Daniela Ginta, Freelance Writer

Gratitude makes the journey better. Kindness, too.

Category: Self-improvement Page 28 of 29

Night and Snow and Frozen. Again…

By

On January 9, 2014

In Life Stories, Motherhood, Self-improvement

SidewaysIt was snowing sideways in icy sharp arrows. You had to blink often or get stung in the eyes. Muffled sounds, signs of life far away, stacks prolonged in smoky tongues meeting with low-hanging clouds, cars that stop short, afraid of white and dark combined.

We walked to the park, dragging purple sleds, snow-filled boots… wait, already? 

The park snoozes under thick snow. More coming. We’re wrapped up in snowflakes and tumbles – wild boys, and fragmented thoughts of a long day – mama.

We made it here late, borderline bedtime, but it had to happen… I guiltily wanted tired children and droopy eyes so I said yes to pleads of sledding. 

‘Mom, he doesn’t want to play my game…’

‘Because you put snow in my mouth, that’s why!’

The tumultuous world of boys, laughter and fighting landing in a pile of arms and legs and there’s no time to scold because things are patched up by the time I get there.

‘Wanna do double sleds?’ There’s no stopping them or entering their world. When big people do so, they have to leave all big-world thoughts behind, sublime and conditional at the same time. And worth it… But now it’s all tangled up, thoughts and worries and changes ahead.

Lost boysI envy their irreverent fun, all the ‘so what if that’s not allowed I’ll try it anyway and taste the no up-close,’ they do that with each other, testing boundaries, testing patience and saying I did not mean to.

I want them like that, free to tumble. Free to laugh and say no, and ask for endless sled rides down icy hills, past bedtime and deeply immersed in being children, boys lost in precious childhood.

SleepySnowfall thickens, all plushy and white. There’s sleepy branches on the ground, buried and beautifully quiet, a row of swings, gently whipped by sideways thick plushy snowfall…Swings

Time for bed, we trail home, purple sleds and wet mitts and snowy hats.

Snuggle in bed… remember to be grateful, what are you grateful for… We say prayers for all whom we love, for all who cannot hear us and for all who need one tonight.

Then again, the hardest question pops up and my eyes become squished lines…’Mom, can I be stuck at being seven forever?’

Head full of soft, long hair, smelling sweet, trying to imprint the smell in every part of my brain. To remember…

No, you can’t ask that… Because I want it too much too… But I don’t say it.

‘No you cannot, I wish you could… but you can save some of that forever in your heart…’

‘I don’t want to grow up…’ he snuggles close, maybe it’ll happen?

I feel ashamed for all the times I said the same, not an ounce of grown-up me seeping into that absurd request…I don’t want that either… Be joyful, never be afraid of life. I want to say it but I don’t. One day I will…

Snuggle some more, ruffled long hair against pillows and stuffed otter, smelling sweet… here to stay, mine…

Good night, sleep tight…

But my wishes for sleepy droopy eyelids do not come true. I leave the room with a trail of sounds and whines… There’s itchy noses, itchy elbows and that itchy spot behind the knees and all the noises a nose can make the nose makes them, so annoying, and the comforter is too hot… what a silly name for something that annoys him so…

Two wild boys, one already slipping into growing up, still hugging and wide-eyed, one clinging to every bit of sweetness that he himself brings about… Nighttime whines included.

Snowfall stops, house is quiet… Late night, no more clinging, itchiness gone, boundaries back in place until tomorrow when they’ll be pushed again… And again.

Never stop… never grow up… My eyes will be wide open tonight, no droopiness until I say out loud what I am grateful for. Again. To know, to never give in to rushing them… I promise. To make every itchy knee count.

To listen, to love, to hug… A promise…

 

 

Why Be Mindful, Starting Today

By

On December 10, 2013

In Life Stories, Self-improvement

It is early morning, the house is dark and quiet and there is no better time to be aware of where I am.

I pull the curtains because it snowed overnight and whiteness makes me feel safe and cozy.

I open the door, breathe in the cold and look at the sleepiness around. Across the street, smoke raises from a smokestack, pointing straight to a sky that’s so clear it squeaks when you look at it. No more snow. I know that from my dad, about the smoke going straight up.

