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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The letter that makes all the difference
Recently, while reediting a novel I recently wrote, I noticed a mistake. It was just one letter, but it changed the complete meaning of the sentence. Of course, fixing it was very easy. My mind, however, had been shaken.
They are always leaving, but they are never gone
It could have been the heat, the thirst or maybe the fact that I was exhausted. This morning I attended a very restorative yoga class where we were practicing mudras that represented gratitude. It was impossible not to feel the heart opening up.
But at the of the practice during the final relaxation an image came to me. As much as I tried to quiet it down it just insisted on staying. So I let it, I stop resisting and paid attention to what it wanted to show me.
I saw the most delicious creek…
The art of paying forward
The cashier interrupts me, “you have a good karma, mam. Very good karma indeed.”
To See or Not to See...that is the question
The Unbearable lightness of being made me fall in love with Milan Kundera's writing when I was 20. This quote has always accompanied me since then and I have always go back to it when I need an Ego Check. Then it showed up recently, so here it is in case anybody feels inclined to examine the kind of eyes we need to be seen by. Because as humble as we want to be, feeling invisible can be heartbreaking. On the other hand, there are few things more powerful than feeling as we are suddenly seen, soul-to-soul, eyes-to-eyes. Whatever we put our attention on suddenly comes to light: the good, the bad, the important, the meaningless. Seeing and being seen can be the breaking point between being and not. So, let's take a good look at the world around us and let's turn the lights on.
Rules of friendship
There is a cure for every disease, sometimes it arrives too late or not strong enough but independently of the results, we know there is something else that could have be done differently. In the world of heartaches there seems to be an infallible cure: the contact with true friends. For some time now I had questioned a lot the meaning of friendships, especially since I tend to gravitate to fewer meaningful relationships rather than a tide of social acquaintances.
Being forced to redefine my “amigos” (something I am very thankful for), I started asking myself what is that makes a true friend, one of those that we call in time of crisis and are the first ones to hear our great news, those that call you the moment you are thinking about them and those for whom you drop whatever you are doing to run to their sides when they need you. Because life sometimes has very strange ways to teach us, in my moment of greatest doubts in this topic, I have had the opportunity to spend time either in person or by phone with those handful of friends who belong to the inner circle or my trust, most of them traveling thousands of miles to generously give me the wonderful chance of a share wine, dinner or even a few days of great company.
Skip Forest, Skip... the sun is chasing us
It looked like just another yoga class, a completely packed yoga class, I should say. I was in the front of the room, squeezed between a wall and three fellow practitioners. The instructor began by thanking people who have sent coundolescense after the loss of her mother. In the process of recovering from this life-altering event, the instructor offered us a word that has sustained her in the last few days: acceptance. The message resonated inside my heart like a cathedral’s bell at noon because I knew that was a message I needed to hear. However, what shook me was not the opportune word but her explanation. She mentioned that while she had been grieving someone advised her that maybe it was time to move on. Moving on?
The wishing bone
“Do you know what this is?” he asked me holding v-shaped bone in his hand.
I shook my head.
“This is a wishing bone,” he added as if he was holding a long sought-after treasure.
“What is that for?” I asked, my curiosity awakened.
He asked me to hold one side of it while he held the other.
“We are both going to pull this bone. The person that gets the bigger part will have a wish come true.”
I smiled, unsure if that was some kind of trick. He insisted I held one side.
“Now, you need to make a wish,” the butcher in the blood stained smock said.
Packing for a New Decade
I am not particularly superstitious but there is a tradition from my natal Venezuela that I continue to adapt every New Years’s Eve. It does not matter where I am, once the clock hits midnight and I hug family and friends - which inevitable always makes me cry happy tears - I gulp down twelve grapes, each representing a wish for the following year and sip some champagne. Right after comes the tradition I stick to with fierce determination, not because I strongly believe in its magic, but because I see it as a symbolism of telling the universe that I am ready for it. So, regardless of the weather, in the first minutes of the New Year I go out and do a small walk outside the door with a luggage to symbolize all the trips I want to take. I think I have only missed it one year, and coincidentally was my most “staycated” year ever. So just in case…
I was making plans for our New Year’s Eve celebration I started thinking about what I wanted for 2020. I do certainly want to travel, always. However, I found a symbolism on that tradition that made me think deeply on not only what I want but what I need to learn.
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.
Of Science vs Magic and tribal encounters
There is a saying that states “find your tribe, and love them hard.” If they make me think deeply, raise my spirit and make me laugh, they are my kind of people. I do not take for granted each of our encounters. This was a weekend full of beautiful get-togethers. Last night, our very diverse “tribe” got together for our annual Christmas celebration. I won’t deny that a few Tito’s and homemade coquitos later we were having lots of fun. I know it because my eyes started crying the way they do when I am laughing hard. In this particular group there are doctors, lawyers, artists, agnostics, religious followers and low-key “witches”, which helps transform every conversation into a diverse ground of interesting ideas and points of view. In a split of a second, the conversation turned from rules for our gift exchange to a deep topic: Science vs. Magic.
Being raised in a house by doctors, researchers and a self-taught computer coder, science was discussed regularly. However, my parents could discuss medical findings during Sunday lunch with the same passion that they shared holistic techniques and the power of believing in the extraordinary. That was a perfect ground to allow my analytical brain to reconcile with my highly intuitive, artistic soul. In other words, growing up we never had to favor one above the other, something I am beyond grateful for.
The Ephemeral Line with Eternal Repercussion
Maybe because I have always liked stories, or because I always enjoyed reading or maybe just because I was raised watching soap operas, but I always see life in chapters. There are plots, and subplots, beginnings and ends, and a hundred chapters that accumulate stories of one single theme. As if life was a collection of short essays. Lately, among the several topics that have been amalgamating in my brain, there has been one that keeps circling back. Today while I was listening to the radio, the host was talking about smiles. Bingo!!!! That was my call to go deep in the subject since so many conversations and thoughts kept going back to it.
On the radio, they were discussing if showing teeth in a big grin is actually a sign of aggressiveness. My first instinct is that is the most ridiculous idea ever. But the fact is that the first time that I had to face that idea was almost 15 years ago and since then I had revisited the discussion in an infinitive number of brain deliberations. At that time, I was working as a documentary photographer and I had the wonderful opportunity to take a workshop with my all-time, absolutely favorite role model in the arena and undoubtedly one of the best legendary photographers alive at the time.
The silence that spoke volumes
I took my car and drove in the middle of traffic to be near my daughter. The hospital was as most New York hospitals I have seen: overcrowded, noisy, modest, filled with a very diverse population. When I finally made it to the Emergency Room and after the security screening a nurse walked me through aisles full of patients and expecting relatives. She told me she was in bed #1272B. I was reading the numbered signs above each closed curtain but I could not see hers. The girl perceived my confusion and walked me to a printed sign next to the nurse station. “Here she is, ” she said without a trace of any apologetic tone.
Her bed was leaning over the side of the nurse station, a chair stuck on its foot and an IV placed behind her to avoid any of the patients or medical staff from tripping with it while they walk the narrow hall. I sat down on the chair and proceeded to ask the expected questions and to offer my love and compassion. Bed #1272B offered no privacy, however, it did gave me a frontal view of the gigantic screen where a spreadsheet showed the name and status of each of the thirty patients who were admitted at the time. More than half of those had Hispanic names.
The medical staff was as diverse as the population it served. An Indian doctor was speaking Spanish to the Dominican family that were accompanying the toddler they had brought. Behind the curtains in front of us was a tween girl screaming because she did not want to be tested for the flu and in between screams she started throwing up.