tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-178852742024-03-04T20:03:35.561-08:00Random Thoughts by Sanda BerarA memoir in the works. Random thoughts, dreams, wishes and memories. Sandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07835668026155579130noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17885274.post-73147506738655419512023-01-10T23:43:00.004-08:002023-01-10T23:43:52.479-08:00A world without a face <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVxvuovl-FLwc8UwPvfxh2QA05UO8BzJqXdRJQxZsKlEYWuUrHiJH3_Iev3S4e6UeZKarzjQjDPMJ0ubZecwYOL5kKV-5zeCQ9zhv9NjOz6cCNqPoPbs9Dg1b-er4i9lHid4INJJjqoORW8NHQGMiAoveSgGVeqVSAWPw15bYpysoMHNTgeA/s865/faceless.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="865" data-original-width="692" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVxvuovl-FLwc8UwPvfxh2QA05UO8BzJqXdRJQxZsKlEYWuUrHiJH3_Iev3S4e6UeZKarzjQjDPMJ0ubZecwYOL5kKV-5zeCQ9zhv9NjOz6cCNqPoPbs9Dg1b-er4i9lHid4INJJjqoORW8NHQGMiAoveSgGVeqVSAWPw15bYpysoMHNTgeA/s320/faceless.JPG" width="256" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Between my 3 years old son, my day job as an assistant professor at University, my evening job as a software developer, and my night job writing
my Ph.D. dissertation, life is quite busy, and I don’t have too much time for
existential questions.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I read the “Capital” newspaper while having my strong
first coffee of the day. There is an ad “Nokia is looking for software
engineers, specialized in distributed systems and object-oriented programming.
Interviews in Bucharest in March”. I am
studying distributed systems for my Ph.D. thesis, teaching object-oriented
programming courses during the day, and coding in C++ during the evenings. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I turn to my husband and say, “hey, these guys are looking
for me.” He quickly looks at the ad
and answers, “you need to apply immediately.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I joked. It was a joke. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But he was serious. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">1<sup>st</sup> of October that year, 10 days after I turned
30, I was standing in the airport in Helsinki. I am waiting for my luggage to
arrive. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The belt is moving slowly, empty. I like the airport’s buzz, and hearing the people’s voices surrounding me, it’s lively. Then I notice
something that feels odd. There is no buzzing. I look around, and all the people are
still there. I do not understand what is happening. Are they talking, and I
can’t hear? Am I having a stroke or something? </p><p class="MsoNormal">And then I know. </p><p class="MsoNormal">This is
Finland, the country I am just moving in, the world I don't recognize, the world without a face. Life with the sounds and all I knew
before is gone. I’ll need to learn to listen to silence. <o:p></o:p></p>Sandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07835668026155579130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17885274.post-19552600057831536322023-01-08T14:10:00.003-08:002023-01-10T23:39:34.673-08:00Will I ever find home?<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzYXBv-C7J6x0C0H8_Ts3yq2DRR2fxFrIoO6TaWkYbLHPUq0tKFbKhQ5eWLGLNx0StPTyNwskeYtUxQWYPi7yZemLG6StITK4V3pqzYJ7Oig7Uph1Su0HO_7tO6bApVEWHFTSc-5O5dvoRmI7df2DgT6OvdDMew-eJjIaOLYtvC-Z9Cz3TOw/s2048/D9A91CD6-D85A-4669-8EDD-F33F6598C1FA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzYXBv-C7J6x0C0H8_Ts3yq2DRR2fxFrIoO6TaWkYbLHPUq0tKFbKhQ5eWLGLNx0StPTyNwskeYtUxQWYPi7yZemLG6StITK4V3pqzYJ7Oig7Uph1Su0HO_7tO6bApVEWHFTSc-5O5dvoRmI7df2DgT6OvdDMew-eJjIaOLYtvC-Z9Cz3TOw/s320/D9A91CD6-D85A-4669-8EDD-F33F6598C1FA.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The phone rings. It’s on the table, screen down, and I can’t
see who’s calling.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">We are having lunch on a terrace in Crete. Petteri booked
this vacation for us to celebrate my new job. My company announced a few weeks
ago that the branch in Finland is closing and all the thousands of employees
have been laid off. Given the job market situation in Finland, it was
quite unexpected that I landed a new job in two weeks, and not any kind of job,
