That’s Me In The Corner

Sometimes I get excited about the smallest things. Like this journal that I have had for years and that I have neglected for the past five. Because I ran away with this crazy idea that when I wrote in a journal, I had to fill in pages and pages with words. I felt like I had to chronicle every single event. Every minor swing in mood. Every exhaled sigh. Every word spoken. Of course, that was completely overwhelming. Which is why I gave it up. But I recently had an epiphany - thanks to this article. Journaling is about capturing moments in time. It is not about writing my auto-biography. I mean, who would want to read that anyway? I am writing in my journal for myself, not for an audience, and knowing that makes the whole process enormously liberating.

So I have taken up my pen again. And, in an inexplicable way, it is such a relief to do things the ‘old-fashioned’ way, using paper and ink. I jot down my thoughts, snippets of this and that, scribbled in a hard-bound, burgundy journal that I picked up around 10 years ago from TJ Maxx. Because, you see, I’m that girl who writes much better than she will ever speak. The one who prefers to day-dream than to face the stark reality of life. I am in love with words and the way they can make me feel. For me a journal is not just a collection of memories but the outpourings of my soul.

via Mama’s Losin’ It

It is almost insane that I held myself back because of self-doubt and because, instead of getting lost in the moment, I dwelt more on the events or details that led up to it. Now there is nothing reining me in and I believe that I will find myself as I slowly fill with words the blank pages of my journal.

I will never be one of those people who will stand up and give a speech in public. Nor will I ever be the person at the centre of an animated discussion – unless I am with my closest and dearest friends. I will always be the one who’s listening, analysing (over-analysing maybe) the situation and jotting down mental notes. People see me as aloof, cold, even, or totally disinterested but it would be totally different if the discussion was taking place on paper. My soul has always craved an outlet for all these pent-up feelings. So that is why I have this blog – and now my journal, so that I can tune-in to that secret part of me that is hidden to so many. Because, yes, that would be me in the corner, shunning the spotlight. That would be just me – alone with my thoughts and my pen.

via We Heart It

The Colours Of The Seashore

The sun shone brightly – oh, so brightly – from a cobalt blue sky. It felt like a late spring day, but it wasn’t. This was February. This was winter. I sighed as I rolled down the car window and the warm, sultry air caressed my face. I needed to re-charge, so we drove to a rocky beach that we do not frequent very often. It was deserted, except for one solitary fisherman casting his line, a diver and an older, foreign couple soaking up the sun. The air felt tangy, full of sea and salt.

We walked to the water’s edge. The sea sashayed at our feet, its surface shimmering in the unrelenting sunlight. Never at rest, it sighed and gurgled as it playfully embraced the rocks and shoreline.

Its hues were as flamboyant as ever – a palette of blues and greens, married together to create the aquas and turquoises that make my soul smile.

It took a lot of effort but I finally managed to tear my eyes away, and let my gaze linger on the seemingly unimportant things.

Like the limestone bleached to an almost-white;

a perfectly round rock-pool lined with brilliant green moss;

shy little creatures peeking from nooks;

the shells of a thousand summers ago.

We have so little here but that makes me appreciate the abundance of simple things so much more. I feel a deep-seated joy when I seek and find beauty where others might find none. I looked back at the sea – at its clarity, at its mysterious depths, noting its innocent playfulness.

Tomorrow its colours could change, its mood could swing to a roaring insanity. Tomorrow it could all be so different.

Location: Bahar ic-Caghaq, February 2014

Fabulous Fridays: Love, Only Love

So starts the second stanza of one of my favourite ballads. But love is, perhaps, the most abused word in the dictionary. The world seems to have  lost the concept of what love really means. Yesterday, my son asked me when Valentine’s Day was first celebrated and I made the snide remark that it’s just another Hallmark holiday. But, on this day dedicated to  love and lovers everywhere, I will refrain from being cynical.

So where did it all start? Well, like all other good things, this day started off as a fertility festival in ancient Rome. The Lupercalia was celebrated between February 13-15. Then, some time around February 14th (or so they say), a Christian man named Valentine (possibly a priest) was martyred. His crime? He defied the emperor (Claudius II) by continuing to perform marriage ceremonies even though Claudius thought that bachelors made better soldiers. And the rest is a mish-mesh of legends and history. But leaving all cynicism aside, where would the world be without love? We all need it, we all crave it and we are all the better for having found it.

The way I see it, we should celebrate our loved ones everyday and not wait for mid-February every year to let them know how much we love them. But I still hope you have some romantic plans lined up for this weekend. If not, well, there’s always one of your favourite love stories to watch. These are just two of mine.

Age does not protect you from love. But love, to some extent, protects you from age.- Anais Nin

Love has no desire but to fulfill itself. But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires; To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night. To know the pain of too much tenderness. To be wounded by your own understanding of love; And to bleed willingly and joyfully.- Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

As for that ballad I mentioned, here it is …

Watching The Storm Roll In

It’s been one of those weekends. I meant to accomplish much but didn’t do half of what I planned. Saturday was a slow, lazy day. The rain fell incessantly. I relaxed and read and didn’t do much of anything - my favourite type of day after a hectic week. It gave me time to think about the month that has just flown by. Apart from celebrating my birthday and dealing with a bout of flu, January went the way all Januarys usually go – without much fanfare; anonymously, almost.

Sunday morning dawned bright and sunny. Out in the yard, drops from the previous night’s rain hung upside down on the washing line, like diamond beads on a necklace. I shook the line and they scattered everywhere. In the afternoon, we went for a drive, aimlessly, and ended up at Nadur Tower – the highest point on the island.

This place always has a profound effect on me – like it has a secret story to share and it wants me to tell the tale. Beyond the tower, far out at sea but moving quickly inwards, a fierce storm raged. Soon, wispy tendrils of clouds floated around the tower’s head. Hot on their heels, slate grey clouds enveloped us in darkness.

As we ran to the car, the rain started to fall. We sat there for a while, in silence, watching the rain form tiny rivulets on the windows. Then we drove away, leaving behind a brooding, lonely tower. With a story to tell.

Location: Nadur Tower, Bingemma Gap – February 2014