Kindness Matters

The heart feels, the soul bleeds; The heart mends, the soul grows

I once heard wit is an intermittent fountain, Kindness a perennial spring. It’s true. 
Kindness is enduring whereas wit is sporadic. 


You don’t need higher education to earn a degree in it-

You don’t need money to possess it-

You don’t need status to claim it-

You don’t need connections to achieve it-

You need not travel the world to find it-

You need only travel the inner journey of love to inherit it. 
It’s the easiest entity to possess and said to be the highest form of wisdom. 
Then why is it very few know its secrets?

Is there more malice and sadness than love in the hearts of all wits who’ve chose to replace their heart with a stone?

And at the end of the day, Kindness helps not only others but yourself as well. It unites us all.

I could never tolerate the feeling that I made someones day worse. I remember In middle school, eighth grade precisely, when Alegna, a girl 2-3 years my senior intentionally pulled the chair from underneath me as I was  about to sit. I was wearing a skirt and I sat on air instead of a chair in front of what seemed 20-30 boys and girls in the same age group. 

I was humiliated, mortified, red-faced and crushed as I heard bursts of laughter as Alegna further pointed me out with hysterical shrieking and guffaws.  

Drunk on my pain doesn’t elevate your gain. 

I frantically got up with a throbbing ache in my tailbone and wrist from the pressure of the backward fall. With tears welling up in my eyes waiting like a pregnant cloud ready to explode, I gathered what little dignity I had as a benevolent young girl named Pauline raised me up and scurried me away from the malevolent eagle-eyed glares.  As I got up I could see the calculating malice in her narrowed eyes. She was giddy with joy. 

It amazes me how different people can be when it comes to personal morality. 
Although the stunt bitterly hurt ( both physically and emotionally not to even mention my bruised ego) I couldn’t even be mean back to her. 

Sometimes you need a kind heart just to help you mature and develop. Alegna lacked this back then. I see her now in different gatherings and social events. She’s a very beautiful, accomplished socialite.   I sincerely hope she’s been able to accomplish that selfless purity and kindness in her heart as an adult. 

I think I’ve always felt bad for people such as her and others who needed to be mean to feel good.

I’ll never fully understand why Alegna separated and chose me for her mean-spiritedness and why my embarrassment was such an immense entertainment and joy for her. 

Joubert said it wisely, “There are some men who are witty when they are in a bad humor, and others only when they are sad”. Perhaps she was both. I’ll never know. And it doesn’t matter. What matters is she taught me a lesson. She taught me exactly who I don’t want to be. 

Why limit human kindness? 

As I grew older and wiser, I convinced myself that perhaps Alegna needed to feel the center of her existence at that moment. even as she was innately misguided to shove my need aside and have her personal fulfillment come before morality and right-doing. 

Unfortunately, people fail to discern that all their words and actions define their reality and the world they live in. 
And yet, everything in life is a lesson and an experience. And life moves on, whether we act as cowards or heroes. What seems nasty, painful, or evil can become a source of beauty, joy and strength, if faced with an open mind. I decided to have an open mind and learned kindness from the unkind!

As Mahatma Ghandi said “Each one has to find his peace from within. And peace to be real must be unaffected by outside circumstances”.   As I reflect on this quote, I hope that that girl from long ago has found peace from within. I know I have. 
So folks, kindness matters-

Today, have a pleasant disposition and give one of your kind words or a smile. 

Today, be someone a little nicer. 

Today, listen with a caring heart. 

Today, bend the truth, if you must, to be kind. 

Today, be a paragon of virtue and ethics. 

Today, decide to let your faces be imprinted on the hearts of those who are kind to you like a blessing.

I am far surer of what is kind than I am of what is entertaining. 

It’s that simple. 

How wise must one be to always be kind!

Honey, that’s just life!

Copyright 2017, all rights reserved

I Die a Little Inside only to be Reborn

patkOften I ask myself the fleeting question: Why am I here? What is the meaning of life? Sometimes I feel I throw myself into these routines that have no ending in sight, just an ever-spinning mouse-wheel of monotony.  Sometimes I childishly wish to be lost in an intense verdant green paddy field, lush forest, or in the streaming waters of natural hot springs, tucked among fragrant cedars.

Other times, I want to swim in an endless ocean without a shore and hear the currents talk in riddles, each wave a word a secret said, fulfilling my desire for adventure.

