Thirty-three

It certainly has been a while. I was thinking of all the words these keyboards have typed and all the words left at my fingertips left to be written. I wonder if life is always a little like this, reflections of the past and longings for what could be. Truth is I think I have always wanted to write. To be lost in thought, contemplating ways of making me be here, right here, in this present moment, where all I can savour are the words that seem to exist between the whispers in my mind and the arrangement of letters I read. I can't seem to do it on paper. I can't keep up. My mind races and corrects itself once things have been said and I bore myself waiting for my pen to write. But what could I write about? 

So, here goes. I am thirty three. My life has been a bit of the same the past few years and I worry how easy it is for time to pass by and for things not to change. I think I have always craved change. I remember the first time I moved furniture around my room and how every few months I would keep doing it. I convinced myself that it would give me a new perspective and make me appreciate the things I had in a new light, but I often wonder if I did it because my life bored me and it was the only novelty I had to keep things loosely interesting. Fast forward to my grown up self and all I can think of is packing everything up and moving somewhere different. Change, once again. Resign from my job, leave my friends, leave the city in which I've lived now for 16 years, move out of the house I've bought. Just go. I've dreamt of living in the countryside for a long time now, the silence of words spoken so that all sounds left are soft melodies sung by nature. To be alone with my thoughts, to feel little in a big world, insignificant. Yet so free. And to see what comes of it, who she becomes. I'm a little curious, aren't you? But I don't think I realised how fearful I am. Fearful of getting it wrong. Doing something I thought I wanted to realise I don't, and then what? How do I ever trust myself again? 

My recent dilemma has been whether to colour my hair or not. I've contemplated this decision for a couple of weeks now and it's interesting to listen in on the fear that rules. Fear of getting the wrong colour, of it being too dark or too light, or not covering the greys that now permanently light up my temples. Fear of regret, that now I have to deal with regrowth if I commit or colouring it to my natural colour, which will then fade, make my hair dry and look damaged. Fear of realising I have little belief in my own beauty, which makes me spiral into feeling pathetic when I want to be a little vain. Fear of spending money on something not needed, and the guilt I then carry when I do. Even now, I've talked myself completely out of it. And as soon as I do, I'm back in. A total yo-yo at the mercy of fear. Total decision paralysis. How can this be?

I'm not sure I started this thinking I was going to write about fear. I seriously live with a lot of it. I'm not sure if it feels like it's part of my skin, or if it feels like a tumour I need serious intervention removing. I wonder who I'd be if I didn't have so much of it. Where I'd be. What I'd have done with my life so far. And sometimes I wonder about all the things I started that I never finished or never gave my all, not because of a lack of discipline, but because I feared what would become of it. And how so many of the decisions I have made were because they were in my comfort zone, familiar, achievable. A lot of happiness has come from them, but I can't help but wonder, what if fear didn't govern my decisions? Shall I try?

Write more next time, with freshly dyed hair.

Love,

Sofia 

April readings, part 1

Hi. Hello. I'm home. Not as in today, but as in the week. As in, for weeks. If you're reading from the future, the world has been hit by a virus - the fearless Covid-19. I'm safe, we're safe, but many are not, and my heart and thoughts go out to them and their families. 

Goes without saying that there is a silver lining in spending a lot of time at home. Being the introvert that I am, I find immense joy from being by myself in my space. I have dedicated a number of hours to reading (let me just say: there's an art to finding the right reading position and reading spot and reading light and reading pace and reading drink... all of which I look forward to learning about myself as I dive into more and more books into the coming weeks and months). 

Here is what I've read in the past couple of weeks: 

Notes to Self by Emilie Pine 

I really loved this collection of essays, written in such a vulnerable, honest yet modest way, that left me contemplating and reflecting my own experiences and memories. The first two stories of her alcoholic father and of her miscarriage left me in tears, and reminded me of the importance of journal writing as a form of introspection and therapy. If you're looking for a quick read, a page turner, a conversation with a friend, a gentle cry, give this one a go. 

The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood 

There's quite a buzz about this book since the show has been made a few years back, which I'll get round to watching now that I've read it (though, I want to read Testaments, the follow-up book, first). And I can see why. Written in 1985, it was certainly a thought-provoking book about female repression. The book is narrated from the perspective of Offred, a Handmaid, and is set in a futuristic dystopian world where women are divided into different roles - Handmaid's to bare children for the Commanders. I felt the plot losing itself towards the middle and craved a little more to happen, but it was still an interesting and chilling read that didn't disappoint. 