This is the time to be where I am and nowhere else. No planning the day, no urgent this or that, no deadlines.

This is the time to stop.

So much is happening every day, even on those days that seem slow and dull. They are not. They are life. And we barely acknowledge it, even on the good days.

Why so hurried? Because it’s what we do. Life hurries and we hurry with it. Hurrying is a choice; but you knew that. Or not. Is it really? (yes)

Like heading straight down a wild river that we know for a fact ends up in a waterfall, we ride a raft we barely hang onto. White knuckles scream desperation and a need to stop, a need to readjust here and there and take a look around. We’re moving too fast, we know that much.

Speed enables us to persist in thinking we’re doing it right. And speed even more.

Everywhere we look, white knuckles are interpreted not as a sign of desperation but as an acknowledgement of being on this wild river. It’s what everyone does, right? Very few of us will say otherwise and the ones who do, are on the shores, looking around and telling us to slow down. Can they be believed? How would they know? Why are they there to begin with?

The answer is as simple as it is troubling: Because they know that knuckles are connected to the heart and the mind. Not when they’re white and cold though. They only get warm when we stop. But that’s slowing down, isn’t it? That means losing something? More? Less? Enough? At all?

Where’s the truth? Who has it?

Somehow slowing down does not appeal enough to our competitive nature. Slowing down is a right we don’t want to make much use of. We take odd comfort in saying “But I am not the only one.” And oddly enough, that truly is the weakest argument of them all. It really will not matter who was with you and why when you reach the waterfall. You’ll reach it by yourself. As it’s always been.

Gravity evens things out for us all. Which is why it’s so important to mind things along the way, to stop your raft by shores you deem necessary to see, or to simply stop to see. To listen, to breathe and know of yourself. To make sense of why you’re on that wild river to begin with.

To be grateful.

White knuckles will not let any feelings sink in deep enough for you to feel that. Perhaps that’s the best reason why stopping every now and then makes sense.

Quiet after all...Also because when you stop, you learn how to. And you’ll know how to do it next time. And next. And you’ll be ready for everything that comes. Or for most of the things.

You’ll have made time along the way to know faces, not just see them in that mad dash down a river that was never intended for us ride so recklessly and white-knuckled but we do it because everyone does.

Which is never a good argument to begin with. So learn to stop. Today.

Of Bees and Life. A Story of Boundaries

By

On October 23, 2013

In Life Stories, Self-improvement

GreyThe day starts foggy and grey. You don’t feel like stopping by the farmer’s market but how about the people selling goodness by the pound, or jar or bagful? They woke up to the same fog, the same heavy sky and they showed up. So you have no excuse.

Buy potatoes from the South American lady. She always smiles. Everything she sells, from eggs to potatoes to pies, has the same roundness as her words. Some accents are that mellow and warm on a day like today. Colorful beans, two-pound bag, too colorful to miss. Fall and earth colors. To eat.

Then parsley, both root and green bushy stalks. You shake hands with unknown gardens when you hold up a bunch. The lady says they’re good, you can make a parsley puff. How? Here’s how, she tells you. You say why not. Change is good. Challenge for little people’s taste buds.

Then the honey table. You have to buy a jar. Good, golden, thick, local. You must. The lady sells jars of golden and fragrant bee’s wax.

There’s someone else there, an elderly gentleman you’ve never met. You know, he says, we were just talking, the bees had it tough this year. The wasps were vicious, attacking bees, killing entire hives. You frown. How unfair. On top of everything else that tangles their invisible dance lines, you think.

It’s like that, the honey lady explains. A somewhat cyclic sorrowful bee event; the wasps sneak in and kill. Won’t waste a drop of golden honey ever, you promise yourself. Such hard work and danger. The bees who made this honey faced peril. They prevailed. Seven dollars a jar.

You buy a basket of tomatoes from the elderly Italian farmer you always buy from. “Last ones, eh…very sweet.” A thick bunch of chard on top, and not enough arms to hold them all. He laughs, you laugh. Like a good grandpa, he helps. He holds a big bag to fit them all in. “There you go, you cook a good dinner, eh?…” He chuckles, you smile. “See you on Saturday!” He’ll be there and you’ll buy tomatoes again, and eggs. They’re always fresh.

