The Best Hike Ever (Mount Audubon)

The picture above was taken on June 28th on top of Mount Audubon in northern Colorado. It was an amazing hike. The weather was warm. There were lots of wild flowers on the mountain. There were patches of slushy snow that were melting and forming narrow streams. I loved the sound of the streams. I walked along the streams that were running gently down the mountain. At times, I closed my eyes and just stood in a shallow stream and listened to its soothing, gentle sound that took me back to my childhood. The last time I had walked along a stream was on the foothills of my hometown when I was about 12 years old. It was a beautiful and sunny summer morning. The hills were lush, the trees were green and the stream was cool and refreshing. If I could be anything in nature that’s what I would want to be, a stream. A gentle stream that beautifully sings as it runs down a hill nurturing all that crosses its path.

Mount Audubon

Distance: 4 miles one way

Elevation: 10,480 to 13,223 feet

Highlights: Dramatic views of peaks and plains, alpine wildflowers

Difficulty: Strenuous

"This prominent mountain, which can be seen from many points in Boulder County, looks like a dish of ice cream with one spoonful taken from the side. Because it is one of the many Indian Peaks, the views from the summit are especially dramatic. Imagine looking down on Mount Toll! Two-thirds of the trail lies above timberline so the views and the alpine wildflowers en route are also magnificent."

My relationship with a chocolate chip cookie

As I walked into the building this morning the security guard who sits in the lobby, and makes sure that no one without a badge gets into the building offered me a chocolate chip cookie. He is a nice and friendly guy, so I make sure that his friendliness is returned. I really didn’t want a cookie at 9:00 AM, but I took one to be polite. As I was riding the elevator, I thought once I get upstairs I’ll just throw the cookie in the trashcan. I don’t need any sweets today. But once I got to my desk, I just put the cookie on a tissue on my desk. In the back of my head I was thinking I’ll keep it for a rainy day. Maybe later on I will be craving something sweet like I sometimes do in the afternoons. At the same time, I was thinking I had a piece of cake last night, and I’ll probably have my mocha today at about 10:00, since that seems to be something that I cannot give up. I have become addicted to these amazing mochas that I buy from this little family owned coffee shop a block and a half from my work. It seems like I can’t really go through the day without one. I always get a small, non-fat, light whip mocha. At least, I try to keep it healthy. That is the only sweet thing I usually have during the day. Of course, sometimes I give in to a cookie or a piece of chocolate. Today may be one of those days, since there is a chocolate chip cookie sitting on my desk looking all pretty.

Later in the day at about 3:00 PM, I take a break from work by having a cup of tea. As I’m making my tea, I think should I have the cookie with my tea or not. I go over everything I have eaten during the day. For breakfast I had a little bowl of cherries with a handful of walnuts. Yes, my diet is unusual. I try to eat a lot of beans, grains, nuts, seeds, fruits and vegetable. And I try to eat very little meat, dairy or processed foods. This diet works the best for my body type. I count my calories too. For my size 1300 to 1500 calories a day is sufficient. I, also, workout three to four times a week. What screws up my diet are sweets. My daily mochas shouldn’t be a part of my diet, but I justify having them. They make me happy! They really do. For the fifteen minutes that it takes me to drink one, life is perfect. It is the happiest fifteen minutes of my day. Can I have fifteen perfect minutes a day even if the mocha has chocolate which is sweet, milk that has added hormones, coffee that has caffeine and whip cream that is full of saturated fat. The answer most days is a resounding “yes”. I tell myself, it’s only 10 ounces of milk, it’s only one shot of coffee, it’s only a little bit of whip cream and just a bit of chocolate. I have actually looked at the label on the container of the chocolate syrup they use at the coffee shop. It has no fat and only a few calories. So, cherries and nuts for breakfast, a mocha at 10:00, which is about 300 calories. For lunch I had what I usually have a salad made of beans and vegetables with just a little bit of olive oil and lemon juice dressing, very healthy and low fat. For dinner I’m going to make sure I’ll eat low fat and healthy especially if I’m going to have the cookie. I’ll probably have something like Salmon with corn.

My tea is ready. The question remains. Should I have the big fat chocolate chip cookie with my tea or not? I sit at my desk and look at the cookie the same way that a cat looks at a gold fish in a fish bowl. I count the chocolate chips, exactly thirteen. The cookie looks moist and soft. I tell myself maybe I’ll eat half of it. I have a sip of tea and bite into the cookie. It is so good! I love it! I have another bite. Before I know it, I have eaten half of the cookie with a few sips of my tea. I am totally enjoying this. I tell myself just eat the whole thing, reminding myself that I’m going to do a workout tonight. I eat the whole cookie as I drink my tea.

