Tag: musings

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December 21st. Happy 13th blog anniversary.

December 21st, 2012 was supposed to be the end of everything. That’s what people said back then, anyway. The end of the world, the end of a cycle, something final. I remember the mood around it, that strange mix of unease and freedom. And I remember thinking that if everything really was about to end, then I didn’t have much to lose. That was the thought that led me to start this blog on that exact day.

I didn’t know what it would become. I didn’t even know what I wanted from it. I just knew I needed a place. Somewhere words could land without being rushed. Somewhere I could return to, again and again, without having to explain myself.

Over the years I tried other platforms. Some I left because they got too loud, some because they stopped feeling right, some because I simply lost interest. This one stayed. I never really questioned that. It feels strange to even write it now, but it’s true.

I was curious today. I always loo at the stats on the anniversary of the blog. And what stood out was music. Song reviews, album notes, listening posts. Those were the things that surfaced first this year.
(If you’re curious: Antimatter, Sivert Høyem, Weather Systems.)

That sent me back to the beginning. Because it started like that. Mostly music. Things I listened to obsessively. Notes written quickly, without much distance. Those early posts aren’t here anymore, but the rhythm is. Music first. Words following.

There is a lot of poetry on this blog now. Probably more than anything else. It almost overfills the place at times. But the music is scattered. Tucked in between. And that still seems to be how people arrive. They come for a song, an album, a listening note, and then sometimes they wander off somewhere else. Or they stay. I don’t always know which, and I don’t mind not knowing. That’s a lie, I would love to know, but as I said yesterday, the blog doesn’t invite comments or thoughts, not by design or desire, but because the posts don’t demand anything from the readers. I consider myself to be a poet, a writer if you will. The fact that not one poem appears in the top 10 most read posts this year feels weird, at the same time it tells me that what I share about music is just as valuable if not more, than the poems, the opinions or the short stories. And there are also the pages people keep opening every year, discreetly. I notice that. I like noticing that.
(about me • books)

And somehow, all of the above keeps circling back to the day it began on. Going back to the start.

December 21st is the shortest day of the year. Winter solstice. The darkest day. And the turning point. Nothing changes visibly, and yet from here on, the light comes back. Slowly. I never noticed how true it is for me too. I don’t believe in coincidences. It had to be this way.

The blog changed. I changed. The voice shifted, the urgency softened. The staying didn’t. Thirteen years is a long time to keep showing up to the same place. I only really notice that when I stop showing up or when I question myself too much.

Thank you for reading, for finding this space, for following a song or a sentence and letting it lead you somewhere else.

For we are all listening to the sun.

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Friday 5

Another week has passed and July is done. Time flies, as they say. It feels as if yesterday was March and now it’s already August. The weather is dreadful over here. We had a heatwave in early July and that’s all we had for summer. Isn’t talking about weather very mundane? Let’s dive into this week’s Friday 5, shall we?

Song

Suzanne Vega – left of center

This song was released in 1986. It was a B-side of the single Tom’s diner. If you have been following this blog for a while, you probably remember that I am never too fond of female voices, but Suzanne Vega (along with Annie Lennox and Kate Bush) or exceptions. I like that she takes a blink of an eye and makes a song about it. It’s a bit similar to my short stories, but of course she does it more masterfully than I ever could. Her back catalog is well worth exploring beyond the known songs.

Photo

I love looking at the sky and at clouds. It’s also a recurring theme in my poetry; the sky, clouds, the stars, rain, storms… Last Wednesday I was having a drink with my husband and behind him I saw this. I had to take a photo of the beautiful view. I had to edit it though, in the right corner was a lamppost that I removed digitally. Beauty hides everywhere, but most often in the unseen and in the quiet distractions we don’t allow us to notice

Post of the week

Credit, where credit is due seems to have resonated with most readers this week. Post of the week

Music recap for July

It’s a bit funny how there’s no real overlap between the top tracks and top artists. But maybe that says something about how scattered my mind was this month…

Musing

I don’t have much to offer, but what I have I give freely. Care is not about asking for something in return, it is about presence.

How was your week? What was your top song, or which one would you share? Did you take the time to look at the clouds and the stars, to dance in the rain and to breathe?

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from absence to presence

Posted for Mental Health Awareness Month

Some things take years to name. And still, they shape every part of who we become.

I was born into absence. Not into poverty, not into physical violence, but into a silence that shaped everything I later became. There was a house, there were adults, there were routines… but there was no soft place to land. No arms that held me without conditions. No voice that asked, “How do you feel?”

