Evolving Warrior

In 2011, I began volunteering at UCLA Mattel Children's Hospital. In my (almost) full year of time there, the experiences I had and people I met helped me grow and learn tremendously. This is one story of my time with a little girl that I will never forget.

I started off like most other day’s at the hospital. I had my list of rooms to visit in my pocket. I was given the PICU (Pediatric Intensive Care Unit) patients. The PICU is not the most friendly-looking of places. Though most of the children’s hospital is decorated in bright colors and painted walls, the PICU’s walls are white and vacant. Its blank canvas stretches throughout the unit floor desperate for adornment. The rooms are transparent with glass doors and walls. Again, this is unlike the rest of the children's hospital.

I entered— let’s call her— "Anabell’s" room. Aside from Anabell on her hospital bed, the room is empty of people. No doctors, family, or friends in sight.

“Hi Anabell, My name is Mandy and I’m a volunteer from the Chase Child Life Center. Is it ok if I hang out with you today?”

No answer.
Of course she was not going to answer. Tubes are coming out of every part of her body. Every tube laces up to a beeping machine. I wouldn’t respond to me either. I'm forgetting, she is also only two years old.

Her nurse walks in.

“She can’t respond to you but if you ask her questions she will squeeze your hand to say yes.”

I held her hand. Her entire hand spread open was smaller than the size of my palm. Keep it together Mandy.
I didn’t know what her condition was, they didn’t always disclose that information. I grabbed the coloring book and crayons by the side of her bed.

“Which color should I use for the bear? Yellow?”

No squeeze

“Blue?”

No squeeze. Maybe she’s confused on the squeezing thing.

“Red?”

Gentle squeeze… so gentle, I almost missed it. Ah, we have a winner.

I colored for her, talked to her, told her how much I loved the clipped bow in her hair. I noticed hand squeezing was exhausting her, so I put on a disney movie for us to watch together.
My eyes keep noticing a clear plastic contraption sitting on top of her chest, partially hidden underneath the covers. It is moving up and down and connected to a bunch of tubes with her blood flowing through it. Dialysis? Maybe it cleans out her blood? I thought to myself. The nurse walks in. I ask her about it.

“That’s her heart. Anabell had a bad heart so we removed it. This machine is keeping her alive until she gets a donor.”

My face turned pale. Keep it together Mandy.

__________________________________________

There are a lot of patients I have connected to in my time as a volunteer, be she was one of the hardest to leave at the end of the day. A two year old girl, in critical condition, is by herself in a hospital waiting to see if she gets to have another day of life. Her tearless, concentrated, eyes displayed a courage that didn't require words to show. Earlier that day, I was thinking about how unhappy I was with my bank account, how annoyed I was at traffic, how it was time to update my closet, and the list of endless things I needed to do that never seem to get done. By the end of that day, I was reminded by a toddler how incredibly self-absorbed, materialistic, and selfish I was being. I thought to myself, if I was in her position, not a single one of those things would have the faintest significance to me. In fact, sitting in traffic would feel like a privilege.
A few months later, I was in the playroom with another patient. From a distance, sitting at a table coloring on her own, I saw Anabell. It felt like time stopped for that one moment. I stared at her, my eyes glossy and swelling.

She got a donor. She made it.

I wanted to go over and hug her but she was still frail from recovery. Also, she had no idea who I was. In fact, she will go through her entire life not knowing I exist. She will never know that she made my heart grow bigger with love that day we met. Or that my memory with her is one that I reflect upon often. The short time of our encounter became an eternal message I carry daily with me. Yet, she will grow up never knowing that at two years old, she taught the lesson of a lifetime.

Karoshi means “death from overwork” in Japanese. It’s a real thing. It’s characterized by sudden death with no previous signs of illness occurring, very often, in young adults. People are literally working themselves to death, so much so, that it is a big issue in Japan. The Karoshi Hotline and multiple self-help books already exist in an attempt to alleviate the problem. Some victims were found to have worked long hours without a single day off in weeks. The Washington Post reported 60+ hours of work per week was not uncommon. One man was mentioned putting in 114 hours of overtime each month. The drive to work hard and be successful is literally killing people.