The afternoon passes with more grey to chew on, to walk on, to breathe in. You walk with the friend who challenges you to keep your voice above the humming of everyday life, to not give up. Walk under yellow-leaf trees, sit on pink benches, celebrate life once again. “Look, an ice cream sky!” Sunset sky, scoops of kindness. Being alive is never a lesson in grace, but you knew that.

Later, as you cook dinner, you think of the bees. The jar of golden on the counter, all that work… The bees had it tough this year... The wasps go inside the hive through the opening, you remember the lady saying. Hmm, just like words and facts of life you find aggressive and mean. Scary. They find openings, they get in. They hurt thoughts, hopes, they raise fear, trying to kill dreams… Life is full of analogies, you know that. You need boundaries to survive and to thrive. You find them, again.

Because not all the bees have to die, the lady told you today. You make the hive opening smaller, so it’s gets tricky for the wasps. Boundaries…

It’s no small feat, you know that. To set boundaries that is.

You’ll never be infallible but you’ll be better protected. Your thoughts, like bees, in their home of sweetness. Afraid at times, but alive. Daring again tomorrow. And then again. Alive is a gift. Days blossoming into joy, golden and ripe, reminders of past seasons, celebrating today’s bounty and the reality of all that we are: sweetness to taste, hard work, dancing over sunny fields, fear of dying, fear of all that could hurt, courage to go out and do it again. Daring, because of the sky, the fields, the swaying trees and all the rainbows you could never see unless you fly free.

Parsley puff for dinner. The kids have learned to say “not my favorite but I’ll eat some” when dinner has too many shades of green and earthy flavors. Dinner, laughing, some food-bursting-out-of-your-mouth toilet jokes (how rude and necessary!), day falling asleep on the table…

Bedtime soon. Be grateful. You’ve learned a lot today.

The Aftermath (Or Lessons From A Burglary)

By

On October 21, 2013

In Life Stories, Self-improvement

TodayImagine this for a second. You are swimming and someone just pushes your head underwater. Gurgles, water up your nose, that terrible pinch in your sinuses and when the bad feeling is gone you try to swim again. And after a while it happens again. Then again. Then you start being afraid. What if it keeps happening. The connection is real, you’re not just imagining.

Two weeks ago our house was broken into while we were camping at a lake . Four laptops were stolen and with them memories, unbacked work – my fault, I know – and the feeling of safety in our own home. Warmth; gone.

We fought hard to look beyond it, to move past. We did. The invaded rooms have been since cleaned up and rearranged. I wrote about the weekend we spent camping at Adams Lake and tried not to focus on the burglary. Unbeknownst to me the boys did the same at school, their teachers told me later. They talked about the magic weekend when they played with a baby snake and paddled to mysterious islands and then they mentioned that our house got broken into, casually so as if not to give the perpetrators too much power over us.

But the truth is, there is a feeling of fear and uncertainty circling overhead like an ugly bird, flapping its creepy wings over us every time we leave the house unattended. We try to think positive and say the feeling is not there; for the boys’ sake and for all of us.

For a few days I really thought I had it. Then Tony’s watch broke and I offered him mine until we could fix his. I could use my other watch I figured. Except that it was gone. Stolen when the laptops were stolen, I just realized. Bummer. The ugly bird flies low and cackles. Go away we say, again. And it does.

You swim, again, but someone pushes your head underwater… you struggle for breath, up again. Breathe…

I came to terms with the watch missing because what else can you do. I don’t believe in pricey possessions and the things that I have are mostly utilitarian, which is why I really miss them. What’s truly of value stays with us at all times, I tell the boys.

Then today’s afternoon rolled in sunny and plump and then an unwanted chill squirted down my spine, drowning joy and pushing me back into that cold evening… We realized one of our bikes was gone. The recently fixed mountain bike. Stolen.

We have been trying hard to get away from the memory of that evening. We set at building memories just like we have until now, the boys grin towards the camera and embrace my heart through the lens just like they’ve always done, and writing happens too, hiccups and all but that’s what writing is like sometimes. But it is unfair to hear the ugly bird cackling over our heads again. If we let it that is. Which we decided not to. Not anymore.