but a VP position at a tech company. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“Don’t you want to see who’s calling?” Petteri asks. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I picked up the phone. My heart jumps. The caller is my
former manager. I move away from the terrace
to answer. They are offering me a job at the US headquarters. I will need to
relocate by the end of the summer. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“You said what??” Petteri seems to be upset. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“I said I will think it over.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“What do you have to think over? You’ve got a great job
waiting for you at home. It’s not like you need a job.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“I know.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“How about your kids? Mihai is supposed to start college in the fall. Antonia, she is just about to end middle school, and she will not want to
move away from Finland and her friends.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“I know.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“You love your life. You are happy. Aren’t you? You can't be
serious about considering the offer? Let’s forget about this, enjoy the last
few days of vacation and when we get back home, you call them and say thank you, but no.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m trying to concentrate. He is right. I know he is right.
I still don’t understand why I didn’t decline the offer on the spot. There is
no way I will move, so why leave this theoretical possibility open.
It’s just pride. Why is Petteri so anxious? We should order a
bottle of champagne and celebrate how lucky we are.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Instead, I hear myself saying, “I’m not feeling at home in
Finland.” Where did this come from? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“What do you mean? Do you still think of Romania as your
home? And what does this have to do with anything? Wouldn’t moving to the US mean
you move even further away from home? </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Pause. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">“And how about us?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I can’t answer that. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">I can’t just decline the offer. I need to give it fair
consideration. Maybe Antonia will not want to move, maybe we can’t figure out a
way for Mihai’s college education, maybe this job in the US doesn’t make any sense,
maybe I don’t want to live so far away, there are so many maybes and so many
fears. The only certain thing is that Finland is not home. Romania is not home
anymore, either. What difference then it makes if I’ll move to the US? <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<br />Sandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07835668026155579130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17885274.post-43171509868820123372023-01-03T13:34:00.000-08:002023-01-03T13:34:01.720-08:00Solo travel and the book <p>When I turned 49, I decided it was time to gift myself a trip to Hawaii.</p><p>At that point, I’ve been a “divorced woman,” “single mom,” and “household head” for a while. I was used to being “solo” at home. I have been traveling
around the globe by myself on business trips. I liked the freedom of traveling
alone. I have traveled on vacations with only the kids to new places across
different countries for many years now and enjoyed it. I never felt out of
place because I was not with a man by my side.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Still, until the age of 49, I have never traveled solo for
pleasure. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">--</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I love Honolulu. The hotel has a lovely terrace restaurant
next to the pool. I put on the turquoise dress I bought in Greece a few years ago
and took my book. <o:p></o:p></p>
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;">-<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span>A table for how many, mam?</p></blockquote><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;">-<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Table for one. </p></blockquote><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> I smile. I feel so free and happy.
