Author: RCRuiz

Today is my sister’s birthday

/ RCRuiz

I’ve been thinking about my sister in the in-between hours, all throughout the day. Perhaps it’s one reason why I felt somewhat agitated. It’s not until I took the time to sit down and think about the day that I realised it’s because I didn’t get to talk to my sister.

My sister and I were born almost exactly a year apart. Both of our birthdays fall in April. Hers falls earlier in the month and mine closer to the end of it. I think about my sister and the unexpectedness of her passing and what a gift it was that she was able to come to us and spend time with us in the months after Jan passed away. Little did we know that she would leave us too.

For a long time, I couldn’t put a name to what it was that I felt when my sister died. I was able to carry on after Jan’s passing, I was able to push through and still keep going, but when my sister died it was like the world stopped and I sank into a deep dark place. I’m not exactly sure how I got out of there, but time helps a lot and it helps when someone picks you up and says: you don’t have to do anything for a while, you just have to keep on living.

In the days when I was going through treatment, when chemo was rough and I didn’t want to even get out of bed, I thought of my sister saying: Come on, Rochita. Don’t just lie there. Fight.

And I would get up and I would make myself go downstairs and eat breakfast even if I didn’t feel like eating. I decided I wouldn’t die, but I would live.

Because there was so little of a gap between us, my sister and I were often mistaken as twins when we were kids. And my Mom liked to dress us up in twin clothing. There are loads of black and white pictures of the two of us twinning. For a long time, there was just me and my sister. We had to wait another seven years before the first of my brothers was born. My sister and I were each other’s best friends and confidantes. We could fight like cats and dogs, but we were each others’ allies. (It’s kind of impossible to remain hostile when you’re sharing a room.)

I want to honour my sister today. To remember the sound of her voice and the way she smiled. I’m thankful my sons have memories of her. That they know who I’m talking about when I talk about Tita Weng.

In 2022, when I was preparing for surgery, I had a dream about my sister. We were playing together under a big tree in the garden, and I was so preoccupied with what I was doing that I didn’t notice that she’d stood up and walked away.

Today, I remember my sister whose light I carry with me.

(Collage made in 2022)

Spring is in the air

/ RCRuiz

It’s been quite a busy period as not only is it exam week for the youngest one, it’s also been a week of appointments and events. I visited the municipal hall last week and handed in my application for a new passport along with a new id picture. It’s probably the first time since I’ve had a passport made that my passport picture doesn’t look like I’m running from the law.

A few days before I went to the municipal hall, I had new pictures taken. On my walk to the shop, I found myself ruminating on my previous passport picture and I decided to ask the photographer if it was possible to have one that was somewhat friendlier. As tends to happen, I walked into the shop and blurted out my thoughts to all and sundry including two surprised customers who burst out laughing when I announced that my last passport picture had me looking like I was a fugitive from the law.

It made for a lighthearted moment and I can happily say that for the first time, I have a passport picture that is somewhat friendlier.

At the municipal hall, there was some difficulty registering my fingerprints. I learned that intense treatments like chemotherapy has this effect of where fingerprints become a bit more hazy. It made me wonder if we ever lose our fingerprints.

“It happens with old people too,” the lady behind the counter says to me. “Not that fingerprints are ever erased, it’s just they don’t register anymore. But we also see this in people like you who have undergone chemo.”

And it somehow strikes me that she hasn’t tagged me as an old person but as someone who has undergone intense treatment.

On Saturday, I travel to Rotterdam. I’m headed there to support the project called Project Take Away. Take Away started as a neighbourhood initiative led by friends Marielle and her partner at ook_huis. It’s a lovely initiative which started with refugees and neighbours coming together to share coffee and talk about coffee and different ways of making coffee and as time progressed it evolved into something more. To celebrate their third year, Take Away released a book documenting three years of work. It’s an impressive volume with beautiful images but most importantly it reflects the vibrant life of this group of people who have been working together, caring for this community and for the neighbourhood and growing into this rich and beautiful art collective.

I think of how we forget the power of small movements like these. How practicing care in the community setting is a radical act in a society that’s grown more and more disjointed and disconnected. It’s not the size of the movement that matters, that we are doing a movement with intention is what matters. The intention drives the movement, drives momentum and leads to change.