So we will keep swimming. And it will be a good one.

Lessons? A few.

Lesson 1. Attach yourself to what matters and if something matters a lot then make sure it’s safe wherever it is.

Lesson 2. The things that go missing are most likely gone forever and there’s little value in crying over spilled milk (by others, but spilled nonetheless)

Lesson 3. We have what we need to move on (in our case some leftover wheels, grouped in fours and twos, they serve the purpose)

Lesson 4. The ugly bird has to leave at some point. Or fall from the sky. Either way, it feeds on attention, so getting none means the end of it.

Lesson 5. The feeling of violation is real. Cry, kick, scream if you have to but don’t dwell on it for too long (note: easier said than done!) The feeling itself is a parasitic species you don’t want in your garden.

Lesson 6. (and pushing hard for a happy ending) My belief: There are plenty of good, kind people to make up for the ones with lost souls (temporarily or otherwise) who breed ugly birds and release them into other people’s worlds…

 

Life Is A Train, And You’re On It

By

On September 20, 2013

In Self-improvement

From here to thereIt’s true. I dare you to say otherwise. You are on this train from the moment you are. Whether you ride with your head buried in a seat – in which case you miss most of it, or all – or you occasionally climb to the very top from where you see the mountains and the seas you roll by, you are on it and will be there for a while.

When you put your head out the window you get to feel the wind, the sun will burn your cheeks and then a storm might come and build a wild nest with your hair. You’ll know the taste of seasons… You will feel alive.

Thoughts will grow, take off flying, free and forgetful of how new their wings are, how pristine the air they plow, how daring those loop-the-loops are… If you let them be. If you let yourself be.

Life is a train. It moves fast, but it stops every now and then, and you get time, more or less, to touch the ground, to see around, to lie in tall grass and breathe. You get to see the sky and the clouds. Until you hop on the train again, because it is time to go. It always is. Time is adamant that way. You hop on the train, but now you hold the memory of blue skies and traveling clouds, and you find a new purpose for a while: to see them again. And again.

TrueYou find the ladder that takes you to the roof of the train car you’re in. And people – there could be one, or a few, or many – might say “Don’t do that, it’s dangerous, you could fall…” And you know that you will not, somehow you know. You know you will get to see the skies again, the traveling clouds and you will try to match that to what you knew about skies and clouds you knew only to discover that it’s better every time, because you’ve grown in the meantime. You understand colors and textures and freedom of being a lot more every time. And up there you remember the tall grass you were lying in that day when you got to see the clouds. How soothing and necessary to have them both, you will think. To know that you are somewhere in between the grassy dirt and the sky, safe from closed spaces and unafraid…

Life is a train. You can bury yourself in a seat forever, never daring to get up and look for more, seeing fragments of this and that only, gleaning colors and fleeting images of this and that, trying to put that big puzzle called “The meaning of life” together, but fragments will not do. It gets frustrating and when it does, you know that you have an invitation in front of you.

To look for the rest of the pieces that will make your puzzle complete and that means stepping out of that comfortable seat and keeping your eyes open. Or you can get up just enough to force the window open and feed the invitation to the wind.

Life is a train and you’re on it. Make the best of your ride. Be curious, be daring, be open to feel the wind and the rain; to see the moon, to never be afraid of moon-less nights and, to taste the freedom of sleeping under the stars at least once. You might get to taste the fear of almost falling off when you’re only holding on with one hand; it’ll teach you to hold on.

All the wayAbove all, you will find out that though you are the only one to decide how tomorrow will be – true! – you are not in control of the train. And why would you? Being in charge of it all is an illusion. You are in charge of the day’s ride, and tomorrow’s. And the days to follow. Yours. You. Buried in a seat or climbing to the roof every now and then. Life happens and you’re in it. Perhaps that is all you need to know to make the ride worthwhile.

 

Half A Napkin. A Tribute

By

On September 9, 2013

In Life Stories, Self-improvement

HeartJust like a lake and its floating green hearts… If the lake would be covered in waterlilies, you will not see the sparkling water holding the green hearts. You might miss the hearts, the clouds holding them, the water, the wonder of it all…

Overcast on a day when you wish for sun seems like punishment. Or a good excuse to hide in a coffee shop and find your way. Again. Life is like that. It likes tumbles when you don’t.