About 10 seconds after I swallow the last bite of my cookie with my last sip of tea, I think to myself, I am feeling so fat. I always associate feeling full with getting fat. I usually try to stop eating before I feel really full, but that is hard for me to do with desserts. I look at my belly and wonder did it get bigger in the last 10 seconds? Then I think, It’s impossible for it to get bigger in that short of a time. I start to have feelings of regret about eating the cookie. I should have, at least, had just half of it. I probably put, at least, 300 extra calories in my body. I wasn’t even hungry, so the fat is not even going to be used at all. It is just going to be stored in my body probably on my belly. I think I should just get up and go for a 10 minute walk around the block so a little bit of it is burned. Then, I think, you’re so weak. You can’t even resist a cookie. What is wrong with you? Why can’t you not eat something that your body doesn’t need. For an instant, I think maybe I should go to the bathroom and make myself throw up. Then I think, that’s going overboard. I’m not bulimic, just go for a 10 minute walk and make sure you workout tonight and no more junk food for today. I do have a love hate relationship with sweets just like my relationships with men!

As I’m getting up to go for a 10 minute walk, I smell popcorn. Someone in the office has just made some microwave popcorn. It smells so good! I wish I could have some! Here we go again… Just kidding!

My experience with speed dating

Last year a friend of mine told me about speed dating. He had tried it and had dated a woman for a little while as the result. If you are not familiar with the concept of speed dating let me tell you about it. The way that it works is that you attend an event where you get to meet, for example, ten people of the opposite sex and have eight minutes to speak to each one. At the event, you are given paper and pencil to write down the names of the people that you like. Each person, of course, has a nametag. At the end of the event, you can go to the speed dating website and select the people that you want to be in contact with. If they, also, choose you then you have a match and you start communicating. Once the event starts, the organizers ring a bell at the end of each eight minutes, at which point, the participants move to the next table to meet the next person.

About four months ago, with reservation, I signed up for one of these events. I charged $35.00 to my credit card and registered for the upcoming event, which was in about three weeks. During the three weeks, I kept telling myself, I can back out at any time. I don’t have to go if I don’t want to. I’ll only lose the $35.00.

Finally, the day of the event arrived. That evening at about 6:00 o’clock, wearing a tight, low cut dress and high heals, I drove to the restaurant where the event was going to take place. As I was looking for the venue a part of me didn’t want to find it, but I did find it. I wasn't comfortable with the idea of meeting men this way. Anxiously, I entered the restaurant, followed the signs to the large room where the event was going to take place. I entered the room, and looked around. I checked out my competition. I had nothing to worry about. I looked at the men in the room. Except for two guys they were all at best average looking. I took a deep breath and relaxed. I was no longer anxious or intimidated. I approached the bar and bought myself a glass of cranberry juice and proceeded to sit on a couch by the wall.

A man in his mid-forties was sitting on a chair next to me. He introduced himself. His name was David. We started to talk. He was divorced and had an eighteen-year old daughter. He had some government job. I didn’t find him in any way attractive or interesting, but I continued to talk to him out of politeness. He was a pleasant guy. The event organizers announced that they had some appetizers at the other side of the room. David and I both got up and walked to the food table. Since the restaurant was a Japanese restaurant, they had a lot of great Sushi. So far that was the most exciting part of the evening, since I love Sushi. David was standing close to me and talking up a storm. At that point, I had been talking to him for about 15 minutes and I was ready to move on, so I put a few pieces of Sushi on my plate and walked back to the couch. David was still at the food table. As soon as I sat down a very good-looking young man in his late twenties sat next to me. He started talking to me. His name was Tim. He was a high school history teacher. As we were talking the event organizers announced that we were about to start the speed dating process. They said, “People under the age of thirty-five go to the next room and people over the age of thirty-five stay here”. Tim said to me, “Are you ready to go to the other room?” I said to him, “I’m over thirty five, so I have to stay here”. He surprisingly said, “Are you really?” I said, “Yes, couldn’t you tell?” He said, “No, I couldn’t”. He continued, “Can I write down your name? You may be the most interesting person I meet here tonight.” I said, “Sure”, but I knew I would not choose him. He was too young for me. I don’t like to date men more than five or six years younger than me. He wrote my name on his card. We said goodbye, and he walked to the next room.

