Happy belated birthday to me!

10 years ago, I wrote myself a birthday card. Yes. I really did. And since I keep everything I still have it. In fact it’s right here. Just look back to January 28,  2016.

I wished myself luck.

I wished myself love.

I wished myself strength and prosperity.

It has been a turbulent time. 10 years. A broken ankle – I lost my footing – sign of the 10 years you might say. I’ve lost too many people in those 10 years. In-laws who knew me well and who suddenly went. In-laws struggling, who we watched slowly disappear until goodbye was the only word left.

People close, within my circle, friends, struggling with challenges they could have been without. Changed but still here. I love them, still.

The closest people, those who know you best as only they can, have said goodbye. Out of reach, our phone lines and mobile masts don’t reach out to the stars.

Struggles with life, choosing it, living it. Being reminded it is here and it is ok – it can be lived. Lived your way, no one else’s way – that was a hard nut to crack for one very special love in my life. He teetered. He didn’t fall.

A heart that came close to the dark abyss and almost gave up, but the owner is tough so his heart still beats. And so does mine, for him.

10 years of living. 10 years of loving. 10 years with some losses. 10 years of learning. 10 years of exploring. 10 years of doing, of thinking, of laughing and crying. 10 years of friends still here, still close. 10 years – 65 I am. Time flies. So I’ll wish myself a happy birthday again this time around.

Make a wish, blow those candles out.

I wish myself luck.

I wish myself love.

I wish myself health.

I wish myself strength, wisdom, time and prosperity.

And I wish too, all of these things, for you.

Love you.

A Shelf Filled With Good Intentions

A shelf filled with good intentions
I gaze at the shelf
I wrinkle my brow and scrunch my eyes
What a waste, I ruminate
There are enough rolls for a yoga fitness class
One red, one green, one black and mats, those too


Enough stuff to create 100 pieces of art in any form you can imagine
Clay, paint – water colour, acrylic and oil
Canvasses too, small, medium and large
Sketch pads for pencil, charcoal, pastels and paint
Pebble art markers Markers in every rainbow’s colour
Right, well, enough of that


There are picture frames,
Nails and screws to fix actually anything!
4 hammers, 10 multi-bit screwdrivers
A Crockpot, a sous vide and 6 empty cookie tins
The shelf, yes that one, you know the one, the one where my good intentions go.

Aug.14, 2024

The coffee is almost ready.
The buns are done, freshly baked just now. Brunch in the garden is fitting for today. It’s my mum’s birthday today. 93 years young as we say. She made it to 92 and a half.
Those half years were so important when I was a kid. I imagine they were for my mum as she got older.

I baked today. I have done “mum” things this morning. My mum baked, especially when I was younger. Coming home from school, there would be freshly baked muffins or buns or oatmeal cookies, the very thin and crispy ones that mum always made. The recipe was in her head and in her hands.


There are things I don’t have to do today – send flowers, write a birthday card, calculate the time difference – still 6 hours – and call at the right time. The normal routine on this day for the past 30 some years with some exceptions. Living on two different continents does that.


Today, I have thought about my mum, and smiled. A very special lady my mum. Her friends would tell you so as well. I have remembered her laugh, her smile, her funny walk that she shared with my aunt, her twin sister. The way our home was open to friends and family, her sneezing. She held the family record of 22 in a row. The way she could calm my worries, the absolutely unconditional love she had for me and for her grandson. The hugs, full on, arms holding tight kind of hugs and during her last months, the “mmmm” that accompanied our hugs that expressed so much.  I reflected on her unwavering friendship. I saw in my mind’s eye, how her face shone when she said I love you – so deeply felt. I love you too mum. Happy birthday. Blow out your 93 candles. I bought you flowers, I hope you like them.

One habit that brings you joy

My morning coffee… Can you smell it? Can you feel it? Can you taste it?

