Leaving before arriving

Ice crystals melting
Populating tree branches
Sunrays on snowdrops. 

As I walk home

A stunning full moon 
Lost soul sleeping on the street
Juxtaposition.

A season of stillness

She gazes out the window at the thick grey skies. These dark, short, cold days weigh upon her. She, who once danced through the summer nights with her dearest friends in mind and spirit. The DJ and bar owners had pushed them out the door with a wink and a nod. Sweating and breathless, they’d wandered the early morning streets before dawn, before lights went on in the bedrooms of the homes they passed. All the while, they hummed together the last song of the night.

For weeks now, the dark winter evenings, impenetrable to any inner light, have thrown a thick blanket of slumber and dullness over her. She feels no lightness of being. It is as if all her summer zest has flown south, somewhere along the coast of Africa.

When she meets her friends, she wonders how she ever thought their company companionable. Now she can barely tolerate their chatter, irritated by their forced gaiety. Their evening plans scrape like sandpaper against the thin surface of her civility. Were they always so superficially jovial? Was she?

Winter darkness feels like a rewiring of her brain. Somber, serious, melancholic, these grey days let other thoughts rise to the surface. Somehow, this feels more real than the wild and reckless summer sprite she once flew beside. The question is: if she digs deeper into this current state, will she discover a treasure of profound recognition, or fall into a dark abyss?

A horn blaring on the street below shakes her from her reverie. She touches her cup of tea. It’s cold. Time to cook dinner.

Beautiful sounds: reef at Westerhall

The steady, bounding drumbeat of waves breaking on the reef, far below the cliff at Dave and Pat’s place. 

What's the world coming to

A truffle grater

Tiny gift that's ludicrous
Sadly shake my head.

Urban gardening

Botanical art

A hugging rosemary bush

Pinched leaf smells sweet. 

Beautiful sounds: quiet determination

The scraping of a rake picking up the last leaves of autumn.

Photo by Anna Tsukanova on Unsplash

Lost in translation

Fallen in a crack
A half-eaten lollipop 
Story of cobblestones.

School vacation is over

Orange blinking lights 

One bus after another 

Rivers of schoolkids.

Hotel in the clouds

Nuremberg

There’s something about a breakfast buffet in a high-rise hotel overlooking the city at sunrise that is so enjoyable. Maybe it’s the quiet sense of being above it all, just for a moment, coffee in hand and plate in tow, before rejoining the day’s to-do list. There’s the familiar din of business conversations: more abrupt, but also more honest and more varied than the romantic dinner dialogues I overheard the night before. Fewer scripted flirting, more arguments about logistics and budget approvals, or the boss who is making unrealistic demands on their team. Refreshing, in its own way.

In general, people are simply more interesting in the morning. Their faces still carry traces of sleep, their guard not yet fully raised. There’s a softness to them, a kind of unfiltered version of whoever they normally pretend to be.
 
I’ve always liked the mornings of business travel. They act as a buffer zone, a kind of gentle off-ramp into the day. Everyone gets a moment to slowly stretch their business persona, like a cat testing its limbs, with a few cautious rounds of morning callisthenics: one eyebrow raise, one polite nod, one half-hearted scroll through emails.
 
I personally never got used to those early-morning meet-and-greets with colleagues or workshop participants. The idea of casual conversation over breakfast, pre-caffeine, has always struck me as vaguely cruel. Instead, I would sneak down as soon as the breakfast buffet was open, usually around 6:30 a.m., and stake out a spot for some peaceful solitude before the rush arrived.
 
I love watching the other guests drift in, still a bit foggy, helping themselves to eggs they don’t really want and fruit they’ll ignore. I make up stories about their lives, based entirely on how they butter their toast or whether they take the last croissant without guilt. It’s like cinema in real life, only slower, and with less predictable dialogue.

That’s the fun of travelling alone. You’re not exactly alone. You’re more like a corner piece in someone else’s jigsaw puzzle: quietly important, yet never the centre of the picture. And weirdly, in the morning, people don’t seem to mind your presence. They speak freely, even when you're seated right next to them. No one lowers their voice. No one glances around to check who might be listening. No one cares.
 
Why is that? In the evenings, the same people are shrouded in a kind of self-imposed mystery, tucked into dimly lit corners of restaurants, speaking in cryptic half-sentences, pretending they’re invisible or, at the very least, uninterested in being known. It’s a performance of privacy.
 
Even those who clearly want to be seen will pretend otherwise. They arrange their expressions with care, like a shop window. They shield their privacy as if it were sacred. And perhaps it is. Yet in the morning, something shifts. Over lukewarm eggs and second-rate coffee, people let their guard down. They chat about the night before, half-laughing at their own disclosures, and gesture lazily toward the day ahead, as if it might turn out better than expected.