Instead, there were expectations: be good, be quiet, be helpful. Love was a test I had to pass by sacrificing myself. If I loved my mother, I had to take care of her needs when I was only four. If I loved my family, I had to disappear when my presence became inconvenient. I was never hit, but I was unseen. I was never starved, but I was hollow.

I remember sitting by the window, dressed up, waiting for my father’s car to pull up. But I waited in vain… he didn’t come. The excuses were shallow. I felt forgotten and hurt. My grandmother would sneer and say that even my father didn’t care about me. She was also the one who told me I was not worth the air I was breathing… a waste of skin. My mother was too numb, too caught up in her illness to protect me.

Later, I learned my father couldn’t bring together the family he had left and the one he chose next. He didn’t know how… probably because of guilt. But none of that softened the silence he left behind. His absence was louder than words. I learned early that love could leave. That silence was safer than asking for more. That presence didn’t guarantee anything. That fear never fully disappeared. I still carry it… the fear of being too much, of being left, of not being enough to stay for.

There were days I wanted to disappear. Not dramatically. Just… fade. I often wondered if anyone would notice. Or care. I didn’t feel real unless I was needed. And when I wasn’t, I disappeared into myself. There were no diagnoses, no interventions. Just a little girl carrying grief that wasn’t hers. Until I was seven years old, I barely spoke to anyone outside my immediate family. I was silent at school, silent among strangers. It wasn’t shyness. It was something deeper… a sense that my voice didn’t matter, or that it wasn’t safe to use. No one did anything about it. No one felt the need to find out why I didn’t speak. And so I learned early that my silence was more acceptable than my presence.

I could have vanished. I could have become numb. I could have chased oblivion and found comfort in destruction. I didn’t. I chose a harder path.

I chose presence.

Not because I had help. I didn’t. I had three therapy sessions and one blister of medication. That was in 2019, when I was 36, proof that some wounds linger long before we name them. I couldn’t talk about what hurt because my voice was locked somewhere inside my chest. I survived not through intervention, but through instinct.

I wrote. I bled into pages. I listened to music like it was scripture. I held myself in the night when no one else would. And somehow, through all of it, I also held others. Quietly. Faithfully. Unrecognised.

And when I asked for help… on the rare occasion I reached out, raw and exposed… I was told to get professional help. As if all my self-healing, all the decades of surviving without imploding, meant nothing. As if I were still the damaged one. Maybe the idea of my wholeness makes some people uncomfortable… maybe they need me to stay small.

But I am not damaged.

I am someone who turned silence into language. Who turned emotional starvation into fierce love. Who broke cycles instead of repeating them. I am a mother who gives what she never received. I am a teacher who sees the invisible children. I am a woman who carries her contradictions with grace.

There are still parts of me I don’t often speak about. I used to hurt myself. Quietly. It gave shape to the ache I couldn’t explain. Pain made me feel real when nothing else did. I never hid it, but no one ever asked. I stopped, eventually… replaced the blade with a pen. But the memory of those moments still lives under my skin.

And there are moments, even now, when I am struggling. When I am thinking about how easy it would be to numb my fears and pain with a blade against my skin. Just once. Sweet relief. But I don’t. So far, I have been able to resist that temptation.

Sometimes, even now, anxiety sneaks in. My heart races. My breath shortens. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, I recognise it. I let it pass. I stay with it now. I don’t run. That’s how I know I’ve changed.

There is still fear. Still sadness. Still those days when I feel like I’m unravelling. But I am not ashamed of them anymore. They are not signs of failure. They are the soft reminders that I have depth, that I survived, that I still feel.

I once said, “Despite it all, I turned out quite normal.” Someone laughed and said, “With all due respect, you are not normal.” And they were right. I am not. I am not numb. I am not simple. I am not easy.

I am still here in the quietest, most enduring ways. My husband has been part of that quiet. His support isn’t loud or showy, and we don’t speak about most of what’s written here… by my choice, but he is there in the small things. In the steadiness. In the way he leaves space for me to be as I am. That matters more than he knows.

I feel deeply and live honestly. I want to be seen… not to be saved, but to be seen simply as the person I am. And even when I fear I’m too much, I overthink and retreat. I quiet myself before anyone else can. I try not to take up space. But deep down, I still hope someone might see me and not turn away.

I turned from absence to presence by refusing to disappear. I stitched myself together with poems, small victories, and the decision to keep loving… even when it hurt. Even when it was not returned. Even when it would have been easier to break.

This is who I became: not someone untouched by trauma… but someone who made meaning out of it. Not someone who pretends to be okay… but someone who is okay because she stopped pretending.

I am not broken. I am whole… in all my layers. And I did it myself. And I am still becoming.

