New Challenge for the New Year

I'm taking on a new challenge for the new year.  "A year of writing to uncover the authentic self" course.

I’ll allow myself not only to write but to be vulnerable and share with you, my writing journey.

Wish me luck 😊

The happy dance

 

“I looked at Antonia and I saw that she is beautiful,” my son said one quiet afternoon.

He was five years old. His sister, Antonia, had been born just a few weeks earlier.

In the months that followed, he became fiercely protective of her. He worried that the flies might hurt her while she slept outside. He scolded the neighbor kids when they were playing too loudly in the yard, afraid they’d wake her up. He grew visibly frustrated whenever she cried, irritated by my apparent inability to soothe her.

“Is she hungry, Mom? I think she’s hungry. Maybe she wants something better than milk? Can we please give her something else to eat?”

Honestly, it wasn’t a surprise. He had already started worrying about her when she was still inside me. One evening, while watching cartoons, he suddenly turned to me with a flash of inspiration:

“Mom, you should eat the TV! The baby is all alone in your belly and probably so bored! If you eat the TV, she could at least watch cartoons!”

And then came the turning point.

Antonia learned to stand. She would grab onto the furniture and bounce her little body up and down, making joyful sounds - her own version of dancing.

That summer day, Mihai was in his happy place: playing Crash Bandicoot on the PlayStation, entirely absorbed, lost to the world. Reality outside the game no longer existed.

Then Antonia crawled to the TV, pulled herself up, and started dancing, her wobbly body blocking the entire screen.

And just like that, the devoted big brother phase ended.

It would take another ten, maybe fifteen years before he looked at her again as the little sister who needed care and protection, rather than the loud, needy intruder constantly interfering with his very important business of being a boy.

Mom and the happiness lesson

I’m reading “The Antidote. Happiness for people that can’t stand positive thinking”. 

Thought of my mom while reading it. 

My mom has a very particular philosophy of life. In a nutshell, it comes to three main points. 

    Duty comes before anything else. 

    It’s better to expect less so you are not disappointed. 

    People are not to be trusted until they prove themselves to be trustworthy.

Today, she gave me a lesson in happiness, and it surprised me. 

-       I think I found the right book for you, mom! The one that describes your life philosophy, you might like to read it.  

-     Hmm, are you implying that I don’t support positive thinking? I don’t support self-delusions! I consider it idiotic; it means to look at a donkey and say, “what a beautiful horse”!

-    Well, I still think you will like the book. For example, the author is saying that the rush after happiness is what makes us unhappy.

-    Nobody can be continually happy, and nobody can be continually unhappy.  All the religions are talking about a balance, one that you find through love, sacrifice and acceptance. Psychology, psychiatry, they are slippery. There is no such thing as soul dissection. The same outside conditions can build very different characters – serial criminals and saints can both be born out of similar trauma. The oldest drug in the world, alcohol, cannot solve this problem either – some drunks are sad, others are funny, or boring, or annoying, or aggressive. They are all trying the same thing, to escape their feelings, but there is no universal recipe on how to manage your feelings. Books and art are also a form of escaping from an imperfect world. Beauty is born out of suffering, but ugliness also is born out of suffering. The survivors are not the ones analyzing their feelings, but the doers. Like you."

---

It took a lifetime, but maybe I am finally starting to understand my mother, as she is finally starting to understand me.

A little bit wet

It is March in Finland.

I’m at work, in a meeting. My ten-year-old son is calling. It’s after school, and he should be at home, alone, probably bored. Or hungry. I hesitate for a moment, then decide to step out of the meeting and take the call.

“Mom, I’m a little bit wet.”

“Why? What happened? What do you mean you're wet?”

“Well, I went to the lake on our bikes with the boys. And I got a little wet.”

The lake is frozen. Almost.
It’s been sunny the past few days, and the ice is starting to thin near the shore, but the temperature is still mostly below zero. I’m not worried. Not yet.

“How wet is a little bit wet? What exactly did you do?”

“Well... I went into the lake. Just a little. I’m kind of wet and cold. And I don’t know what to do.”

Antti, one of his best friends, is with him. Antti’s house is just a few minutes’ walk from the lake.

“Go to Antti’s house. I’ll call his mom. I’ll be there soon.”

---

When Antti’s mom opens the door half an hour later, the look in her eyes tells me everything.

Something is very wrong.
She says, “He’s okay. He’s okay. Don’t be scared.”

Then I see him, standing by the fireplace, no clothes, wrapped in a blanket. His hair is wet.
Not a little bit wet.
He is soaked.

He had walked across the lake. The ice broke beneath him, and he fell in fully submerged. The other boys, either brave or unaware of the danger, crawled to the hole and pulled him out.

The avalanche of emotions is impossible to describe:
Gratitude. Terror. Anger. Relief. Horror. Joy. And gratitude again.
I can’t speak.

He looks afraid, not because of what happened, but because of me.
Because of what I might say. How I might react.

I hug him. I kiss him.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “You’re safe. That’s all that matters. Let’s go home.”

---

Later that night, after we’ve both had time to recover, I finally ask,
“Do you understand how dangerous this was? Haven’t we talked about frozen lakes?”

He looks straight at me and says,
“I’m sorry, Mom. But… can you please make me a list of everything in the world that’s dangerous?”

I want to.
I want to make that list. I want to hand it to him, laminate it, post it on the fridge and make sure he never goes near danger again. Ever.

But in that moment, I realize, horrified, that the idea we can protect the people we love, keep them safe at all times, is just something we tell ourselves. A comforting illusion.
The truth is: we don’t have control.

Lists aren’t the answer.

Angels are.

 Sanda / www.sandaberar.com

The distance of dreams

The distance between how I thought my life would be and how it came to be, I don't know to calculate it. 

I was born and lived my teenage years in communism. Money didn’t matter, friends did, and I believed it will always be the same. 

I am living across the ocean now in a country that made vows against communism. Money matter. Friends, I’ve lost plenty. 

I've dreamed of becoming a writer, of having just a little bit of talent for that. It turned out my mind was more tuned towards logic and math, rather than creativity. 

I became a software engineer and a teacher of algorithms. I am not teaching anymore. I can barely read a rudimentary code. But I paint. Creativity came later in life and in a very unexpected form. 

In my teens years I used to have a dream of myself living alone in a cozy little apartment downtown. Full of books, some paintings. I remember imagining how I would come back from work, dressed in a very elegant, usually black suit, high heels. Something similar to how a lawyer woman, partner at some big NY firm is dressed in Hollywood movies. 

I don’t think I have ever got to wear the elegant black suit with high heels at work. Jeans, t-shirt and sneakers have been my garderobe for work most of the days while working in software industry. I have enjoyed the comfort of it. 

There was no man and no kids in my teenage dreams. Only my cozy apartment in which I would relax in the evenings with a book and maybe a glass of martini. 

I have been married, twice, I've raised two kids and for many years I barely had any time to relax in the evenings, with or without the book. 

It has been a road with many unexpected turns, but I have finally got to my house, with all the books and the paintings. I am getting the itch of writing again. And it turns out, even in a world where money matter, friends matter even more. 

I am happy I didn’t choose the road I was planning to in my fantasy teenage world. I got the chance to learn how it feels to hold my babies, I got the chance to learn what complete love is. I got the chance to learn so much more than I have ever dreamed of. Sometimes following our dreams means limiting ourselves. 

Sanda / www.sandaberar.com