The Mirror´s Edge

I’ve always found mirrors unsettling. Not in the sense that I avoid them—I’m not that neurotic—but in the way they force you to confront yourself. It’s a tricky relationship, this thing we have with our reflection, especially in America, where the mantra of “know thyself” has somehow morphed into “market thyself.” I can’t help but think we’ve all been swindled into believing that our greatest asset is, well, us.

Take a stroll down any street, and you’ll see it: people obsessively checking their reflection in shop windows, catching that glimpse of self that reassures them they are looking good... or maybe just that they still exist. It’s as if we’ve all become amateur detectives, constantly searching for clues to our own identity, which, if we’re honest, we don’t quite trust to begin with.

And it’s not just the physical reflection we’re after. The world’s real fascination lies with the intangible self—the one that’s always in need of improvement, validation, or, at the very least, our next TED Talk.

We’re bombarded with the notion that happiness is just a self-help book away, that inner peace can be found through meditation apps, or that the key to success is a vision board and an unhealthy amount of self-belief. It’s a wonder we don’t all have whiplash from the constant navel-gazing.

Yet, for all our introspection, I wonder if we’ve actually lost touch with ourselves. We’re so busy trying to perfect our image, to craft an identity that others will find appealing, that we’ve forgotten the messy, unfiltered version of who we are. The one that doesn’t always look good in the soft light of morning, or whose thoughts don’t fit neatly into 280 characters.

It’s ironic, really. The more we chase this idealized version of ourselves, the more we distance ourselves from the reality of who we are. We become like actors in a never-ending play, constantly changing costumes and personas, but never quite sure which role is truly ours. And in the process, we lose sight of the fact that maybe the most authentic version of ourselves is the one we’re most afraid to reveal.

But here’s the thing: I don’t even own a selfie stick. Social media? Not my scene.

My relationship with the self is more of a truce than a love affair.

And yet...

I can’t 100% seem to escape the gravitational pull of this culture of self-fascination. Maybe it’s because I’m surrounded by it, or maybe it’s because I’ve internalized it more than I care to admit. Either way, it’s a strange place to be—caught between the desire to understand myself and the suspicion that maybe, just maybe, I’m not all that interesting?!

In the end, it’s a mirror’s edge we all walk, balancing the need to look inward with the danger of falling into the abyss of self-obsession. This world may be in love with itself, but me? I’m just trying to keep a safe distance most of the time.

Because the truth is, I have a sinking suspicion that knowing yourself isn’t about perfecting a reflection or curating a persona, but more about accepting the contradictions, the flaws, the moments of doubt that make us human. More so, about realizing that the search for self shouldn’t be a quest for approval, but a journey toward understanding—a journey that’s often uncomfortable, and almost always incomplete.

So maybe the real challenge isn’t in finding ourselves, but in losing the need to define ourselves in the first place?

Maybe it’s okay to exist in the messy in-between, where the edges blur and the lines aren’t so clear. Because in that space, we might just find something more meaningful than a perfect reflection. We might find the freedom to just be. 

And maybe that uncertainty is the only truth we can trust.

Sing Me a Song: Words That Wound and Mend

There’s a strange comfort in the kind of music that doesn’t just pass through your ears but lingers in your soul, digging up the things you thought you’d buried long ago. Ben Howard’s music did that for me. It became the soundtrack to my darkest hours, where the line between pain and healing blurred into something almost indistinguishable.

His songs were the echo of my own silent struggles, each lyric cutting deep but somehow stitching me back together at the same time. It was like he knew the words I couldn’t say, the feelings I couldn’t express, and he turned them into melodies that made it all make sense—or at least made it bearable.

When I found myself in Vienna for a rare live show, it wasn’t just a concert; it was a communion of sorts. An open-air arena full of people who knew, who felt, who understood the quiet power of his lyrics. We were all there, together but alone, sharing in the unspoken connection that his music had forged between us:

"Some people dance
At the altar
Some people worship
Underground

You and I
We've been through all that
Hallelujah
Look at you now"

And so, this is my small thank you. To the music makers, for words that wound and heal, often in the same breath. For showing me that music can be both the knife and the salve. And for reminding me that, even in the darkest times, there’s a kind of beauty in the struggle—a beauty that can bring us back to ourselves. And look at us now...