I think of how these small movements are so vital when it comes to changing perceptions. When it comes to changing how we see each other and when it comes to making space and holding space for one another. I understand the antipathy that exists on one side of society towards asylumseekers, but I also want society to understand that if it were possible to live humanly where they are, people would not be seeking asylum. Living means more than surviving, living means being able to grow and thrive and fulfil your potential as a human being. This is why we can’t turn our backs or close our eyes to the circumstances that cause people to flee the countries of their birth.

It’s callous to say: ‘go back to where you came from’, when we don’t know the full story.

After the meeting at the Take Away space, we traveled to where Marielle was holding a reading/talk around a book she’d collaborated on together with the artist Chen Yun. This book, titled 51 Personae:Tarwewijk was five years in the making. It’s a unique and beautiful work documenting walks around the Rotterdam neighbourhood of Tarwewijk. What I love most about this work is how in the final publication, it contains the text from these walks in Dutch, English and Chinese. Not on separate pages, but these texts exist side by side on the same page or as extensions of each other.

It made me think of how it’s beautifully representative of the multicultural nature of society and how the world is made up of many different people speaking many different languages and there is room for all of us to live side by side.

Copies of this book are available at Available & The Rat.

I feel like I should write a little bit more about Available & The Rat, but I will do so another time. It’s a space that’s definitely worth visiting.

Spring is in the air. Out in the garden, things are growing. Our prunus tree has grown a bit more sturdy and is spreading out its arms. From the small seat by the water, I have a lovely view of back gardens with tulips coming up, a magnolia tree in bloom and a cherry blossom tree.

I have resolved to go and sit out beside the water as much as I can. For now, I’m ending this lengthy post.

Take some time out of your busy schedule to just sit and reflect on how you want to greet this new season. Life brings with it unexpected things, but when you take time to connect to what’s strong in you, you won’t be easily shaken.

Blessings and peace to you who read this and thank you for dropping by.

It’s only Tuesday and yet . . .

/ RCRuiz

Not that I post with any kind of regularity or schedule, but here I am on a Tuesday. I’ve enrolled in a five session course on portraits with acrylics and the first session went pretty well. The advantage of acrylics is the drying time and how it’s much easier to take it home to continue work on it. Compared to pastels where the work has to be carefully transported, acrylics are easy. I’m enjoying these courses which are in series of five sessions each time focusing on a particular medium as I feel like I want to understand how different mediums work.

I do enjoy portraits a lot and I want to try and see what different things I can do with it once I get the basics down.

When I was a young girl, my mother once showed my notebook of writings to the daughter of a friend of hers. I think my Mom was proud that I was writing, but I was quite embarassed because her friend’s daughter was (at that time) already playing the violin for a big orchestra. I was like: Eh…Mom. Why?

But instead of dismissing my work, this young woman looked at it carefully, then she said something to me which I’ve carried around much like a puzzle that I keep trying to unfold.

“An artist,” she said. “Can see beyond the leaf.”

I never got around to asking her what she meant because soon after that this violinist went abroad to play with other orchestras and our paths never crossed again.

I think of her words every now and then, though.

Today, those words came bubbling up again and I thought of the following reply:

“Beyond the leaf is a world (maybe more than one)

Lives are lived. Not all are told or written down in story.

Not one is insignificant.“

To you who read these words, may you be surprised by small moments of daily joy. Thank you for stopping by.

Here’s one of my favorite exercises from this week. On a background of sennelier soft pastel, an impression of branch and leaf.

Breathe in, Breathe out

/ RCRuiz

February turned out to be a more challenging month as the flu struck and just as I was feeling better, shingles happened. I had this idea that I could get through shingles with just paracetamol, but after enduring a night with no sleep and pain that I can’t describe, I caved and asked my doctor for stronger pain relief. Thankfully, my doctor prescribed pain relief quickly and I have been able to sleep through the night which accounts for why I no longer need the pain relief. I do have this incredible itch where the shingles outbreak happened and a burning sensation pretty much like when you have a bad sunburn.

Recovery from shingles is a process, but I’m glad I’m able to come upstairs to the workroom and do some art practice as well as a little bit of writing.

I was inspired quite a bit by some of the work that I saw when I visited the art fair and had a conversation with an artist who was doing some live painting. That conversation made me think about my own approach to art and art making.

During our conversation, the artist told me that what’s important is to find your own gestures and your own signature. What is it about your art that makes you the artist that you are? Every artist has a signature–not the name you sign, but it’s in the language that exists between the artist and the blank canvas/page.

