Bake Your Own Damn Cookies

To Adriana, my LBs Rob and Alex, and all the underdogs. Thank you for the inspiration. 

Imagine a vast and well-gated community. Its interior inhabited by millions of people. Bounded not by the grandeur of Roman pillars, but by concrete walls composed of Suffering and Doubt. Ambition rarely penetrates here. Motivation is more fleeting than wisps of cigarette smoke. Casts of grey clouds hover above the neighborhoods below where every Monday and Friday are garbage day. Being driven is a social stigma because the best view is believed to be in hindsight. Peeking at the mountainous terrain as it fills up the rear-view mirror, it is realized they are merely landfills of tossed dreams surrounding the community. Every inhabitant speaks tongues of past-tense verbiage and pretends to be of assistance. The neighbors across the street are more artificial than breasts in Miami and the ingredients of the store-bought cookies you ate last week combined. If anything, sulking is free. Pressing the snooze button on your alarm clock is common societal practice. Best of all, there is no pain to be felt or inflicted. Broken hearts and failures need not apply.

Welcome to the cookie cutter life, a life not of your own command. A life pre-determined for those who choose to play it safe and not become who they desire to be. Where snoozing is not losing. Maybe you know a resident or two. Although home in the cookie cutter life is far from permanent, the majority voluntarily stay behind.

The kitchen was my Holy Mecca, my Taj Mahal...my place of absolute comfort. The smell of sautéing garlic and onions, a favorite aroma, brings forth memories of Saturday mornings when my parents would cook for the family gathering to take place later in the afternoon. From the moment I could use my parents' kitchen stove, I would hone in my would-be chef skills. The Food Network was the bible and I listened intently to the prophets: Emeril, Alton Brown, and Ming Tsai just to a name a few. You would think my life was destined to be in the kitchen, but obviously it never unraveled that way. In my early to mid-twenties, I was scared. Very scared. My peers were off and running. Some transplanted themselves to other states and countries, some were already 1-2 years deep into their careers, and others seemed so sure of what they wanted out of life. Me? I had an idea. A slight fuzzy idea, perhaps. Yet there I was, without an ounce of courage to step out of my comfort zone and pursue it. I often wasted time, day-dreaming and wondering, how they did it. 

What traits do they possess? 
What "it-factor" do they have? 

And guess what. I realized there is no damn formula. There is nothing characteristically different from me to them. What separates the successful from the unsuccessful is fear. Yada yada. Cliché, I get it. Fear is always self-inflicted, but where does it really stem from because life is good until someone or something hurts you. It is pain. Thus, the natural tendency to avoid pain frequently occurs within us at all costs. Whether it be avoiding heartbreak in a relationship because of a previous experience or knowing not to pet the neighborhood porcupine again. Fear of pain is a paralyzing instinct. It vice grips our potential like when "Shaquille holds a pill". It is those who choose to fight through pain that become the most successful, regardless of the outcome. I think I realized this when looking back to an encounter with an advisor during my reckless days at UCF. She had told me to pick another major and that I had not a fighting chance of getting accepted into professional school. Oh, what Mike Tyson-esque haymakers to my ego those words were. I had never been so butt-hurt. I walked out of that office entrenched in embarrassment and completely discouraged. To be fair on her advising duties, my grades were shittier than taco bell toilets at 2am. What a feeling it was. Felt it right down to my core. For the next few years, I found myself unsure of what I wanted to do. Cowering back to my comfort zone was the safest and least painful route I knew to take. My dreams were tossed, temporarily, to the side. 

Pain is a good thing sometimes. Pain brings you down to Earth. Pain reminds that you are human and can teach you many things. Most importantly, pain is not meant to last. I remember my first burn in the kitchen. Or the first time slicing a finger. Did that stop me from finessing the kitchen? Hell no. Much like sprained ankles to an athlete, these things are simply inevitable. If you are true to the game, these should never stop you. Fear should never stop you. January 2014 was the time I decided that I was no longer going to be bounded by fear...fear of failure, fear of hearing what I did not want to hear, fear of being hurt. Best. Decision. Period.

Today, I am literally living out my wildest dreams. Chicago? Optometry school? I could not have fathomed this to be remotely possible if you were to ask me where I would be right after that dreadful encounter with the advisor.  I am in a major city, pursuing to become the first doctor in my family, and living down a few blocks from my niece. The cookie cutter life seemed like a sweet deal before, but a facade it truly was. The once insurmountable walls of Sorrow and Doubt can crumble down when you become aware, alert, and conscious of the undeniable fact that Fear and Pain are products of your imagination. So, wake up! ⏰

Clean out your baking pans.