Sometimes, I forget to count my blessings and I feel as though my seemingly stagnant lifestyle bores me and makes me lose sight of one of life’s most precious gifts: Curiosity and living life….truly living it alive.  Please understand I’m not wallowing in self-pity.  I’m just recognizing a despondent situation and wanting desperately to understand and accept it.  Submit to it.

Sometimes I ponder life’s mysteries and lose sight of its meaning and feel I’m dying a little inside.  I’m not being negative. Oh no, actually, I just feel I should simply submit to life.  And by submission I don’t mean become passive or weak.  I mean to submit to the essence of life.  A life filled with tranquility and peace.  I think self-revelation is not for the squeamish and continue to ponder…..

My voice swindles under the weight of what I’m about to say.  But here it goes-

I die a little inside when I see the agony and suffering of a mother who is bereaved of her child,  a friend who is robbed of his soul brother’s young life, a dear friend battling a ruthless disease, of  large groups of  wonderful human beings dealing with the injustice of discrimination,  and of helpless children being born into  poverty, hunger and violence.

I die a little inside when I silence my right to express my despondency.

I die a little inside when I let fear of scrutiny paralyze my creativity.

I die a little inside when I neglect my feelings and intuition.

I mourn a little inside when I forget my significance in the great tapestry of life.

I mourn a little inside when I tame my passion and fire.

I mourn a little inside when I conform and my uniqueness is trapped in a tornado of pleasing the social norms.

I suffer a little inside when I don’t trust my inner voice, my instinct, my inspiration.

I suffer a little inside when I’m on auto pilot and unmindful of my meaningful journey.

I suffer a little inside when my cellular, spiritual divine and ethereal vision is blinded and chained.

And yet from the dying, mourning and suffering comes a rebirth, a happiness, a healing as if my true self was waiting….waiting to reveal the role I have chosen to unleash the treasures in my soul.

I imagine the universe is under no obligation to conform to my expectations.  It is what it is wether I exist or not.  I realize, as a daughter of Prophet Abraham, my life is littered with over 5,000 years of myth, superstition and dogma.  I can’t confuse the truth of my reality and the meaning for my life with what society dictates.  I can only respect my ancestors and their destinies.  I can only be wise enough to understand that we only take our stories with us and we owe it to our ancestors and ourselves to respect and learn from these stories.

And so my restoration through the pain is revealed to me one day as I stand spellbound by the azure  ocean in front of me.

And I realize the most gratifying pleasures in life are free and available to everyone.

A smile

A compliment

A hug

A kind gesture

A prayer or blessing…..

As the blue liquid lips of the ocean kiss the golden sand, a white blanket of froth forming as the tide gradually approaches the shore, the sound of the tranquil waves lapping on the beach, with a slight splashing wave that sounds like bubbles fizzing and as the amber lukewarm sun glistens elegantly in the sky a dozen colors of crimson, I look into the boundless ocean and get a glimpse into infinity.

I humbly kneel before the oceans’ vastness and am truly awe-stricken by its freedom.

And I pray. I pray to God or to the creator, higher supreme light,  Almighty, Infinite Spirit, Hashem, Yahweh, Father, Allah, Holy Spirit, or any other hundreds of name god has…. Truth is, I prayed to the Divine Almighty – the religionless Universal life force….the sustenance and keeper of all souls.

It is then I discover the meaning of life.  It’s not to look for answers to the countless questions unresolved in my heart.  It is simply experiencing everything and seeing them as the lessons they are.  I need to live the questions.  And perhaps gradually, without noticing it, I will find myself experiencing the answers.  Submission….accept the rose with the thorn.

Basically at the bottom of life, which seduces us all, is to be truly free and alive.  We heal when we become conscious that our time is limited. Think about it, we all go out of this world just like a candle flame.

We never know when we may die.  We may take our last breath today or we may die every single day while we are still alive.  In the end, life is only about kindness, giving love and getting love, depositing in the bank account of loved ones and cherishing the wonderful times we share with family, friends and friends who become family.

Honey, That’s Just Life!

copyright 2017, all rights reserved



Reflections Under the Moon- My Story of Immigration

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I was a statistic.  But statistics don’t tell the story of immigration.