After completing my morning ritual of having a shower and getting dressed, I progress to the moment of ultimate joy in my day, everyday. Be it Monday or Saturday, at home or away, I tred quietly into the kitchen. I choose the cup of the day – sometimes one that brings reflection, sometimes one that makes me smile, sometimes one that prompts a memory. I open the fridge, take out the milk and pour half a cupful into my chosen cup. A splash of cream to make the flavour full. A couple of steps to the microwave to warm up the milk. Beep, beep, beep. Cup in hand I turn to my little handy Nespresso machine. First, froth the milk. Next, choose the coffee – should it be ristretto strong to open the eyes and kickstart the brain or espresso taste to smoothly transition into the day. I choose. Capsule in, cup under, button pushed. An espresso size to get the most strength. I wait. The coffee pours into the hot, frothy milk. Mmmm. I wait. I press the button once again, freeing more delicious, steamy coffee to flow into my morning cup. Two hands on the warm cup standing in the back doorway gazing sleepily at the garden. Up to my nose to catch a waft of the wake-up magic. To my lips to sip the fragrant liquid gold, feeling it glide down my throat, my taste buds peaked at the flavour of, well, my morning.

Daily writing prompt
Describe one habit that brings you joy.

Cosmos

Falling up,
My imagination flies to the stars.
Past the dark sky, past the full moon,
Past sparkling stars, past unexplored galaxies,
Past sudden black holes, past silently gliding satellites,
Past shooting stars streaking across my path.
Comfort is the black dark night.
Comfort is the bright full moon.
Comfort is the sparkling stars in random formation.
Disappearing in the cosmos,
With the universe unfolding.
With the engulfing arms of darkness wrapped around my sorrowful shoulders,
I rest, in the dark night, comforted in my grief.

My mum

A yawn, and you were gone.
The person who was my mother ceased to exist in this part of the universe.
Did your spirit take flight?
Did your soul find peace with the whole dying thing? Safe journey? Where did you go?
One minute you were living, breathing, holding my hand. The next your breath ceased and your heart stopped and no sound was to be heard – just the one yawn and then, you were gone.
I miss you. I miss hearing you say Hejsa Kim when you say hi on the phone. I miss you calling me Kimalas. No one else calls me that. I miss your voice. I want to hold your hand with the crooked, time-worn fingers and tell you I love you like so many times before. I want to give you a hug and hear you say ahhh when I do. I want to hear you laugh in that special way you had, loud and free of pretense or constraint. I can’t figure out whether I should say had or has – you’re still here in my heart. I’m not used to it yet, you being out of reach. You loved me I know. What do I do without you? I love you mum. I miss you mum. My anchor, my safe place in a storm, my cheerleader, my friend, my mom. One last breath, one yawn and you were gone.

Father’s Day 2024

In 1910 a day was established in order to pay tribute and show appreciation to fathers and father figures. Today, it’s father’s day in Canada.
Dear Dad,
I have thought of this day for a few weeks now. Just remembering that it was on its way. Not because I needed to find an appropriate Jacquie card. You know the one, with the appropriate sentiment for the day, one with the jaunty jazz sound and some fanfare wishing you a happy day. I didn’t send a card as I usually would. I don’t need to make time to call you however much I’d like to.
I’ve been thinking that it was going to be a strange day, not in any particular way, just knowing it would be odd. I miss you.
You have always been there…always. Now I have conversations with you in my head. At the moment they’re quite one sided. I talk a fair bit! Nothing new in that. There are tears mixed into the lopsided conversations at the moment. Your last words penetrate the silence – I do hear you say you are proud of me, you love me – your last words to me as we looked into the eyes of the other and said farewell…Dad there has never been any doubt. Perhaps the grief needs to subside a bit for me to hear the other things.
In my heart and in my soul, no, actually, in every fiber of me, I know what the words “my daughter” encompassed for you. A privilege and an honour Dad. I chose good.
I love you. I miss you.
To my dad – happy father’s day with all my love,
Your daughter. 