Photo by Aravind Balabhaskar on Unsplash

Is this finally Zen?

A whole day ahead 

Nothing in my calendar 

Going with the flow.

Adieu to a dear friend

Dearest Maria,
 
As I light candles for my morning meditation, I’m thinking of you and all the light you brought into my life. In these last years, my daily prayer was more of a plea for mercy: “God, have mercy and allow Maria to stay one day longer.” For life without you seemed unimaginable. Yet, as is so often the case, the universe has grander plans for you than any of us individuals. So now you have been released from your burdens and suffering. I’m so glad you believe in heaven, though I may not, for surely you will be joyfully happy there.
 
And you have left your family and friends with a difficult task: we are to be happy that you have found peace and tranquility. We must celebrate your light, the courage you have shown, and most particularly, those endless acts of human kindness you gifted each and every one of us. Your ability to love and be loved, no matter what our flaws are, has been a constant inspiration to me.
 
What I learnt from you is how life, in all its fullness, is both of everything: sadness and happiness, doubt and certainty, responsibility and freedom, and lastly, sickness and health. Your ability to embrace the positive while acknowledging the struggles was a lifelong practice of patience.
 
I remember the countless times when visiting, how you managed somehow to sail through all the chaos to get the girls off to school, Helmut to work, and you as well. You were the pivot point of turning every potential meltdown into something that could be fixed right then and there.
 
No matter what was going on, there was harmony in the chaos of daily goings-on. It was so endearing to see how Helmut, muffled in pragmatism, managed to weather the storms of female unpredictability. How you would calmly be packing lunch boxes and running downstairs with a load of laundry and then going out to quickly water the garden. All the while the family would running up or down the stairs, shouting or singing the anthem which is uniquely that of the Wittmann–Speber household.
 
Your girls have always been the treasure and pride of your life. They have grown into women with unmistakably unique skills and big hearts. You and Helmut gave them constancy in love. They move with confidence as adults that has grown from the knowledge they are deeply loved.
 
Even though we only saw each other once or twice a year, your family has always been part of the Hadley/Cavallaro family. Our children more like cousins than the children of a friend of their mother. How precious this was for them. May Anna, Fee, and Lisi and Helmut know they can always count on us if they are in need of solace.
 
So, the moment has come to pass forward the light of your loving being. May we all take dear, dear care to share it with our loved ones, as well as with strangers.
 
Winter is here, and I know I am going to miss you so intensely, be sad, and even feel diminished in my spiritual core. That is what happens when best friends part ways. Yet spring will come, won’t it, Maria? Surely there will come a time when I can think of you without tears. I can talk to you without having to lift up the phone. We met as young women and became kindred souls, sharing all the sorrows and joys that made our lives so grand. Thank you. I love you.
 
Love and affection,

Your Lia

Beautiful sounds: halyards

The clanging of halyards echoes through the rigging as we ride out a storm in a sheltered harbour. 

Sadness unshared

A young woman travelling through Europe meets a young artist in Amsterdam. He plays a sad song on a scruffy guitar. She listens, rejoicing with her whole being in the song’s words; so profoundly touched by how the songwriter manages to build and crash the hope of love eternal. Not a tale of romance gone wrong, but rather the universal tragedy of love unleashed. 

The man turns to her and says he was surprised to see such depth of sadness in her eyes as he played. He says it in a way that is half fascination, half abhorrence—wondering how she could be so very much other than all the other women he had played the song to.

She looks back at him, puzzled. Until then, she had believed everyone felt deep sadness every day. But now, that guarded look in his eyes—previously so sexually charged—makes her feel embarrassed. Shamed, even, for having shown her vulnerability.

#booksIlove: DS Cross Thrillers

Title: All of the DS Cross series, by Tim Sullivan

First time I read the book: 2025, on recommendation from Sonja Heinlien

Generally, I love a detective series. The main characters have time to develop and play off each other. It is not only about the crime, but also about letting the characters occupy space in my mind for a longer period of time. 

I slurped this series: The Denist, The Cyclist, The Patient, The Politician, The Monk, and The Teacher. I still have The Bookseller to go.

The main character George Cross is on the spectrum and has earned reluctant acknowledgement for his excellence the hard way. He's bull-headed and brilliant. He has also suffered much bullying on the force over the years and his way of handling it is both frustrating and amusing to those that like working with him.

Not wanting to move on

Leaves turning yellow
My feet warm in soft slippers
Summer is over.

