, or close. Some people choose to shut their windows firmly on a breezy day, and swing them wide during a storm; they opt to draw their curtains tight from dawn to dusk blocking the sunlight from entering, while they leave them open from nightfall to daybreak, thus inviting waves of darkness to penetrate ... and so it goes.
So why, do you suppose, we so often, foolishly slip our mind's wrists into these self-imposed shackles with a hideous smirk on our face? In other words: Why do we hurt one another? Why do we open our copious mouths before engaging our little minds? Why do we cut each other up so bad and sprinkle salt on open wounds we so proudly inflict? Why? W-H-Y? ... Honestly, I do not know why! You have to find out for yourself. Dig deep within your heart and try to gain access to your soul and see if your "conscious" has left you a forwarding address. Try to invite this rightful resident -- your estranged spiritual essence -- back into your inner being while life still pulsates in your veins. After all, today, right at this minute, what guarantees does anyone have that the table of life would not suddenly fold their empty chair tomorrow?
Much like a house, our minds reside within an edifice of walls with windows and doors which we control -- with our free will, we open them, or close. Some people choose to shut their windows firmly on a breezy day, and swing them wide during a storm; they opt to draw their curtains tight from dawn to dusk blocking the sunlight from entering, while they leave them open from nightfall to daybreak, thus inviting waves of darkness to penetrate ... and so it goes.
So why, do you suppose, we so often, foolishly slip our mind's wrists into these self-imposed shackles with a hideous smirk on our face? In other words: Why do we hurt one another? Why do we open our copious mouths before engaging our little minds? Why do we cut each other up so bad and sprinkle salt on open wounds we so proudly inflict? Why? W-H-Y? ... Honestly, I do not know why! You have to find out for yourself. Dig deep within your heart and try to gain access to your soul and see if your "conscious" has left you a forwarding address. Try to invite this rightful resident -- your estranged spiritual essence -- back into your inner being while life still pulsates in your veins. After all, today, right at this minute, what guarantees does anyone have that the table of life would not suddenly fold their empty chair tomorrow?
Sunday, May 3, 2009
A Single Rose for the Living is Better than a Costly Wreath at the Grave
A few days ago, I had a heart-to-heart phone conversation with one of my acquaintances in Canada. Just as we were about to conclude our conversation, the dear person on the other end of the phone read to me a deeply heartfelt and penetratingly poignant little poem packed with universal truism-- so unassumingly simple and yet unequivocally profound. I was touched by it so much so that I took the liberty of translating it. I do hope my humble attempt did some justice to its integrity and purpose, and to the core of its intended meaning and message. Thank you, Azniv, for sharing it with me, just as I am happy to share my translated version with my guests:
Now, is the Time
I would prefer one heartfelt rose,
Hand-picked with love from a garden;
Than those ornate flashy bouquets,
Sent while I'm gone in a sudden.
Now, is the time!
I would prefer one lil sweet word,
While my ears could still hear it;
Than late praises and accolades,
For my body would not feel it.
Now, is the time!
If you do have one smile for me,
Let it light up on your face NOW;
My heart won't feel your silent tears,
When shed on my gravestone somehow.
Now, is the time!
Of all the gifts that you could give,
One timely flower would be nice;
Late arriving bouquets are deemed,
Worthless as death would shut my eyes.
Now, is the time!
Now, is the Time
I would prefer one heartfelt rose,
Hand-picked with love from a garden;
Than those ornate flashy bouquets,
Sent while I'm gone in a sudden.
Now, is the time!
I would prefer one lil sweet word,
While my ears could still hear it;
Than late praises and accolades,
For my body would not feel it.
Now, is the time!
If you do have one smile for me,
Let it light up on your face NOW;
My heart won't feel your silent tears,
When shed on my gravestone somehow.
Now, is the time!
Of all the gifts that you could give,
One timely flower would be nice;
Late arriving bouquets are deemed,
Worthless as death would shut my eyes.
Now, is the time!