I’ve landed in United States of America. To foreigners, this is an imagined world infused with newcomers permeating with great hope; the land of opportunity, the land of hemp milk and honey, laden with extraordinary richness, abundance, comfort and luxury.  That’s the Pollyana view.  But assimilation is seldom smooth and rarely filled with such irrepressible optimism.

The challenges all immigrants face isn’t new.  But the personal stories are.

I guess, in every life a little rain must fall! Except my rain felt as though it came from a super loaded cloud.

I came to the United States in 1980 as the Islamic revolution began to break out. The secular Shah of Iran, Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi, was overthrown and forced into exile and the theocratic Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini lorded over as the new supreme religious leader along with his guardian council of aging mullahs, and renamed Iran: The Islamic Republic of Iran.

For the secular, this meant life would no longer exist as we knew it.

The new regime was strong, dynamic and absolute.  And there was no indication that the supreme leader and his circle of ayatollahs had any intention of giving up their control. They would reign over their newly found power.

The antipathy for the new Islamic regime by the shah-supporters and non-muslims began. It was evident we had to leave.

At the time, I was 9 years old along with my older sister and my mother.  My dad remained in Iran to sell our home and business.  I vividly remember my dad coming home one night as he said, “Nora joon, you, your sister and mom will have to leave Iran tomorrow night.  You will be on TWA flight 837 to Israel and then on to America.”

I knew we’d eventually have to leave but this felt so sudden, unplanned, and impulsive.  I was shocked, confused, shook up and scared.  The questions came fast and furious. 

I querried my dad, “ dad, where in America would we go? What about my school? My friends? What about all our stuff? Our home, my toys, my books, our photo albums?”  In retrospect, I realize all we took with us were our memories.

He half-whispered, “ I’m sorry Nora joonam (a term of endearment)…you can’t take anything with you.  It’s too dangerous making your departure obvious.  We have to make it look as though you are going on a vacation and that you’ll be back.  And we may, in fact, come back when this all clears itself out.”

We never went back.

I rapidly inhaled deeply and exhaled forcibly as I tried to make sense of all that was happening. What does what my dad say even mean?  I didn’t want to go.  I didn’t even speak a word of English. Why couldn’t we go to France?  At least I spoke French. I cried myself to sleep that night and tried to download the images, of my house, my bedroom, my den, my backyard, my school, deep into the hard drive of my brain where no regime could take it away from me.  Saying goodbye was difficult.  I clung to my dad and didn’t want to ever let him go.

I didn’t know it at the time but I wouldn’t see my dad until two years later. 

Some scars are not visible but they nevertheless exist and continue to haunt us.

Next thing I knew I was on the infamous TWA flight to Israel.  Fear took over me as I realized I was sitting in a plane at 36,000 feet elevation, outside temperature is -86 degrees, wind hauling and I had no anchor except the plane I was sitting in.  Right now, my life feels as though there’s no anchor.  The flight attendant desperately tried to no avail to calm my nerves by handing me different puzzles and games to occupy my restlessness. 

And so my story begins.  We came to America seeking a future safe from revolt, prosecution, fear, restraint and paranoia.  In hindsight, I profusely admire my parents for their courage.  They foresaw the future of our country.  They didn’t wait until it became blatantly evident that people couldn’t have an opinion, or could be taken to jail for no reason at all and even killed.  They didn’t wait until it became apparent there would be no clear laws to keep us safe from the new regime, who could overrule any public change by a pseudo-elected president who would in the near future become wildly out of touch with the general population.

My earliest memory of America was the lush green landscape from above as the plane was landing.  The land was filled with freshness, cleanliness, and tidiness.  Could I finally have order back in my life here?

But I was also eminently scared .   I didn’t speak a word of English and couldn’t communicate with anyone.  I was terribly hurting and morose.   My dad wasn’t with us. And he wouldn’t be with us for the next two years.  The longest two years of my life.  I felt dreadfully insecure.  At the time, I felt abandoned by my country, by my sovereign, by my father and by God himself.  The fear of the  unknown embedded in my every pore and essence.

I would have to diligently work on myself for years before I could successfully resolve and rid myself of this all-encompassing distress, anxiety and constant unease.