 

Liquid Gold in a Croat Café

There’s something about getting lost in a foreign city that feels like a rite of passage for any traveler. It was on one such meandering adventure, channeling my inner Carmen Sandiego, that I stumbled upon a quaint café, tucked away in a cobblestone alley, where time seemed to stand still.

The café was tiny, with just a handful of tables, each adorned with a single, fresh flower in a glass bottle. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air, promising comfort and warmth. Behind the counter stood an elderly man, his eyes crinkling with a welcoming smile. He was the barista, and as I would soon discover, a bit of a magician to boot.

Ordering was a delightful exercise in charades and broken phrases. I pointed to the coffee machine and gestured, hoping to convey my desperate need for caffeine. The barista chuckled, nodding in understanding. "Jedna kava, molim" (One coffee, please), I attempted, almost certainly butchering the pronunciation. He responded with a string of Croatian that left me more bewildered than before. Seeing my confusion, he smiled and said simply, "Kava?" (Coffee?) while pointing to the machine. I nodded vigorously.

As he began his ritual, carefully measuring, grinding, and brewing, I tried to make small talk from my (very) limited repertoire. “Kako ste?” (How are you?) I asked, hoping to connect. He grinned and replied, “Dobro, hvala. A vi?” (Good, thank you. And you?) I fumbled for a response, settling on a simple “Dobro” (Good), feeling more like a bumbling tourist than the impressive intrepid explorer I aspire to (!).

When he handed me the cup, I was struck by its simplicity—no fancy designs or elaborate presentations, just a steaming mug of coffee. I took a tentative sip, and the world around me seemed to brighten. It was liquid gold, rich and smooth, with a depth of flavor that danced on my tongue. 

Attempting to express my delight, I said, “Ovo je izvrsno!” (This is excellent!) He beamed, clearly pleased with my effort. “Hvala” (Thank you), he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. I laughed, knowing my Croatian was far from perfect, but appreciating the back and forth -- and mostly his humoring my feeble attempts with good humor and much (much) grace. Then there was just silence...me having reached my limit of language tricks to pull from the hat. After all, my Croatian is about as good as my ability to navigate without getting lost—abysmal, but with occasional surprising successes. 

After a few moments, while I savored my drink, I got a bit brave again and made another stab at speaking at all coherently in Croatian. I pointed to a pastry on the counter and asked, “Što je ovo?” (What is this?) He chuckled, “To je burek. Želite probati?” (That is burek. Do you want to try?) I nodded eagerly, and he handed me the pastry with a flourish.

As he gave me the country specialty, he touched my hand gently, like a grandfather would, and winked like a cat who´d just caught a mouse -- his gesture making me realize what a huge thing such kindness is, even among strangers.

As I left the café, the barista waved and said, “Sretno!” (Good luck!) With a final wave, I stepped back into the cobblestone streets, feeling lighter, happier, and thoroughly caffeinated.

Sometimes, getting lost isn't such a bad thing after all. Especially when you find places that remind you that, much like my sense of direction, life is full of unexpected surprises.

AI, Plastic Surgery, and the Sacred of Story

I recently posted a short little jibe dubbing AI the “plastic surgery of story”. I said what I said. And stand by it. But this prompted an ex-journalist friend who’s deeply embroiled in the AI of it all to ask:  “Why do you hate AI?”

Hate is such a strong word. And besides, what I feel is not a charged ire launched outward in all directions to display my rage, but more of an inner wince, aimed inward and reaching into the deepest parts of me — those places where the wants live, where the wishes and dreams dwell.

Thinking on it: When one is seen to wince, it is often far more than a mere grimace — but instead an entire shrinking movement of the body — a physical revolt of sorts — away from an expected source of hurt or distress. I say wince because it is pain (or the anticipation of it)— not anger —  that AI brings to mind. 

Why pain? Isn´t distress a bit dramatic? It’s just AI? For me, it is apt. Apt because it deals with the deepest parts of me (and you, I imagine), where those wishes and dreams dwell. But to dwell, one thinks of being at rest. This would be the hope, dare I say, prayer. 

AI worries me. I wince. Anticipating the pain of the loss of the story. Those elements of that creative chorus that sang a journey that— up unto now — has been the soundtrack of my life. The music that has made me, mostly due to its cacophony, and the way that it somehow sculpts the chaos into art worthy of an audience, even if it that peanut gallery is an audience of one, limited to the woman I see peering back at me daily from a pane of glass.

