Inspiration
Articles to inspire authentic living on the topics of resilience, spirituality, and self-growth with touches of storytelling, depth, and humor.
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I love myself and other truths worth learning
One of my goals as a parent has always been to raise kids with healthy self-esteem. Our daughter Isa taught me that we can perfectly love ourselves and accept us with our greatest parts and our areas of improvements without arrogance. When she was four-years-old I found her in front of the mirror looking at herself and saying "I love myself, I love myself.." It was not an affirmation, but rather a casual comment of someone who holds a truth between her hands. That was an enlightening moment for me that made me reflect on my own self-esteem.
Thirteen years later, I found her four-year-old bother, Leo, playing with his toy cars. He was recreating imaginary conversations between the three cars he had in his hands when I heard him say, "I am very smart and I am very good at drawing."
As parents we are bound to make tons of mistakes. It is unavoidable. Today, however, I realized the self esteem lesson is coming across clearly. Or maybe it is the fact that they are both Leos (like in the zodiac sign). Who knows?
Winter Wonderland and tears of pride
An ice storm. Icicles forming at the tip of tree branches and trunks and leaves perfectly covered in frozen water. After all the rain yesterday, the sun came out today and filtered through the ice. What a spectacle!
Maybe as an act of irony or synchronicity, this morning I attended a concert by elementary students at my son’s school that was titled “Winter Wonderland”. We have decorated the stage with gigantic snowflakes and branches covered in fake snow. The kids performed beautifully and although my son did not sang I still cried throughout the whole concert, but I always do, to be honest.
I pictured my son performing there in a couple of years and I felt my eyes watering up just thinking about it. Excuse me if I sound melodramatic but the idea of seeing him grow is quite exciting. The thing is that I want him to grow and at the same time, I don’t. I have come to realize how fast time flies.
What do you want to be when you grow up?
What do you want to be when you grow up? I have to admit I always enjoyed that question. The thing is that I was a weird kid. I just knew from a very young age what I wanted to be. Since I was 4, I would always have an adult ask me “so, what do you want to be when you grow up?” and I would say in my serious 4 going-on-forty’s voice “I want to be a painter and a writer” And they would say “You are cute. Do you mean like a teacher, or a mom, an astronaut. “No, I want to be a painter and a writer.”
I knew it in my heart, the same way I also knew that there are things I really, really wanted but they were not in my destiny. Like ballet, for example.
Today I was driving when a memory hit me like lighting. I was probably a sophomore or junior in college and as every Sunday we stayed for hours at the dining table talking about our weeks, our lives, our dreams. At that moment I was expressing my life plan: what I was going to study, where, timing to reach my goals, how I was going to make a living, what I was going to do in order to sustain my creative endeavors, etc. I had such a determined plan and I was proud of myself, I felt I was on a roll.
Ripping the bandaid
A beautiful day after school. A playdate was scheduled with one of my son’s friends. We go to a park where they are giggling, using every inch of the playground. The kids decided to hold hands and go running on the unpaved path, until my son fell on the floor and scratched his hands, one arm and the torso.
His insides were not visible, there was no gushing blood, but by the level of his whimpering someone could guess we were dealing with an almost lethal wound. We put water, we hugged him and he was unconsolable. Among his tears, there was only one word he mumbled: bandaid
We are at the stage of development when bandaids hold their most magical power. The tiniest scratches get better by just covering the wound with one of them. And if they have a special design, more than one would be needed - thank you marketers!. Sometimes, I am sure I am not the only one, I even offer a bandaid as a consolation price.
Snoozing problems away
There have been three moments in my life where I have seen this deviation tactic used with such skillful talent. In two out of the three occasions the story did not have a happy ending.
The first time was more than two decades ago. We were riding on a overnight train from Salzburg to Florence. My husband and I were on a cabin by our own when suddenly, after a stop in Venice, a large group of gigantic prostitutes got on with their wigs bleached, their spandex micro-skirts. Three of those enter our cabin and sit near the door. “Dormi, signorina,” the leader of the pack kept telling me while they held the door close. Suddenly, the carabinieri came in and the three women pretend to be asleep. The policeman had no patience and kept telling them that pretending to be asleep was not going to work. After a few moment when we hardly breathed, the three women stood up and ran out of the cabin. The policeman entered the following cabin where the same plot was reenacted, but at that time, the three prostitutes stood up and surrounded the carabinieriwith their 6fttall bodies and started punching him. Reinforcements were there a minute later and the train suddenly stopped in the middle of nowhere, where we saw a group of at least twenty women of the night being kicked off among shouts and a ton of bad Italian swears.
What my favorite knight taught me about sand castles
The joys of summer! The sun, the warmth, the lazy days, the sound of the waves, your feet in the sand, a good book on your lap. This is accurate as long as you don’t have a small child with you. In that case, the book never makes it out of your beach bag, the sound of the waves get filtered and you don’t only have your feet in the sand, but part of your body while you are digging for shells and rocks.
I am sure there is a saying out there that mentions that "once an artist, always an artist.” So when I am trying to suck up the beauty of summer at the beach with my youngest child, the artist in me takes over. I delight on the colors and the shape of the waves, I feel the air on my face and the roughness of the sand on my skin. I also feel the itch to do something with my hands; that irresistible and unavoidable call to create. First I want to sketch but I know my son’s idea of fun does not include that. Then I start seeing the pendants that I could make out of shells, but practicality takes over and I abandon the idea soon after. However, there is an activity that satisfies my creativity appetite, helps me build memories with my boy and gives us both hours -who I am kidding? minutes- of entertainment. Let me introduce you to the ancient art of building sand castles.
Of Kryptonite and Super Powers
I had never been into super heroes. In fact, I despise them. I don’t like the idea of a character who is invincible. Call it Spider Man, Batman, Jack Bauer, Jason Borne or Jon Snow, if they survive the unsurvivable many times in a row I loose interest on them (well, not in Jon Snow, but that is the exception). Of course, as life loves to play tricks on us and gives of us a double dose of of whatever we despise, I was blessed with a baby boy who loves super heroes. At three and a half he is obsessed with them. One day he is a super hero, next one he is the bad guy.
I like my character with flaws. The good ones have a dark side, the bad ones never learned to deal with pain. And regardless of the side they identify most with, they will sometimes fail, many time they will succeed. Life is not a string of constant achievements because everyone eventually falls down, a few steps down, a whole wall or into the darkest abyss.
About honesty and pain and watching angels sleep
A few weeks ago I was having a conversation with a friend about how sometimes people choose not to tell truths to their loved ones because they are afraid of hurting them. For some reason, some words came through me and I expelled them without filter. The weight of them did not hit me until later. At that moment I told her: “We all have a different level of tolerance for the truth.”
That sank in me….deep.
Yesterday, I stayed a few seconds observing my three-year-old son while he was still asleep. That peaceful face, his cute lips, the way he puts his hands as if he was praying, the glow of innocence. My heart swelled while I rejoiced in the moment, thinking how much I love him and how I want to protect him from pain for the rest of his life. I did the same thing with my daughters too when they were younger but now they had grown and if they find me looking at them while they are sleeping they would probably scream, “moooom, creepy!” So I don’t do it anymore. However that desire to protect them has not evaporated. They have had their shares of pain, and for the most part, I had been completely unable to shield their hearts.
My unbalanced happiness
"Balance is a weapon women use against themselves. All it does is to make us feel bad we have not gotten it yet." Elizabeth Gilbert