The first two years were the hardest.  We didn’t have any family besides my paternal grandparents and, from a child’s point of observation, an unwelcoming uncle with whom we had to share a tiny house on Centinela Avenue in West LA. After close reexamination, I realize he didn’t have to take us in but did so as a direct respect to my dad.  Nevertheless, I was unabashedly depressed, had sleep disturbances, and lost my appetite during the first few days and leading into the following months.  I was utterly helpless and lacked any control on my life.  It felt as though I was a mere character in my own life cast for a part I didn’t even audition for.

One of the biggest challenges I faced was the change to my daily routine, the different customs and language barrier, and the lack of family and friends.

Awkwardly, we had to sleep in the den on the floor at my uncle’s and my grandmother told us we needed to quickly wake up in the morning before my uncle and clean up as to not be in his way.  One night, I couldn’t sleep and was daydreaming about the comfort and privacy of my bedroom in Iran.  My uncle had a habit of eating in the middle of the night.  And this time he wasn’t aware of where he was walking.  He stepped on my feet and I remember it hurt so very badly but I kept my mouth shut as to not wake my mother up who had earlier cried herself to sleep.  He continued on to the kitchen mumbling about the burden we’ve put on him.  Apparently, my mother had also been awake and heard the entire rambling.  The next day, she looked at several listings in the newspaper and within a few months she found us a one bedroom 800 square foot apartment in Beverly Hills.  She had heard Beverly Hills offered the best schooling system and wanted her two girls to attend.  My parents could no longer afford to send us to a private school like the Lycee Francais we attended in Iran.

 It wasn’t easy transitioning to a new school in the States.  The misconceptions and misunderstandings Americans have about foreign born people are monumental.   They would contemptuously laugh and taunt me. I once heard,  “expectation is like quicksand”  but I think discrimination is like quicksand.  You drown slowly and there’s nothing you can grip on to pull yourself out.

“Go back home to Iran.  We don’t want you here.  You don’t belong here.  Go back to Khomeini. You killed the Shah”, students would scoff at me as they recited their mantra.  It was very difficult for me to make friends and even interact on a basic level with my classmates.  It appeared my presence offended them.   Later, I became friends with a few Americans but it didn’t work.  The culture was too different for us to be able to intermingle. 

You see, all those who aren’t “us” are “them”.  I was the “them”.

Assimilation takes time, sometimes two generations. 

One day, on a proverbial bad day,  I met my first Persian friend, I was immediately emotionally affected.  I was grateful to have met someone like me. We instantly became friends and she’s my good confidante to this day. After all, we only had each other.  We instinctively understood one another when no one else accepted us.  Things got slightly better in High school.  There were more Persians and we all hung out together and made a little Iran for ourselves.  We called it Persian Alley and marked it our territory!!  The school officials and staff got involved trying to make the Persians and Americans interact and befriend each other.  It was to no avail.  We were too different and neither side concurred.

 As I started college,  I finally felt semi accepted as an American citizen but didn’t quite feel it in my soul. I even Majored in English Literature!!  But in the end,  I just got comfortable with being uncomfortable.  We began to celebrate Thanksgiving, Fourth of July and New Year’s Eve became a new tradition. But I continued to miss the soul of Iran, the smells of the mouth-watering food, the beautiful sights of the streets, the warm and hospitable people and the way it warmed my heart.  We continued to stay true to our heritage and culture by celebrating Norouz (the Persian New Year welcoming spring).  This helped me remember the essence of Iran and hopefully pass the tradition down to my children.

Any visitor who spends significant time in Iran or with Iranians will find ample justification for the Iranian’s reputation for open-mindedness, artistry, intellectualism, and an almost fanatical reverence for culture.  The most popular poet in Iran is Hafez, a national hero who is more readily quoted by most Iranians than the Qur’an or the Torah and is filled with a rich rhetoric.  His poetry is full of wine-soaked revelry, unrequited and requited love and a palpable hatred of religious hypocrisy.  I terribly missed my dad reciting and interpreting Hafiz for me.  When would he come back and hold me close as he chanted the prophetic stanzas?

I find it noteworthy to mention, Iranian-Americans are among the top 20 highest educated people in the United States.  Iranians are in professional occupations more than any other minority group. And we have excelled in education attaining a bachelor’s degree or higher.

We have historically excelled in business, generating a total net income of over $6 billion, and in academia, the sciences, and arts.  We have successfully in the past 35 years assimilated to a new culture and way of living.  However, our integration into the US society hasn’t prevented us from keeping true to our roots, our heritage and our rich culture.