I looked at the remaining men in the room. There was only one man who was attractive. He was tall and slender with great hair. He looked to be in his late thirties. Looking around, I knew that I would, probably, never want to date any of those men. I just didn't find any of them attractive in any way. The only guy I liked to meet was the good-looking guy. There were 10 men and 10 women in the room, but we were going to have eight dates. So I wouldn’t get to talk to two of the guys present. They rang the bell, and we looked at our cards to see which table we needed to go to. I went to the first table listed on my card. I met the first guy. He worked in carpet sales. We asked the usual questions, how long have you been divorced, how many children do you have, what do you do, what are your interests. The eight minutes were up. They rang the bell. We moved to the next table. I talked to another guy that I wasn’t interested in. He was a mechanic. The third date was with David. We talked a bit. He told me that he loved my hair, and then he said, “What kind of man are you looking for?” I said, “Someone kind, caring, giving….” He said, “I posses all those characteristics. You should pick me.” I laughed and said, “Oh, you’re so sweet.” I really didn’t know what to say. I knew I wasn’t interested in him. Our date was over, and I moved to the next table. The guy waiting for me was Chinese. We started to talk. He spoke perfect English. He had his own investment firm. He moved to the US to go to school when he was nineteen years old. He had a master’s degree from Yale. I asked him more questions about his job and his company. He was well traveled, cultured, and he was interested in me. I liked him, but I didn’t find him attractive at all. I thought if only he were better looking I would go out with him. Sitting there listening to him, I felt uneasy. If only I wasn’t so vain. I remembered my friend Charles telling me, “You are so picky.” I remembered my niece, Ziba, telling me, “you have so many hang ups and, don’t give a chance to the guys you should”. All of a sudden, I felt anxious. Why can’t I get over this and give him a chance. We continued to talk and soon eight minutes were up. I got up and tried not to think about him.

It was time for a fifteen-minute break. I dashed to the food table trying to distract myself. I put several pieces of Sushi on my plate and stepped aside to eat. As I was eating, a man named Mike introduced himself to me. He seemed like a nice guy. We talked for a few minutes. I couldn’t decide whether I was interested in him or not. While we were talking, in mid conversation, he stopped and said, “Soheila, you are really pretty, you really are. You’re not offended by my saying that. Are you?” I thanked him and told him that I would never be offended by a compliment. Soon the break was over and I found my next table and my next date waiting for me. On my way to my table I saw David. He was smiling big and said, “This is exciting, isn’t it?” I replied, “Yes, it is.” My next date was with a Fund Manager who worked for a financial firm. I asked him a bunch of questions about what a Fund Manager does. It was an educational date, but I didn’t feel any chemistry. The next date was very unremarkable.

When I sat down for my seventh date, I noticed that my date was very young. We introduced ourselves, and immediately I asked him how old he was. He said, “guess”. I said, “twenty-five”. He said, “I turned twenty-one two nights ago and have been partying ever since. I only had three hours of sleep last night.” I replied, “You turn twenty one only once. You might as well make the most of it.” My next question was, “Why are you in this group?” After a couple of minutes, I found out that for the thirty-five and older age group they were short one guy. So the organizers grabbed him from the bar and bribed him with free drinks so that he would participate in the event. That way all women would have a date at all times. We both laughed about it. He reminded me, so much, of my nephew, his demeanor, the way he talked and his attitude. I guess, there are a lot of similarities in young men in their early twenties. I felt maternal towards him. He, surprisingly, said a few times, “ I can’t believe you’re here”. He said, “You are the best looking woman here and, I can’t believe that you are single.” I explained to him that I was divorced. We talked about relationships and how complicated they can be. He told me about his last girl friend who recently broke up with him and how heart broken he was. I thought to myself he’s only twenty-one. He’ll probably have many more heartbreaks. A part of me wanted to spare him from all that. At the end of our eight minutes he said, “Can I tell you something?” I, curiously, said, “Yes”. He said, “OK, I’m gonna put it out there”. He sheepishly smiled and said, “You have great boobs!” I laughed really hard. That was not what I was expecting to hear. He asked if he could give me a hug. I said, “Sure”. I gave him a light embrace and wished him luck.

As I was walking to my last table, I saw the good-looking guy. He gave me a big smile. My last date was not memorable at all. I went through the routine of questions until the eight minutes were up. I was not interested in him.

The bell rang and I thought I didn’t have a date with the only guy that I thought was attractive. The organizers announced that the event was over, but there was still some food left and invited us to hangout and chat. I was still sitting on my chair when the good-looking guy came and sat next me, put his arm around my waist and said, “It’s, finally, time for us to meet.” I was surprised of his easy approach. We had started to talk when one of the women, who had attended the event, came to him and started flirting with him putting her fingers through his hair. I thought she really likes him. She was so obvious about it. He wasn’t at all interested. He pushed her hand away and continued to talk to me. Apparently, she had been trying to get his attention all evening. We talked for about thirty minutes. As we talked, I realized that we didn’t have anything in common. He was more of a beer-drinking sort of guy who likes to go to sports bars. He didn’t seem very interesting or engaging to me. When we were talking I said, “One of my favorite places in the world is a bookstore.” He replied, “That’s one place you’ll never find me. I don’t read.” I thought how could someone say, "I don’t read". To me, it would be like saying I don’t eat. I can’t go a day without reading something. That’s how I relax. It was clear to me that there would be a huge part of me, my intellect, that I could not share with him. For me three components would have to exist in order to become attracted to someone. I have to have an intellectual connection, an emotional connection and a physical attraction. If any of the three is absent then it is not going to work. By the end of our conversation, I was sure that I didn’t want to date him, but he seemed so into me. He insisted on walking me to my car. As I was leaving, I saw the Chinese guy. He said, “Every body here is going to pick you. I’ll definitely pick you. I hope you’ll pick me too.” I said, “I’ll see.” I said goodbye and left with Doug, the good-looking guy. Doug walked me to my car. He was nice and sweet. He said, “I’m definitely interested in you. I hope you’ll pick me.” I said “OK”. I had no idea what to say. We said goodbye. I got into my car.