Reading was my solace as a child — and remains today a staple. The double entendre is accurate, thinking back on the countless characters (friends, really) whose journeys woke something in me, reached some corner of what I call the otherwise unknown ish. (This I now know to be those wants, dreams, and wishes buried deep). 

I still recall with vivid detail the moments when I read the words of those "friends", those exact instances when the dialogue they breathed — in one way or another — broke something in me. 

When Jane’s speech shattered the self-imposed ceiling I hadn’t realized I’d hung — that second I took hold of the truth that I too am no bird ensnared by nets, but a free human being with an independent will. Or the rally cry that resonated deep within me, a shared guttural brag from the Bell Jar sent by Sylvia Plath to somehow scorch — and soothe — my soul simultaneously: “I am, I am, I am”.

There are far too many memories of such moments to mention here, but two more must be given praise: The time Charlotte Bronte sent Jane to sit with me, whispering words no one else would utter in fear of seeming unstable, or worse, needy. She understood that he had made and broken me, and that it was a deep wound made all the more painful by the fever pitch of wedded bliss it belied. Like a punch in a prize fight, Bronte left a bruise — but it was healing to have bled beside. 

Lastly, when Wild Geese crumbled my walls with animalistic assurances — declarations that I do not have to be good, or crawl through a desert of repentance for … existence -- those entire months on end, when Mary Oliver mercilessly martyred the victim mentality, to birth me -- mustn´t be made small.

It was as if these friends living in the pages of the tomes I held within my hands were holding my hands, bearing witness of what rumbled in me— touching the wants, those dreams, them wishes, so they could have each their moment in the sun, then slowly subside back to an equilibrium, at rest because they had been seen, touched, and released and untethered, even just for a moment.

*Maya Angelou once wrote, ”There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you” — This, ironically taken from a gift given to the world titled I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. 

Like so many authors (and characters) up to now, Angelou says all I could say, and better. 

I do not hate AI. I simply love the story. 

Let´s Skip This Chapter...

For the past several years now, I've been traveling the world. It has been the most healing and right (literal) move I could have made following a period of deep grief. I went through a death -- a true death of a life I loved, one shared with a partner I truly adored. I was so heartbroken, scared, and sad, even as I took steps to rebuild and reset. I just couldn't see a life separate from the one who I -- in my vows, mind, and heart -- was one with. But (sh)it happened. And when it did, I needed to make a decision. What next?

Among my biggest fears (there were MANY at the time) was that I would become a stereotype-- a bitter divorcee, or worse, a sad sack that just sat around crying. The kind of person you pass by and mutter under your breath: "Wow, she really let herself go." Some even add this utterance with raised brows, making the toxic, tone-deaf judgment arc complete. This, my friend, I could not stand. So... traveling the world was the order of the day. 

Throughout the last few years -- everything I own fitting in my trusty little single backpack -- I have been so blessed to have seen so many amazing places, which brings us to today’s adventure: Colmar, France. Did you know it was among the three little French villages in Alsace that inspired Belle’s village in Beauty and the Beast?! I did -- which is perhaps why I had to FIGHT the urge to skip (not walk, nor run, SKIP) through the streets belting out: BONJOUR! (times about 12)... and waving to the Baker (with his tray, yes) with a huge goofy grin on my face. 

As I headed down the cobblestones (making a marked, conservative effort to NOT skip), through the lanes filled with aromas of fresh goodness (the same old bread and rolls to sell, my a$$!) and passing by pastel-colored thatched-roof homes that basically sang sweetness and sparkled like magic, I felt like I had stepped into a fairytale... okay, semi-skipped into one. After taking more pictures than I would like to admit, humming "Belle" more times than I will ever actually admit, and sampling "the same old bread and rolls" that were anything but ordinary to me -- I closed my eyes, lifted my face to the sky, and thanked the universe for carrying me through those most fearful days. 

As I breathed it all in, pinching myself just once more that I had made it to this place I had dreamt of so long: I had to laugh at the realization: I really have let myself go. And go. And go... 

