Working from home, especially post-lockdown, has blurred the lines between Monday and Thursday. Tasked to come up with a productivity pitfalls article, I feel compelled to take a serious look in the mirror. And the cupboard.
Caffeinated kitchen, Check.
MCT Oil and superfoods for a quick 2 pm. pick-me-up — Check.
Enough wine to look forward to at wine o’clock organised by levels of alcohol from 10 to 14% — Check.
Today is a fantastic day. Tomorrow will be, as well, since it will be a day that isn’t today; and yet another day for us all to experience new challenges and find ways to make others happy.
Grief is an uncouth animal. It springs out of nowhere with neither invitation nor provocation. This is something I said almost a year ago today. It had become such an unwelcome persistent entity from the day of your accident that I imagined it being a duck-billed platypus: Grief, an evolutionary error. An accidental pet.
But then there is wine. With it, both highs…
There is literally no one I know other than you who can make writer's block so interesting to read about. Ironically, I may even write about it now. Thanks!
A million years ago or thereabouts — I was a power lifter.
Once upon a time, for a few years: I was a power lifter. I competed, even. This was way before my three children were born, but as such I’ve always been attracted to stories about strength. Alicia attracted me because of how she turned her personal challenges around enough to become the beautifully strong woman she is today.
It’s a far more interesting story than why I bench pressed my body weight a million years ago
In the beginning, when I got that phone call no one in the world should ever get…that 5 am call from my son telling me that his brother had been in an accident and that they, The Mossos, or an ambulance; ‘The Unnamed They’ took him away…I remember thinking: “Well then he’ll be fine. The body heals.” I didn’t pray, nor ask some divine deity for a favor. I just believed he was going to be fine.
Waiting for that call, the next call, was an agonizingly long pause. Flashes of the roads not taken, my parents’ Asian house with…
Legend has it that in a Paris restaurant in 1923, Ernest Hemingway’s friends challenged the writer to craft a story in just six words. The novelist responded with:
“For Sale: baby shoes, never worn.”
I’ve come across this Hemingway story many times throughout my life, but this time I cite it in the context of my grief story:
It has taken me forever to write those words, despite the fact that words come to me fairly easily. After he passed, I couldn’t talk on the phone. I couldn’t write nor send emojis for weeks, not sure why. Maybe I just…
This is a story for a Grief Playbook that doesn’t exist…because each story is different, as is every day that I navigate a sea of emotions and numbness that come at me in waves.
Grief is an uncouth animal. It springs out of nowhere with neither invitation nor provocation.
On the first day that felt like at least a week, when we discovered my son had been in an accident and didn’t make it, that we lost him…It was raining non-stop for 4 days. Fairly unusual for April in Barcelona. I could not figure out if I was cold or…
There’s another sickness that has spread across the planet even more quickly than the coronavirus has. It unfortunately will possibly continue to be around for a long time in the future, as well…
It’s a disease of the mind, but it can also affect the heart, nervous system, and every part of the body.
The illness I’m talking about is fear.
Fear is a perfectly natural response to the current situation. In fact, I would be worried about you if you weren’t experiencing any fear at all.
Here’s the thing:
Every mother in the world occasionally feels utterly cursed. If you’re a mother, you know. If you’re not a mother, you don’t know. Don’t argue with me.
I’m not even talking about the bearing phase…that period of rent-free human occupation in your belly — while compromising your diaphragm, bladder and general gung-ho, sparky go-get-’em attitude in life. Aforementioned personal pre-mama ‘spark’ perhaps dulled — in part — by lack of sleep and the self-imposed abstinence from alcohol and copious amounts of coffee. …
It was a perpetual coin toss between Autumn and Spring every year. Which season would give me more long-lasting happiness — unperturbed by the seasonal change from freezing to warm; or from scalding hot to temperate? Spring meant the end of stifling snow boots. Autumn meant the beginning of Big Idea Season. It meant walking in the Japanese Garden a few minutes from the family home. The trees won eventually. The tapestry made by leaves of every single vivid and muted shade of red, orange, brown, ochre and yellow in the Faber Castell colored pencil palette won me over.