</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;">-<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Just for one?</p></blockquote><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"> The young hostess looks confused.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;">-<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Yes, just for myself.</p></blockquote><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;">-<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Okay, don’t worry, I will find you a good one. </p></blockquote><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was not worried. Should I have been? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She takes me to a table somehow in the corner with a splendid view. Gets the sit
for me.<o:p></o:p></p>
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;">-<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Here, she says. We will take good care of you.</p></blockquote><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"> This is nice. I have never
had such a kind hostess. But somehow, she acts like she is taking care of an
invalid. Or am I imagining it? </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;">-<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->What would you like to order? A cocktail or a glass of wine to start?</p></blockquote><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"> Ok, it starts to feel normal.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;">-<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->A glass of Pinot Gris, please.</p></blockquote><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">I relax on the chair and start to look around. The restaurant
is not very busy yet. Some couples and families with kids. A pleasant
atmosphere. </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Soon will be sunset, and I will have a perfect view from my
table to enjoy. I am not taking my book out yet.</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraph" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> In just a quick
moment, the waitress comes with the Pinot Gris. Wow, this is fast service!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;">-<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span>Here is your wine, mam. </p></blockquote><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"> The waitress is closer to my age. She
smiles. I smile back.</p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><o:p> </o:p><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">-</span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: -0.25in;">
</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Are you all right, mam? Is there something we
can do for you to help you be comfortable?</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">It’s my turn to be confused. I am very
comfortable. Don’t I look relaxed?</p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><o:p> </o:p><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">-</span><span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: -0.25in;">
</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">I am just fine, thank you for asking. I can
order now.</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">When she comes over with the food, the feeling that there is something I don’t quite
understand becomes stronger. She puts her hand on my shoulder. I’m getting uneasy.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;">-<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->If there is anything we can do for you, anything
at all, just let me know. I’ll be coming to check on you often. </p></blockquote><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left; text-indent: -0.25in;">-<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Thank you, you are very kind indeed. I am perfectly
fine; it is a wonderful evening, and the food looks delicious. </p></blockquote><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">As she leaves, I open my book on the table. I can see her looking back at me. She notices my book, smiles back, and
nods approvingly.</p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">I figured it out by the end of the trip. A
single woman (my age??) having dinner in a restaurant in Hawaii is unusual. With
the book by my side, I became socially acceptable.</p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">Back in Seattle, I’m still wondering if I somehow
missed the clues all these years. I chose an Italian restaurant close to home
to go out for dinner. Nobody cared if I had a book or not. Thank God!</p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast"><o:p></o:p></p>Sandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07835668026155579130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17885274.post-36675093657796536262023-01-02T12:47:00.006-08:002023-01-10T23:39:56.077-08:00How to remove obstacles with a newspaper<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijUgKz2VMcoE9_L2hWgvvl6-Bz1D-4tgz8nRkbBn183CB0_QpnauDBNKA2oBt-hAiu9U0DydUfdLJaJWCe8J3axBrLF1ooY-l_n4yP390rfeDhPTyKftDQNnleK8z5FHBcKQJVwXF7AZuRqe2TGO9L3mQL9QHZ3HfsCC72US3pLm5QUSEVYw/s1496/book.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1496" data-original-width="1256" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijUgKz2VMcoE9_L2hWgvvl6-Bz1D-4tgz8nRkbBn183CB0_QpnauDBNKA2oBt-hAiu9U0DydUfdLJaJWCe8J3axBrLF1ooY-l_n4yP390rfeDhPTyKftDQNnleK8z5FHBcKQJVwXF7AZuRqe2TGO9L3mQL9QHZ3HfsCC72US3pLm5QUSEVYw/s320/book.png" width="269" /></a></div><br /><p>When I was in kindergarten, my mother would read me stories every evening before I went to sleep. And while I was happy that I could hear
the story, I would have liked to be able to read it myself. There were times I didn’t
like the stories mom was choosing. Other times I would love one story so much
that I would have liked to hear it again and again, every night, and she would get
tired of it and say, “no more.” </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I wanted to be able to read. Choose the stories, and re-read the
ones I loved for days in weeks. I asked my mom to teach me to read.