I think about this conversation as I draw without having a particular goal. I draw repetitions of shapes as a way of tuning in to what am I feeling, what am I thinking, and what is going on in my body and in my spirit today.

Breathe in, breathe out.

In today’s world where everyone seems to want to rush towards a goal or to achieve something or to become someone, being in the moment frees us of all those stresses. When we are free from those stresses of becoming something, we can listen to what our bodies tell us.

Small circles, gridlines, spirals, repetitive mark making and repetitive movements. All of these things are practices that ground us in the body and in the moment. And being grounded allows us to transcend to where we can see beyond the mundane.

I’m stopping here for today.

To you who reads this, thank you for dropping by. Blessings and peace.

Finally, an update…

/ RCRuiz / 2 Comments

It’s taken time for me to get around to updating this online journal. There was a season when I felt as if I was inside a time capsule, watching the world go by, observing, doing, moving in some direction but always within that capsule. I had my last treatment right before December and since that time the capsule enclosure has become quite porous. At times, it feels as if a wild and eager rush pushes outward from inside me–a wanting to do and to go and to undertake so many things.

My oncologist says: we don’t know. We can’t say or predict how things will turn out. But the chemo has done what it’s supposed to do, and for now I have been moved to the list of people who are under observation.

It took me a good number of minutes to process what my oncologist said. I keep going back to that moment and checking in with myself. There are still things in my body–a nodule and a lymph node are mentioned in the scan report–things that can’t be easily removed through surgery. And yet, my oncologist isn’t worried. All I can feel is relief that chemo has ended.

I think to myself: There are more people walking around with things in their bodies, living lives and just being and doing and staying in the now. The length of our life spans is not something we can control, so why worry about that?

If you can let go of worrying, my physiotherapist says, then it’s already a win.

Why worry about something I can’t control? I reply. This, I can control. I can train my body to be physically fit. I can work to become stronger. Instead of obsessing about weight, I make sure to eat a balanced diet. As for the rest, I leave it in the hands of God. (So very Pinoy. Yes.)

I’ve decided that I’m going to keep living and keep doing things that I love and things that give me joy. I’ve decided to hold on to faith and to this knowledge that we do what we can do in the time allotted to us and life is about living one day at a time.

It’s going to take some time to find a new balance and I am thankful that time is being made so that I can find that new balance. Where people talk about spoons, our physiotherapists talk about buckets. You only have so much energy in your bucket and some things will deplete your bucket quicker than other things. You can empty your bucket in one go, but recovery is better when your bucket isn’t completely empty at the end of the day. Brain work, thinking work, social interactions, new situations can empty your bucket faster than doing the laundry and vacuuming your house. You’ve been in a space of time where for a long while, you’ve had to do all you can to just get through it. Once you’re no longer in treatment, it’s tempting to succumb to demands we imagine are being placed on us. But, it’s okay to say: no, I cannot or no, I don’t have the energy for that. It’s okay to pick and choose and to say: I can only do one or two things in a day.

And then, my physiotherapist says with a laugh. Of course, it’s in pushing ourselves that we discover our limits. And once we find those limits, we know how far we can go. If we go about it the right way, those limits expand as time passes.

I think of how the state of being in a limbo is one that allows us to become rooted in the present. In this now. In this moment. Tomorrow will come. Tomorrow’s worries are for tomorrow. Today, I am doing what I can to the best of my ability. I am here in this moment and I am thankful.

I didn’t have the brain space to write about LIMBO, but our December celebration was lovely.

Blessings and peace to you who read and may 2025 bring good things your way. Maraming Salamat for stopping by.

A note for readers who might be going through cancer treatment: if it’s possible and doable, oncological physiotherapy is a big help. I am thankful for the person who posted about it on a forum somewhere because it’s not standard at the hospital I go to. I found out that it’s standard for some hospitals though.

Time

/ RCRuiz / 2 Comments

A dear friend recommended Abraham Joshua Heschel’s work to me and I’ve been reading out of The Sabbath and thinking about time. Heschel’s work is beautiful. It’s thought provoking–mysterious and deep and also accessible and relatable. More than that, it is moving.

I think of time as I prepare to go to the hospital for my second chemo infusion in what’s called a second line treatment. I think of time when the doctor tells me that we are buying time. I think of time and how each of us comes into this world not knowing just how much we have of it and how even when facing a disease like cancer, there is no way of measuring or saying–this is how much time or this is the only time you have got. Science can get us so far, but the measure of our time in this world is not something anyone can predict. I’m saying this because my mother was told she had one year to live when she was 46 years old and here we are…my mother will turn 87 this year.