Friday, March 13, 2009
Godforsaken Moment-in-History of Western Armenia
God must have been looking the other way at that one moment in history when the biggest human tragedy befell the Armenian nation. Even, the legendary count of 1001 churches of mighty Ani was no match to push back evil on that godforsaken day.
If you are an Armenian, diasporan or not, click here to watch a series of 5 videos ... You, too, will be walking, albeit vicariously, the lands your forefathers once so proudly did.
Sit back and experience the emotional journey you're about to embark.
If you are an Armenian, diasporan or not, click here to watch a series of 5 videos ... You, too, will be walking, albeit vicariously, the lands your forefathers once so proudly did.
Sit back and experience the emotional journey you're about to embark.
Friday, January 9, 2009
There Is An Elephant In The Room. Nah - It's A Fish!
This is my rebuttal to a letter that appeared in the Newton Tab on January 7, 2009. You may want to read this said (italicized) letter first which I placed at the bottom of this post and then come right back up here to read my refute.
All Jewish lobbies -- the likes of the ADL -- and all Jews -- the likes of Mr. Larry Epstein -- should leave Armenians out of it.
I, for one, a third generation descendant of Armenian Genocide survivor, am growing tired of seeing the anti-Defamation league and, by extension, the Jewish community of so-called "Epsteinian" ethos continue to opine and oppose, criticize and condemn, deny and derail Armenian genocide recognition in the press and particularly, in the U.S. House of Congress -- Stop imposing your despicable "Ahmadinijad-like" will on others if you expect any respect back at all -- I've got news for you Mr. Epstein: Leave me ( for I represent, my slaughtered grandparents); leave Mr. David Boyajian; and leave all Armenians out of your ill-advised, filthy political game. Yes, that's right, you heard me, Armenians are not going to take it any more, they are going to push back, and push back hard, they will.
No,no,no, Mr. Epstein, there is NO elephant of "anti-Semitism" in the room as you stated in your article. That is a figment of your own imagination -- Armenians have a much bigger fish to fry -- speaking of fish, that reminds me, your acute olfactory senses should have picked up the smell of rotten fish of elephantine magnitude in that proverbial room of yours, and that fish, pace Mr. Larry Epstein is "genocide-denial," got it? if you're still incredulous about your improvident behavior you may fact-check your genocide-denial gravitation with that of Ahmadinijad's.
Unless you're a troglodyte who just emerged from the darkness of your moral cave you should know the following before you blurt out on behalf of respectful fellow Jews: Scholarship has long since established the facts about Armenian genocide. Little education goes a long way, read some real history books.
Did you ever wonder who Mr. Raphael Lemkin was talking about when he coined the word "genocide"? hint, I'll say it slowly:A-r-m-e-n-i-a-n-s, or did you ever think about what Mr. Elie Wiesel meant by "double killing" of genocide victims? hint: Sort of, what you're doing, perhaps, unwittingly -- Denial and cover up of Armenian genocide, since it strives to kill the memory of the original atrocities.
In conclusion, I, respectfully, ask you, Mr. Epstien, to leave the Armenians alone and direct your wrath, instead, at the the known Jewish organizations who continue to poke their fingers into the collective eyes of the Armenian genocide victims.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Newton Tab (Newton@cnc.com)
Newton, Massachusetts
January 7, 2009
Letters to the Editor
Mr. Boyajian Should Leave Jews Out of It
I, for one, am growing tired of seeing the Anti-Defamation League and,
by extension, the Jewish community, continue to take the heat from the
likes of David Boyajian for what is a legitimate debate among
historians regarding the question of genocide in Armenia.
With Mr. Boyajian's op-ed piece in the Dec 24 Newton TAB, it's obvious
that he and like-minded individuals will use any opportunity to poke
their fingers into the eyes of bystanding Jews just to land another
punch in their feud with the ADL.