She was a teacher, after all. But she told me that the time to learn to write
and read is when I will go to school. There is no need for you to learn before
it, she said. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">One early spring afternoon, I was about 4 years old,
I took a blank sheet of paper and put it on top of a newspaper. I copied every letter
from the newspaper onto the blank paper sheet. A full page. It took me a very
long time. I don’t know if it was one hour or many hours, time seems to pass at a different speed when you are 4 years old, but I felt like it took me forever. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When I finished the entire page, I went to my mom and said –
look, mom, I know how to write. Would you now please teach me to read. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">She got angry. To this day, I don’t understand why she got
angry, but she did. She told me that it is called rubbish, not writing. She said you should not waste your time with this “pretending” writing but wait to
learn it properly in school. Learn to do it properly. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I started to cry. I so much want to read, mom, I said. You
didn’t want to help, so I tried to do it alone, but this is all I could
do. Why are you angry?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Her voice calmer now, she asked – you wouldn’t give up,
would you? I looked back at her with tears in my eyes - I can’t wait, mom; I need to read now. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So, she taught me to read. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When summer came, and we visited my grandparents, I could already read short stories. It took me a long time to finish one story (and
be able to find out what happened in the end)
- but the whole process brought me a kind of joy I had never experienced
before. And when I would find a story I really liked, I would hide with the
book in the cornfield near my grandparent’s house and read it again and again until I heard my grandma’s voice calling me to dinner. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To this day, when I find a book I like, I look for the cornfield kind of place, a gate to the imaginary world.<o:p></o:p></p>Sandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07835668026155579130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17885274.post-52512963180277053382023-01-01T16:19:00.010-08:002023-01-02T15:29:02.248-08:00What is lost will be found <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://www.sandaberar.com" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="540" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn96IuUMk2ekIfxvs3KTvc1vVFkN8h8-oefq8gT-K8-FBMdoOxtLZuSk7hquDE8xPJDFnjLWJAL0PYvsgtZ2sdRNA4bgLRJz2vB2HzXi9BV__QUeafmvcWPRGief-iB19JvYWyY0axeCOYxWyfVbl3jVW-7STRiyZQlioUgzJ5MitTZSZ8fQ/w200-h200/pieces%20of%20me%20ad.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.sandaberar.com" target="_blank">"Pieces of Me" <br />You don't know this new me; <span style="text-align: left;">I put back my pieces differently. </span></a><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://www.sandaberar.com" target="_blank"><br /></a></div></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal">I’ve been opening my laptop today, thinking of writing my
first assessment for the course I’ve just started. The course is "A year
of writing to uncover the authentic self." Each week, a new theme. The first week’s theme
is roadblocks.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But as I open my file, I see a title I wrote down some
time ago “ What is lost will be found.” </p><p class="MsoNormal">Nothing else, just a title. And no
matter how much I have tried to focus on the roadblocks, my mind constantly slips toward “what is lost will be found.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Maybe it’s a better theme for the first day of the New Year,
anyways! <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> -</o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So, what have I lost over the years? What have I found?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>I’ve found and lost love</i>. Two marriages, two divorces, and three good men who shaped my life. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>I’ve lost my faith and found it again several times</i>. I seem to lose it, it just slips away when life gets easy, and I find it again with a gasp when the going gets tough. How predictable. And how disappointing that after so many cycles, when I finally became aware of the phenomenon, I still can't hold on to it forever. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>I started life without too much confidence in myself,
built it, lost it, and found it again many times</i>. I've always been clumsy, no good at sports, and not capable of building anything with my hands. These traits are the ones essential in early childhood. The lack of them meant I was a failure. And then school started, and I discovered that if my body is not good, my mind can work. Math was my favorite class. Sports class was still the most dreaded one. But I have gained confidence and learned that there are some things I can do better than others. The teenage years came, and while I was already at peace with my lack of competence in sports, parties were the thing of the day, and dancing became a critical skill. My body's lack of coordination triggered another cycle of confidence drip. And then, after a while, it became apparent that most of the boys didn't care about my dancing skills; the 'ne sai quoi' in my eyes (?) was enough. The cycle kept continuing; there was always something I couldn't do as good as others, only to discover after a while that it didn't matter anyway. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>I've lost my home and found it again. </i>Moving away from Romania and leaving behind family and friends hasn't been easy. I've been homesick for years. It took a long time to start feeling at home in Finland. And then I moved again, leaving behind again family and friends. The second time though, I knew we keep home in our hearts. Romania is still home. Finland is home. And now Seattle is also home. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>I’ve lost and found my desire to write, to create. </i>Throughout my years in school, since I learned to read, I knew I wanted to be a writer. There was simply nothing better in my mind than being able to write stories that people will read when they want to escape into a more beautiful world. I chose to go into computer engineering instead. As a career choice, it made sense, but I was convinced I would still write stories and publish them. Years passed, kids were raised, and careers were changed. Finally, I had to admit that lists are the only thing I have been writing for a long while (and possibly the only thing I can write anymore). Hence I started to paint. What a wonderful surprise to be still able to express myself, even if in a very unexpected way. Interestingly enough, after a couple of years of painting, I found the desire to use words to complement the images. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">--</p><p class="MsoNormal">What is lost will be found - it is cyclic. Nothing is ever lost forever or stays
forever within us once found.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The thought of this cycle is both sad and hopeful at the
same time. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Never lose hope that you are going to find what you’ve lost.