If you’re reading this during Mental Health Awareness Month and wondering if your story matters… it does. Even in silence. Even in struggle. Even when no one sees the work you’re doing just to stay. You are not alone.

Thank you for being part of my present.

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remembering September – a throwback post

Last month, I had the idea to walk down memory lane with the blog. After many years of sharing thoughts and poetry and everything in between, I wanted to compile a sort of best of, but that’s not as easy as I thought it would be. I am a harsh critic when it comes to my own creations. But last month’s post sparked the idea of doing this every month from now on. So here goes…

One post from the month of September since the beginning of the blog. Please enjoy and don’t spare the feedback.

2012:

none because the blog was born in December

2013:

moods…

2014:

Life goes on

2015:

the right moment in time

2016:

her mind is troubled

2017:

But that’s just a tiny part of me.

2018:

Music…

2019:

melting your clouds

2020:

Goodbye, Anathema

2021:

Musing

2022:

untitled_20220918

2023:

randomness_20230915

Just like last month, I am surprised by the amount of poetry I wrote over the years. But I also noticed that September is always a time for change, a time for reflection. September 2015 is a month that changed my life, even though it might not be visible at first glance, after that month, my writing changed a lot. Things happened that month, and without them, I would not be here today, I would not be who I am, and I would not have thought about getting a job either. September 2015 was one of the most important months of my adult life. And yet, not much of that was shared on the blog. The reasons stayed and will always stay privat.

Just like in August, there is a little bit of everything: music, short stories, musings, personal stuff, and of course, poetry. All of the above posts, all 11 of them are worth your attention. You’ll see how much I’ve changed and how much I’ve stayed the same

Take a look and don’t be shy to comment. You will notice that I am not spoiled with comments.

And if you want to know more about me and where to find me, this post is for you

about me

Thank you for your love and your curiosity. It matters. You matter. ❤

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randomness

Yesterday, I went to a wedding again. I think most of my friends, acquaintances and family members are married now. Apart from my younger sister, but she has time and no one needs to marry anyway – it’s a very personal decision after all.

It is nice to be at all these ceremonies. But it also makes me remember my own wedding and how much I would change it today. But times were different 17 years ago. And we were different too. I was 24 when I got married. Patrick was 29. But we already had our son, we had a house…

Anyway…

I think we were older when we were young.

It sounds weird, but I think now that our kids are all teenagers (14, 15, 19), we can be young again too. We had many responsibilities when we were young and they made us feel old or live an old life. Dynamics have changed lately. And that’s nice. We live like roommates right now. The teenagers do their own laundry and their own cleaning. Often (during the summer holidays) they also do their own cooking. And still. We have one meal a day together. If possible, all 5 of us. We laugh and talk a lot. We often have philosophical talks too during dinner. I like that. I like to hear their thoughts and their views on life and everything. And still, I am still their mom, they still come to me when something is not right and I still spoil them with one on one time. With 3 kids it is important that they can be on their own with a parent at times. It’s something we always did. Partly because they had and have different interests and needs, and partly because they deserve to be heard without their siblings present.

The wedding yesterday was very nice. And I felt very good too. That’s not always the case at social gatherings. I often don’t fit. It was different yesterday. It started with the fact that I had a good morning. My best friend helped choose my dress (via pictures). And from there, everything fell into place. My hair was easy to style. I simply put it up and the right curls fell out. It was not planned like that, I actually just put the hair in a clip when I applied my makeup. But it looked good and I kept it that way. The dress looked beautiful on me too. In my day to day life, I only wear black. I like it that way. And have for many years. But you don’t wear black to a wedding. And so, over the years, I assembled a collection of more colourful dresses. Yesterday, I had 3 to choose from. All of them had never been worn before. One was white with purple patterns all over. Very flowy and airy. One was teal. The cloth is like a tshirt made of jersey, and it was a very simple dress too. The last one was orange at the top and had a colour gradient that turns into dark blue. Flowy and airy too.

My best friend suggested that one. It was also the one I had in mind, even though I was worried it would be too flashy. After all, when I tried it on for the first time and Patrick saw it, he said I looked like a fluorescent text marker. So… I was dressed in my orange dress, with a very colourful little clutch. Blue watch (Bering) on the right wrist, my bracelet that I always wear on the left. Flat black sandals and blue nail polish. I looked good. And I felt confident too. I think it showed.

My eyes are closed in the photo, but apparently my smile makes up for that – that’s what I’ve been told. And yes, the dress really empathizes my chest.

I completely lost the plot here… I have no idea what I wanted to write and communicate in the first place.

