Tuesday, 29 March 2011


An old lady with dark brown hair was slowly making her way through the paths of the park, enjoying the first beautiful spring day. She loved the warmth of the sun on her wrinkled skin and soft wind in her short curly hair. She cut her hair short a year ago when the illness took away the strength from her hands and she couldn’t wash her long hair anymore. She mourned after her long curls were cut; her dark brown hair was the only thing she had left from her youth.

After an hour of walking she was tired and she sat on a bench facing the sun. She leaned back, closed her eyes and saw her young self  laying on the  freshly cut grass and her yet-to-be-husband was looking at her with sparkles in his eyes. In that moment she knew he’s the one she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. He was tall and handsome, with blonde hair and deep blue eyes. He was a real gentleman, always so considerate and kind. They could spend hours talking about books they both read or sit together and read poems or newspapers. He wrote poems for her and brought her a flower on every date.

They were madly in love even after many years of marriage and after raising four children. He was always there for her and their kids. He was the best husband and father in the world. He always wore a smile on his face; he knew when someone needed comforting words and he also always knew what to say. People felt better when he was around even if they were going through a rough time.

His death was the hardest time in her life. She lost her best friend, her lover and confidant. She was never prepared for something like this. She expected it, they all did. He was sick for years and she knew he would be gone soon. But she never expected life would be so hard without him. She had to learn how to live without her sweetheart.

She opened her eyes and the picture of her husband smiling at her was gone. Instead she saw kids playing and laughing on the freshly cut grass. She looked around and saw a young couple on the next bench. They were madly in love, she could see it. The boy was looking at the girl with the same sparkle in his eyes she saw many years ago in her husbands eyes when he was looking at her. She wondered if they too would stay together forever. She wondered if years from now that young girl would be sitting on a bench in the park, wondering the same things about the young couple on the next bench. 

Friday, 25 March 2011


First, I would like to apologise to all of you for being so absent lately. I didn’t have time to write and post anything or read your blogs and comment. I’m really sorry and feel bad about it but I’m very busy with my studies.

The second thing I want to tell you is that I’m a guest on Rebecca's blog today so you’re all invited to read my post over there. I’m very happy, honoured and grateful that Rebecca has invited me to write a post for her.

Bebecause this isn’t a real post I’ve disabled comments here. Again, you’re invited to read and comment on my post on Rebecca’s wonderful blog Making Memories

Monday, 21 March 2011

Voices - Inspiration Monday guest post

I’m happy to announce the third Inspiration Monday. As you probably already know I was inspired by so many women since I started blogging and I wanted to share their thoughts about inspiration with all of you. I hope you enjoy this series of posts as much as I do and I hope that you’re inspired by my guests.

Today’s guest is Froggy who writes a lovely blog Happy Frog and I. She’s an amazing and diverse writer and I enjoy reading her fictional pieces as much as Children’s TV posts and everything in between. I warmly suggest that you check out her blog in case you're not following her yet.

Froggy is a kind and positive person who can inspire you in so many different ways. I’m honoured to be hosting her on my blog and I know… I really should stop babbling… Here we go; I give you Froggy:

Sometimes, in my dreams, I can hear my dad's voice.  I recognise just the right elements of tone, warmth and accent, whether he sounds cross or happy, calm or agitated.  Whatever the mixture of different elements my slumbering mind produces, I can always tell it is him. 

The minute I wake up, the detail of his voice starts to fade. I spend a few moments dredging the corners of my mind, trying to ensure that I have captured enough in my long term memory to remember.  I know that by the time I have left my bed to start another day, the memory has disappeared completely.  This never stops me trying to capture his voice.  The lessons are never learned.

The darker memories of my life rarely do as they are told.  Instead of softening with time to a point where all that remains is unquestioned acceptance, they rebel.  They push their way to the forefront of my consciousness, eschewing peace of mind in their desperation to be heard.  Sometimes they provide inspiration, on other occasions they crush it. 