Never think you are going to keep it forever. Be prepared to overcome the obstacles
again and again. Learn, and improve yourself, but mostly – know that at the next turn
of the road, some obstacles will be the same, and some will be completely new, but
as long as you don’t give up – what is lost will be found. Always. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the end, it looks like I’ve found what I needed to finish
my “roadblocks” assessment. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Sandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07835668026155579130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17885274.post-88420989943849726582022-12-31T17:22:00.004-08:002023-01-02T15:21:47.949-08:00New Challenge for the New Year <p class="MsoNormal">I'm taking on a new challenge for the new year. "A year of writing to uncover the
authentic self" course. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I’ll allow myself not only to write but to be vulnerable
and share with you, my writing journey. <o:p></o:p></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal">Wish me luck <span face=""Segoe UI Emoji",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol-ext; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: "Segoe UI Emoji";">😊</span> <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span face=""Segoe UI Emoji",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol-ext; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: "Segoe UI Emoji";"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF23rORliZU3hUJsST4Ai3i-YfUP_EUboyVfm1Lo_jxSAyUgT0suMm3v5PxafPf53AAIpGka3WhGM55Xe3U3_A0tX-hg1SEDgjqmpKv5jPr_2_MhHTJcKGmLewfMSGxOJ_jpUsMFeMQQXDHNFcKFR8OI5z2APIJtSdOEhkVlm5PZ7_jpmMMw/s1604/new%20year.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1220" data-original-width="1604" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF23rORliZU3hUJsST4Ai3i-YfUP_EUboyVfm1Lo_jxSAyUgT0suMm3v5PxafPf53AAIpGka3WhGM55Xe3U3_A0tX-hg1SEDgjqmpKv5jPr_2_MhHTJcKGmLewfMSGxOJ_jpUsMFeMQQXDHNFcKFR8OI5z2APIJtSdOEhkVlm5PZ7_jpmMMw/s320/new%20year.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span face=""Segoe UI Emoji",sans-serif" style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol-ext; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: "Segoe UI Emoji";"><br /></span><p></p>Sandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07835668026155579130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17885274.post-8141016014689064562022-12-16T14:22:00.004-08:002022-12-16T14:25:07.703-08:00The happy dance <p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpwcmzJ6_7Sc9SUppnf1ivuKl4R7J7dQSNFGJEIq1Q5aqblWUky6UuSDR9T3vIVZyjB6XpYRJyCYPFIvVaToCy6JV0AtfPUmRIVGHWnX-c6ZfCvDpDBAzZfvC2mcN31xRD_dly2a_CrsoOzg60x4-glG9IOj7rF2vfOfteG9HQz-SW8OWiJw/s865/happy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="865" data-original-width="692" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpwcmzJ6_7Sc9SUppnf1ivuKl4R7J7dQSNFGJEIq1Q5aqblWUky6UuSDR9T3vIVZyjB6XpYRJyCYPFIvVaToCy6JV0AtfPUmRIVGHWnX-c6ZfCvDpDBAzZfvC2mcN31xRD_dly2a_CrsoOzg60x4-glG9IOj7rF2vfOfteG9HQz-SW8OWiJw/s320/happy.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>“I looked at Antonia and I saw that she is beautiful” - said
my son.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He was five years old, and his sister, Antonia, was born a
few weeks ago. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the weeks and months that followed, he became utterly
protective of her. Worried that flies would hurt her while she was sleeping
outside. Angry of the neighbor kids when they were playing in the yard, they
were too loud and would wake her up. Sad when she was crying, getting more and
more irritated by my apparent lack of capability to comfort her properly. “Is
she hungry mom? I think she is hungry! Maybe she wants something else than
milk? Can we please give her something better to eat?” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Not surprising. She was still inside of me when he started
to become concerned. Watching cartoons one night, he suddenly declared. “Mom,
you should eat the TV! The baby is all alone inside your belly, and she is
probably so bored, has nothing to do! If you eat the TV, she could at least
watch cartoons!” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But then, Antonia learned to stand. Holding on to the
furniture she liked to “dance”, moving her butt up and down and making happy
sounds. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That summer day, Mihai was in his “happy” place, playing
Crash Bandicoot on the PlayStation. Completely immersed in the game, life