Driving home, I thought it was an interesting evening, definitely something different, but I didn’t meet anybody I wanted to date. It was like picking eight random guys off the street. What are the chances of me liking any of them? I thought how just a few short years ago I was married and I thought I was going to be married forever. How things didn’t turn out the way I wanted them to turn out. I really hate going through all this dating, again, at my age. It was hard enough in my twenties. A part of me felt mad at Jason, my ex-husband, for an instant. I thought it is because of him that I have to go through all this. But I, immediately, reminded myself that he did the best he was able to do. I said to myself, this is life. Life is complicated and, we don’t always have control over what happens to us. We just have to be resilient and make the best of things. I thought at least, in my life, I have experienced great love. Even if I never love again with Jason, I experienced something that forever has a hold of a part of my heart, which is sweet and precious to me, and for that I am grateful. I remembered how when we were at our best, I experienced true intimacy and oneness with him. That was an amazing experience, that coming together, that understanding, that acceptance, that pure love, that unity of heart and mind, what we call love, what I believe to be the cause of creation, I experienced a form of it with him although for short durations. My life is richer because of it.

My sister Azi

The emotions surrounding my birth were unknown to me until many years later. I was the last of five children. My mother had married at the age of sixteen and had given birth to my oldest sister, Zhaleh, at the age of seventeen. When my mother got pregnant with me at age of thirty seven, Zhaleh had been married for about a year and was one month pregnant with her first child. My mother had her fourth child at the age of twenty eight and did not want to have any more children. Her children were growing up and she had no intention of changing diapers and breastfeeding again. More distressing to her was the fact that Zhaleh was already pregnant. The idea of being pregnant at the same time as her daughter was utterly embarrassing to her. She was depressed and tried not to go out very much and hid her pregnancy. At some point in her first trimester, she decided that she didn’t want to have me. She made an appointment with a gynecologist to have an abortion. In Iran, at least at that time during the 1960s, there were no laws against abortion. Abortions were done discreetly. The subject was considered more private than immoral. The night before the abortion my mother had a dream about one of the holy figures of the Baha’i Faith, which is the religion of my family. In the dream, she makes a great effort to speak to this most revered holy person, but he appears upset and he refuses to look at her or speak to her, turning his face to the opposite direction of my mother’s at every effort that she makes to look at his eyes. She woke up filled with remorse about planning to take the life of her own child. She concluded that God would not be pleased with her if she would have the abortion and that was why the holy figure would not look at her and seemed angry at her. She canceled the appointment the next morning and I was born about 5 months later one month premature.

The day before my birth was filled with anxiety and stress for my mother as Zhaleh went into labor. My mother accompanied her to the hospital and stayed with her during the long hours of a difficult labor and finally at about five in the afternoon my niece was born in the midst of cries of pain. The difficult and painful labor of my sister and her cries of pain were all too much for my mother to bear. Almost at the same time that my sister delivered her baby my mother went into labor. After making sure that my sister was OK, she left the hospital. She took a cab and went home to have me. I was supposed to be born at home just like the rest of my siblings. My parents could not afford a hospital stay for my mother. In the early hours of the morning the same gynecologist who was supposed to perform the abortion arrived at our house. I was born minutes later, a month premature in a room in our house which later was converted to our dining room. Present during the delivery were my father and my seventeen year old sister, Azar. My mother told me years later that as the moment of birth grew closer, my father was anxious to know if his fifth child would be a son. Having had three daughters and only one son, only the birth of another son could make the arrival of this unwanted child desirable. My mother told me that my father’s expressions of excitement were replaced with disappointment when he saw a very little girl come out of her womb. He said nothing and withdrew himself from me completely and didn’t hold me or touch me until about a month later. My seventeen year old sister who had witnessed my birth was in an awe by the miracle of birth and by the sight of a tiny, helpless baby who was blue all over. The seeds of everlasting bonds of affection between her and me were planted on that day. She was the most positive influence of my early childhood.

After about a month, my father warmed up to me and accepted and loved me like the rest of his children. He was a very gentle, kind, and quiet man, a very loving and giving father with a great sense of self sacrifice for his family.

