One of the ways I am trying to keep my sanity now is by walking. Preferably during the time when the daylight is slowly fading into dusk and the traffic noise recedes, giving place to the chorus of insects and birds.
I am trying to take a single picture during every walk, to remind myself that time is passing and that despite everything I am alive on the living earth.

The picture I took yesterday somehow became a solace, so I thought I’d share it. Maybe, you will feel it too: the soft, earthy smell of rotting wood and of the fungus decomposing it, the softness of soil after two days of heavy rains, and the warmth of the air. And this beautiful, intricate web woven over the dark cavity of the dying tree.

The tree is dying, but it is not dead. Instead, it is slowly transforming, becoming a different thing, a multitude of different things: a home, a shelter, a food, a soil. The tree is teaching me that grieving and loving and living are all pretty much the same thing. It teaches me that “we came from dust and we shall return to dust” is not a threat, but a promise. It teaches me that we make so much more sense and more senses in connection with other beings.

I am witnessing a tiny moment of its decay and it is witnessing a moment of my awakening. I am marvelling at the fact that we are made of the same stuff, but to a vastly different result. It seems that it has all the answers, whereas I have none. It seems so much more solid, balanced, reliable, useful even in its death, while my default operation mode these days is helplessness.

Yet, I have to trust myself that I also somehow play a role in the universe. I am a home to billions of tiny organisms, I am a part of cultural survival and maybe even, if I try very very hard, I can be someone’s momentary comfort.

When I spoke to my mom this weekend, she said to keep low profile. she said, don’t show people that you’re angry, don’t disagree. Just keep low profile and look for opportunities. Check out job offers, but don’t tell anybody. Renew passports, one never knows. Be smart. Stop telling people what you think and feel. One never knows.

Instead, I wrote a poem and posted it on bloody LinkedIn. Because it felt right. I fully expect it to blow in my face.

I am still amazed at how a woman so wise and resilient as my mother managed to rise a child so devoid of instinct of self-preservation.

When we were sleeping, or maybe when we were watching Netflix at the end of a hot weekend, sipping cold white wine, they dropped 2,000 pounds of explosives on a jumble of refugee tents, burning women, children, babies, elderly, clothes, bodies, possessions, the remains of our humanity have gone up in smoke in a so-called safe zone in Rafah. I cannot think of anything but that.

Today was the first day I walked without pain. It felt so good. To fall into a softer, slower rhythm, to feel at peace with my body, to contemplate healing. It also happened to be the first day I wasn’t working or thinking of work in the part two or three weeks. A coincidence? The day felt longer, fuller, lighter, as if the time was wrapping around me in a comforting embrace. I wouldn’t dare to try running for another couple of weeks and am afraid to push my limits into a long walk, so I took my bike for a ride around the lakes of Mont-Bruno.

I do not know how I am going to survive today.

It is barely 8am and I am already crying. I am watching a groundhog trying to cross the road, but the traffic is too dense and the energy of it feels violent and uncaring. I scream to her (silently, in my head) don’t! You won’t make it. It seems that she hears me and retreats, but then comes back to her crossing point. Don’t don’t don’t don’t. I feel related to her. I feel related to the dying world. To the critters suffocated by the asphalt. To the creatures not finding their home that’s been turned into condominiums. I feel that sadness is going to crush me.

Worst of all, I do not know how to spend my day around people who don’t feel sadness, who don’t understand it. I’m bad at putting on armour, I’m good at vulnerability, but there are days when vulnerability is the worst possible choice. If there is a third option, I need to find it. What can you be, if you can’t afford to be vulnerable and don’t have the privilege of emotional detachment ?

For now, I am trying to breathe. Breathing is good. Inhale on four, hold on four, exhale on four, hold on four, repeat. The tears are inside me, very close to the surface. I am back again in that same damn place, feeling too much, saying nothing.

The day of heavy heat ends with thunder. I feel heavy too, tired, disappointed with the conversations that don’t go far enough, with relationships that don’t seem to work. I am waiting for rain. I am thinking of adrienne marée brown’s « adapt to pleasure » Sometimes pleasure is the hardest to find.

It’s here. I hear the heavy drops falling and the rumble. It’ll be alright.

There is a tenderness about the city in the morning after a long weekend. There is slowness. The air is dusty and sweet, the streets are emptier than usual. I am thankful to be outside of my usual routine, to take a little time for a coffee in a company of strangers. I feel good about my upcoming day, just the fact to have a day to look forward to. I am wearing a dress, something I rarely do. I like the feeling of this morning. Warm, of but not yet hot, summer, but not quite.

My leg hurts worse than it did during the weekend. I can’t walk fast, I can’t run, I can’t move swiftly about the city, so I make my peace with being late, with accepting my limitations. It’s not that bad.

There are days when my work life feels natural and there are days when it doesn’t. Today the corporate world feels fake. All those high-speed elevators and panoramic views on the city: buildings, buildings, buildings, buildings and a bridge across the river.

I am glad when I finally get home. The town is quant, it smells like rain, there are toddlers rushing to McDonald’s in their soccer T-shirts for a post-game snack. There is homeliness and familiarity that makes me feel strangely tender.

Maybe, that’s what my body is trying to tell me through all these injuries. I am slowly weaning off adrenaline. I am getting better, but I still need help. It’s the same message I heard in January. The same I heard a month ago. I need to find a way to stop doing adrenaline-fuelled work. I need to find my way around oxytocin.

For the past three days i’ve been feeling a pain in my sheen that was first not that bad, so I ignored it, buy now got to the point where I can not walk to pick my kids from school. From the google search, it looks like I have a sheen splint. The idea of it revolts me. I feel betrayed by my body. I feel frustrated because I will stop my activities and rest. I don’t like this idea. For me, at least in my current state, running, dancing and walking are forms of rest. If I can’t do that, just as the weather becomes nice, just as the forest blooms to life, just as the evenings become long and sunsets over the lakes become irresistible, then what on earth am I going to do?

Yet, there is something else that bothers me. In winter, when I was feeling really tired, angry and disillusioned, I hurt my back. Now, I have sheen inflammation, just as I realized how frantic, unsatisfied and confused I am. And tired, so tired. What is my body telling me? I thought I was in a better place, but am I? I am waiting for a response from the therapist. I need to figure this out.

I am so proud of myself today. For sending an inquiry for therapy sessions. For deliberately slowing down: as I slowed down my work rhythm, I noticed that the frantic pace of my thoughts and emotions also slowed and I am able to breathe again. For taking time to imagine what the new me may be like in a playful manner. For asserting my boundaries in small ways. For looking out for myself.

There is always a way

To do things lightly

To walk with ease

Not quite touching the tips of the grass

To abide in silence

To enjoy the transience

To go to bed early

To be the healer.

Yet, I always seem to chose

To rush head first

To ask too much

To dig through the dirt

And break the parts of me that can’t be mended.

I need to figure out

Who is this hungry part of me

Where she lives

What she wants

What she eats

So I can feed her

And hold her

And reassure her

So she can finally let me go.