Standing in the middle of Colmar, feeling like a character in a storybook, thousands of miles away from home -- and universes away from the person I was -- I would be lying if I did not admit I still miss my old life -- and what I wouldn’t have given to just have stayed happy and tucked away on my little island in my partnered cocoon with the one I loved dearly and thought would be my forever, albeit only the version of him I knew. 

But additional chapters were introduced -- twists to the plot taking my romance novel into a genre entirely unauthorized! (Oh the horror) -- and now, in contrast to this fairytale place, my story is far from Disney ... but it is mine, and it sure as hell has been interesting, and moving~

A Letter En Route

"A Letter En Route-- Still Taking the Long Way Home"

Went on a run this morning... a beautiful route with rivers and canals -- and I felt grateful.

Then, right toward the end, I veered to include the part of the town that is my favorite -- lined with cobblestones and dotted with dainty domiciles wearing hats of grass thatch and terracotta tile. 

Immediately I knew this was not the wise choice -- my wobbly ankles warned me away -- but I just kept going. I just needed to be surrounded by old beauty. Beauty that has withstood.

Not two seconds later, my heel hit an unruly stone -- little bastard that refused to be smoothed to match the level of those surrounding it. As I careened forward, my arms and legs splayed outward, grabbing at the air to aright myself and remain intact upon impact (I am sure it was very graceful and not at all obvious to the many -- oh so many -- bystanders), my arms -- finding no aid from the air (that empty, no-substance SOB!), reached forward and braced for impact. 

It was a hard fall -- bloodied knee and nose, twisted ankle and ripped pants. 

There were tears -- frick, it hurt! But as I limped back "home" to my little flat (just as much an eyesore and anomaly as ever), I thought of you and smiled. 

I wondered (and was a bit sad to miss out on) what just perfectly placed zinger you would have gently slapped me with at that very moment. A comment expertly delivered with such care that somehow it is able to take the situation and bring laughter through tears, like only you can. 

Anyone else would be a saltshaker sprinkling shame and further pain, piling on to an already vulnerable moment. You are that salt shaker that adds instead -- bringing out the hidden flavor of the dish -- the humor and deliciousness that can be found in even a (generous) slice of humble pie. 

So, the long story short: 

I took you on a run today. 

We sought out the old beauty because -- to our hearts -- it was a necessity.

Even though we fell on our ass, we now have one more story to tell and yet another scar to show. 

So many scars now. But oh, the stories. And the salt.

Some would say it "serves us right" -- and I agree. It always will. 

Just a reminder you are loved. You are lovely. You are worthy of such love.

And you are cherished. 

~I am, We are~

 

Most mornings I wake up and have to remind myself.

Like when Court-Court passed away.

Too soon,

it was unjust.

it was not fair.

I open my eyes to the sun sliding between the shades,

before so warm and welcome,

its beams are too bright,

too much.

THIS is too much.

I am a new bride,

I love my husband with my whole heart.

This is my honeymoon phase...

should be.

could be.

Most mornings I have to remind myself,

He loves me. chose me. Pursued me. Promised me.

And, this is my honeymoon phase....

should be,

could be.

*This is not my angry epithet,

Consider it my WHAT THE *EFF IS that??

I am here. I have not moved.

Truth, grace, goodness, and love.

Thrive still.

and they water hope, here in my heart.

growing a garden.

that should be,

could be

beautiful,

bountiful,

blessed.

I am a new bride.

I love my husband with my whole heart.

I exist.

I am real.

I AM.

We ARE~

~Sweet Potato, Serenade~

She cooks you sweet potato, you don't like aubergine
She knows to boil the kettle when you hum bars from Grease
She senses you are lonely but still she can't be sure
And so she stands and waits, stands anticipating your thoughts

How can she become the psychic
That she longs to be to understand you
How can she become the psychic
That she longs to be to understand you

He brushes thoroughly
He know she likes fresh breath
He rushes to the station
He waits atop the steps

He's brought with him a Mars bar
She will not buy Nestle
And later he'll perform
A love lorn serenade, a trade

How can he become the psychic
That he longs to be to understand you
How can he become the psychic
That he longs to be to understand you

So give her information to help her fill the holes
Give an ounce of power so he does not feel controlled
Help her to acknowledge the pain that you are in
Give to him a glimpse of that beneath your skin~

~Let THEM Eat Cake~

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I've been hearing alot of things, from alot of people these days of late. Words of encouragement and pithy platitudes offered with good intentions, of course, among other not so lovely, lingering lyrics of a tune that tempts my soul to shrivel up and die. (Thanksssssss). Words wasted on a wandering gypsy soul seeking only goodness, love and LIFE.