And yes, it’s true that it’s possible to extrapolate based on data, but even data is no guarantee because there are always other factors that might come into play. The truth is, we all hope for more time, but the most important time we’re getting is now and as my mother always tells me: just live today.

I remember back in 2023, when they told me the cancer was not gone after all. Back then, the numbers were quite frightening and the feeling of precariousness was strong. Because of where the tumors were located, I was also in quite a bit of discomfort.

Today, where I had radiation, things are quiet. My doctor sent me on vacation with a smile on her face saying: you can go through the 10 weeks without medication and when you return we’ll start on treatment again. And in those 10 weeks, I walked a lot and climbed a lot and did muscle training and felt like I felt 10 years ago. I’m thankful for the muscle training now because chemo does a number on the body and the more fit you are physically, the better you are able to withstand treatment (that’s what I keep hearing). In the week when I get chemo, I don’t feel all too happy. I don’t know if I’m hungry or nauseous, I don’t know what to do about all the things I’m feeling. I don’t want to take the anti-nausea meds because of the headaches, but I also don’t want to be throwing up, so I take the nausea meds anyway because they do help me get through the week.

But the week passes. I wake up one morning and my stomach feels settled. I go out and take a walk. I go back to my physiotherapy class. I meet up with loved ones. I do things. And thankfully, this time, I can read and write.

I think of time and eternal time and time that is in the hands of the creator and I think of how it’s possible to see beyond now. To understand that there is a timeline running alongside the now that I see and that timeline stretches and branches into different directions and different possibilities and how we are limited only to the extent that we allow ourselves to be limited. There is enough time even when people tell us there is no time. There is time even when the data says there might not be enough time. There is time because time is not something that we can command or hold fast or measure or make secure. What happens in a second can be of infinite significance even if we don’t see it just yet.

A little while back, my brother asked me what my prognosis was. I really couldn’t say because my doctor couldn’t say. But the more I think on it, the more I wonder if it’s all that important. Even when I am writing a story, the outcome may not be in my control because I can only bring my characters to the end of a particular story but beyond that story possibilities branch out. The work of change is never done. It is constantly in motion and so what I can do is simply trust that all the small movements being done in the present will tell and count towards a future that’s better for those who come after this story is finished.

I am cradled in love and lifted by grace and always thankful for the hope that I see even when the world is chaotic and muddled and filled with so much chaos.

Agyamanac Unay for passing by. May you too be cradled and lifted in love.

art and narrative

/ RCRuiz

Last Thursday, I moderated a panel discussion on the Fractal Art of Julius Horsthuis at NXT Museum. It was quite an interesting event as not only was the artist on panel, but we also had Dr. Margriet van der Heijden on panel–a physicist who specialised in particle physics at CERN. I’d never thought all that much about fractals before–I mean, if someone said the word fractal, I would understand that they’re talking about self-similar patterns which we often see in nature, but I probably wouldn’t be able to tell you what it is in-depth. For math people, talk about fractals will often lead to thinking about the Mandelbrot equation, but did you know that before Mandelbrot, there was the Julia? (Yep. I learned all these things while doing my prep.)

I also found myself thinking on the question of what makes art. What do we mean when we say a thing is a work of art? And what function do we ascribe to art? Julius Horsthuis says that his focus on Fractals lies in the fact that he hasn’t gotten bored by it yet.

For Julius, documenting or discovering the 3D worlds opened up by the input of various equations is what makes it fascinating for him. He talks about the films Baraka and Samsara which don’t follow a conventional narrative and how these films were an inspiration for the 3D films that he makes.

I certainly think that experiencing this kind of art by being in a space where you are surrounded by it is a different one from that of seeing it onscreen (on your laptop, your pc or your television). There is a mesmeric quality to it, but at the same time there is (as one of the audience said) a feeling of loneliness. Perhaps because there is an absence of characters interacting with the landscape. (Perhaps the person in the space becomes a character interacting with the landscape or could it be the maker himself?)

I watched Baraka and thought about that difference (the absence of humans in Julius’s work) and found myself thinking of how a landscape changes with the presence of humans. As Margriet said to me later on: Humans are not fractals.

I do like the concept of non-conventional narration and how it ties in with how story doesn’t have to conform in order for it to matter.