Dust off your whisks.

Measure out your flour, eggs, butter, and sugar.

And turn up the heat.

It's like the old saying, "You are what you eat". If you know exactly what’s being put in, then you will know exactly the result. Why live in fear when you can live out your wildest dreams instead? Food always tastes better when you make it yourself. Fuck fear. Fuck the cookie cutter life and bake your own damn cookies! 🍪

In thy words of Big Sean: "One time for all my n****s that dreamed it then real-lifed it" 

Something Out of Nothing

"What are you made of?, says the man I face. Every morning, I am asked the same question. At first, I'd brush him off, but the longer I stayed silent the more unrelenting his bullying would become. Sometimes, I would much rather give up my wallet or run my pockets empty...just something and anything to avoid his oppressive and sickle taunts. It's like being trapped into a suffocating corner of a boxing ring. Haymakers finding their way between the integrity of my defense, I've grown tired and my fists have lost their grip. The more noticeable my collapse, the bigger the ridicule. What am I to do? What am I to say to my own damn reflection? 

I've always heard of the expression that the journey towards self-discovery is one of the most arduous of tasks, yet a journey we must all take within some point of our lives. Through many trials and tribulations (how cliche to say, right?), I still find myself discouraged and question why it hasn't been my time. Seems like I made myself believe this "tada" moment was an overnight process. It is so easy to seek instantly gratifying moments to justify the present tense versus harnessing down for the long haul and facing the ugly nasty truth, which entails knowing who you are.

Okay Socrates, what the hell does that mean? Well to start, take away Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, and any other social medium in which we are allowed to selectively portray ourselves to the public. I mean if people were to strip you down of the fabricated denim of a story you've continued to tell yourself and the world, what would they really see? Is what you say congruent with who you truly are? Do you know who you are and does what you do correctly define your character, your qualities,your motivation, your moral and ethical positions? What are your distractions? Which type of people do you need to avoid? What kind of life do you dream of living and how are you going to get there?

What do you love?
Who do you love?

These are the tough questions, merely a fraction, of what we must all ask ourselves at some point. No more mommy and daddy. Whatever it is that you got to do, I hope you have the strength to answer them. I am still on my journey. Knee deep in this water and still looking to sail. It seems as if it has only begun. I can't complain. I shouldn't complain. I have a roof on my head, a car that gets me from point A to point B, and support I can't ever pay back in this lifetime and the next.

I guess it is my turn to answer these questions. Time to really practice what I preach. I would like to thank the people who still lookout for my success. You have my greatest respect for you all share the one common trait that so happens to be themed within this blog. And that is knowing who you are because knowing thyself is indeed true success. Maybe we are meant to take a few steps back in life only to find out that the journey within will actually move us farther than we can imagine. The fruition of a dream or goal is merely a bonus. Tomorrow morning, when the man I face in the mirror asks what am I made of again, I will laugh because the inner nerd will answer like this: I am made up of atoms. At the center, a nucleus consisting of protons and neutrons. Some distance away are the electrons who are merely floating specs of fluff with the power of determining the physical and bonding characteristics of all that exists. In essence, the atom is made up of entirely...nothing. It is incredible to think that we are capable of doing things above and beyond our imagination. We've built the pyramids. We've landed on the moon. We can love and we can destroy. We are Nelson Mandela. We are Bruce Lee. We are Pope John Paul II. We are 2pac. We are Mother Theresa. 

We are Worth a Wrist...showing you that obstacles are self-manifested. Our only adversary is the person who you reflect. Therefore, stop beating yourself up for things that haven't happened yet. It's a process and our time will come. We are only human, but even humans are capable of making something out nothing...literally. 

Do the dance with me
One step back
Two steps forward
Don't call it a comeback

Keep it sailing,
Jeff

Legacy

                                                                              

There is a difference between good and great. To some they are indistinguishable, but it is not a matter of comparing two things. Just ask around. Matter of fact, you wouldn't have to say a word. Just observe, listen, and see the difference.

GREAT is built to last.