Lanny by Max Porter 

Lanny Lanny Lanny, what a lovely afternoon read. The book is written from the perspective of Lanny's mother, father, close family friend and Dead Papa Toothwort (I know, strange!). He's a sweet and lovely boy, with a great imagination and curiosity. The book is fairytale-esque, confusing, perplexing, dreamy and poetic. One to come back to. 

How to Fail: Everything I've Ever Learned From Things Going Wrong by Elizabeth Day (on Audible)

This was a surprise, a great recommendation from a friend. Elizabeth divides the book into chapters of failures of different types, work, relationships, families, etc, that are so easily relatable. Witty, tender, funny and reflective. Will check out her podcast too. 

Reasons to Stay Alive by Matt Haig (on Audible)

A book about Matt Haig's experience with depression. His perspective is heartbreaking, vulnerable, unashamed and somewhat humorous. A good listen. 

What have you been reading? 

Much love, 

Sofia 

Pottering

Oh my. The year, the decade, is about to end and I have not written one single post here in over 12 months. Not because I haven't had anything to say, or to contemplate, but I guess because I haven't had the need for my voice to be heard. In reality, life is now so much more about doing, or about recovering from being busy, that there's little time for recording contemplations or reflections. I'm laying here on my bed, recovering from the flu, feeling all sorts of guilt from not being at work and worried about all of the things I still need to do, to realise that we are all in a way quite dispensable. Too often do I take things too seriously when in fact all I need to do is let things be and breathe. Take it in and move on.

So let me tell you a few things...

The house looks different. We've been master renovators; there's a little bit of us in every corner and groove of this house, that it is finally starting to feel ours. It's quite something looking around to know a little bit of you is in everything that surrounds you.

I've been promoted at work - imposter syndrome is real and I keep wanting to figure out ways to get rid of it. Instead, I keep convincing myself that yes in fact, I did that. 

We travelled to Vietnam and Cambodia, that was quite something. Feels like a lifetime ago. Travelling changes you, enriches you, makes you more self-aware.

My legs have been moving, slowly but surely, in preparation for a marathon in April. I always said I wanted to run one before my 30th and well, I'll be 30 next year, so, you know... And it'll be a decade since Matt ran his first one, so something quite special to celebrate.

I've been reading more, moving my body often, exploring my surroundings, but still not quite good at staying in touch with people. I'm still trying to figure out why, not sure I ever will.

And I'm sure there is more, but I'm going to potter about a bit before falling into a daze once again.

One more thing: I'm becoming english. Two reasons, one - I drink a cup of brew every single day, and two - I use expressions like 'potter about' without realising.

Much love,

Sofia

A reading challenge

Today I attempted to film a video of myself committing to a challenge to read 50 pages a day for the rest of the year in an attempt to roughly read one book a week. Needless to say, I felt awkward and could not see how filming and sharing this video was going to resonate with me. So instead, here I am. Hello again, familiar words.

An old photo from Gerês, 2015. 

It's true. I'm committing to reading 50 pages a day for the rest of the year, starting August 1st, 2018. Since the start of the month, I've read a book, one book. I felt joyful. I doubt I will be able to read 50 pages a day for every day of the rest of the year - I will undoubtedly fail - but for what it's worth, I will try.

This is how I reached the conclusion to read 50 pages a day... It dawned on me that an average book has about 350 pages, some more, some less. The week has 7 days. I did some basic maths and divided the number of pages by the number of days in the week. 350/7=50 pages a day. Voila. It made it seem so much more manageable to read 50 pages a day than saying one book a week. It's about an hour of reading a day, easier by snapping those moments throughout the day that slowly but surely allow me to read all 50, but somehow not in one go. 

So, my commitment is bound my this post. Reading is to appreciate the present more, switch off from the world and slow down; reading is about making time, overcoming challenges, reminding myself that the world is greater beyond my own reality. 

Currently reading: The Summer of Impossible Things by Rowan Coleman. 

I'm on GoodReads, should you wish to see me there. 