Anyway, I was told today that marriage (and monogamy for that matter), for most men, is like the best slice of chocolate cake. At first sample, it is sweet and satisfying and the best thing you have ever tasted. But then, after having it every day, it becomes too sweet. Too boring with no variety of flavor. Your tastebuds tame, accustomed to the offering. Bleh. So you want different dessert...a new cake...hell, maybe a cookie, or in my case, he went for the HO-HOS (plural)....

But the way I see it, marriage (and hell yes, monogamy), is like a whole helluva heapin' helping of oats. Steady. Steel Cut. Stick-to-your-ribs. OATS. In the morning, they are there to get you started with whole-grain goodness.....greeting you....warming you....sustaining and steeling you for the start of the day, for the moment when you make your exit out into the world, solo. And at night, they are there, they can take whatever form they need to to meet you...muffins, wholegrain bread, a kind, nurturing dessert that doesn't drag you down.

And just when you think maybe you could get tired of them, oats can reinvent themselves. Add to them, bake, cook or stew them a different way, they can adapt...with you, for you...inside of you. Oats.

Steady. Steel Cut. Stick-to-your-ribs. Oats.

~Soundtrack of Self~

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Sometimes I wish life had its own soundtrack. Maybe not "life" as an entire entity in itself, but on a single, smaller, microscopic scale--where each individual has one very specific, constantly flowing music score to match their ever changing mood and mindset. THAT. WOULD. BE. AMAZING. (or in my case.....just a maze...(*zing*))~

Go with me on this one...my favorite movie in the world, Amelie, has this similar bend to it. The movie as a whole definitely gives you a window into her mind, with great music and sound effects as the reel rolls. But Amelie seems more to be hearing the soundtrack of the world, as it plays itself to her, ....I am specifically thinking more along the lines of each person's soundtrack of themselves--descriptive rather than prescriptive. Ever shifting and shuffling, like a foot-stompin', resounding remix, where at any given time the DJ of your dharma would stop that record----SCRREEECH....aaaaand *wickety wickety wickety*....BAM (Or in some of our cases, WHACK?)...new sound, different vibe, and the beat goes on. No segway necessary...no pregnant pause or interlude...there is no time! Small wonders and snippets of emotion and sensory samplings wait for no man! And slip away from our reach as fast as a fairy flies...only a glimmer memory with a glitter trail of topsy-turvy, tinkling cheer remains.

Yes, a selfie soundtrack. Indeed. I think I'll write off for a patent presently....but before I go, allow me to press *play*...for your listening pleasure:

Eyes open as the alarm wheezes a whiny and utterly annoying (BEEP BEEP BEEP!) A (BOP BAM BOOM) as my tiny fist obliterates the button...I see this as my pint-size protest (and slight temper tantrum) regarding the shortening of my sweet slumber.  Radio clicks on as U2 beckons me to a better mood, reminding me it really is a (Beautiful Day). A smile sneaks to my cheeks as I roll to the right...(RECORD SCRATCH!)...as I ricochet across the covers, the unwilling recipient of my husband's dread-full (and unaware) headbutt. (SHISH SHISH SHISH) as I rub my forehead and make my way to the mirror, perusing the glass panel for any signs of gore or goose egg that are guaranteed to be there after such a knock to the noggin'. WHEEEEEEEEY...I rub the smudge of bathroom brine as the one blurry blotch of sink splash stares back at me from the smooth surface. There. All clean.

I call out to my husband from the hallway asking if he wants coffee...(CRICKETS)...followed by the PITTER PATTER of my feet padding down the hallway. Round the corner to JACKHAMM-AAAAH--TADADADDADADADADADAD!....no, not a snore...a symphony of snorts and sniffles----one unapologetic, earth-shattering, shake me and quake-me-to-the-core cacophony of syncopated chaos. (POW!) A drool-by shooting! Autopsy report reads: Nerves D.O.A.

And that's just before I even get my teeth brushed. *Coffee's on, ya'll*....