My beautiful sister Azar whom I called Azi joon (“joon” means “dear” in Persian) filled the first five years of my life with her cheerful youth and endless expressions of love and laughter. She was my world. She was mine. I really believed that the purpose of her existence was to take care of me, tell me stories, and love me. I couldn’t stand to be away from her. She took me with her everywhere she went. I slept in the same room with her with my bedding next to hers. Every night she would tell me a story while holding my hand. I would often ask for my favorite story, the story of Cinderella. Every morning, I would follow her to the bathroom, we would brush our teeth together and she would help me get cleaned up for the day. Often at nights, after dinner, she would teach me songs which we would sing together. She played the accordion and I liked to dance to the music she played. She was very artistic and would make different kinds of crafts. One of her hobbies was to make silk flowers. As a present to me, she made a few silk flowers and put them in a little vase and gave them to me. We put them in the living room on a counter and I boasted about them to whoever that came to our house. Those first five years were the best years of my life. One day Azi joon had to go to the dentist. I followed her to the door of the house and begged her to take me. She kept explaining to me that she would be back before I knew it and she couldn’t take me to the dentist. I waited patiently until she came back. Her presence always made everything OK.

When I was about five years old, I noticed that Azi joon was crying a lot. She wasn’t happy anymore. I didn’t know what was going on. One afternoon, she was sitting at the dinning room table, her head was on the table and she was crying. My parents were standing next to her. I went to her and said, “Why are you crying Azi joon?” My mom said, “Azi joon wants to go from here.” I said, “Where do you want to go?” She said, “To hell”. Thinking that she might go and not take me, I pleaded, “Take me with you.” I didn’t know where or what hell was and my response sparked a laugh from my parents and my sister.

After about a month or so, I noticed a young man, Parviz, who was starting to come to our house on regular basis. Azi joon was always happy to see him. She would light up whenever he was around. Seeing him so friendly with my sister and so close to her bothered me. I felt that he was partaking of attention that should only be bestowed on me. He was always nice to me, but I didn’t like him. I was wondering for how long he was going to come around. He intimidated me. When he was with my sister, I didn’t feel comfortable running to my sister and throwing myself in her arms. At about the same time my mother started to tell me that Azi joon might be leaving us soon. I would ask why and she would say, “She is going to marry Parviz and go with him to Ahvaz.” My reaction to these words were to throw a fit, cry and proclaim that Azi joon was mine and she shouldn’t go with Parviz. My mom would say, “Azi belongs to Parviz now.” Again, I would cry out, “She is mine and I’m going to ask her if she is not.” I would run to Azi and say, “Azi joon, are you still mine?” “Yes, I’m yours.” she would always reply. I would ask, “Are you going to leave me?” She would always say, “No, I’m not going to leave you.” I guess, she didn’t have the heart to tell me that she was getting married soon and moving to Ahvaz, a city in the southwestern part of Iran, near some oil fields and very close to the Persian Gulf. My mother at first didn’t approve of the marriage, because Parviz was only a year older than my sister and was not yet established in his career. My mother also had someone else in mind for Azi. A doctor who was very much interested in her, although he wasn’t nearly as attractive as Parviz, but established and prosperous. These were qualities that were very attractive to my mother. In addition to that, my mother doesn’t have a romantic bone in her body or if she does none of us has ever seen it. She is extremely practical. In our culture, parents sometimes exert a lot of influence on the marriage of their children, but this time Azi’s perseverance and refusal to ever marry anybody else eventually changed my mother’s mind. I found out that the reason my sister had been so sad for a few months was because of my mother’s refusal to give consent for her to marry Parviz. The time that she was crying in the dining room was during one of her arguments with my mother about marrying Parviz.

Parviz was beautiful. He was tall and slender with light green eyes and chestnut color hair, uncommon in that part of the world. He was muscular and mild mannered. During the three months engagement of Azi and Parviz, I got to see him quite a bit more and my mother tried very hard to prepare me for Azi’s departure. I remember her engagement party. She put on a beautiful dress that she had made herself. She fixed her hair and put flowers in it. She was so happy and excited that her happiness and excitement rubbed off on me too. All that night, I followed her around like a puppy. Parviz was always next to her. By then, I had gotten used to the idea of always seeing him next to her. Everybody commented on what a beautiful couple they made. My sister was slender and proportional with beautiful face and hair and Parviz was considered handsome by everyone. I remember me and my niece who was born a day earlier than me would tell everyone, “I’m going to marry Parviz too when I grow up.” Although in the back of my head I thought he would be too old for me by then.

The day of the wedding was approaching. I knew something was going to happen but I didn’t know what it was. I was seeing less of Azi as she was preparing for the wedding. I still wasn’t sure if Azi was going to leave me or not. She had given me a lot of assurances about her love for me and how she would always be my Azi. But I couldn’t ignore my mother’s efforts in telling me that Azi would someday leave with Parviz.

At the night of the wedding, I saw Azi and Parviz together. My sister looked so different in her wedding gown and make up. Her dress was beautiful, but I had never seen her with make up before. She looked so different. She had changed. She was sitting next to Parviz surrounded by flower baskets. I circled around them a few times. I had become shy all of the sudden. She looked so different that I didn’t know if I should approach her or not. She noticed me circling around them and watching them from a distance. She called me and I ran to her. She made a little place for me to sit between her and her new husband. I realized that she was still the same person and all that change was just on the surface. On her wedding night she told me that she would see me again in a few days. The wedding had taken place in Tehran, the capital. Day after the wedding we went back to Hamedan, my hometown, and there I waited, patiently, for Azi’s return. In the last few months I had come to accept her not spending so much time at home. After a short honeymoon, Azi came home with her husband. I was happy to see her. I didn’t know that she had only come home to pack her things and move to Ahvaz with Parviz.