outside Crash was irrelevant. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Antonia managed to crawl next to the TV, got herself up and
started her happy dance to Crash Bandicoot’s music, her little body covering
the whole TV screen. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The brotherly over-concerned and protective phase ended in
that exact moment.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It took another ten, maybe fifteen years for him to look at
her again as the little sister that needs care and protection, and not the
annoying little loud thing, looking for attention, interfering with his life. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Sandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07835668026155579130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17885274.post-29403581022078878592022-12-15T20:57:00.005-08:002022-12-15T21:21:25.405-08:00Mom and the happiness lesson <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.artpal.com/sandaberar" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbMAv796m-jzjqHR1bW2rFQf27Qa34G95Cp4kwa769Y7fhXDZ0EUSL7BVP_Wp6NzVynMhyBW1-bMQojw8Ij9YLmosev1W6QF-rd3IEaTAaam7THYkUNaMqEJhwWe9CMqvbVasLfS-iDDvJFKQnNw5wvh2sN_Mij-cGzkmZO00xcAg6ga7w2w/s320/forest.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p>I’m reading “The Antidote. Happiness for people that can’t
stand positive thinking”. </p><p>Thought of my mom while reading it. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My mom has a very particular philosophy of life. In a nutshell, it comes to three main points. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>Duty comes
before anything else. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>It’s better to expect less so you are not disappointed. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>People are not to be trusted until they prove themselves to be trustworthy. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Today, she gave me a lesson in happiness, and it surprised me. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">I think I found the right book for you, mom! The
one that describes your life philosophy, you might like to read it. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">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”!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">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.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Nobody can be continually happy, and nobody can
be continually unhappy. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes; text-indent: -0.25in;"> </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">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. </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Like you</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">."</span></p><p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">---</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>It took a lifetime, but maybe I am finally starting to
understand my mother, as she is finally starting to understand me.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Sandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07835668026155579130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17885274.post-89944805976025405872022-12-14T13:58:00.011-08:002023-01-02T14:32:17.382-08:00A list with all the things .... <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.artpal.com/sandaberar" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="571" data-original-width="458" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2lXERBgit3HZyNpOoVMAPLq-BICsjr3ar9LGgWb-kaLoHEUinC_97D-vN4mI22qEbe0q8ba80eoCKFU5s2qSv-nziJYoW4fS9hcb6OmgSZCrWxmwCIcoUiDtJU-LLal_DNMT2WtQUH3fUeJxBlVMtnA4t6jkdt0Agws832LA5aws2CFLW6A/w258-h320/Angel.JPG" width="258" /></a></div><p><br /></p>It is March in Finland. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m at work, in a meeting. My ten-year-old
son is calling. It is after school, and he should be at home, alone and probably
bored. Or hungry. I considered if I should answer, but I decided to step
out of the meeting and deal with it.<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]-->-<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span><!--[endif]-->Mom, I’m a little bit wet. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Why, what’s happened? What do you mean you are
wet?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Well, I went to the lake on the bicycles with the boys. And I got a little bit wet. <i><o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">The lake is frozen. Almost.