Later, Julius speaks of how the absence of narration is deliberate, although as he explores the possibilities of bringing his creations to VR, he realises that the absence of narration may not be conducive to people engaging with the art, particularly if they come to the experience for the first time.

Is story an experience? Is art an experience?

I think about these as I deliberate on my own work and process. I think of how as writers of story, there is a certain expectation arising from centuries of stories being told. What happens when story doesn’t conform to expectation? What happens when a story simply wants to show a world in the same way a documentary maker would show the world?

But is showing the world enough? We could argue that the majority of science fiction and fantasy books are about showing the world.

Piranesi, one of the books I read when I finally got my reading brain back, feels very much like that. It’s basically Susanna Clarke showing us the world Piranesi occupies. Piranesi’s voice compels us to come along and see and learn more about the world they live in. The cast of characters is barely there, but we’re seeing the world through Piranesi’s eyes and it’s beautiful and fascinating and a lot of times it is lonely. Piranesi eventually conforms to a story expectation but then not really and the feeling of fascination remains long after the book is finished.

Does Horsthuis’ art work in the same way? I can’t help but wish I had thought to ask how exploring the world of Fractals has changed or enriched the artist as a person. I’m not even sure if this is what the artist is after. Does it even matter? Should our work change us or reflect us or enrich us even? Does a work have to mean something in order for it to have value? Is fascination and sense of wonder enough?

In the light of discussions around the lives of creators, to what extent does the character and life of a creator influence our engagement with the work that they create? And can we separate things made from the people who make them? (Probably something for another post…my brain tends to wander off in tangents and this is my blog. 🙂 )

I think there is room in the world for different kinds of artmaking because every form of creation will find its own audience and will speak to audiences in different ways. Thursday’s event reminded me of that. It reminded me of the beauty of physics, the endless mystery of the world we live in and that joyful feeling that arises when people come together with a desire to create bridges of understanding and knowledge.

If you’re in Amsterdam, I would recommend checking out NXT Museum (check out what’s on exhibit first as it varies). Not only is Julius Horsthuis’s Fractal Art on display, but they also have a fascinating exhibition by the postdigital art group Random International.

Blessings and peace to you who read this. Daghang salamat for passing by.

The joy of LIMBO

/ RCRuiz

On Sunday, we marked the close of this season with LIMBO and the close of our partnership with FramerFramed. Framer Framed has been home to LIMBO since the first workshop took place in 2022. When we start up again in September, it will be at a new place.

Sunday was a celebration with food, music, dance and presentations from different participants in the group. As part of the celebration, we put together a mini-exhibition to show off what we had done together during the LIMBO sessions.

Looking back at the season, I am thankful to be part of this space. Bearing witness to how participants take ownership of the space, makes me feel incredibly happy. We had a mini-workshop on self-defense (more practical than I had imagined), a workshop on Iranian dance, and a small open stage with a q&a with one of LIMBO’s budding artists, as well as sharing of poetry from a budding writer, and also a sharing of journey reflections.

Sahar, who is a friend of LIMBO, made a wonderful comforting dish called Ash Reshte. I am googling recipes to see if we can try to make it home ourselves.

When I see how participants are flourishing, it makes my heart expand. I think of one of LIMBO’s participants sharing with us how they’d forgotten what they had in their self, until they came to LIMBO. They remembered that they were an artist, that they had this capacity and capability not just to make art, but also to share it with others.

In conversation with some visitors who expressed a wish to create a space like LIMBO, we talked about what it means to establish such a space and how we need to change the way we look at organising and leadership. How at the beginning, we need to change our mindset from: I am helping you to I want to serve and understand your needs and I want to discover how to support you so you can see the power that you already have inside you. To say: “this space is created by all of us together and belongs to all of us together and my voice doesn’t carry more weight than yours, but all our voices are equal in weight”. That also requires a different kind of seeing and a different kind of discipline.

Spaces like LIMBO allow us to be vulnerable. In such a space where we don’t need to fear being judged, where we don’t have to be perfect, we can become as we were meant to be. No pressure. No “you must be”, but simply free.

We break bread together, we share our joys and sorrows, we laugh and we dance, and we give thanks even as we acknowledge that life is challenging and hard.

Blessings and peace to you who read this. Agyamanac Unay for stopping by.

On my mind today

/ RCRuiz

One of the marks of a good leader, my father said, was the capacity to encourage others to make full use of their talents and to make others grow into their gifts. It’s not about having the loudest voice or being the most visible, it’s about thinking on how we can help others discover and become their best selves.