On the other side of the spectrum exist some of the happiest people in the world who’s lifespan is the longest per capita. The people of this magical land rarely have conditions of coronary heart disease, various cancers, and issues with cholesterol. Their daily lives are rich with farming, community gatherings, and a sense of camaraderie with everyone they meet. Ironically, this magical place also happens to be in Japan-- on the island of Okinawa.

Okinawa has so many people living over the age of 100 that The Okinawa Centenarian Study was developed in 1975 to investigate the reasons behind this. Unfortunately, there is no evidence, so far, of a secret fountain of youth hiding on the island. What seems to exist, however, is community. A lot of it. These 100+ year olds are not sitting around loathing in their old age and expecting to be taken care of. They play as active a role in caring for others as they are cared for. They continue to participate in social gatherings with people of all ages. In the documentary “Happy”, one elderly Okinawan woman stated “If some tragedy happens to a family, everybody in the village comes out.” They describe a common word in the culture “ichariba-chode,” which means “when you meet somebody you are already brother and sister, even if it’s the first time.” Try walking into a bar in NYC and telling that to a New Yorker. Then, make sure you duck.

In addition to a strong community, diet— the usual suspect, is highly correlated to their longevity. Pesticide-free farming is common amongst most Okinawans. Farming provides nutrition to their own family as well as their neighbors. Giving out their produce as gifts is a typical practice. Their cultural eating habits is known as “hara hachi bu” (eating until you are 80% full). In America, this is known as appetizers. Most of the food Okinawans eat is naturally low-calorie and low-glycemic. As a result, they consistently spend their entire lives being healthy and slim.

From karoshi to centenarians, the country of Japan has a population living in very extreme ways. Where along this large spectrum would you find yourself fitting if you were living there? The push for success drives the “american dream” but maybe the “american dream” defined success too narrowly to begin with. What if being successful meant going shopping for your neighbor that you noticed needed a new coat instead buying yourself a third one in a different color. Or, instead of owning x-amount of cars you give x-amount of kids a rich education by supporting local schools that need help. If one individual changes their idea of success and acts accordingly, it doesn’t mean that the whole world is going to change. But, if no one makes a change, the world is guaranteed to stay exactly the same.

I am made of light. Literally.

The elements that compose the stars are the same ones that form every human body. Calcium, iron, and carbon are some of the many atomic configurations that produce 93% of our physical mass. These particles originated from a star and for us to be born, it had to die. In fact, every living creature and piece of matter around us came from the elements that once gave a star it’s glimmering light.

Griffith Park Observatory

Think of an experience on a starry night. The awe of its beauty can feel like there is a connection that exceeds the visual parameter alone. Maybe it is not a coincidence that the sight of a sunset has the ability to put minds at ease and hearts at peace. Perhaps, the light we emit is the same light we are drawn towards within each other.

How do you shine your light in this world? For a moment, imagine you dissolve the size of your body, the shape of your eyes, the color of your skin, and identify with the light you are made of. Feel the strength of its glow. The power of its impact. Are you happy with how strong you shine or do you find yourself not yet ablaze? Only you can decided the level of illumination required to fulfill your life. Only you can change it if you want more.
The choices I make affect how I present my light. I can keep it soft and dim by living with anger, frustration, or jealousy. Similar to a flickering bulb, this becomes exhausting to watch and eventually, empty of energy. If I am constantly rude or dishonest, I cannot expect kind or loyal people to surround me. I will inevitably attract the very thing that I put out. That is why I love making people smile for no reason, speak my mind in kind ways, forgive the most difficult moments, and have patience when I am being challenged. This is the light I want around me, and so, I must first be it myself.

"I'd think, maybe he truly is something extraordinary. He's what he is, that's it. Maybe that makes him strong enough, being what he is."