Music to my ears

Walking down memory lane or actually singing down that oh so unique path. That incredible state where music brings people back from long ago, places become touchable, and somehow the words come, dredged up from some faraway box. Amazing what music can do – melts away the years. Music, with just a few notes of THAT song, establishes the mood of all those years ago. I’m smiling. It’s a pop road tonight. It’s a winding road – Blondie, Coldplay, Sting, Peter Gabriel, Genesis, Bruce Springsteen, Police, Toto, Supertramp amongst the many You Tube can dig up.
The screen is showing Phil Collins at the moment singing at a concert in France in 2004. Singers, sax, brass, drums it all just plays. Pun intended. That sound of Collins on the drums. This is good.
Time is ticking – in two directions – both backwards and too fast forwards. My mind wanders to concerts where the music leapt from the stage straight into my heart. Concerts shared with friends, with family, with hundreds of kindred spirits. Jazz concerts in the park where the peacocks sauntered between the chairs under the canopy of trees and stars. The wine was very nice and the music sublime. Concerts under cover, in big stadiums sometimes seated, sometimes not. Rock concerts, jazz concerts, pop concerts, classical concerts.
I’ve sung my voice away to a whisper. Clapped until my hands were red. I just didn’t want the songs to end. And I still don’t. It won’t. My mind is full of notes and words. My body is filled with beats and rhythm. The music is in my heart. I’ll be back again soon. Wandering down a song, laughing a beat, memories tugging the lyrics, thought forgotten, from the box giving my voice words to sing. I gotta get a ticket to a concert! It’s time.

Café au lait and apricot jam

I am opposing the weather. Snow? Snow that stays? What?! So I am opposing this blasphemy against the natural course of the seasons. What are the weather gods thinking? So. How can I oppose the weather? Stand and shake my head woefully and insist that it scoot? Go away? Shoo? Do I oppose the weather by shaking my fist at it while I shout inane foul words at it? I fear that this is not the path to success. The weather gods oppose me by just, well, just carrying on. We are so tiny and our fists and curses even smaller they hear us not. If they, by chance hear our flailing efforts, they simply flick our voices away as they would a speck of uninteresting dust. Humpf!

Still, I insist on opposing the weather. I have found a way that warms my insides so I glow. Watch out – the heat is intense. The weather gods be damned!

I found a special place today. A place uniquely mine. I had to travel far to reach it, though it took only a split second, a snap of my fingers if you will, and I was there. Wonder of wonders, lo’ and behold, the sun is shining. The late afternoon heat still present after a generous sun played in the sky above through the day. I can feel the heat, inside. My son is laughing and running, pulling me by my hand. I’ve travelled not only to a warmer clime but to a different space in time as well.

A tapestry is unfolding – the colours are warm and enriching, a diverse palet of earthy colours – russet red, radiant yellow, deep purple, sage green, rose pink and ochre. Sounds of people shopping, debating, friendly chatter over the price of a glass of honey, birds commenting on life in general and grasshoppers, the size of your ring finger chirping. The sounds float onto the tapestry accompanied by the tantalising smells of lavender, wild thyme and roasting chickens on a spit. I remain, eyes gently closed, in this special place to see the smiles and friendly waves, taste the ratatouille made of purple aubergines, deep green zucchinis, red, yellow and orange peppers, purple (not red) onions, fragrant garlic and the reddest of red tomatoes (the ones that taste of the sun.) The tapestry comes alive with the smell and colours of the earth, the taste of the local wine poured into a thick glass tumbler from a jug and the sound of the wind in the olive grove. I linger a while over my bowl of café au lait fending off the world outside, the world of grass now white with snow. The blackbirds huddling in the hedge, all puffed up to keep warm. I love spring but today I escaped. Mmmmmm, the warmth stays with me when I open my eyes. The weather and its creator I have conquered for today and the key? A cup of coffee with warm, frothy milk and a delicious slice of fresh sourdough bread spread with apricot jam. A scrumptious key to a wonderous memory portal.

