radical generosity

Stories: the only thing we’ve got, the arbiters of this human process of rocketing between hope and despair, and it’s why every person’s is vitally important. It’s why it doesn’t matter if you’re a mess, or put together, or even a success according to arbitrary standards; what matters is that you are conscious of the world around you, in all of its terrible beauty.

[…]

The world can be a horrible place at times, but we don’t have to participate in this, we don’t have to harden our hearts as we’re taught and told to do, in order to survive or be sexy or attractive lovers or perfect parents or interesting people. We do not have to make ourselves into mysterious gifts, waiting to be chosen or read or understood by those who will earn us, unwrap our secrets, and then what? We can be something more authentic, and speak from a different place, a different planet. This is why I like being a writer, because what it demands is both simple and incredibly hard. To be a human being. Does anyone even know what that means anymore? Why don’t we allow for mess? Why are we so afraid of it? What do we expect from the veils we pull down over our eyes, our minds, our hearts? How can we possibly connect if we never let people see what we truly are and what it would take to make us free? Now, when I can’t fake a single emotion I don’t feel (or at least not for long), I wonder how I’ve lived this long being any other way. Maybe it’s that I haven’t really been living, and that now I am like Adam, like Eve, my feet still wet from being newly created, awkwardly learning how to walk on dry land.

[…]

What does it mean to be human, at this time, in this country? I believe it means practicing a radical generosity and empathy, especially when it’s a struggle. You must look around in the soft darkness of your waking life, which is the partner of your dream life. You must understand that accompanying you always is your animal, primal, complicated, desire-driven, calm but desperate, brutal and brilliant self, blinking and breathing gently in the dark, waiting for you to let it into the light.

Beautiful words by Emily Rapp

thank you

"the moment I let go of it, was the moment I got more than I could handle

the moment I jumped off of it, was the moment I touched down"

All Good

On the road again

How many visions fit in a handful of days?

 

 

defining limits

I must have missed class when these terms were taught:

patience

Pronunciation: /peɪʃ(ə)ns/

noun 

the capacity to accept or tolerate delay, problems, or suffering without becoming annoyed or anxious

willingness

noun

the quality or state of being prepared to do something; readiness:

wait

Pronunciation: /weɪt/

noun

stay where one is or delay action until a particular time or event.

But I was definitely there and particularly focused as this one came up:

proactive

Pronunciation: /prəʊˈaktɪv/

adjective

(of a person or action) creating or controlling a situation rather than just responding to it after it has happened.

I AM GOING TO TAKE PRIVATE LESSONS. 

ecce homo

I know what barbecue they grill their meat on. What shirt, shoes and watch they wear. I know what nanny they hire to look after their children, how their homes look like, what sports they practice and what phone they have in their pockets. I know where they go exercise, what books they (don´t ?) read, what their favorite conversational topics are and what wine they drink while holding those conversations. And, obviously, I know what party they vote for.

Or do I just think I know?

Are wealthy people more predictable than non-so-wealthy men and women? Or am I just a prejudicial, superficial Censorious Sapiens that puts all and everyone into a box?

Considering my huge, innate and still quite inexplicable passion for boxes it could be in fact my need to give an order to the world surrounding me that makes me think to know “the rich”. Or maybe, quite dully, just fear of not being able to keep up. Mixed, I have to admit, with a dash of silent arrogance (“Yeah, they have money but me, I...”)

This dilemma has been tumbling in my brains in the past hours and I somehow I feel ready to abandon my “self-reassuring biases”. I think I am actually eager to do that.

Because I want to laser-cancel this idea -tattooed in my mind- that only humble people who went through struggles in life are the real profound thinkers. Those are the ones I know and highly appreciate. I will value them, their stories and inspiration as I did so far. But I am starting to recognize my mistake: looking at “the rich” and not seeing them. Not even trying. I let their barbecues, their shirts, shoes and watches, their sports, phones and homes speak to me. I should know better. There´s another voice I should be listening to. How can I accuse “the rich” of being shallow when I judge them in the most superficial way?

They are men and women, and kids. No different than me.

I like to think that there is a reason why we stumble upon people. Now I think I know why the sleek, young golfer.   

positive addicted

I found out there are phases in which one is simply...happy.
Easy to get addicted to that.

and in the end, it does come

courtesy of bro

fragile trembling leaves

Spring is not spring, this year. The buds on the trees are eager to blossom but the rigid temperatures are spitefully putting off the enchantment of the rising season. All is grey, cold, soggy.
It will come, everybody thinks, another day or two, maybe a week, but it must finally come, this spring so much longed for. I need it. We need it.
Actually, some may need it more than others. 
Two days ago I finished reading a wonderful, fierce, powerful book, a "yes book", books that change you and your view of life and of the world. 
The still point of the turning world, by Emily Rapp, is a work poured out of the depth of an aching and profound soul. 
It´s a tribute to the life of a terminally ill baby who died just before turning three. It´s the narration of a myth, as the author so eloquently explains. It´s a beautiful, beautiful book. 
While reading through those powerful pages I felt at traits like a voyeur, so intimate was the glance that the reader was allowed to throw into this unfortunate family life. So intense the empathy arisen. I often thought of a friend of mine and his son, who is also affected by an incurable and degenerative disease.
How unfortunate, how unfair, we all think in these cases. But pain, disgrace, diseases are so damned democratic: they just hit anyone, no matter how good or bad you are. I once read on social media a cynical yet funny statement: finding unfair that bad things happen to good people is like expecting a lion not to devour you because you are vegetarian.
And this is what happened to a dear colleague of mine: devoured by the lion, even though she is vegetarian, lovely, calm, intelligent, beautiful, inspiring, strong. Two days ago she comes into my office, asked how my Easter vacation was. Very good, thanks, and yours? She bursts into tears, right there, standing in front of my desk. I´m sorry, she says, sobbing, her voice full of sorrow and fear. I have Parkinson. What? Fuck! What? It can´t be! What the fuck, I screamed within myself, in a rush of disbelief and rage. And a blank, speechless face is instead what came out.
This incredible woman, whom I met less than a year ago when, to my surprise, she joined our company (wait, I thought, she is so cool, what is she doing here?) is eventually going to turn into a trembling leaf. This brilliant, independent, self confident woman is probably going to have to depend on others.
This appalling news is not giving me peace.
I can see her eyes filling with tears, I can feel her fear. My colleagues did nothing, said almost nothing. I stood up and went to her and gave her a hug. And she clung to me as if this would save her from falling. Her hold struck me as much as her diagnosis.
We are all so fragile, even though we pretend we will last forever. We are all sure that spring comes punctually, yet sometimes winter just lingers on, and on and on.

what was that word, mhmm...wisdom?!

Walking home from a hyper conversational night, I ask myself "can you trust someone who doesn´t drink at all?". I turn into my street and a wobbling human (maybe) being, as boozed as one can get, walks past me. Or tries to.

Yes, you can trust someone who doesn´t drink. Actually you should. 

No, you must.