I am 41 one now. I have the same life I had when I was 30, except that I am working now. I still have the same interests (music, writing, movies). But I also think that I am more settled now. A bit more confident in myself. A bit less moody. A bit more content. And maybe that comes with age.

A couple years back (2 years, actually) I felt old and all wrong. Because of my (on-going) shoulder issues, I had changed jobs in quick succession which made me feel like a failure in many ways. I was unsure which way to go and how to go on. Then I started a job that I needed to finally find closure. It’s there that I understood that my age and the many jobs I had were assets. Experience is an asset. And my entire outlook changed. 1 year ago I dared to take my current job as a preschool teacher. And I love it. Every moment of it (apart from the long long summer holidays – they make me restless).

Living means evolving. It means embracing change. It also means embracing the past, because everything happens for a reason, and every step we take leads us somewhere. We might not always like where we are. We might fight it. But in the end, we always learn from situations and experiences. We grow. And isn’t that a gift?!

I think, I need to be more grateful for everything I have. I tend to forget from time to time that I have a rather comfortable life.

Have a great Sunday ☀️

I will do what I often do. Reading, listening to music, texting back and forth with the people I love, and reminding myself to keep breathing.

(PS: today I am wearing black again)

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remembering August – a throwback post

I am up early today. I already cleaned the kitchen, put in a load of laundry, and had a cup of coffee outside. I am on my second cup now. Quite mundane.

This morning, I got a notification telling me that there is a new subscriber on the blog, yesterday I received the same notification. I just wanted to take a moment to welcome you both.

It also gave me the idea to browse the blog and share what I have been up to in the last decade on here. Decade? Yes, it’s going to be 12 years on this journey and there are no signs of stopping.

Okay, so what has happend on or around an August 23rd on this blog since 2012? Here goes:

2012 : nothing. The blog’s birthday is in December 🙂

2013:

don’t let me die

2014:

frozen heart

2015:

Fragmented Thoughts

2016:

Callous Whispers

2017:

Throwback
This one is like inception: a post in a post in a post. It’s nice though, very much in the gist of what I am writing currently

2018:

drunken poetry

2019:

2020:

Sunday Scribbles #15 – mirrors

2021:

untitled_20210824

2022:

A modern vesper

2023:

Lost in space

What strikes me most is that I really wrote a lot of poetry and always seem to have. To be honest, I thought the poetry was a more recent thing and didn’t go back all the way. There is a lot of music too. August 22 was a month of music. And so many posts. So many words. And most are mine. It’s incredible. While putting this post together, I felt embarrassed by the words I read. And I was ready to change this post and make it something different. No one would have known, right? Well halfway through the embarrassment changed into something close to pride. I say close to pride because I am having troubles feeling that emotion. I was not raised to see my successes, I was raised to see my failures and dwell on them.

Be it as it may, above are (let me count again) 11 posts. I’d say they are worth getting some attention, but who am I to judge? The coffee is kicking in.

Did any of these posts stand out for you? Which one? I know it is a lot of work to read through them all, but let me assure you, there are less words in all the 11 posts combined than in this post here. The comments are open everywhere. Don’t hesitate to share your thoughts.

While I am writing this, I am also listening to music. (The moment I stop listening to music, something is very wrong). Oddly enough, the song is from the same band and the same album as the song from the 2022 post. Her Name is Calla – Animal Choir. Trusted readers know my story with this band extends way past the music.

Thank you very much for being there. It matters. You may think it doesn’t and that no one even notices that you are there. But I know and I see you.

If you want to know more about me or where to find me online or offline, take a look at this post:

about me
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Nostalgia and Growth

Sometimes it feels as if I am writing into the void. That’s often nice enough, but sometimes, I crave some feedback. Maybe some attention, you could also say. A decade ago, I shared many of my stories on a site called Wattpad. It’s one of those sites where you post your writing and with a little luck, you get instant response. The dopamine rush of that can be addicting and I admit, when I stopped writing long stories and only poetry started to leave my fingers, the interaction became less and less. I was spoiled by the young readers and their enthusiasm and it couldn’t be diverted to the poetry. I decided that it was time to go. I had a great following there; three times as much as I have here. And most of them were active in one way or another. I miss that here. I am very grateful for the handful of names that pop up daily in my notifications. Very much so. And I can never repay you for the time you’ve spent here on my blog.

It’s petty but I kind of miss that instant gratification I had on Wattpad right now. I miss more people reacting to my writing. And sometimes I think about joining that place again, just for the sake of it. But the truth is, I’ve outgrown the site. I am in my 40s and shouldn’t want that kind of attention. Then again, attention generates sales. I sold two copies of Fire & Rain on Amazon since it came out. And two here on the blog. Often I wonder if I even have the right to call myself a writer or a poet. But I am. I have all the words and the files to show that I am.