It has been sunny the last few days, and the ice is starting to fade
away at the shores, but it the temperature is still mainly under 0 Celsius
degrees. I am not yet worried</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span>How wet is a little bit wet? What did you do? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">-<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span>Well, I went into the lake a little bit. I am a little bit wet and cold, and I don’t know what to do. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Antti, one of his best friends, is with him. His house is a few
mins' walk from the lake.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">-<span style="font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Go to Antti’s home, I will call his mom, and I’ll
be there shortly!</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In a half-hour, when Antti’s mom opens the door, and I see
her eyes, I know something is awfully wrong. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then she says, “He is okay. He is okay. Don’t be
scared.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I see him by the fireplace, with no clothes, just a blanket
around him. His hair is wet. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He was not “a little bit wet” – but thoroughly wet. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Walking in the middle of the lake, the ice broke, and he fell,
getting entirely underwater. The other boys have been brave enough (or not
fully aware of the danger) to walk to the hole in the ice and pull him out
from under. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The avalanche of emotions, it is hard to describe. Gratefulness,
horror, anger, horror, gratefulness, joy, horror, and gratefulness again. I can’t
talk. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He is scared. Not of what happened, but of me, on how I will
react. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I hug him, and I kiss him. I say, “It’s okay. I am happy you are safe. It’s
okay now. Let’s go home.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Later in the evening, when we both managed to recover,
I got to ask him, “Do you know how dangerous this was? Haven’t we talked about the
iced lakes?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He looks me in the eyes. “I’m sorry, mom. But can you please
make me a list of all the things in the world that are dangerous?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">I want to. I want to make a list and then ensure that he will never get close to any danger. Never ever again. </p><p class="MsoNormal">I realize horrified that protecting the ones we love and keeping them safe and secure it's just something we imagine we do in order not to deal with the truth. We have no control. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Lists are not the answer. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Angels are. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"> Sanda / <a href="http://www.sandaberar.com">www.sandaberar.com</a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Sandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07835668026155579130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17885274.post-40933846546634708642022-12-11T13:53:00.011-08:002023-01-02T15:29:59.939-08:00The distance of dreams <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.sandaberar.com" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="571" data-original-width="458" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQwRO_EMZHM6fyHfFsBoSpxAyMgxYs4LlZOuN2Jyk1ju3T1kw_wCmTLaatjls0QKsUkAfjeyKWqzK-rzyvtjF2IFbLsf1OZY86fMA6tqAm7QcOsVOQM1r3f2NZ2tjGIjzfCUV9wurepspHXy19-in63StW6lVD3ZvS5Ffd-M7WaL5lay1u5g/s320/Dreaming%20small.jpg" width="257" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The distance between how I thought my life would be and how it came to be, I don't know to calculate it. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div>I am living across the ocean now in a country that made vows against communism. Money matter. Friends, I’ve lost plenty. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Sanda / <a href="http://www.sandaberar.com" target="_blank">www.sandaberar.com</a></div><div><br /></div>Sandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07835668026155579130noreply@blogger.com0Issaquah, WA, USA47.5301011 -122.032619119.219867263821158 -157.1888691 75.840334936178849 -86.8763691tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17885274.post-72833450578316322472021-03-28T18:43:00.008-07:002022-12-15T21:05:22.600-08:00Sunrise in the forest <blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><p></p></blockquote></blockquote><div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I always thought I am going to be a writer, if not now, at some point in my life. I never thought I am going to start painting. Life is full of surprises, they say. Some of the better ones come from inside us. </div><p>When I'll get to be a writer, I thought, I am going to write about the light inside us and how we become alive. </p><p>I started to paint, and my brushes want to tell the story of light in the forest and how the trees become alive.