There's an elephant in the room, and that elephant is
anti-Semitism. When the malicious scrawling of a swastika on a
synagogue sign somehow results in a five-column rant against a
pre-eminent Jewish organization, there's something more at play
here. When historians disagree on the intent of the Turks' war upon
Armenia and the shrill is focused on a Jewish organization that dares
to reflect the vigorous debate among those historians, I see Jews
being scapegoated.
If that is not the case, then I would ask Mr. Boyajian to leave the
Jews alone and direct his wrath, instead, at the professional
historians who disagree with him.
Larry Epstein
Woodward Street
Newton, MA
All Jewish lobbies -- the likes of the ADL -- and all Jews -- the likes of Mr. Larry Epstein -- should leave Armenians out of it.
I, for one, a third generation descendant of Armenian Genocide survivor, am growing tired of seeing the anti-Defamation league and, by extension, the Jewish community of so-called "Epsteinian" ethos continue to opine and oppose, criticize and condemn, deny and derail Armenian genocide recognition in the press and particularly, in the U.S. House of Congress -- Stop imposing your despicable "Ahmadinijad-like" will on others if you expect any respect back at all -- I've got news for you Mr. Epstein: Leave me ( for I represent, my slaughtered grandparents); leave Mr. David Boyajian; and leave all Armenians out of your ill-advised, filthy political game. Yes, that's right, you heard me, Armenians are not going to take it any more, they are going to push back, and push back hard, they will.
No,no,no, Mr. Epstein, there is NO elephant of "anti-Semitism" in the room as you stated in your article. That is a figment of your own imagination -- Armenians have a much bigger fish to fry -- speaking of fish, that reminds me, your acute olfactory senses should have picked up the smell of rotten fish of elephantine magnitude in that proverbial room of yours, and that fish, pace Mr. Larry Epstein is "genocide-denial," got it? if you're still incredulous about your improvident behavior you may fact-check your genocide-denial gravitation with that of Ahmadinijad's.
Unless you're a troglodyte who just emerged from the darkness of your moral cave you should know the following before you blurt out on behalf of respectful fellow Jews: Scholarship has long since established the facts about Armenian genocide. Little education goes a long way, read some real history books.
Did you ever wonder who Mr. Raphael Lemkin was talking about when he coined the word "genocide"? hint, I'll say it slowly:A-r-m-e-n-i-a-n-s, or did you ever think about what Mr. Elie Wiesel meant by "double killing" of genocide victims? hint: Sort of, what you're doing, perhaps, unwittingly -- Denial and cover up of Armenian genocide, since it strives to kill the memory of the original atrocities.
In conclusion, I, respectfully, ask you, Mr. Epstien, to leave the Armenians alone and direct your wrath, instead, at the the known Jewish organizations who continue to poke their fingers into the collective eyes of the Armenian genocide victims.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Newton Tab (Newton@cnc.com)
Newton, Massachusetts
January 7, 2009
Letters to the Editor
Mr. Boyajian Should Leave Jews Out of It
I, for one, am growing tired of seeing the Anti-Defamation League and,
by extension, the Jewish community, continue to take the heat from the
likes of David Boyajian for what is a legitimate debate among
historians regarding the question of genocide in Armenia.
With Mr. Boyajian's op-ed piece in the Dec 24 Newton TAB, it's obvious
that he and like-minded individuals will use any opportunity to poke
their fingers into the eyes of bystanding Jews just to land another
punch in their feud with the ADL.
There's an elephant in the room, and that elephant is
anti-Semitism. When the malicious scrawling of a swastika on a
synagogue sign somehow results in a five-column rant against a
pre-eminent Jewish organization, there's something more at play
here. When historians disagree on the intent of the Turks' war upon
Armenia and the shrill is focused on a Jewish organization that dares
to reflect the vigorous debate among those historians, I see Jews
being scapegoated.
If that is not the case, then I would ask Mr. Boyajian to leave the
Jews alone and direct his wrath, instead, at the professional
historians who disagree with him.
Larry Epstein
Woodward Street
Newton, MA
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