- Ken Kesey, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

My face is drizzled with freckles, one of my dimples can probably hold a tablespoon of water, and my body has held on to some unalluring scars. I usually make decisions on what feels right in my heart versus what sounds more logical. I have been a nerd my whole life and the symptoms of this have only become worse with age. The size of my closet is humble and heavily dominated by fitness attire. I love dancing, and on the rare occasion, it has occurred solely to the music in my head. I prefer to spend hours hiking to a waterfall than going to a fancy dinner. I have not traveled outside of the country much yet, but I am convinced that by the end of my life, I will have traveled most of the world. I have the wildest goals and dreams, and I plan on attaining every single one of them. This is who I am.
People don't always agree with who I am, but that is the magnificance of being unique. Individual differences are what so beautifully diversify this world and make it fascinating. I have met many "mathematicians" that point out the odds of what I'm choosing to do and the heavy weight that comes with it. To these people, I nod in silence; not in agreement but out of respect and gratitude. Without them, I would have no one to astonish with miraculous anomalies. My current speciality-in-development would cause a mathematicians mind to explode: removing limits.
Most of the limits we have are often placed by ourselves. Being geniune to who you are might have the side effect of erasing some of those limits. "Coming of out the closet" doesn't have to apply to sexual orientation only. Let me tell you, some of the shit I pulled out of my closet, I had no idea I had to begin with. It turns out, I love the person I am. The more you open yourself up to your personal truth, the more you discover about yourself. Being authentic means having the courage to show your true self; all of it, to everyone, especially to those that don't agree with it. True freedom comes when you can fearlessly face the world with all that you ARE. The judgments that stroll by lose their significance. Chances are, the ones passing those judgments still have a full closet to unpack.
This is your unique life. The amount of time you and I have here is uncertain. If you can maximize living in a way that is truest to you, you will consequentially increase the quality of your life. Fear and insecurity will challenge you but if you are prepared to face them, they have no chance in succeeding. When you get to that moment of going against the odds, of taking a different route than the rest, of speaking your mind even though it sets you apart from others, you just might hit a place of happiness that you didn't know could exist. A place you never want to turn back from once you arrive. Then maybe, just maybe, you will look back one of these days with a smile and say "My life was awesome."

Everybody in class is lying down. We are on our backs with legs and arms set out comfortably. Eyes are gently shut, hearts have softened their beats, minds are silencing, and muscles are melting into the familiar feeling of our yoga mats. This is Savasana.

Savasana (also spelled shavasana) is considered the most important pose in yoga. All the hard work put in throughout the entire class is deliciously absorbed by the body during this time of peaceful decompression. It is a form of Yoga Nidra, a deep sleep-like relaxation that is combined with awareness.

Yoga has become increasingly studied in the scientific world for it’s benefits. Savasana, in particular, has sparked interest on its own. In one study, three resting postures were compared: savasana, resting in a chair, and supine pose. Savasana was found to reduce the effects of stress in a significantly shorter amount of time compared to the other two poses. Another study found it to be positively correlated to cardiovascular health during exercise. Walter Reed Army Medical Center uses various types of Yoga Nidra as effective treatment for PTSD. They call this program iRest and have integrated its protocol into weekly treatments in VA facilities located in eight different states. Researchers at Walter Reed founded Warriors At Ease, a yoga and meditation teacher training program specifically designed for teaching military communities. The number of studies supporting the benefits of yoga are abundant and scientists continually produce more research with congruent findings each year.

Personally, savasana is the reason I practice yoga. Every challenging moment of class makes me look forward to that final release. The active practice of letting go completely and submitting to a moment that is purely and entirely mine. Sometimes I fall into the sweetest dreams, while other times my mind is so silent that I become unsure if I’m still connected to my physical body. It is bliss at its finest, love at its truest, and happiness in its most organic form. The rest of my day following time spent in savasana is never short of extraordinary.

Najah means “success” in arabic. She grew up in Al Bennay, a small village in the mountains of Lebanon. She is the second oldest of ten children. Her father couldn’t bare the way they treated children in schools those days- getting hit when they misbehaved and such. He refused to allow anyone to lay a finger on his children. She was pulled out of school in third grade and was homeschooled to a fifth grade level.

The Lebanese Civil War began in 1975 when Najah was fifteen. Most children were stripped of education by then.

We woke up one morning and the Israeli army was everywhere. We watched helicopters drop off soldiers from the air. It was a secret plan they had. Everyone was shocked. They had a tank parked in our driveway. They were shooting people right from our driveway; but they didn’t hurt us. They protected the Druze, they shot at the Palestinians.