</p><p>Sanda / <a href="http://www.sandaberar.com">www.sandaberar.com</a> </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.artpal.com/sandaberar" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgghKnMc5a94zLLot_zOYDrsReT4eGOKVwBeQZ49D89U53UqOiL9nuhy2WpMYV8E8aS-_M5u98npdih7SGXlUSc_keMSPuzmqjUu2iTnkxRStBAImXQhrqW4Pb0HoM3vHz0Co3I/s0/107299528_3188961637850330_4989417646852261264_n.jpg" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Sandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07835668026155579130noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17885274.post-59921156650210727522021-03-28T18:23:00.019-07:002022-12-15T21:11:11.707-08:00The story of my life in clip stories<blockquote><p></p></blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.artpal.com/sandaberar" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="2939" data-original-width="3673" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiKi5qBGvo1GmhauZAEmRjGd0NGHB2J7ES-hWtFoToZd13qn3gMPK6L17qtxnjDAsBvNs7C8VRvfjhY7K51joZYoZqfLTreZL3CeNxzv3nXbbPZ19oMssxOlE68jwFlrUXn0_7z_UN35qEC6wQInvkPCVQYREO8iQylFD2mmo2iOIAVkTeBg/s320/Explosion.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #eeeeee; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; background: rgb(238, 238, 238); mso-highlight: yellow;">The 5s
without breathing.</span></b></div>
<p class="MsoNormal">He is asleep in my arms. I know I should put him in his crib,
but I so need to feel him close. It’s my son’s first night at home. I lean and
lay him down in the crib and go to my bed. My eyes are closing when my son’s
breath stops: one second, two seconds. I’m on my feet. Three seconds, four seconds. This panic is
something I have never experienced before. Five seconds. He is breathing again. And in
that very second I realize that I will forever worry for him. There is no going
back. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #eeeeee; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; background: rgb(238, 238, 238); mso-highlight: yellow;">The airport</span><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I am waiting for my luggage to arrive. The belt is moving
slowly, empty. I like the airport’s buzz, hearing the people’s voices surrounding
me, it’s lively. Then I notice something feels odd. There is no buzzing. I look
around, all the people are still there. I do not understand what is happening,
are they talking, and I can’t hear, am I having a stroke or something? And then
I know. This is Finland, the country I am just moving in. Life with the sounds
and all I knew before is gone. I’ll need to learn to listen to silence. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #eeeeee; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; background: rgb(238, 238, 238); mso-highlight: yellow;">I
want to be happy now</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My five years old daughter, she is a stubborn little one. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Why you are not buying us a dog now” She is
at the kitchen table and looks particularly decisive tonight. “We have had this
conversation; we are going to have a dog when you will be old enough to be
responsible for him”. “I don’t want to live my whole life wishing for something
to happen in the future. I want to be happy today.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gasp. She
is going to be the one raising me, not the other way around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: #eeeeee; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; background: rgb(238, 238, 238); mso-highlight: yellow;">Jump</span><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I am sitting on the beach terrace in Crete. Phone rings,
it’s from work. I can barely hear; reception is so bad. I am considering saying
‘sorry, let’s talk soon when I am in Finland’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Instead, I move away from the terrace. I hear now. The Finnish branch is
closing. We are being shut down. I have been offered a job at the headquarters
in US. Can I consider moving to US?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
have been dreading a moment like this forever. Something comes around and I feel
too scared to take a risk. Yes, I said. I can consider that. <o:p></o:p></p>Sandahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07835668026155579130noreply@blogger.com0