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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Building memories, one song and one fire at a time
It might have been the melancholic tone of a snowy day by the fireplace with my three kids, quite a rarity these days that the older ones have tons of commitments, but while I was at the piano a thought hit me. I was thinking of songs to play and I remembered one that I really like but have not heard in years. I still remembered when I first was introduced to it by my dad. From all the memories I have of him, all the things we shared and all the things we didn’t, music was never at the top of my list. However today when I thought of that song so many of the songs and genres I learned about from him started cascading. From classical records, new age music, flamenco, ballads, opera and instrumental songs, his style was so varied and he loved his extensive music collection that everyone borrowed from. He challenged me to hear whatever was out of my comfort zone and learned from new musicians. I felt immense gratitude for the love for music he inspired in me and for all the memories we got to share even when it seems that we did not have that much time together between his demanding career, me leaving Venezuela young and he passing ten years after. But those sweet memories prevail in my heart.
Bleeding to life
A warm blanket over my shoulders could not dissipate the angst for waiting for a doctor that was taking forever to show up. A thousand things in my to-do list, my mind going in circles planning how was I going to make the best out of the little time I had left to address my responsibilities of the day. A nurse with apologetic eyes kept coming in and out of the cold room. Finally, the doctor came in. I needed to get a contrast injected into my knee. The catheter was much larger than I expected but I was as collaborative as possible so that I could leave out of there as soon as possible.
The doctor was tall and thin, the kind of person that makes jokes without any inflection of his face muscles in a effort to keep you wondering if he was throwing a joke or filing a complaint. After the third “joke” I was laughing. We discussed politics, kids’ age differences, country of origin, why the doctor had sent me there among a variety of topics. After he removed the catheter he pressed the site and looked at me with a very serious face, or with his regular face, I should say.
“You have very thin blood,” he stated.
I thought for a second. “Is that good or bad?” I asked.
“It all depends,” he mentioned. “If you go to war and get stabbed, that is not good.”
I consider my options for a second. I have no plans of going to war.
“But if you worry about things like blood clots,” he continued, “Then it is really good. It can go either way.”
The fearless rider
I am not completely sure where do I get the courage to tell the world a complete shocking fact about myself, but I guess when it became a wonderful learning opportunity for me it felt almost selfish to not share the recently acquired knowledge with others even when in the process I make a total fool of myself.
But here I go, world, as unbelievable as it is…I never learned to ride a bike.
I know, it seems like a joke that now at my recently adopted age of 43 I don’t know to do the thing that most kids learn by the time they turn…5? 8?. I never went through that rite of passage, I guess, and it is shameful and it is high up in my bucket list priorities to address.
Now that the fact is out in the open I am going to share why this became relevant during a recent short vacation. While we were spending some time in Madrid, our avid bikers friends suggested we rented electric scooters to move throughout the city. It was a beautiful crisp Autumn day, the kind that surprises you with bright sun rays and a timid cold breeze that only catches us in the shade. It seemed like a perfect plan. The only problem was that learning to ride a bike not only provides us with wonderful visions of leisure strolls through the countryside with a wicker basket hanging from the handle bars full of fresh flowers or a more modern vision of bike rentals in busy cities. Riding a back actually provides us with a very important skill that I am guessing five year-old kids might take for granted: balance.
When the universe listens
It never stops amazing me how when we are in tune with our souls the universe echos our desires and dreams.
Growing up, I was lucky to have learned to loose myself in prayer. In those moments I felt in total communion with God and I learned to listen. I never asked for much in particular, mostly because I realized soon enough that sometimes what we ask for is not in our best interest. So prayer was always a time to feel the love rather that a plethora of requests.
It was not until my late adolescence that I understood that what I called prayer was really a form of meditation, a practice I have kept until today. This days my practice has evolved to include more listening, more presence and more gratitude. However, I had just recently started asking the Universe for answers. I have found that when I ask for specific signs as answers to my questions, the Universe becomes incredible generous and presents clear messages as loud as thunder. The more specific my requests, the more clear the answer. No, I am not asking for lottery wins or material goods to satisfy the ego. I am asking for simple things that help me get awareness or enrich my life and the one of those that surround me.
When the blaze comes
This morning, NPR News presented a segment about the first year anniversary of devastating wildfires in California. They presented the facts, talked about the eighty-five victims and interviewed a survivor whose house was completely floored by the fire.
The man was talking about how hard the whole process had been but that he was happy to report that one year later the foundation of the new house where the old one used to be was finished. He and his wife were replicating the house exactly as it was.
And that kept me thinking...
The Wizard of Us
How do you react when somebody mentions one of your favorite books of all times in the most random circumstances? Where does your mind go considering that is one of the most spiritual enlightening books you have ever read? What if this story let’s you confront your own ideas about magic?
I am not talking about potions and bewitching spells. Rather, I am referring to the magical encounters that give us goosebumps, to the synchronicities, to the sparks that begin with a kiss, in the rejoice found in the perfection of watching a baby sleep, in a stranger’s smile in the moment you must need it. I have always believed in magic and cherish it, not as a way to avoid reality but to elevate our existence by believing there is something greater than ourselves that we can’t explain and that its only mission could be to make ours lives brighter and fuller.
So came the casual reference today to the Wizard of Oz. It was not about the search for courage, heart, brain or home; it was about the moment the curtains opened up and revealed the big Wizard of Oz, the one expected to solve everybody’s problems with his gigantic, powerful skills, was actually a big fraud.
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.
The trail of kisses
How many books, podcast, retreats, meditations, therapy sessions, friends advice do we need in order to find ourselves? It seems we are always searching for who we really are, what is our soul’s maximum potential and what makes us unique and special.
Recently, it took a child’s drawing to enlighten my path on where to keep looking. I should provide a small disclaimer to explain that this certain child tends to find witty, quick solutions to problems he may have caused. And so, I am still trying to evaluate if his intention was to melt my heart or offer some spontaneous, important insight.
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 Hiding and Seeking and Finding Our Inner Voices
HIde-and-seek: the universal game where getting lost is only half the fun.
Recently, my almost four-years old wanted to play hide-and-seek and of course, I obliged. We spent some time in the backyard, taking turns between counting to ten and finding good hiding places. Listening to his infectious laugh when he was either hiding or trying to find me was so adorable! The beauty of playing this game with a toddler is that there is no discretion on what constitutes a good hiding place. Anything would do, even if half your body is exposed. And then, his laugh is so loud that even if he found the perfect camouflage, the giggles would give him away. To make it even cuter, if I asked “where could Leo be?” he would scream “here!” The innocence of children!
The importance of hide-and-seek is that is teaches kids the concept of object permanence. When they first discover the game, babies think that when they put their hands or a blanket over their eyes, things stop existing. By their toddler years, they learn that things or people still exist even when they cannot see them.
But I am not a teacher or a psychologist. I am not as concerned with this game’s developmental advantages other than those that interest me as a mother. However, yesterday in the midst of my son’s giggles and us practicing counting numbers and seeing how fast I could find a spot to hide I realize there is a big lesson for my spirit in this game.