Much love,

Sofia 

Our trip to Ireland

Earlier this year, Matt and I went to Ireland. I think it was around April time. I never got around to looking at the photos or even contemplate writing or sharing anything permanent about the trip we took. Today it dawned on me how special it is to capture the little journeys we take and prolong them in whatever way is possible. So, this is what is possible to me right now. And I hope it makes me hold onto the memories just a little longer and cherish them in the way they ought to. 

Ireland was lovely. Rainy, but lovely. We began our trip in Dublin, where we spent two days exploring the city. We then rented a car to begin our journey. Our first stop: Greystones, south of Dublin. We stopped there first because I have a (un)healthy obsession with The Happy Pear, who inspire me to live a joyous, happy and more fulfilled life. Greystones is where they have their community, and a wonderful cafe & veg shop that I joyfully explored. After sadly not running into them - casually, you know - we drove onto Cork, where we essentially just hoped from cafe to cafe. Yes, there were attempts at writing and reading, but we mostly played card games. During the next 7 days, we travelled through rural areas and drove along the coast. It was beautiful, peaceful and just what we needed to switch of from the business of the city, especially London. Smelling fresh air, getting lost, dipping our feet into the ocean, sleeping in. It was rather wonderful and invigorating. 

I leave here some photographs - only a few I took as it has been two years since the last time I had photographed. 

Much love, 

Sofia 

A little note

I'm recovering from a summer cold that my brother kindly, and unknowingly, passed onto me in the midst of a hug. After spending the afternoon in bed yesterday and much of the evening, today my spirits have lifted. I'm just over a week from finishing the course and it all seems incredibly surreal. Today I went to a conference and it was mentioned that teaching is a career about learning, not about teaching, because we are constantly learning: "it's about others growing with you". It made me smile and know that I made the right decision. I say this now but give it a few months when I'm climbing up the walls, pulling my hair out, losing my voice. 

Anyway, the house is a tip and it's 6pm. I'm sat on the couch, just finished a glass of juice and the air is coming through the window. I'm still coughing and sniffling, but won't it be so nice to get a load of laundry done, do a bit of a tidy and clean, cook some dinner and go for a walk after dinner? Of course it will. And a shower and paint my nails. 

One thing I wanted to make sure I remember is that nothing is permanent. Because I forget this, far too easily. And it is what drives me to take things so seriously. So Sofia, darling, relax, nothing is permanent, especially when it feels like it.

Better go. 

Much love,

Sofia 

Dancing with no song to dance to

Hello again. I have this pain in my lower back from having slept just over 10 hours. It's been a long time since I've slept for a while, and I sure needed it. Mornings have become precious to me, the full day ahead of me is a wonderful feeling and today, well, today I've lost that morning and I suppose that's okay. The past month or so has been an on-going battle with lists of things to do. Needless to say, I never painted that desk knob gold. But it all seems to be coming to an end. And I suppose I feel a sad relief, a nervousness about what is to come, yet an excitement and joy for it all to arrive. There's things that I want and I seem unable to have them. Instead, I trap myself by doing things, having things, that sort of just fill in the time, the space, what I think is meant to happen. I feel like I live the motions in many ways and when I find myself with a little window of time to contemplate it all and make changes, I fill it with something just to quieten the uncertainty and the honesty of it all. And I forget it all. It's hard to explain and to even accept because in many ways, I have a beautiful life. I think I'm just growing tired of life, of how the days blend into each other and how I seem incapable of changing the way I move. I want to dance without there having to be a song to dance to. I want to remember the 12th March or the 24th November, or that random Tuesday last week, because I decided to lift a paintbrush and stroke it against a canvas, or sit in the garden and finish that book, or take a walk down under the moonlight even after dinner, and skip or jump of crab walk or roll in the grass. I say that but all I really want is to own the moment. I want to feel it, and finally realise that it does not own me. Because it does. There is so much to be grateful for. I love how every time I write grateful, I really write greatfull, because it's about being filled with great things. Finding greatness in everything. Is it not? And so I'll leave it here for today. Now, I'll cry a little in the shower so I can feel a sense of relief, finally text my dad after months so I can stop crying in films when the word father is mentioned, do what I was meant to do today and do a little something unexpected, so that I get a sense of accomplishment. What will you do with the last few hours of the day?

Much Love,
Sofia