And great legacies are timeless, permanently woven into the fabric of our memories. I write this in dedication to the four gentlemen of Sigma Beta Rho who had lost their lives yesterday due to an accident. I may have never known them personally, but the way the Greek community and the people who were devastated by such news have come together is a true testament to the great legacies of those four young men.

I am also reminded of the passing of Anwar, a member of the Iota Rho Chapter of Phi Beta Sigma. I never was close with him. We maybe spoke a handful of times at Greek events on campus and shared a session or two during socials. Then out of nowhere...he passed. I think it's crazy how much it affected me back then. Just a couple of weeks prior, we were just kicking it at a F.I.R.M. social and shooting the shit. I remember attending his candlelight vigil at the Reflection Pond and witnessing the bond, the tears, and pure love coming from his fraternity brothers, sorority sisters, friends, and family who were there to speak on his behalf. I stood there silent, listening intently, humbled by what I saw, and called my parents right after.

Growing up, expressing emotion was not a daily characteristic of my family. There was no "go get em' champ!" or pats on the back or lubby dubby moments. Maybe it was pride that hid the affection or fear itself that did not allow us to step out of line. It wasn't until the death of my grandfather in 2004 that I saw my family open up for the first time. It took a while to comprehend what I was finally witnessing. People who I thought were unwavering in the face of pain simply opened up and let their emotions flow. In a weird sense, our family dynamic changed. For the better of course. I believe my grandfather's death brought our family closer and allowed ourselves to open up a little more about the things that truly mattered. Simple things like "I love you" and "have a good day" were said a little more. Family gatherings on Sunday became a little more frequent. It is 2014. Ten years since his passing and so much has changed. His grandchildren have grown. Some moved out of state and most still here trying to make something of themselves. I last visited his grave three weeks ago. Spoke to him about my plans for the future and asked that he continue to guide his grandchildren. I hope he was listening. I have sent millions of prayers before. I am hoping he heard that one. 

The passing of this life is guaranteed for all of us. The pain of absence is inevitable, the divine work of God is out of our control, but legacies are always in the palm of our hands. The impact on people that we will have left behind in this physical world will indeed be our own true testament. Their actions and sense of community will be our trophy. A new era will come of age. No words need to be said. So for as long as we have the opportunity to breathe and help one another...

Just listen, observe, DO what is right...while you can and when you can.

Simply doing Good is never enough though because Greatness is always within us.

-Jeff

Perched On A Shoulder

                                                        

Every Friday morning, I spend 3 to 4 hours volunteering at a vision rehabilitation center located in downtown Fort Lauderdale. People who are blind or visually impaired constitute the bulk of their clients and surprisingly, a good portion of their staff as well. Although most of the time I help as a receptionist clerk at the front desk, I have had the pleasure of meeting some of the happiest people I've seen in a very long time. It's quite the experience during every conversation. The fact that they cannot see allows them to describe memories, people, and past events in a very charismatic way. Their storytelling is artistic and almost theatrical in nature. I can almost vividly see the roadtrips they describe, the places they've traveled to, the person who they fell in love with, their ideas of a sci-fi future world, their mistakes, regrets, and advice...all painted on a mental canvas as if Da Vinci's soul had given them sight.

Then there is Mr. Raspberry, a former preacher who became blind three years ago. Usually, you can find him here bright and early, sometimes two to three hours before an event. If he is not snoring away on the white couch across the front desk, he is sure to tell another story. The rehabilitation center is located on Sistrunk next to the railroad tracks. When a train came roaring through this past Friday morning, I mentioned to him how I used to love seeing them pass by as a child.

Boom. He wakes up and not to my surprise, he begins another story...

"Back in 82', I had the opportunity of taking a train across the country. We started in New York and headed west along the great continental divide. We went to Washington State, California, Oklahoma, Wyoming, and circled all the way back to New York...The most beautiful places were Oklahoma, Texas, and Wyoming. You can see the mountains, hills, and deserts...absolutely beautiful...absolutely serene...I went by myself. Though I'm sure it would have been more fun with a group, exploring by yourself is a totally different experience. We stopped in every major city, partied downtown, went back to the train and knocked out. The best thing was that when you wake up, you're already in route to a different city...it was a two month trip and it only cost me $989.00...easily one the best things I ever did in my life...glad I did it while I still had sight."

After about 20 minutes, he realizes the Book Club Meeting, the event he originally came here for, had already started. He gets up and slowly walks his way towards the dining room, hands reaching for the wall for guidance.