That sounds all wrong and infuriating, doesn’t it? But there is a reason for that too.

I write daily. Post new poems almost daily too. I wonder if it is too much or if I am not good enough after all. Maybe the voices in my head insisting that I am delusional to think that my writing has any value in anyone’s life are right and I should stop pestering everyone with it. (Writing this, allowing the thought to appear in black letters on my white screen makes me feel embarrassed and fragile.)

Sometimes, when I receive a very nice comment, I screenshot it. For exactly the above reason. To remind myself that at one time, one person was affected by a string of words I wove together. I need that reminder. I need to remember that I matter.

That’s why I collected few mentioned screenshots and put them in a gallery on the blog. On the desktop, it should be to your right, on the mobile it should be visible when you scroll all the way down.

I am not a pretender, not a fraud. I know words. And I know how to use them. I know what sounds flat and forced and how to put a sentence to make it emotive and real. Rationally I know all that. But I doubt myself anyway.

I feel the need to say “THANK YOU” to all of you who are here in this corner with me. You’ve found me and liked me or my words (or both) enough to show up again and again. I am not giving back enough, but I love and appreciate you a lot.

and as I am sitting here, bleeding my thoughts on the screen again, a song called Panic is playing. A song I haven’t heard in years. It came on in a Spotify playlist. The lyrics are a bit weird, poetic and relatable. The song is a lot louder and more chaotic than the music I listen to recently. My kids are joking about it, they say I’m growing into a softy. And maybe they are right. Then again, maybe they aren’t.

I look up and out of my window and see the blue sky, the wind that is caressing the grapevines and the old linden tree. In the window of the neighbours, I can see the reflection of my home. I love my home and the life I am living right now.

There is more to this day than my sullen mood. A lot more. I will make lunch for my daughters, pick up my son from work (with my new car) and then I will read, listen to music and remember that I am not alone. Even if I feel quite lonely right now. It’s too quiet around me, it makes room for my thoughts to become too loud. This too will pass.

If you have a minute, take a look at the new gallery. And if you have two, could you leave comment for me? Just to let me know that you are there. Thank you.

It’s Friday! Enjoy your day.

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A weekend well spent

Well, I’ll be honest with you – I spent my weekend doing something that might seem a bit odd to some folks. I went on a barcode-scanning spree, cataloging my DVDs and books. Yeah, I know, thrilling stuff, right? But hey, I’d already tackled the CDs and vinyl a while back, so it was time to face the music (or in this case, the movies and literature). Doing this, puts me in a kind of trance. I love doing this. But it’s time spent absolutely unnecessarily. I am aware of that.

Let me tell you, I was in for a shock when I saw the final tally of books. And get this – it’s probably going to climb even higher once I rope my kids into scanning their collections. They’re bookworms, just like their mom. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I guess.

Now, here’s the kicker – looking at all these collections, it’s a bit of a gut punch realizing how much cash I’ve sunk into them over the years. And now? They’re worth peanuts, monetarily speaking. Sure, they’ve got sentimental value, but my wallet’s not feeling the love. I can’t help but think of all the other stuff I could’ve blown that money on. But you know what? At the time, buying those films, books, and CDs felt like the best thing ever.

It’s funny, though. The newest DVD in my collection is from 2016. That’s ancient history in tech years. And nowadays? They’re just collecting dust, taking up space. I’m starting to think it might be time to offload some, if not all of them.

Books are a different story. That collection’s like a living, breathing thing – always growing. Just last week, I added two more to the pile. And let’s be real, they won’t be the last. Same goes for CDs and vinyl. I’m still buying those, and I don’t see that changing anytime soon.

Alright, brace yourself for some nerdy numbers:

Books: 736

DVDs: 548

CDs: 1317

Vinyl: 226

Before you ask, no, my house isn’t a cluttered mess. The DVDs are tucked away in boxes in storage. Books and CDs line the corridor shelves, and the vinyl’s got prime real estate in the living room, right by the turntables.

I’ll admit, those numbers make me cringe a bit. Don’t ask me why I’m even sharing this. It is what it is, I guess. All that stuff? I’ve read it, watched it, listened to it. That’s where all this useless trivia in my head comes from.

Funny thing – I was chatting with a friend last night about how we all want to be the center of attention, and how social media’s just made it worse. We’ve all got opinions, and we’re dying to share them. We want to be seen, heard. I don’t think the world owes me anything, but it’s nice to feel acknowledged, you know?