Unlike many immigrants who left their country because of economic hardship, Iranians emigrated as a result of a religious revolution.

And so now in 2017, as I sit outside the porch of my house, and sip French Boujaulais wine with my husband and three kids, contemplating on the trajectory my life followed,  I reminisce and chunks of my haphazard memory forms as tears in my eye and rolls down my cheeks.  I ruminate my life and the lessons I’ve learned so far.  In truth, life is always full challenges and I’ve had to learn to be happy in spite of those circumstances. 

The moon is full and its light reflects and illuminates the sky, in the same way America illuminated my development and progress. 

My husband lovingly looks at me as he caresses my arm. In vino veritas,  I think.  After 37 years away from Iran, after transforming from a child to a woman, I realize that as much as my heart and soul bled for leaving my native country, my heart mended and my soul grew in my adopted country.  The cloud of anxiety and confusion didn’t burst and the heavy burden I carried with me has been replaced with laughter as I make, cherish and value the memories I make with my loving husband, children, family and dear friends.  You live, you love, you laugh and yes you cry a little too!

My heart and mind will forever yearn for Iran and I will never fully realize what could have been had the Islamic republic not taken over.  But I could have never remained in a country that in the months and years following the flight of the Shah and the triumphant return of a zealous ayatollah and his control over the liberals and progressives crushing any opposition to his totalitarian ideology.

America welcomed me with open arms.  My soul’s voice has been expressed.

I no longer sit and wonder in a wordless dialogue whether I should shed tears at my half-horrific memories or be amused at my half-comic reality.  I have order in my life.

I’m home and I’m at peace.

Honey, that’s just life!

Copyright 2017 all rights reserved

The Landscape of my Life

I became aware of a growing schism in myself. I suppose there are millions of us this very moment in the same pain. Recently, someone asked me about my worst fears. I came up with a few all in regards to my children. And they all related to the future and my lack of control thereof. But I didn’t dare voice them in fear they would magically manifest. So Instead, I decided to reroute my thoughts and their destinations.
I decided to go outside. I didn’t tell anyone and I didn’t bring my cellphone. I started walking until I no longer knew the road like the palm of my hand.

Because I walk the same road day in and day out, I could no longer see.  I realized I’ve taught my muscles to work without thinking. And I was doing the same with my thoughts.  Suddenly, I start to notice.  I start to hear the silence.  So much is being said in the silence.  I didn’t want to get anything out of it except the silence.

I just walk, breath in the sights and finally decide to sit down and just Be.  The birds are chirping in an otherwise quiet alley totally void of noise.  They seem to be recording everything.  In the far distance, lies the majestic ocean, too far to hear its waves crashing into shore.  The quiet is delightful and yet I can hear the hands on my mechanical wrist watch incessantly ticking in an endless repetition of tick-tocks.  Is this my life ticking away?  I think to myself I need to be productive, active, be doing something.  Why am I just sitting as if confined to a wheelchair?

The ticking sound brings my attention back to my watch. The dial sitting on top of the movement grabs my attention.  It’s one of the most important ways of giving a watch its own distinctive personality.  I surmise it’s the same with people.  Our faces, through our eyes, are the mirrors to our soul.  There’s a universal truth, across time, religion, culture and race that connects us together in eternity.  The essence of this connection to me is to be aware of the importance of  individual personalities and to respect and honor our uniqueness. Indeed, it could even move us towards the complicated idea to become whole, harmonious and (do I dare say) even perfect?   I’m floating out of my head. The question remains to be answered.

As I sit for what seems eternity contemplating my life, the rhythmic ticking is becoming a most pleasant companion.  My life is not ticking away.  I’m living it in the exact way I was destined to live it.  There’s a whole world out there to see….so much adventure without climbing a mountain or jumping off a plane.  I just have to be in the moment and hear the silence give me the answers I seek.  The irony is not lost on me as I watch (pun intended) the silence around me and find the secret or perhaps the simple answer in a most unlikely place-my watch.  I will not tell my kids how to live.  Instead, I will live and let them watch me.  I will be…..Just Be whatever it is that I am with whatever I have and realize that that is enough to be happy.

Honey, that’s just life!  

Copyright 2017 all rights reserved