It amazes me every time. This place. These people. You'd think that it would be a pity party 24/7, but it is quite the opposite.  It's been a real humbling experience.  Most of society, including myself, have placed an unfair stigma on blind folks. The stigma that people with a walking stick are sad, helpless, and a burden to the rest of us.  In actuality, these people have learned to persevere.  They are the proud product of what this rehabilitation center strives to do throughout the community. They are independent and a family to each other. Most importantly, they are happy and in fact, happier than most people I know with sight.  Mr. Raspberry is just one story amongst the many I have heard and have yet to hear.  I'm fortunate to who have encountered this organization as it is simply more justification on why I am pursuing the ultimate goal. The greatest lesson to be learned here is that happiness is a choice, a choice made against the persuasion of circumstance.  Sight is a strength in the majority of cases, but in many ways a weakness here at the rehab center. You learn to live with more when you are without. And when you are without, not even sight, not hearing, and not touch can help you reach your promise land.  It is a personal journey where only hearts sing a motivational tune and your mind be the opera house. About a month ago, there was a box of donated books sitting under the front desk. I picked one up and read the first 23 pages.

I'll leave you with a paragraph that has stuck with me since:

"Happiness is a butterfly-the more you chase it, the more it flies away from you and hides.  But stop chasing it, put away your net and busy yourself with other, more productive things than the pursuit of personal happiness, and it will sneak up on you from behind and perch on your shoulder." 

God bless, good health, good style
Life is always free...with a smile :)

-Jeff Villena

 

Man In the Mirror

You see...me and you are cut from different fabric. Frankly, you ain't shit. If our lives were to be the NBA, the only thing we'd have in common would be the fact we play the same sport. We shoot at different baskets. My aim is different. Your aim is missing. Bring your A game,player, because if you don't, someone else will. You think you're the only motherfucker with problems? Struggle sees no skin color, creed, location, or whatever god you believe in. Hustle rewards those who endure. There are 7.7 billion people on this earth with more heart and fight to get what's theirs. You still ain't doing nothing except breathing and supplying carbon dioxide to plants and trees who are probably working harder than you. And them niggas don't even move. You're kind of like that equation in freshmen physics: U = mgh. You're nothing, but POTENTIAL ENERGY. You're at the top baby. The higher you are, the more potential to convert yourself to KINETIC ENERGY, right? You studied that shit. Get it moving. So why are you hesitating? Oh you're back hurts?  I thought you pledged homie.

"Excuses are tools of the incompetent, based upon mountains of nothingness. Those who use them rarely succeed and DIE."

Listen, you're in your twenties. They say this is the most crucial time of your life. Unfortunately, there are those who prioritize buying expensive ass clothes and the hottest shoes. You keep it simple.  There are those who are willing to memorize the date of a Jordan release, but can't remember the last thing they learned in school. You, my friend, think different. You see shit differently. You want more because there is a world beyond your doormat. You want more because you haven't made it yet. I mean, you haven't TRULY made it yet. Be the man when you are legit. There's no time for BS. No time to mingle with a mami's heart just yet. Save your mind, your heart, and your soul elsewhere.

You know that feeling when you see your peers have made it and you're not there with them? Remember that and let it burn inside. No more excuses man. What are you scared for?

GO AND GET YOURS!

*turns away from mirror*

Invisible For A Reason

 Invisible For A Reason

I guess it’s something like a guardian angel.  I believe someone is always looking out for you in places or people you least expect. And when from those who you least expect…oh the joy within the element of surprise, ay?

Long ago, I used to believe in destiny, fate, or whatever romanticism you call it.  But like the transformation of food to brown matter, shit happens. Whether it is through heart break, failure, or health issues, as you and I know, events like these change us.  Or at least, that’s the goal. For me, my outlook on life grew tainted a bit.  I lost most of my faith.  I felt that I was on my own. So I did shit on my own. It may have worked for several years, but I found myself in a deeper hole again.  When nothing worked, it was as if some invisible force allowed me to kneel and pray.  Foreign as this gesture may be, it was the first time in a long time that I knelt, prayed, and meant it. Now I’m not here to get all spiritual with you or tackle religion, but since that day, things slowly, but surely got better.