The day that she left we all accompanied her and Parviz to the bus station. I knew she was leaving. I clang to her and refused to let her go. I screamed and cried. My face was wet with tears. I remember Azi kissing me and telling me that she would come back to see me. My parents separated me from her. She got on the bus while I was calling her and crying. I saw her bus move and the last thing I saw was Azi’s face by the window at the back of the bus. She waved at me. Her lips were moving. I couldn’t tell what she was saying. I was crying in my mother’s arms as I watched the bus disappear in the crowd of the street and the movement of other cars and buses. The days that followed were filled with sadness, emptiness and a great sense of loss. A couple of weeks later, my mother received a letter from Azi. She called me into the living room. I ran in and she, excitedly, said, "We have a letter from Azi." I wasn’t sure exactly what that meant. Does that mean that Azi was coming back? Is the letter somehow going to make me feel better or make me miss her less? She read the letter to me out loud. Azi was doing fine and she was happy. For an instant, I was happy. Then the letter was over and I asked my mom when will I see her. My mother replied, “next summer”. So everything was still the same. Receiving the letter was a great disappointment. For days my mother had told me soon we will receive a letter from Azi and I had been looking forward to it. But when it arrived and was read, I still missed Azi as much as ever. The letter didn't cure my heartache. I knew then that there was nothing that could be done. I had lost Azi forever and she was no longer mine. Nothing could take away the pain, loneliness and the abandonment that I felt. When Azi left she took with her a piece of my childhood. The years that followed had less joy and were more difficult.

Twenty five years later when I was thirty and living in the States in a phone conversation with Azi who lives in Iran and I have not seen since I was seventeen, she said to me, "I still feel bad about abandoning you when you needed me so much." It was only then that I realized that our separation had been painful for her too.

Enlightenment, at last!

You know how so many therapists have written all these books about how not to be a co-dependent, how to be your own person and don’t look towards another person for validation and happiness. I have been trying to implement that in my life for as long as I remember. I’ve read books. I’ve gone to therapy, but I could never do it. It really always seemed like for me to be happy in life, I must have a man. For years, I wondered how I could feel happy without having a life partner. It seemed to me that life was all about finding someone to love and share your life with. Twice, I thought, I found that person, but I was wrong each time. After my divorce about three and a half years ago, I thought this time I will do it right. I’ll take my time and I’ll find the right person. But after three and a half years of searching, I have come to the conclusion that there is no such a person in the world for me. I can, actually, say that now without feeling a sharp pain in my stomach. It’s OK, really. I’m fine. I’m finally OK with it. It took a while to get here, but I’m finally here. I have finally reached Nirvana (grin), the state of happiness under all conditions. I think, maybe, or at least something close to it (not really)! We all get there somehow, right? Maybe not all. But I’m there. For so many years I have read the spiritual writings stating that detachment from this earthly life and earthly desires is the key to happiness and freedom from suffering. My ex-husband’s voice echoes in my mind, “You need to let go of desire. It’s only then that you can be happy.” He must know. He is a practicing monk. He went from being a Software Engineer to becoming a monk and living in a Buddhist monastery in Las Vagas, from all places, within a few short weeks. He would call me from the monastery and tell me that he meditated for eight hours that day. I always thought what stamina he has. I can’t meditate for more than five minutes. I must say that he was a monk for only a couple of months when he was going through a lot of emotinal pain. That was his way of finding solace. He is back to being a Software Engineer, thank God! But he meditates a lot and deals with life’s difficulties by practicing detachment. Buddhists say, “Desire will bring suffering.” I understand the concept totally, but letting go of all desires is way too difficult. I have already let go of so many things that I desired in life and never got. The last thing to let go of is finding a life partner that suites me. I am letting go of that as well.