I’m under no illusions – I’m never going to be famous. My “fame” is limited to the little bubble I’ve created for myself. Weirdly enough, it might be yesterday’s conversation that’s making me feel a bit uneasy about typing all this out. Maybe I should focus on the other stuff we talked about, like how it’s possible to disagree with someone and still respect and love them.

So, there you have it – my completely unnecessary and shallow post. Love me anyway, will you?

What about you? How’d you spend your weekend?

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Where do the words live?

As I run my fingers along the spines of the books lining my shelves, I’m struck by a profound sense of gratitude and accomplishment. It’s been a long, winding journey to get to this point, but seeing the physical manifestation of my creativity is an emotional experience I never could have imagined.

The feeling is almost indescribable – the weight of the paperbacks, the crisp pages, the cover designs. It’s as if I can literally reach out and touch the culmination of years’ worth of late nights, self-doubt, and perseverance. Each book represents a pivotal chapter in my evolution as a writer, a storyteller, and an artist.

I remember the first time I held one of my published works. The scent of fresh ink and paper in my nose as I opened it for the first time. In that moment, all of the moments of feeling lost or uncertain – they all melted away. I was overcome with a profound sense of pride and purpose. This was real. This was tangible. This was mine.

Of course, the journey hasn’t been without its challenges. There have been times when the blank page has taunted me, when the weight of expectation has felt crushing, when I’ve questioned whether I have what it takes. But in those moments, I’ve tried to stay grounded in my “why” – the deep, intrinsic drive to share my voice and connect with readers around the world on a profound level.

And now, as I gaze upon this growing collection of my written and published words, I realise that these books represent not just my stories, but pieces of my heart and soul. They are witness of my creativity, and the transformative potential of the written word.

Thank you, dear readers, for your support. Whether you’ve bought a copy of my books (and I could name you all, as it’s not many) or you’re one of the many silent readers of my daily blog posts, your engagement means the world to me.

As I look at the collection of my books arranged in chronological order on the shelves (as seen on the picture), you may notice that there are 9 books in the picture, even though I currently only sell 8. That’s because the one at the bottom of the stack was written under an alias. It contained numerous writing and formatting errors, so I took it off the market myself. I consider that book a trial run – a learning experience that taught me what not to do.

Moving forward, I plan to ensure all of my future publications match the size and style of “Heart of Stone” or “WORD THIEF” for a more cohesive aesthetic. Seeing the shelves filled with my work fills me with a sense of pride. The sheer volume of words I’ve written and continue to produce daily is something I would have never expected like this. These days, my creative process is fueled by inspiring music, reading, and the practice of learning new chords on the ukulele.

Yet, this constant creative outpouring also leaves me with many unanswered questions. Where do these words come from? Where are they stored when I fall silent? Are they coloured in hues of my voice? And is it as loud and clear as I intend it to be? Or is this all just a futile attempt to leave a trace of myself on the world? The truth is, I don’t have definitive answers. What I do have is an unwavering passion for words and a drive to create meaningful, well-crafted content poems and posts. Whether I possess true talent as a writer is not for me to judge. I’ll simply keep pouring my heart into this craft, and trusting the process.

If you’d like to join me on this literary journey, I invite you to follow this blog and explore my collection of books, available now. Your support and readership mean the world to me, and I’m excited to continue sharing my voice with you. Together, let’s explore the power of the written word and all the possibilities it holds.

The journey continues, and I can’t wait to see where it leads us next.

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Losing myself – finding myself

The photo captures a moment of pure tranquility – a woman, lost in the pages of a French novel, her fingers gently caressing the strings of a ukulele, a steaming cup of coffee by her side. It’s a scene that instantly transports me to a place of profound peace and self-reflection.In this image, that woman is me.

I’ve chosen to embrace this moment of respite, to lose myself in the rhythmic sway of the ukulele, the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee, the lyrical cadence of a foreign tongue. It’s a chance for me to disconnect from the noise and reconnect with the essence of who I am.

In these fleeting hours, I find myself drifting, my thoughts unraveling with each turn of the page. There is a sense of freedom, of weightlessness, that washes over me. It’s as if the worries of the world have been lifted, leaving me to simply be – to exist in the present, to savor the simple pleasures that so often go unnoticed.

In a world that so often demands our constant attention, the ability to carve out a day of quiet solitude is a true gift. To sit in the stillness, to let my mind wander without the intrusion of notifications is a luxury I too often deny myself.

But today, I’ve chosen to embrace this moment of respite, to indulge in the restorative power of solitude.

So, I encourage you, my fellow wanderers, to seek out these oases of calm. Carve out a day, an hour, even a moment, to find that same sense of freedom and clarity that I’ve discovered in this moment of solitude.