There are no precious video or audio recordings I can turn to in order to hear my dad.  Only his image remains intact and available whenever I need reassurance.  In less then five years my face will be older than the one that looks back at me from photographs taken just before his death. It is a milestone that often troubles me.  Photographs can be helpful but they never catch the spirit of a person as much as their voice.  Being without my dad’s voice is something I should be used to after all these years, but I am not. 

My first experience of trying to hear and capture a voice that was devoid of physical form but nestled deep within my head occurred when my dad was still alive and I was six years old. Under the instruction and supervision of whichever nun was teaching us, we would wait; we would sit in class quietly with our eyes shut tight and our hands clasped together.  These sessions provided rare occasions in my early life where my mind was temporarily empty of imaginings and conversations. It had been explained to us the first time it happened what the aim of the experiment was.  We were supposed to hear the sound of God talking to us. 

I would always sit with my elbows digging into the hard wood desk I was seated at hoping I would not hear anything, but slightly disappointed when this came to pass.  A small part of me wanted to be chosen, to be special.  A larger part did not want to hear the imagined booming voice of a deity in my head. If he chose to talk to me it could be taken as full confirmation that he existed.  It would mean he saw everything I did.  I was by no means a very naughty child but neither was I completely good.  I was fiercely private about my alone time.  The idea of such an intrusion made me fearful and uneasy.  The idea of not being special and included made my stomach feel like it was going to flip over.   

Every so often the experiment would be repeated.  Once I heard hailstones bouncing loudly and rapidly onto the hard grey tarmac outside the classroom. On several occasions when we tried it around half ten in the morning I could hear the tinkle of tiny milk bottles gently touching and repelling each other as they were carried to position by the monitor.  Every time I heard the large black and white clock over the long blackboard covered in chalk residue. Its incessant tick-tocking sounding louder than I could have ever imagined possible when my eyes were open and human voices were intermittently allowed.  From time to time we would be reminded by our teacher to clear all thoughts from our minds and leave the way clear for God to approach us. This was a request I would valiantly try to put into practice. 

Some of my classmates said they did hear him and perhaps that is true.  God’s voice was always described as male, never female, something I did not question at the time.  As for me, I did not hear the sound of God’s voice, not then and not now. There is only one voice I yearn to hear in my waking hours as each year passes.

Occasionally I will be sitting quietly thinking of nothing in particular and suddenly I will be hit by a strong urge to pick up a pen in a half daze and start writing.  I get a tingling feeling deep inside my brain that urges me to write.  I am suddenly immersed in the echoes of the past, reminded of the swiftness of the present and conscious of unknowable stories to come.  Sometimes when I look back at a story or blog post I will find myself perplexed with no idea how most of the words formed themselves into their final patterns. 

I am not saying that I think my dad invades my alone time and speaks to me.  Nor that I imagine these odd flashes of inspiration come from him however unlikely that may be.  It just makes me wonder if I have inherited his style and method of writing.  It makes me curious how much of me is influenced by my genes, my upbringing and my adult life.  Have I become an extension of my dad’s voice?

A discussion on what inspired his writing and particular style and approach is one of the many conversations I wish I could have with him. In preference to posing questions I cannot answer.  Instead of waiting for a voice that will never be heard.

Saturday, 19 March 2011

100 words: Fooled

am craving spring; this winter was far too long and way too cold.

I am craving spring because it makes me happier with nicer and less gloomy days.

I can't wait for trees to turn green and for blooming buds on the tree branches. I can’t wait for longer and warmer days and lazy afternoon coffees with my friends after classes. I am craving after light spring outfits because I am tired of heaviness of layers of clothes.  