But that’s when you sit at a table in a coffee shop, your basket of life happenings by your side and your friend on the seat next to you. You take those life happenings, rags and all, and put them out on the table. They were all one piece a few days ago, you tell her. She knows. This needs no explanation.

A few sun rays escape through the clouds and land on the table. Life happenings. Yours, hers. You both know life would be no good without all of them.

Sulkiness does nothing. But you sulk until you know that. It takes a while. Years sometimes. Until you learn to use those rags life leaves you with and make a nice warm quilt and colorful skirts to taunt the rain and overcast days with…

You get bruised, you learn, you get up and walk again. Right? You ask, she nods; for a moment there you want to look dignified enough so she won’t think you don’t have it together. But she is not after that. Being proper has no place in a friendship. You are real, that comes first.

You peel words, raw as can be, off your bare soul and she’s there to lay them all in a pile that will later be used to patch the very wounds you speak of. It’s like chain mail. Everything holds together because you leave no piece behind. And why would you? It’s your life. Friends remind you of that. You know, the old “you are what you are because of all that’s happened along the way.” Don’t run away, you’ll have to come back to the same place. Only a lot more tired.

Friends help you see that. Own your life, your thoughts, yourself. You do that when you’re accepted in all that you are.

You are accepted by those you resonate with. Not a whole bunch of them, because you can’t really resonate with too many. The resonance in itself is a gift. You can’t abuse it or attribute it to just about anyone. You’d be dishonest. To them, to yourself.

If you have to cry, do it. Let go of holding your heart like a stiff bouquet of flowers. Sometimes you’ll tear up and look sideways because being vulnerable is still not your favorite place to be in. But you have to, she says. You’re not alone. She talks, shares, you listen. Her eyes become wells too. Life is often unkind, there’s many shared paths you walk on. Words fail where tears appear. Redundancy is forbidden. You don’t look sideways anymore. She picks up the napkin off the table, right from the sun puddle. Warm. She rips it in half. For you.

You just got someone’s heart, trust and half a napkin. Laughter plops its chubby feet into the sun puddle too. You laugh, you cry, you are alive.

By the time you leave the coffee shop the overcast will be done with. It will be either sunny and raining. The air will be lighter nonetheless. You’re lighter, and half a napkin richer.

You may forget to say thank you. Joy can be a wicked clown. Never mind, your soul spoke for you. But you know that. Your friends do too. Mine do.

 Just like a lake, you… If you had too many people to crowd the surface, it’d be hard to let your depth be seen…

 

The Only Thing That’s Not Yours

By

On September 6, 2013

In Self-improvement

Golden…is time.

You can let the day slip away and say at the end “What a weird day, I could get nothing done…” or you can seize every minute and use it to create joy. Through getting things done, work and life-wise. No pun on the latter.

You can start the morning right by being grateful for the day you’ve been given or you can mumble and grumble and pretend you have no reason to smile.

You have the power to create smiles or frown in the shortest window of time you are given, be it a minute, a morning or a day.

You can use the time you have with the people you choose to be by taming your words and ideas in a way that will create ripples of joy rather than sadness and anger. Time well used, makes your heart bloom and your mind swell with bright ideas. Or you can throw it all out, with utter disregard for the time you have been given to spend with someone, you can crumple all that time in a tight ball and throw it in a ditch of lost time and lost opportunities. A scary place indeed, and one that does not have to be. You make it be, or not.

You can sow thoughts and actions in the time you have, and know that you have been given the most fertile land of all. Untouchable, yet able to give you so much, that land will give you all if only you too give it all you’ve got.

Your thoughts are yours, your goals, your desire to make things happen, your choice to procrastinate or the decision to take a step. Or more. You have it all, except for one thing. Time. That is to borrow. A lease, if you will. But the one you can make the most of, if only you’d make your mind up to do so.

PS: I wish I could take credit for this, but it was the dried heads of tall end-of-summer grass, still green here and there, but slowly giving in to the fall slumber, only to offer themselves later on to winter; they reminded me of time, the most elusive treasure of all.

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