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I wrote those words knowing that I often struggle embracing these moments. Even more so right now. I went from being wired all the time to feeling invisible and un-needed. For now, I have not found the right way to embrace my first summer holidays as a preschool teacher. But it will come. If I don’t pressure myself and carve out new routines, if I lower my own expectations, it will come. And today is a start. 💜❤️💜❤️

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Simple and Profound: Me

The most read poem on the blog:

Steal me!

I decided to share the above poem again because it holds a special place in my heart. As I browsed the stats today, I was pleasantly surprised to see that there has been a surge in views on the blog recently. And while I was browsing and reading, I noticed that the poem above has garnered the most reads ever. This reaffirms my belief in the power of simplicity and the beauty of brevity. It’s fascinating to see how this simple, short poem has resonated with so many people, making it clear that sometimes the most straightforward works hold the most profound impact.

The most viewed post about music:

Goodbye, Anathema

I wrote a lot about music and the meaning of it in my life. It is a bit of a surprise that over the years this has become the most read or viewed post about music. Still, I like it though. By the way, both Cavanagh brothers came out with new music this week. Both collaborated with Daniel Cardoso and both songs couldn’t be any more different. Weather Systems’s track truly captures the essence of emotional and powerful music. The track “do angels sing like rain” is a masterpiece that takes the listener on a journey through the depths of human emotions. On the other hand, The Radicant’s EP “We Ascend” is a bold step into experimental and boundary-pushing music. The mesmerizing and intricate sounds in the title track leave a lasting impression. The diversity of these projects showcases the incredible range of the artists involved. It’s truly fascinating how artists can explore such different musical territories. If you haven’t already, give both artists a listen, they deserve it.

The most read short story:

rare bird (edited)

The original piece, penned back in 2014, still resonates with me today as I revisit it on this very site. It’s fascinating to look back on a piece that captures a different time in my life. Reflecting on it now, it’s clear that those stories played a crucial role in shaping my growth as a writer and helped me tap into the depths of my creative reservoir. They were instrumental in guiding me towards discovering and nurturing the poet within.

It took a long while to find my voice, and in a way I think the writing on this blog that was recently shared is amongst the best I ever shared. It’s just a feeling, maybe you feel otherwise. I have been very inspired when I finished editing Fire&Rain. It’s quite nice. This was my trip down memory lane for this week.

Now, here is my question for you and I would be happy if you would take the time to engage with me:

What is the first poem you read on my blog? Do you remember it?

Did you listen to the songs? Which one do you prefer?

Which posts do you prefer to see on this blog? Obviously, there is a lot about me too, and short stories like Rare Bird…

Too much? No, it’s simple, profound: me. More about me can be found here: about me.

Keep in touch 🙂

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unwritten dreams

Did I write or did I sleep?
Did I dream the words you'll never see?
Thoughts that danced across my mind,
Captured in the depths of memory.

Ink on paper, a silent plea,
Yearning to convey what's in my heart.
But the words, they slip away,
Leaving me to wonder, did I part?

With the veil of sleep, they disappear,
Fading like the morning dew.
Did I craft a story true?
Or was it just a dream, through and through?

The passion burns, the embers glow,
Igniting a fire within my soul.
To write, to express, to let it flow,
But the elusive words, they never unfold.

Did I write or did I sleep?
The mystery lingers, deep and profound.
A dance of dreams, a wordsmith's keep,
Where the unwritten lives, forever bound.
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the bittersweet paradox

The capacity to feel deeply, to hurt deeply, is what allows us to also love deeply, to find joy in the midst of sorrow, and to discover the profound meaning that lies at the heart of being human.This emotional depth is both a blessing and a curse – the price we pay for being able to engage with the world and with each other on such a visceral, meaningful level. When we open ourselves up to the full spectrum of human emotions, we make ourselves vulnerable. We risk being hurt, devastated, consumed by anguish.

Yet, it is precisely this willingness to be vulnerable that enables us to form the deepest, most nourishing bonds. When we hurt deeply, it demonstrates our ability to invest ourselves completely in relationships and experiences. The pain of heartbreak is the flip side of our capacity to love passionately.

And it is this depth of feeling – our range from ecstasy to agony – that allows us to find profound beauty and meaning amidst the sorrow. In the darkest of times, we can still uncover moments of transcendent joy, profound gratitude, and abiding hope. Our emotional complexity is what makes us fully, viscerally alive.

This is the bittersweet paradox at the heart of the human experience. The very qualities that leave us susceptible to suffering – our sensitivity, our capacity for attachment, our willingness to be emotionally raw – are the same qualities that enable us to engage with the world in the most meaningful way.