Two weeks ago I thought the spring was already here but I was wrong; two beautiful and warm days fooled me

Thursday, 17 March 2011

The Versatile Blogger Award

One of my friends surprised me for my birthday with a wonderful Versatile Blogger Award. She wrote the first ever guest post I hosted a couple of weeks ago about her amazing Grandma Polly. You probably guessed by now that I’m talking about Barbara whose thoughts you can read on Notes from the second half. Barbara, thank you again!

In order to accept this award I should write 7 things about me and pass the award to 7 bloggers. Two very hard tasks since I’ve done this a couple of times before, but I’ll give it a try.

Here are 7 facts (random and in no particular order) about me:

  • I’m a cat person and I don’t like dogs. I’ve been bitten by dog twice (once in my eye and it almost lost eyesight and the second time I was bitten in my calf) and I think that’s a pretty good reason for not being fond of dogs. And it’s also a good reason for being afraid of them.

  • I have a clear picture of how and when things should be done and get very upset, disturbed and even angry when things are not done the right way (which is my way, of course). You can call me a control freak.

  • I love turtles. I have two at my parent’s house where they have their own space in our garden. They are lovely.

  • I love wearing big rings, different shapes and colours.

  • I Tweet. A year ago I was very sceptical about Twitter and didn’t like it but then I gave it a chance and now I love it. My username is @ShinyStarlight if you want to follow me.

  • I love Grey’s Anatomy and watch it on a regular basis.

  • My dream car is an Aston Martin V12 Vantage. No words needed.  

The first part of my job is done and it wasn’t as tough as the last time. But the hardest part is to choosing 7 bloggers. The last couple of times I got the awards I passed them to everyone but this time I’ll follow the rules and pick out seven bloggers:

Mission accomplished. 

Monday, 14 March 2011

Growing up

Today is my 23rd birthday. I’m an adult now and lately I’ve noticed that everyone’s treating me as an adult. I’m all grown up and I’m the one responsible for myself. If I would do something wrong I would be the one who would be carrying the consequences.

You really know that you’re grown up when your parents treat you like an adult. A couple of weeks ago I was sitting at the dining table with my Mum and my sisters. I was talking with my Mum about something serious and my sisters were asking all sorts of questions and interrupting the conversation. At one moment I realised that not so very long ago I was the one sitting at the table with adults, asking stupid questions.

You also know that you’re really grown up when you’re living with someone and get very annoyed when she/he leaves breadcrumbs on the counter or when you find an empty milk carton in the refrigerator.

Another indicator of adulthood is also clothing (or lack of it). When we’re younger we wear something because it’s cool to wear it, no matter how weird it looks, how (un)comfortable it is and how (not) warm it is. Back in high school me and most of my friends wore All Stars (the regular ones, not the leather ones) in winter and it didn’t matter how much snow had fallen. Our winter jackets were way too short and we were freezing most of the time. Now you see us wearing warm winter boots, long winter coats and a few layers of clothes – it doesn’t matter how it looks (ok, it does, but not as much as it did back in high school) it has to be warm.  

So… I’m an adult by all the criteria and I can do whatever I want. And I really want a piece of cheesecake that Mr Starlight made for my birthday. 

Thursday, 10 March 2011

100 words: A grey hair

Two months ago I found a grey hair on my head. First reaction was very loud screaming. The second reaction was devastation.

My Mum told me her hair was totally grey at my age which didn’t only scare me but also made me very sad.

But then I remembered that every grey hair and every wrinkle on my face are expressions of all experiences I had in my life which I wouldn’t give up for anything.

Still, I don’t want to have grey hair, so I’ll dye my hair when I’ll have too much grey hair to pull them out. 

Monday, 7 March 2011

You can be your own inspiration - Inspiration Monday guest post

This is the second Inspiration Monday. Since I started blogging I came across some wonderful women who inspired me somehow and today I’ll give voice to one of those amazing women.

When I decided to do guest posts about inspiration I instantly knew I wanted Rita to write a post for me. For those who don’t know her yet – you should really check out her blog The adventures of Cinderita.

