Success

Live well, laugh often, love much


Memory is a funny thing, in the sense that a seemingly irrelevant or unrelated trigger can spark off a chain of recollection. But what is even more peculiar about memory is the conclusion that this chain of recollection leaves you with; an imprint of the past to face the future. When I walked into the restaurant to meet the godson for brunch yesterday, I could hear him shouting and waving to me, "Papapaaa Papaapaaa!" which is his equivalent of Godpa, as I have since learned that the guttural "g" is difficult to articulate (for now). This sight (and sound to be specific) reminded me of a pharse "Live Well, Laugh Often, Love Much" that I saw in a Sydney cafe a couple of weeks back. As there was WiFi available in that cafe, I Googled the phrase and was pleasantly surprised to find out that it is a line from a poem entitled "Success".  The poem is written very much in the same vein as Rudyard Kipling's "If" being prescriptive and setting out, commandment style, the author's definition of Success.  This started me thinking about the meaning of Success. But being on holiday (and due to the arrival of the food which was awesome), such thinking didn't last very long and was shelved until Arbite's second anniversary celebrations last night. Sitting here now, after having led you through a whole irrelevant chunk of words, I have come to the conclusion that I now have a better understanding of Success. And in a way, Arbite's 2nd anniversary celebration was a little celebration of this new perspective. I have in the past two years, through Arbite, Etienne and a myriad of experiences learned a tremendous amount about how Success should be defined. I have learned that Success is not about how high up the corporate ladder I climb nor is it about what I do for a living or what I have. It is instead, very much about who I am to the people around me and to those that mean the world to me; Do I feel like I have made them Lived Well, Laughed Often and Loved Much? It is not about the titles that I add to my name or memberships in professional bodies. It is about earning the title of good husband,  good father and being an active member of the most unprofessional body, the family unit. It is about trying to make a difference in this world that we live in, even if that difference is only on a personal level.  It has taken me two long years to reach an understanding or to get this glimpse of what Success truly means. Now, I have the rest of my life to achieve it.  


    

Artefact

Memento Mori
 

"Its that Proustian idea of the power of objects to evoke a memory," he says. "Like when you find an old cinema ticket in a coat pocket. In a flash you remember the film, who you went with, what kind of a day it was."

Sun

Sydney harbor bridge, morning. 

Our cities have become so bright that we can no longer see the stars at night; an image of the problems caused by our version of enlightenment. When it comes to the material, our knowledge and technical accomplishments are unsurpassed. But beyond this, we can no longer identify right and wrong, light and dark, the question of good and its absence. 

Stars

And the lights like stars

If the stars were mine
I'd give them all to you
I'd pluck them down right from the sky
And leave it only blue

Riddled

Only the dead have seen the end of war.

Riddled with bullet holes and artillery craters, the remains of the former Holiday Inn Beirut stands as a reminder of the devastation of war. War destroys in an instance, that which we have painstakingly built up over years; Buildings, infrastructure, society. War also claims lives. Not just that of those who have died in conflicts but also that of those who have survived. Life is never quite the same after. This year's Pulitzer prize for Feature Photography tells the story of Scott Ostrom, an Iraqi war veteran who suffers from PTSD and how he struggles with daily life. Finding peace to his personal war seems to be his goal, long after his fight in Iraq has drawn to a close. A fitting winner.

Freedom

From the rooftops.

This photo was taken in the Christian quarter of Damascus, near Bab Touma. I can still remember the sound of the streets as I walked down the winding alleys. In fact I can still very vividly remember the sights and sounds and even the smells of the places I visited across Syria. I remember the nights spent dining on the rooftop at Naranj, my favourite middle eastern restaurant. I think that is what travel does to you, it deposits a piece of every land that you visit deep within your soul. But the Syria of my memory is not the Syria that we know today, torn by fighting and broken ceasefires. It pains me to see a place I once knew torn up by artillery shells and stained with blood. Every single human being deserves to have a life free from oppression, freedom. I pray that freedom, the lasting kind, will one day flourish in Syria. And hopefully soon.