To feel deeply is to hurt deeply. But it is also to love deeply, to find exquisite pockets of light in the darkness, and to discover the profound significance that lies at the core of being human. It is the price we pay for being fully, gloriously alive.

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exceeded all expectations

As a preschool teacher, I pour my heart and soul into the work I do every single day. The pure joy I get from watching my students grow and thrive is utterly unmatched. But when that deep dedication and passion is recognized by my school leaders in a tangible way, it fills me with an overwhelming sense of pride and validation.

That’s exactly what happened today when I received a glowing performance review that was customized just for me. Instead of a generic, one-size-fits-all assessment, this report was crafted with intentionality, drawing on specific details about my work to paint a personalized picture of my exceptional contributions. And the crowning achievement? My review stated that I had “exceeded all expectations” – the highest possible grade.

My heart swelled with emotion as I heard those words. This was no generic review – it was a true testament to the invaluable impact I have on my preschool community. My director clearly sees me as an asset worthy of the highest praise.

Receiving such personalized and heartfelt recognition feels incredibly affirming. Even more so because he is know to use prewritten tools to evaluate his staff. This is a reminder that the hard work, passion, and purpose I pour into my classroom does not go unnoticed. My school leaders are paying attention, and they understand the true value I bring to my students, families, and colleagues. Maybe this sounds conceited, but I do believe that my work is valuable.

This is the kind of performance review that will fuel me to keep reaching new heights in my career. It’s a reminder of my worth and expertise. And it’s a shining example of how school administrators can make their teachers feel truly seen, heard, and celebrated. Unfortunately, we know that they don’t do this often enough.

Still, I’m honored by this well-deserved achievement. My hard work and dedication have been elevated in a meaningful way. I’ll keep shining bright – I love my job.

Exceeded all expectations (or originally: dépasse les attentes). It’s unbelievable, but it is also an accomplishment that makes me very proud.

Now that I finally reached this goal, the next milestone is waiting around the bend: the launch of Fire & Rain.

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Personal Favorites: English and Luxembourgish Songs from My Homeland

Today, I have something special for you. Tomorrow, we will celebrate our Luxembourgish National Holiday (Nationalfeierdag). Traditionally, there will be fireworks, parades and a lot of live music. I put together a playlist with 30something songs made in Luxembourg.

Our National Holiday used to be our monarch’s birthday. Up until the 60s it was celebrated in January. But because of the cold weather (imagine that!) the festivities were moved to June 23rd. Now, this date is no guarantee for good weather. This year, summer hasn’t arrived yet. It’s unseasonably cold and wet, and yet it is very damp outside too.

Luxembourgish people are said to be stand-offish, at the same time most of us are very tolerant and open. We are known to switch from our native language to French or German within a sentence. And around the world Luxembourg is also (falsely) known for its wealth. I say falsely, because the cost of living and rents or mortgages are very high here. Based on our salary (compared to other countries) we appear to be rich, but we are not. Like everywhere in the world there is 1% that is richer than the majority of the country. We have the same issues with substance abuse and homelessness than other countries. And the alcohol consumption over here is way above average compared to other countries. And yet, we are a good bunch of people, I think. We have a rich cultural diversity. With many places to visit and lots to learn. Which brings me back to the playlist I am sharing with you today.

The genres of music in Luxembourg are as divers as the citizens of this beautiful country Grand-Duchy. In this playlist you can find songs I personally like. They are in English and in Luxembourgish. It’s a bit of a weird language if you never heard it, and as I’ve been told it is pretty hard to learn too. But, it’s what I speak every day.

Once in a while, I am asked why I never write poetry in my mother tongue. Honestly, I find it very difficult to find the right words to convey what I want to say in my language. It’s easier in English, at least for me it is. That said, in the playlist are two songs I wrote the lyrics for – both in English (of course). Should I reveal which ones or should I let you guess? Followers of the blog may remember them because I posted them before. Years ago. Okay, I’ll tell you. It’s Run Baby Run, and Little Girl. They were written a lifetime ago. Long before I really started writing poetry and prose. Long before I found my own voice. Maybe you can hear my whisper in them though.

No whispers but my loud and clear voice can be found in my upcoming release Fire & Rain. It was added to the BNL – Bibliothèque Nationale du Luxembourg (National Library of Luxembourg). A couple of copies have been pre-ordered, thank you for that. Two were given away to close friends. If you want your copy, let me know.

Have a great weekend, listen to some music, read some poetry. Be kind and happy. I am here all weekend if you fancy a chat. Did you ever hear of Luxembourg before? What are the things you heard and do you want to know if they are true?