I’ll tell you how I made this spiritual transformation or at least transformation. I don’t really know if it was spiritually based. At the risk of sounding, I don’t really know what, arrogant maybe, (grin) I will tell you what happened. I woke up one morning with extreme clarity of mind. That is when I see things with perfect clarity when I first wake up in the morning. That is when I’m most rational. Although it only takes a little while for my emotional needs to cloud my judgment, usually about 30 minutes. So during that time of clarity, I thought about all the men that I had actually dated since my divorce. I’m not talking about the ones that were interested in me, but I wasn’t interested in them and, therefore, I didn’t go out with them more than once or twice. I’m talking about the men that were interested in me, pursued me and I also became interested in them after a couple of dates. They were all highly educated, relatively attractive and successful in their own right. But they all seemed to have issues or be damaged in some way and these were supposedly the best of the bunch, at least on the surface. No, definitely on the surface. I realized that morning that I was actually more interesting than them, more well rounded than them, more mature than them, less confused than them, less self-centered and selfish than them. When I examined their character, I realized that they were all kind of flakey, unaware of their true feelings and scared at some level. I realized that I had been happier and emotionally healthier, since I hadn’t dated anybody. I thought, if this is what is out there, then not only I’m not missing out on anything, but also I’m gaining more by not putting up with a bunch of BS and by not wasting my time, energy and thoughts on these guys. Knowing that there probably isn’t anybody out there that is worthy of me and all that I have to give ( rolling my eyes big time) puts the idea of finding that person to rest. And I’m fine. The moment that I feel alone and in need of affection, I just remember the men that I opened myself up to in the last three and a half years and how incapable of giving and receiving they were. I remember the agony, frustration and the disappointment that I felt. From the guy who was so insecure that couldn’t stand the fact that I was more knowledgeable and educated than he was to the guy who said that I was too emotional and demanding when I got upset when he canceled our date for the fifth time just a few hours before we were supposed to go out, because his ex-wife who lived in another state had had a bad reaction to her chemotherapy treatment and was not feeling well. He said that he wasn’t up to going out anymore. Mind you, they had been divorced for three years and she was surrounded by her children and family during her battle with cancer in the opposite side of the country. There was also the guy who told me, “I don’t want to be your husband. I don’t want to be your boyfriend. I just want to sleep with you.” This guy was also the same guy who told me that we weren’t a good match, because I was spiritual and he wasn’t and oh, this is a good one, my English exasperated him. Yes, my English isn’t as good as his. He is a native born American with a Ph.D. There have been a few others.

I have decided that I will never again allow anyone make me feel bad about what I am whether it is my English, my accent or the fact that I am emotional. I’m not going to beat myself up for not measuring up to someone else’s standards. I refuse to allow my worth and value be determined by another person’s perception of me. The majority of my life I have struggled to please the people around me. I have tolerated unwarranted blame and abuse by different people in my life, people I don’t even respect. I will never let anyone make me feel less than what I am again. I have found that I’m a person of great strength. I have been the one taking care of most of the people in my life. I have been to hell and back and no one can tell by looking at me what I have lived through. I have not allowed myself to become broken by life’s calamities. I have finally realized that I am a person who is very reasonable and sensible and I’m not going to allow someone else to tell me otherwise. I will not allow the limited view and understanding that they may have of me affect the way I see myself. If that means that I have to be alone for the rest of my life, so be it. My mantra at the moment is “I can do it alone”.

A spring snowy day in Colorado

It is Sat. afternoon, April 18th. We have been having a lot of snow for the last two and a half days. It started Thursday night and it hasn’t stopped yet. Yesterday morning, I called my boss and asked him if I could work from home and he said “Yes”. I was so happy. I was spared of at least four hours of driving back and forth to work in my little car that slides easily on snow. Actually, I’m mostly scared of other drivers in snowy conditions. So, that made my day. My other co-workers were working from home also. The last snow storm we had, they let us leave work at noon. It took me two hours and fifteen minutes to get home. It usually takes about forty minutes. It was a terrible drive mostly because people were driving about one mile per hour in a lot of the areas much slower than necessary, but that’s Colorado. So many people who live here are from California or places without much snow. They make the most annoying drivers in Colorado snow storms.

I haven’t been feeling that great today, trying to rest and stay warm. Actually, I haven’t left my house since Thursday evening. We have had about eighteen inches of snow. Occasionally, I look outside at my driveway and sidewalk. It stresses me out. I know, I have to go out and shovel the snow at some point. It won’t be today. It has to be tomorrow. Hopefully, I’ll be all better then. I’m hoping for a lot of sunshine tomorrow, so I won’t have as much snow to shovel. This morning all the neighborhood men were shoveling the snow in their driveways. Some people have shoveled a couple of times already. My driveway and sidewalk is the only one on the block that is totally covered in snow. I hate shoveling snow. It always makes my back hurt. I was in a bad car accident when I was nineteen years old, which totally messed up my neck and upper back. I have to see a chiropractor when my back or shoulder goes out. The last time I shoveled the snow, my back went out. I was in a really bad pain for two days before I was able to see my chiropractor and get an adjustment. So, if I’m lucky tomorrow will be sunny and some of the snow will melt.

My friend Shari called me today to check on me, since I live alone. Every time we have a snow storm she calls me to see if I made it home OK and if I have enough food at home. She and her husband are really good friends. Every time she calls to check on me, her sincere and caring voice and her words of concern make me want to cry. It makes me feel good to know someone cares about me enough to call to see if I’m OK.