She is an amazing woman whose life story is astonishing, sad, and full of hope and beauty at the same time. Her posts are always full of joy and inspiration. She IS an inspiration and the way she lives her life is inspiring.

She made me so very happy by saying yes when I asked her if she would be so kind to do me the honour of being a guest on my blog. Not only is she an inspirational person, she’s also incredibly nice and positive.

Now I think it’s time for me to stop stalling and give the “pen” over to Rita:

When Starlight asked me to write a post about inspiration, all I could do was smile. Inspiration is right up there in the English language for me, right along with Serendipity and Love. 3 of my most favorite words.

How do I tell you about what keeps me inspired? Or what inspired me? Or how I continue to be inspired? Well, it all boils down to the extraordinary people I have in my life that keep me inspired. What keeps me inspired is my life and how I choose to live it. I am inspired, often (not always) by my own life. What does that mean? Well, its like when I do something so far out of my element of comfort, or when I have a conversation with someone that I am uncomfortable having, I do that because I have a commitment to myself and to the person I am in a relationship with to grow the relationship in such a way that it inspires other people to want that for themselves and their relationships. I venture to say that my commitment in life is often just to inspire someone to greatness. Whatever that means for them.

Its funny how it works too because what ends up happening is I will receive an email, or a phone call, text or some other form of communication from a friend or a blog follower or even sometimes a complete stranger who will share that they were inspired by something that I wrote. One of my favorite moments was when Starlight sent me a Twitter message letting me know that she had started her own life list and had 27 items on it. I didn't even know she had read that particular post.  That is the kind of stuff that keeps me inspired. That is what keeps the inspiration alive for me.

Now, that's not to say that I need outside circumstances to keep me inspired. That is simply one aspect of it. What drives my inspiration is me. I can't possibly have an intention to inspire others if I am not inspired by my own self first. That is why I keep a Life List. That is why I do things that are uncomfortable or scary for me. That is why I am willing to look like a fool in the name of love. That is why I do things that sometimes annoy or piss off other people because sometimes I'm too happy, upbeat, joyful, and full of ideas. Because for me not to, would be me giving up on my own life.

Now what drives all of that? Well, it’s true. I am a human being so therefore am not always able to keep myself going. I can't always stay inspired on my own. There really isn't anything that we can do alone in this life (except maybe die). So what keeps me inspired to be inspired are the amazing people I am blessed to have in my life. Friends who push me past my own level of comfort. Friends who have made me fall in love with them, over and over and over again because they did something that scared them. Friends who take on really big things because sometimes they ask themselves "what would Rita do?” Friends who are willing to stretch themselves way past their own comfort zones because it matters that much to them. That is what keeps me inspired.

Or when my nephews sit in my lap to read them a story. They inspired love in me I didn't even know I had. They just want me to love them and play with them. And sometimes all I can do is love them, but it’s from a place deep inside my soul I want describe. I didn't know the capacity I had to love until they were born. It’s like they made something else possible for me.

What else? Well I don't think I could get away from saying that what inspires me the most is watching people love each other. I love to be witness to weddings, or couples sharing a kiss, or a dad with their child, or when adversity brings people together. I am inspired by the love human beings ultimately have for other human beings.

That is what moves me.

(PS a very big thank you to Starlight for asking me to take over her blog today.  It means a lot to me and I know that it meant a lot to her.  Starlight thank you for being a ray of sunshine in everyday) xo

Wednesday, 2 March 2011

100 words: Tired

I’m tired. Physically and psychically.

It’s only the second week of the summer semester at the university and I’m already dead tired. I’ve got so much work to do, many essays to write and so much literature to read that I don’t know when I’ll do it all.

I’m psychically tired because I’m worried if I’ll manage to do everything that I’m supposed to do and I think about it all the time. I can’t stop worrying and consecutively I can’t fall asleep in the evening. And that’s why I’m physically tired.

I’m dead tired and need some time off.