Bon appetit!

Compassion

What is compassion?

Compassion unfolds in response to distress, pain or suffering.

It begins with recognition of suffering, which gives rise to feelings of concern and empathy. This, in turn, motivates the willingness to take action to relieve that suffering. At different times, and in different situations, different parts of this process(awareness, feelings, empathy, action) may be most available and/or most skillful. – this explanation is courtesy of Compassion Cultivation Training

We are much kinder to the people around us who we offer compassion to in their time of suffering than we are to ourselves. With self-compassion, we give ourselves the same kindness and care we’d give to a good friend. I am learning about compassion and this week in particular about self-compassion. Self-compassion is no different from the compassion that you show to others. Having compassion for yourself means that you honor and accept your humanness. You know and accept that life does not always give you roses without thorns. Frustrations will come your way. You will experience loss. You will make mistakes. You will fall short of how you feel you should have behaved. Things will not always go the way you want them to. This is something that happens to everyone – and you and I are no different. The secret to being able to feel more compassion for yourself and for others is essentially opening your heart to the fact that this is the way of life – this is how life works and instead of fighting against it you will find, that opening your heart to this reality will enable you to feel compassion for yourself. It is ok to acknowledge that things are difficult at the moment and that you are finding it hard.

Now the above was very easy to write. My fingers fly across my keyboard and the words flow effortlessly. I find it much more difficult to stop the critical self-talk and critical self-judgment that happens in my mind when I’ve just messed something up – be it ever so minor. The talk begins – why can’t you ever do anything right? You always mess up. You are so clumsy. – Anyone else recognise that voice? We are human – “human” means that one is mortal, vulnerable and imperfect. So we are hard wired to make mistakes. Instead of beating ourselves up, we need to learn to be gentle with ourselves. Speak kindly to ourselves. We need to practice self-compassion.

We need to observe and recognise that those negative thoughts are just that, thoughts. We must learn to be aware of the thought or the feeling just as they appear – observe them non-judgmentally and not ignore them or try to suppress or deny them. In other words as Kristin Neff writes we must hold them in mindful awareness. In my meditations I am practicing to do this. Some days I nail it and can hold the negative self-talk in observation and I can objectively just see it. Some days I dive right in and get lost in the critic that lives in my head. The meditation practice is teaching me to be brave in being vulnerable. Accepting my own vulnerability is teaching me to be kind and loving to myself. I believe that when I am loving to myself, I have a greater capacity to be compassionate toward others. We need more of that.

Do I do everything wrong? No. Do I occasionally make mistakes? Um, yeah. Do those occasional missteps define who I am? No! Do the missteps hit a nerve in me so that I think “Oh damn. That wasn’t the right thing to say or I should have worn oven mitts to avoid dropping the dish”( You get the picture.) Yes it hits a nerve, as it should. Learning from the mistake is powerful and seeing it for what it is – the glitch in the thinking process that results in us doing somehing wrong – is the loving thing to do. Say to yourself what you would say to others who just dropped a hot potato – “that was hot! are you ok?” Be kind to yourself. This is what I’m learning to be.

Watching Brené Brown’s “Call to courage” the other day, reminded me that “Owning our story and loving ourselves through that process is the bravest thing that we will ever do.” She writes on brenebrown.com, “Wholehearted living is about engaging in our lives from a place of worthiness. It means cultivating the courage, compassion, and connection to wake up in the morning and think, No matter what gets done and how much is left undone, I am enough. It’s going to bed at night thinking, Yes, I am imperfect and vulnerable and sometimes afraid, but that doesn’t change the truth that I am also brave and worthy of love and belonging.

I want to show up in my own life! I am going to do it! I am going to set up to the plate and I am going to be brave! I know that I will get my ass kicked. I will make mistakes and I will do good things. I am human. I am enough and I am worthy! And I’m learning to love myself for it.