Café Catlove, Gijón, Spain

 #1
 
A young mother and father come into the café with their cute little baby. The woman starts breastfeeding. The man's friend enters the café after about fifteen minutes, and he and the father exchange a brief conversation. The two men get up and leave with the baby carriage. The woman then gets up and continues to breastfeed while following them out of the café.
Walking while breastfeeding is a skill I never had.
 
 
 #2
 
So far, I have failed to find a good cup of tea. After searching for two hours, I found one that at least offered tea. The menu was heavy with green and matcha. There were only two black tea choices: with milk (con leche) and Americano. Since I couldn't imagine what Americano would be, I opted for tea and milk.
 
This turns out to be warm milk with some tea dust floating around. No tea leaves or tea bag in sight. No use of boiling water in the process. Definitely an acquired taste.
 
 
#3
 
No one here seems to speak English. They smile shyly and speak Spanish slowly. Occasionally, they give one-word sentences a try: "card", "here" (when seating in a restaurant), or "sorry" and a shake of their head (when asked if they speak English). It doesn't matter if the person is young or old. All are universally living in a world where Spanish is a given.
 
Last night, while trying to order wine, the waiter did not know whether the wine was "dry." He did not suggest asking his colleague. Instead, "don't understand" in Spanish was his response.

Whether driving taxis, working in shops, or cafés, there are only people speaking Spanish. And truthfully, I have only heard a smattering of people speaking other languages. So, I dug out my Google translator and smatterings of words from my early years in Caracas, and did the best I could . What fun!

Beautiful sounds: Bay of Biscay

 The deep brumming through the walls of my cabin on the way to Gijón in Spain the last night of my journey.

Explore: my phone

I was listening to the interview above about slow productivity. The speaker, Dr. Cal Newport, talked a lot about deep work sessions and time boxing to do uninterrupted work. The Newport and Huberman talked about working or walking without having a telephone or email inbox nearby. 

Newport talks extensively about the futility of trying to do deep work and all the while checking your phone every few minutes. He believes, probably justifiably, that this is a type of wasteful behaviour most of us do engage in. He calls it, pseudo-productivity. No one can produce anything of note when they are constantly moving their attention away from what they are doing.

Over the last years, I've noticed that I am increasingly plugged into my phone. Since the 2016 US elections, I've stopped using Facebook and (now) X. So, it is not any social media sites that are distracting me, but WhatsApp and email.

Since leaving the company, the number of emails has decreased from over 100/day to a few notices from LinkedIn. WhatsApp is the same way. So, even though the volume has been drastically reduced, my unhealthy behavior toward my phone persists.

This is what I want to explore:

1. Start writing emails to friends again
2. Not checking my phone for the first hour of the day
3. At night, have the phone in another room
4. Occasionally, leave the house without the phone
5. During deep work sessions, put the phone somewhere else

I've noticed that many people I know do not answer their DMs immediately anymore. There may be a collective consensus that we are no longer available all the time for everyone, both at work and in private. So, whether this is true or not, I am on board!

When silence sounds like agreement

(This letter is written out of a recent experience. Though the names and details have been changed, the story reflects what many women in technical professions endure.)
 
To a much-needed advocate, Jason,
 
The other day I walked into the common room for a break. You and Max were deep in conversation. It took me a while to realise he was on a rant about how useless women are as technicians.
 
I have spent over forty years of my professional life quietly swallowing such vitriol. There are only so many discussions one person can rise to. No matter how often I have pushed back against men like Max, I always walk away with a bitter aftertaste. Nothing dents the armour of that kind of hatred.
 
Max’s rant went further. He named women who had worked under him, one by one, and gleefully listed what he called their inadequacies. He took pride in having blocked their careers. At first you were silent. Then you laughed. Perhaps it was out of discomfort, but even so, silence and laughter sound like agreement.
 
I considered asking the two of you to stop. What held me back was the knowledge, gained through experience, that Max is not only a misogynist but also a bully. He would have turned his scorn on me and kept at it for days. So, I stayed quiet. Again. That silence is its own kind of cowardice, and it plagues me.
 
Which brings me to the point of this letter. Jason, I have known you to treat your female colleagues with respect. If that is so, could you go one step further? Could you become an advocate? When you find yourself in conversations like this, could you simply say that you do not share the opinion? Could you point out that speaking this way damages reputations and demeans the profession?
 
It cannot be the burden of the few women in the room to fight for equality. The fact that Max could talk for half an hour about “useless” women by name shows just how few women he has worked with, and how many he has made miserable.
 
It is not enough for women alone to carry the burden of calling out misogyny. We are too few, and too often punished for speaking. It is men like you who can change the tone of the room.
 
Please help create a workplace where this kind of talk does not pass unchallenged.