More recently, I’ve been witnessed to my own answered prayers, but more importantly to the success of close friends, fraternity brothers, and people that I care about.  It’s crazy how it all just “works out.”  Like I said earlier, I used to believe in destiny, fate, or what have you.  To me, it was all just a chain of well executed events. Deep down inside, I knew it was something more. Now more than ever, I’m starting to believe again. Maybe we all do have guardian angels that listen to prayers.  And maybe these angels do deliver them carefully to the heavens. We may not see whoever is up there. We may not see who our guardian angel is. But that’s the whole point I guess…to take that leap of faith…to believe that these chains of well executed events were indeed orchestrated by an invisible God-like symphony. You never know in what form of motivation or answered prayer that “thing” you’ve needed to hear just might be in. Just believe.

It’s an uphill climb.

No need to look back because I’m climbing right with you.

-Jeff

Detours & Knowledge

  

Last night

The moment we walked into this Pakistani / Indian restaurant, our skepticism grew. The vibe was somewhere between a hole in the wall joint and a moms & pops store. The pink and red paint started to fade on the wall. The floor could use a scrubbing session. On the brink of leaving, we were lured back in with the sight of a family, a beautiful family at that. If they're eating here, then there must be an ounce of goodness left somewhere hidden within the uncertainty of our doubts. We ordered. "It'll take 10-15mins.", said the cashier who also happened to be the chef. Upon the wait, a light skinned thick Bahamian woman walked towards us and offered a basket of what seemed to be the Pakistani/Indian version of tortilla chips.

Peppery and spicy.

After a few minutes of awkward silence, my pops began to small talk with her. She had blue eyes, which caught me off guard. Very alluring I must say. She spoke perfect English with a slight hint of her Caribbean ancestry. She opens up. Within the next few minutes, I learned that she is thirty-four years old with a fifteen year old son who aspires to be a doctor. Apparently, she comes from a very athletic family, as she bragged on and on about her supposed family members currently in the NFL, NBA, & MLB.  Just when I was about to mute her from my listening process, she goes, "Oh and I love to write poetry." And just like that, my attention was grabbed.  I asked if she does spoken word.

She said yes.

I said word.  

I shot my head up in passive excitement & asked her to recite something. The shyness of her tone was quickly overrun by a confidence that blossomed the deeper she terrained through her poem.

It was about love.

It was about growing old.

It was about sacrifice.

Maybe it was those damn blue angelic eyes that entrapped me in a daze. Or it could’ve been the content of her art. Or the genuine vibe I felt after she finished, kind of like a good after taste.  I felt bewitched. Locked in. Asked her how long she had been writing, she replied, “2 years.”  It was then that I learned 2 years ago she was involved in an automobile accident that left her disabled. She couldn't finish college because she was no longer able to concentrate on school work due to her altered neuronal and muscular function capabilities.  Eventually, I leaned in a little closer and almost to the edge of my seat. She states, “When I was in the hospital, I asked the nurses everyday for a pen and piece of paper to write on. That's all I ever did there. I wrote poetry. Now, I can't stop writing because since my mind is messed up, I write from the heart and never encountered writers block. If you think too much, you'll get stuck. Just do."  I was immediately taken back by that. Overcome by a revelation of sorts from such a simple statement.  She continued a little more with her story before the food finally came out. As we were paying, she bid us a quick farewell and walked back into the kitchen. I learned that she is a waitress at the restaurant. A waitress not by choice, but by circumstance. We leave and realize that we never asked for her name.

It doesn't matter and it never will. 

I write this because I was so inspired by her story even with the short duration of our encounter.  Within ten minutes, her story spoke eons. It was a story of a woman who discovers a gift amidst of the traumatic nature of an accident, a mother of an aspiring teenager, a warrior who is still battling her way up to happiness, and an artist who paints a better picture for herself through heart and not the mind.  My world had expanded exponentially.

More enlightened.

More humbled.  

See ten minutes prior, we were starving, on the road and our hunger pains grew stronger at the sight of the restaurant. Hesitant to deviate from the original plan of going to Doris Market to buy food, we felt the urge to try something new. Ten minutes later, we were satisfied. If we didn't take this detour, we'd remain hungry. Not for the beef kabobs and warm naan, but for the mental nourishment we just received. I pray for this waitress and may she continue to bless the world with her poetry.  After all, we did find more than an ounce of goodness.  The food was good too.

Take a detour, listen to a new song.

You might learn something from the start.

When life trifles with your mind, you know to speak from the heart.

And if you speak from the heart, you can never go wrong...

-Jeff