I’ve been trying o figure out what I want to have for dinner. I need to go to the grocery store. I’m low on things, but I don‘t want to leave my house. As I was looking at my refrigerator, I thought I feel like pasta. I looked for the ingredients to make this dish that I like. The ingredients are whole wheat pasta, lots of garlic and onions, parsley, broccoli, olive oil, chicken, parmesan cheese and butter something that I use only once in a while, because it has so much saturated fat. I have everything that I need to make this dish, unbelievable! That makes me happy. I’ll fix dinner and then watch a movie, a great way to spend a snowy Sat. night at home.

I want money

My oldest sister, Zhaleh, who is twenty years older than me has been living in Australia for the last two years. She has a condo, here, in one of the suburbs of Denver that I check on every couple of months. If all goes well, she should be here living in Colorado in about six months. I do miss her. She has always been like a second mother to me. My sister has two daughters one is my age and lives in Australia. The other daughter who is five years younger than me and is the closest person to me in my family has been living in Kuwait with her family for the last year. Her name is Ziba. As she and her family still have connections in the US sometimes they ask me to help them with some things here. It makes me sad that they probably won’t ever live in the States again. I miss them all so much and feel a sense of loss since they left the US.

Ziba called me a few days ago and asked me to go to her mother’s apartment and look for either hers or her mother’s birth certificate. She said that they should be in the set of drawers in her mother’s bedroom. I knew it was important to her to find one of the birth certificates at least, otherwise, Soudi, one of my sisters who lives in Iran will have to go to our hometown which is a seven hour drive from where she lives and try to get a copy from the place where births and deaths are registered. Who knows if they still have those records and it would not be free to get copies of them.

Yesterday after work, I drove to my sister’s place. I opened the door to her very clean and beautifully decorated apartment all in pastel colors so indicative of her taste. It always makes me feel good to go there. It looks so relaxing. I went to the bedroom, located the set of drawers and began to search. I opened the first drawer. It was filled with bags and envelops. I thought, if I’m lucky the birth certificates would turn up pretty quick. I looked through everything in the first drawer, insurance papers, car papers, tax information, bank accounts, pictures, letters, cards, more pieces of paper and so on. I thought, note to self, clean out the drawers in your office. This is way too much paper for someone to go through when you die. I, especially, looked through everything that I found in Persian. I came across a packet filled with the letters that my sister’s husband had written. I, immediately, recognized the handwriting. Tears came to my eyes remembering how he was killed. I had not seen his handwriting since I was a teen-ager. He was a prominent Baha'i in my hometown who was imprisoned, tortured and executed, because he was a Baha'i by the Islamic Republic of Iran who has persecuted the Baha'is since they came to power. I saw letters from my mom and dad who had been written to my sister. Each letter started with “To the light of my eyes, Zhaleh”. That was how my parents addressed their children in the written form. It is a Persian expression. I, always, thought it was a powerful expression. There were letters and cards from my sister’s daughters. There were a lot of drawings from her grandchildren to their grandma. There were cards and letters from old friends. There were even stuff from me. I looked through them, but I didn’t find either one of the birth certificates or copies of them. I moved to the second drawer. This drawer had more documents and photo albums. I looked through the pages of the photo albums. There were a lot of old pictures. I saw pictures of me when I was little along with other family members. I saw a picture of my mother when she was eighteen years old holding my sister, Zhaleh, who was only a year old at the time. My father and uncles were in the picture. They all were so young. My dad and one of my uncles have passed on. It was a picture taken about sixty years ago. I thought I like to have a copy of this picture. I need to remember to borrow it from my sister when she comes back. I continued looking. There were more papers and documents that I had to sort through. When I was almost done with the second drawer, I came across pages of writings in my handwriting in Persian. They were all poems that I had copied from a book of poems by Hafez, one of the famous Persian poets, years ago. I sat on the bed and started to read the poems. The poems were so beautiful. I hadn’t read them in a long time. Before I knew it twenty minutes had passed. I thought to myself, go back to work. I looked through everything in the second drawer and I didn’t find the certificates. That was it. There were only two drawers. I thought, I probably missed them. I probably didn’t look through everything with enough care. So, with frustration, I started to look at everything all over again examining each piece of paper. At that point, I was tired and hungry and I was thinking, Ziba really owes me for this. What does she owe me? A dinner out? No, that won’t do it. A gift certificate for a massage? No, that won’t do either. A gift certificate to one of my favorite stores? No, that wasn’t good either. None of those options were good enough for the frustration that I was feeling. I thought she owes me money, that’s right, money. That’s what I want. I, then, remembered the song “Money, that’s what I want” by The Flying Lizards and started singing it to myself. “The best things in life are free. But you can give them to the birds and bees. I want money. That’s what I want. That’s what I want…” After a little diversion of singing, goofing off and laughing, I continued to look. Finally, I had gone through everything that was in that set of drawers twice. I had not been able to find the birth certificates. I started to look in different places in the bedroom like the bookcase, the nightstand and boxes in the closet, but didn’t find anything. So, finally after two hours of searching, I had to give up. I drove home humming “I want money. That‘s what I want…“.