White Gui pants-- Check
White Gui tops-- Check,
"Mom, did you get the black shirts that we HAVE to HAVE for the promotion ceremony? "
"NO-- but you can wear what ever black shirts you can find."
The hunt for the black shirts took less time then brushing teeth in the morning.
Ceremonially, the white belts were place around little pop bellies.
Identical faces scan the almost identical bodies for any mistakes in uniform.
one last tug on the tunic to right its errant ways.
A roll of the sleeves for extra coolness.
A nod of the head, a silent agreement that yes, indeed, they were ready.
And the very confident boys walked out the kitchen doors to collect the reward of only eight weeks of training. Because they are SO AWESOME, they passed the first belt test in only two months not the required three.
As the first of the identical ninjas in training passes, he has on a very serious expression, He will collect his belt with the up most decorum, his concentration will not be broken. He climbs into the car, only barely pinching his sister when he gets into the back seat of the car.
The other ninja raises an eyebrow and a mischievous smile hides in the corner of his mouth. Then back to business. He punches his sister with all the restraint he can muster in his over excited state. Then sits next to his brother, and smooths his hair back into place.
There is something simply exzillerating about having your name called, and you only you rise from your seat and show the rest of your class your best kick and blood curtaling kui, Ahya, ending in your most formal bow. And then your master instructor places your new belt around your neck, and you pump his hand a bit too hard. Then trot with a wave to your mom back to your seat. There is something brilliant in the smile of a boy.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Where is Home?
Why do we long for home?
"Where is the place? Some place beautiful and safe? Someplace where answers for the heart are found-- Where is the place my heart can call home? The place my heart longs for."
When I was younger, home was my mother's face, and the smell emanating from the kitchen. Home was the walls alive with pictures of my thoughts. I had a poster that my sister created when she went to college of beautiful men, perfect looking men-- and yet in my heart the look was not significant to the content of the man. They were empty.
When I was in high school, home was the familiar grip of the steering wheel in my hands and my gym bag with 'day old sock smell'. Home was my own four walls with me as their center. Home was my own thoughts as familiar as friend's faces.
I went far away from home, And made someone else's home my own for a year. But, not quiet. And when I came back there was a longing for the familiar that I had never experienced before. I wanted home. And when I got there I didn't belong, It wasn't the same, it was the same but I was different.
And one night I realized, that my parents house wasn't my home. The longing in my heart and strangling of my mind was-- for my own home.
Years later,in a long moment of sickness, I again had that intense longing for home. And in the middle of a fantastic Pity Party-- this thought of home again hit me. I want home. "Where is the place, the place my heart longs for?"
These thoughts of home brought me to an understanding of homesickness. I desired to see and feel my home but, I was at my own house and not feeling home. Maybe my own home was not my final home of which my heart longed for.
"There must be more than this provincial life?" go head singing it like Belle from Beauty and the Beast.
Where is home? It is often said that we are spiritual being living a mortal life. Does that make us aliens ?. This is not our home, we are simply living here. Doing our best to make it feel right.
We went to our old home town. We drove by the Cheese Factory, past our old house, and to our friends new homes. This wasn't our town any more. But there was a sweetness there of all those moments came rushing to us. We embrace our good friends, held them in our arms and they grounded us in the present by crying and laughing about the past.
Home is more a feeling then a place.
I am so grateful that I have so many places, and people that are "Home" to me.
"Where is the place? Some place beautiful and safe? Someplace where answers for the heart are found-- Where is the place my heart can call home? The place my heart longs for."
When I was younger, home was my mother's face, and the smell emanating from the kitchen. Home was the walls alive with pictures of my thoughts. I had a poster that my sister created when she went to college of beautiful men, perfect looking men-- and yet in my heart the look was not significant to the content of the man. They were empty.
When I was in high school, home was the familiar grip of the steering wheel in my hands and my gym bag with 'day old sock smell'. Home was my own four walls with me as their center. Home was my own thoughts as familiar as friend's faces.
I went far away from home, And made someone else's home my own for a year. But, not quiet. And when I came back there was a longing for the familiar that I had never experienced before. I wanted home. And when I got there I didn't belong, It wasn't the same, it was the same but I was different.
And one night I realized, that my parents house wasn't my home. The longing in my heart and strangling of my mind was-- for my own home.
Years later,in a long moment of sickness, I again had that intense longing for home. And in the middle of a fantastic Pity Party-- this thought of home again hit me. I want home. "Where is the place, the place my heart longs for?"
These thoughts of home brought me to an understanding of homesickness. I desired to see and feel my home but, I was at my own house and not feeling home. Maybe my own home was not my final home of which my heart longed for.
"There must be more than this provincial life?" go head singing it like Belle from Beauty and the Beast.
Where is home? It is often said that we are spiritual being living a mortal life. Does that make us aliens ?. This is not our home, we are simply living here. Doing our best to make it feel right.
We went to our old home town. We drove by the Cheese Factory, past our old house, and to our friends new homes. This wasn't our town any more. But there was a sweetness there of all those moments came rushing to us. We embrace our good friends, held them in our arms and they grounded us in the present by crying and laughing about the past.
Home is more a feeling then a place.
I am so grateful that I have so many places, and people that are "Home" to me.
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