Luck is often misunderstood. It's not a random force, but rather the result of being ready to capitalize on unforeseen circumstances. I don't think some people are inherently luckier than others; it's about being proactive and positioning oneself for success.
In today’s digital age, smartphones may inadvertently contribute to a sense of misfortune. Constant exposure to an endless stream of distractions, such as cat videos, glamorous images, and divisive political content, can hinder our ability to focus on the world around us.
It’s astonishing how many people rely on technology to navigate, even for familiar routes. GPS systems have diminished our reliance on spatial memory, and smartphones further distract us from our surroundings.
In today's world, opportunities for genuine experiences are often overlooked. People miss the beauty of a sunset, the ambiance of a fine restaurant, or the charm of a cozy coffee shop. As a result, they turn to their phones to find virtual substitutes for real-life experiences.
Technology can also diminish something even more valuable: face-to-face conversations and the exchange of ideas.
We often discover the best ice cream shops through conversations with friends. Casual chats while driving can strengthen bonds and spark new ideas. These interactions can even lead to unexpected opportunities, like finding a business partner.
Our social networks are vast and interconnected. By talking to just five people a day, each of whom knows five others, we can potentially connect with 25 people. Imagine if each of those 25 people had a unique skill or expertise. If we encountered a problem, we could seek their advice and find a solution. We might call it luck to know such people, but I believe that is not luck. That's creating opportunity and leveraging that.
I first met Parviz when I was 20. A classmate of my father, who had expressed interest in my photography, introduced me to him. We connected over shared interests and continued to talk. He was skiing with his brother-in-law and Parviz at the time.
He was a fascinating person, very charming and intelligent. Despite our initial reservations, we quickly developed a strong rapport. In his early forties, he had spent most of his adult life in Europe, primarily in Italy and Germany. We agreed to meet again.
In subsequent meetings, Parviz introduced me to his protégé, Masoud Nezamshahidi. Almost six years later, Masoud and I started a design and construction business. He was the architect, and I was the civil engineer.
Parviz was an extraordinary individual. He graduated high school early and pursued architecture at the University of Tehran. After earning his master's degree, he continued his studies in city planning in Italy and Germany while simultaneously pursuing degrees in sociology as well as philosophy. He spent significant time in Rome, Venice, and Aachen. He also took courses in Paris before returning to Iran, where he began a degree in theology in Qom.
What truly set him apart was his love of reading. He was passionate about sociology, anthropology, religious studies, and, above all, irfan. This unique combination of skills and knowledge led to various academic positions at prestigious institutions, including the School of Art at Tehran University and UCLA.
Before the revolution, Tehran had a neighborhood similar to European red-light districts. While illegal and condemned by religious figures, women could work relatively freely there. However, they lacked adequate protection, healthcare, and were often targets of physical and psychological abuse. Due to cultural sensitivities and taboos, no one dared to address this issue.
Parviz took matters into his own hands and devised a comprehensive solution. He proposed revitalizing several city blocks with amenities that would protect the identity of sex workers and others in the area. This included private parking, secure facilities, clinics, numerous dining and drinking establishments, 24-hour security, secure financial transaction locations, and offices for appointments.
He designed a comprehensive plan, including detailed architectural and interior design plans for the entire complex. He blended modern design elements with traditional Iranian architecture, incorporating red brick and azure tile motifs.
After the revolution, he emigrated to Canada. When I first met him, he was visiting friends. He was no longer working as an architect but as a full-time teacher. He established his own school, focused on philosophy and irfan. People from diverse cultural backgrounds could attend the school and learn about Rumi and Shams.
He had published his first book of poetry and was working on several others. He was also occupied with the design and development of "Zavieh," a center he intended to donate to future generations.
When I was considering moving to Canada, I had many doubts. I called Parviz and asked him if my decision was right, given my circumstances. He simply replied, "For me, every day counts since I moved." I expressed my concern about finding a job and surviving, and he reassured me that larger cities offer more opportunities and less risk. He advised me that moving to smaller places could be riskier due to fewer job opportunities.
He was walking on a Paris sidewalk when he was struck by a tour bus with large side mirrors. The mirror, which extended slightly into the street, caused a minor but significant impact, throwing him to the ground and resulting in multiple fractures. He spent several months in the hospital recovering his strength before returning home to Vancouver. The combination of medication and limited mobility took a toll on his health, leading to digestive issues. Later, he suffered a heart attack but survived.
However, a combination of age and medication once again damaged his digestive system. Despite these health challenges, he continued to teach his classes.
We used to talk frequently, almost monthly, but our conversations abruptly stopped. I received an unintelligible text message on Telegram, involving a third person. I contacted that person and learned that Parviz had suffered a massive brain aneurysm and, tragically, lost most of his memory and physical mobility.
Years ago, he'd shown me a small poem, knowing I'd appreciate it, but hadn't shared it with me. A month after our last conversation, I received a digital copy of the same poem on Telegram. Then, he was gone.
I miss him.
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