My Mom also used to tell me that the sign of being a good teacher was when your student outgrows you and no longer needs you.

I think about these things because one of the writers who came to attend the six week workshop I gave for Other Futures (and who I’ve been mentoring a bit since then), was accepted to the Clarion Workshop. It is quite a milestone moment and I feel like a proud mama bird watching a fledgling spread their wings.

Last Saturday, I got to do one of the things that brings me joy. I got to work with young people again. This is a thank you to Lana Jelenjev and the Neurodiversity Foundation for inviting me to give a workshop to young people between the ages of 11-17 as part of celebrating Neurodiversity pride day.

There’s something about the way young people approach the act of creating together that makes me so hopeful. I saw the will to encourage one another, the willingness to compromise and make space for each other, and the readiness to help when the other person gets stuck. As Lana’s husband said afterwards, we could all learn a lot just by watching the kids work together.

It makes me think of how we all have that capacity to create and work together within us. Maybe it’s just that some of us didn’t know that we could just go about it, or we’ve been so programmed with this idea of individualism (mine is mine and yours is yours), we’ve been trained to think so much in boxes that we forget the joy of collaborating. And then, there is this soul-killing thing which I’ve sometimes observed in the grown up world where people think the important thing is to be better than someone else, win the most awards, have the most fans, make the most money, sell the most books…that sort of thing.

Life and art and the creation of story are not a competition. It’s not about having the best words or the coolest ideas, it’s about feeling safe enough to share what you love that make life and art and creation beautiful. What I loved about Saturday’s workshop was how I got to see young people bounce ideas off of one another in a space where they feel safe from being judged or found wanting, they just went ahead and talked about things they loved or were passionate about and they made space for each other to include those things in the worlds they were creating.

This method of creating together is a practice not only in worldbuilding but also a practice in bridge-building, in compromise and collaboration.

We could certainly do with more bridge-building and collaborating in these turbulent times, because it often feels like we have forgotten concepts like meeting each other halfway and compromise. We think we have waited a long time for change to happen and we would really like for change to have happened yesterday. The problem is, we live in a world that’s run by systems and systems are slow and resistant to change. As a good friend said to me: “you think maybe by being in the system, you can change the system, but it’s such a complex thing because by being in the system, you somehow become part of it.” I really don’t know what the answer is. We can only do what we can to the best of our abilities and hope that the little that we do will create some change no matter how small.

This week, I was in conversation with a dear friend, we also talked about this same thing. She told me about how she learned to think in terms of “good enough”. Perhaps it’s not the ideal change, perhaps it’s not the big change that we wanted, but maybe it’s good enough for now. How change happens in increments of time, by checking in and finding out whether a recalibration is needed. Maybe we can move forward a little bit more or it could be that we have to just be satisfied with good enough until the next check in moment.

I think about the words “good enough” when I have the conversation with my oncologist later in the day. I ask my questions and she patiently explains her interpretation of the data. It’s not yet where we want to be, but it’s good enough for now. And while the ideal would be to be completely rid of all the tumors, nodules, lesions and bad cells floating around, a stable or chronic state for a long period of time would be good enough.

It may sound like a strange comparison but I make these jumps in my head because that’s how the brain works. I think: it’s okay to not achieve the ideal all in one go. It’s okay to take it step by step. The important thing is to remain open and curious, interested and ready to look into options and points of compromise. Yep. I’m making the body and world parallel again.

Today, I’m speaking to my body. I’m thankful because I have a strong and sturdy body that has withstood a massive operation and all the treatments so well. I am thankful that I am able to work at regaining the strength and fitness that I had before it all started. I am thankful for the spirit that lives in me, that reminds me to take it one day at a time. I am thankful for today. Thankful that I can hug my son and tell him how proud I am of him (he’s having a bit of a tough time atm). I am thankful for friends who have reached out to me, for loved ones and for people from surprising places who tell me they are sending healing thoughts or praying for me. There’s always something to be thankful and joyful about.

As long as we have life in us, we are not without purpose. We are here to make as much of a difference as we can make. Sharing our stories, passing on our experience, strengthening and encouraging others to spread their wings and fly–discovering things, making memories (all those other things) remind us we are alive. As long as we are in the world, we can make every moment count.

Agyamanac Unay for stopping by. Blessings and peace to you who read these words.