Her uncle trained her and all the older siblings on how to shoot a gun. They practiced firing with hand guns but they were also trained with machine guns. Najah never had to fire a gun at anyone, but a few years later, her brother almost did…almost.

The worst year of the war for Najah and her family was 1983-1984. Her newborn baby sister (the youngest of the ten) was crying one morning as she recalls:

The phones and electricity was cut off. We didn’t know there was anything going on. A Druze political leader came by our house and begged my father to leave Al Bennay immediately. We didn’t know how bad it was and that we were the only ones left in the village.

They only had one car that worked and about 35- 40 family members in total.

“How did you all fit in the car?”

“We sat like pickles.”

The Buick made two trips down to the next village to relocate everyone to a basement. Scratches marked the street of the trail left by the car as it dragged down the road. Weight limits did not apply. Nothing normal applied anymore.

When they all arrived at the basement, other families were shocked they were alive. The road their car was dragging down was filled with explosives. To this day, it is still a mystery why those bombs never went off.

We were very scared, living from minute to minute. We had no idea if we were going to make it. My uncle came running in and told us we have to leave right now. The Christian militia was one town away stabbing men to death and raping the women before they killed them. We didn’t know if it was better to leave or stay hiding. I didn’t know this at the time but my father told my brother and his friend “if militia come through those doors, I want you to shoot all your siblings and then yourself.” He wasn’t going to let us get tortured.

Those doors never opened and they were able to leave safely. The youngest children and the elderly rode in the car. Najah and the rest of the older children walked through globs of thick mud on a rainy day in slippers to get to the next village.

You couldn’t see where the street began. There was dead people everywhere. In the car, you just had to drive around them.

They spent months relocating to various homes. Some belonged to family members, some were complete strangers. As soon as they heard planes shooting, they knew they had about five minutes to leave if they wanted to survive.

No one could sleep. Maybe five minutes here and there. It sounded like the planes were going to come through the walls.

One day they got word of a village, Aghmeed, that had been virtually untouched by the war. They set out to relocate once again. When they arrived they found the rumors were true; it was a village miraculously left unscathed.

I remember I saw a woman walking down the street by herself with a purse on. I stared at her. I couldn’t believe I was still in Lebanon. I was shocked how life was so normal here. We didn’t know what was normal anymore.

The war ended two months later. Aghmeed was the village that led her to her husband; a Lebanese native that lived in America. They got married after a month of meeting. Their wedding was the first wedding in Lebanon after the war. She moved to California with her husband immediately following the wedding.

It was like a movie. You wake up and people are on the streets speaking english. I only knew arabic. The food was different. I lost my appetite for two years. I lost a lot of weight but I didn't think about myself. I couldn't contact my family; they didn't have phones back yet. I was so worried about them.

Najah had her first born daughter two years later. She is now a mother of three and a grandmother of one. For as long as I’ve known her, she has always been driven to learn. Reading books has helped remedy her lack of education but she still held a desire for more. She signed up for various courses to take at adult schools and local colleges but she was always limited to certain classes because she didn't have a high school degree. She decided to go to school part time to work towards one. This last December, at 53 years old she received her GED certification that gave her the equivalent of a high school degree.

I would like to do what I want to do. I wanted to have a choice on what to do for work. Every time I filled out a job application I hated that I couldn’t put anything in the education section. Now, I get to fill it out. It feels so good. I don’t know exactly what I want to do but at least if you START with somethings it leads you to something else.

Najah has by far been the most inspirational woman in my life. I have never met a more loving and selfless human being. Her life began with a huge disadvantage, but the chapters that she creates today have evolved greatly from the chapters from which she started. George Eliot wrote, “It is never to late to be what you might have been.” Najah is a living example of that. She lives nothing short of the meaning of her name. I have never called her Najah though; for me, she has only gone by Mom.

The exact date of this photo is uncertain but the estimates I received was somewhere between 1970-1975. My mom is the tallest girl with long hair. This photo is a true gem because it is one of very few that remain to give me a glimpse into my mothers childhood.