World Cup Infatuation

Brace yourself: The World Cup is here.

While I'm not a soccer fan, during the month-long World Cup, I hatch into a full-blown soccer fanatic. There is something about sports that connect us to the world at large. We come together to show our support, to stand by our team as they score the winning goal or lower their heads in defeat. For the duration of the match, the world holds it breath and crosses its fingers as players on the field battle to claim ownership of the ball. I can't help but smile.

The world is brought together, one soccer match at a time. The best part of the World Cup is not the ridiculously handsome players or the rowdy but good-natured crowd. The best part is the simple joy it gives us. While soccer may not explain the confounding mechanisms of the universe, it makes the world a slightly happier place. As the excited roar of the crowd gains momentum, I know the world will tune in to watch the soccer battle unfold. Different cultures merge into one. Strangers greet strangers with open arms. They have been brought together for one reason: to experience the momentary joy of sports.

Nothing is more gratifying, or pleasing, than witnessing players shake hands with the opposing team. This moment solidifies the irrefutable truth that we are created equal. In the eyes of the universe, we are the same. In the eyes of soccer, we are the same. In the eyes of the spectators, we are the same. During these times of fever pitch, we overcome racism, all forms of intolerance, and individualism. And instead, we trust that teamwork will lead us to victory.

There are many ways to show our support, but the most important is to recognize that talent is a gem hidden in ordinary places. The youngest child of a cook and a municipal gardener is now the world's highest-paid soccer player. The child born and raised in a third world country reached the upper echelons of soccer. The boy whose abilities were questioned is now a professional player. We show our support, and patriotism, during the final match, when the winners finally are crowned, when fireworks drown out the clamor of the crowd. All we can do is smile.

There is more to the World Cup than a ball rolling across the field. The World Cup is the adhesive that for the ephemeral months of June and July glues the fragments of a world considered to be divisive. The World Cup gives us something to look forward to, something that will lift our crushed spirits and world-weary souls. It gives us excitement.

While I don't own a T-shirt featuring my favorite team, I do have enough lung capacity to scream at the screen. Whoa! Go Messi!

The Inside Room

We all have an inside room--the secret place where the soul is dismantled at its core, examined, and put together in a different form. My inside room is a dwelling of half-formed thoughts, soundless words, restless voices. It is a place so private, so sacred, that I dare not open the door. It is neither here nor there. It lays half on reality, half on fantasy. In my inside room there are no boundaries. All bets are off. Anything and everything can happen. Sometimes it stirs in me a feeling of premature nostalgia so profound that it brings tears to my eyes. Its walls are white. It is a creepily sterile room. It is furnished with words, words, and words. It understands, reassures, and validates. I'm safe inside. Safe, unharmed, vulnerable. I lay down the weapons I wield. I break down the walls standing between me and the Self. There are no walls. No obtrusion. No dam. Water flows freely, rapidly. It keeps me afloat. Heading everywhere and nowhere. Suspended between the promises of the present and the regrets of the past.

The inside room casts a white, blinding glow. It washes over the surface, drives out the darkness, purifies the psyche. Its glow white as snow, deadly as ice. The outline of words barely visible. Their transparency revealing their honesty. No walls stand before me. They've been taken down, disintegrated into debris.

The white room--the inside room--hums with energy. Unadulterated energy. Its aura strong enough to throw me against the wall. Strong enough to empower me. Strong enough to vanquish the fears lurking in the shadows.

The inside room is particularly restless. There is too much going on. There is not one moment of silence. Only noise. Head-throbbing noise. Voices whisper lies, rousing fear in me. They tell me I'm not good enough, will never be good enough. I know that is a lie. A cruel lie. 

But did I mention the inside room is squared into four smaller rooms? I didn't? Well, come closer and find out:

The first room contains Aspirations. What and who I will become are safely guarded in this room. The door is ajar, but I do not peek in. Inside there is an embryo. It nourishes on hard work and blood. With each accomplishment it grows. Soon, it will have evolved into a baby. This baby is the future. This baby is me, the what and who I will become. The baby, soon-to-be a toddler, doesn't cry; it falls and then gets up. 

Go down the hall, on your left, you will come across the second room: Imagination. I have made of this room a comfort zone. The surreal and romantic weave together, creating artwork and beauty which words cannot capture. Higher forces reside in this room. Call them Inspirations, Muses, God, Spirit Guides, Intuition--whatever you call them they connect me to something larger than myself. I am the piece of a puzzle once thought to be incomplete. I matter. 

Across Imagination there looms a black door. Fear. It deceives you, costumes itself up in fine clothes, traps you. Its smooth talk soon becomes menacing. Real smooth talker, fear is. O, but do not be fooled, for it wants to harm you, witness the destruction of your soul, consume the universe within. I try to stay away from this room, as far away as humanly possible. 

Next to Fear  stands a worn-out door. Splinters of wood jut out, paint peels off, scratches mark the surface. Greet Anxiety. Cold air sweeps over this room. Do not enter or else the monster of doom will latch onto you. You--the only living thing for miles around. In the event curiosity convinced you to ignore my warning, I suggest you laugh at the monster, ridicule him, pretend it's not real. I find it humorous. Two heads, a green and scaly body, clawed feet. Forked tongue. Smelly breath. A brain too small for a head too big. 

Anxiety is the mistress you try to hide but still manages to show up unexpectedly. She's cunning, beautiful, yet deadly. One single dose of her love and she will paralyze you, turn you to stone. She is a child of the night, an unclean spirit. When exposed to sunlight, she bursts into flames, crumbles into ashes. Oh, but she encapsulates the true meaning of immortality, for, no matter how many times you try to kill her, she can't die. She is a lion, scouring the streets in search of a new prey, sniffing the air for an unfamiliar scent. Beware. This room is off-limits.

The inside room abounds with surprises. I am curious and interested at what I will find next. All I can do is sit and wait out the suspense. This rich inner world is also perilous territory. The temptation to venture far is too great. And if you're not careful, you will lose your way.

The room closely resembles a circle, for it has neither a beginning nor an end. It can give great aesthetic pleasure, but it can too carry in the wind the particles of human imperfection. 

There is a star-strewn universe in us. Brilliant. Mind-blowing. Unique. But also dangerous. I feel safest when I step through to the blackness of this universe, this my inside room, home.

Open the door and brace yourself.