I would do a botanical illustration course and quit my job to draw and fulfill myself every single day. "pen" on paper instead of spending 8h hours a day with CAD. I would leave Portugal with my love to our dreamland where we would rent or even buy (knowing I would't fail) our lovely little house near the lake...where one day soon we would meet our baby...
somehow I would also manage to have a small bookstore of my own. A sacred space where I would have a special corner for children to enjoy and where I would teach them to love words, books and their smell as much as I do...
8.4.10
fragilidades II
confirma-se. partiu. como um copo de cristal estilhaçou-se em mil pedaços.
hoje não me apetece andar a colar peças. vou arrumá-las ali ao lado. se um dia me apetecer tento colar sabendo de antemão que nunca nada voltará a ser como antes...
agora pergunto-me...e se eu nunca colar os pedacinhos?...hummm...
hoje não me apetece andar a colar peças. vou arrumá-las ali ao lado. se um dia me apetecer tento colar sabendo de antemão que nunca nada voltará a ser como antes...
agora pergunto-me...e se eu nunca colar os pedacinhos?...hummm...
inside out
a journey that it´s still in the beginning, but already had a big test to pass. Even though I have a few "cuts and bruises" I guess I´m ok, at least I survived. And I´m not giving up on this journey. It would be giving up on me.
evidências
até agora, das 8 pessoas com quem tive que falar desde que saí de casa, 4 já me perguntaram se eu estou bem. claramente tenho que deixar de ser tão "transparente".
11.2.10
maternidade
...em Inglês porque é assim o texto original e é tão bom. aqui fica:
(...)I want to tell her that the physical wounds of childbirth heal, but that becoming a mother will leave her with an emotional wound so raw that she will be forever vulnerable.
I consider warning her that she will never read a newspaper again without asking “What if that had been my child?” That every plane crash, every fire will haunt her. That when she sees pictures of starving children, she will look at the mothers and wonder if anything could be worse than watching your child die.
I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish suit and think she should know that no matter how sophisticated she is, becoming a mother will immediately reduce her to the primitive level. That a slightly urgent call of “Mom!” will cause her to drop her best crystal without a moment’s hesitation.
I feel I should warn her that no matter how many years she has invested in her career, she will be professionally derailed by motherhood. She might successfully arrange for child care, but one day she will be waiting to go into an important business meeting, and she will think about her baby’s sweet smell. She will have to use every ounce of discipline to keep from running home, just to make sure he is all right.
I want my friend to know that everyday routine decisions will no longer be routine. (...)
I want her to know that however decisive she may be at the office, she will second-guess herself constantly as a mother. Looking at my attractive friend, I want to assure her that eventually she will shed the pounds of pregnancy, but will never feel the same about herself. That her life, now so important, will be of less value to her once she has a child. That she would give it up in a moment to save her offspring, but will also begin to hope for more years, not so much to accomplish her own dreams, but to watch her child accomplish his.(...)
My friend’s relationship with her husband will change, but not in the ways she thinks. I wish she could understand how
much more you can love a man who is always careful to powder the baby or who never hesitates to play with his son. I think she should know that she will fall in love with her husband again for reasons she would never have imagined. (...)
by Dale Hanson Bourke
from Chicken Soup for the Woman’s Soul
na íntegra aqui
(...)I want to tell her that the physical wounds of childbirth heal, but that becoming a mother will leave her with an emotional wound so raw that she will be forever vulnerable.
I consider warning her that she will never read a newspaper again without asking “What if that had been my child?” That every plane crash, every fire will haunt her. That when she sees pictures of starving children, she will look at the mothers and wonder if anything could be worse than watching your child die.
I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish suit and think she should know that no matter how sophisticated she is, becoming a mother will immediately reduce her to the primitive level. That a slightly urgent call of “Mom!” will cause her to drop her best crystal without a moment’s hesitation.
I feel I should warn her that no matter how many years she has invested in her career, she will be professionally derailed by motherhood. She might successfully arrange for child care, but one day she will be waiting to go into an important business meeting, and she will think about her baby’s sweet smell. She will have to use every ounce of discipline to keep from running home, just to make sure he is all right.
I want my friend to know that everyday routine decisions will no longer be routine. (...)
I want her to know that however decisive she may be at the office, she will second-guess herself constantly as a mother. Looking at my attractive friend, I want to assure her that eventually she will shed the pounds of pregnancy, but will never feel the same about herself. That her life, now so important, will be of less value to her once she has a child. That she would give it up in a moment to save her offspring, but will also begin to hope for more years, not so much to accomplish her own dreams, but to watch her child accomplish his.(...)
My friend’s relationship with her husband will change, but not in the ways she thinks. I wish she could understand how
much more you can love a man who is always careful to powder the baby or who never hesitates to play with his son. I think she should know that she will fall in love with her husband again for reasons she would never have imagined. (...)
by Dale Hanson Bourke
from Chicken Soup for the Woman’s Soul
na íntegra aqui
fragilidades
as pessoas "partem-se" facilmente dentro de mim, assim como um copo quando cai sobre a mesa desamparado e se estilhaça.
mas, tal como os copos, algumas são feitas de materiais diferentes.
as pessoas que conquistam mais espaço dentro de mim são sempre as mais frágeis que como os copos de cristal, quando caem, estilhaçam-se irremediavelmente em mil pedaços. e ainda que consiga “reconstruir” algumas delas reciclando os estilhaços, o vidro reciclado torna-se menos puro, menos transparente e eu deixo de ver através dele com a mesma nitidez de antes e assim, lentamente, elas vão desocupando espaço e juntando-se a todas as outras pessoas. aquelas pessoas que ocupam menos espaço, menos importância e que sempre foram feitas desse mesmo vidro reciclado que ainda que seja mais resistente e possa até tombar sem partir, não tem a nitidez necessária para conquistar mais uns centímetros quadrados cá dentro.
e assim eu sou dona do espaço que ocupam dentro de mim. assim eu decido de que material são feitos todos aqueles que deixo que passem da porta de entrada e pisem cá dentro. assim eu decido quem pisa e quem fica. mas há uma coisa que feliz ou infelizmente está fora do meu alcance controlar – o momento desamparado da queda. Esse, está à inteira responsabilidade da outra pessoa, ou da vida...mas nunca à minha.
mas, tal como os copos, algumas são feitas de materiais diferentes.
as pessoas que conquistam mais espaço dentro de mim são sempre as mais frágeis que como os copos de cristal, quando caem, estilhaçam-se irremediavelmente em mil pedaços. e ainda que consiga “reconstruir” algumas delas reciclando os estilhaços, o vidro reciclado torna-se menos puro, menos transparente e eu deixo de ver através dele com a mesma nitidez de antes e assim, lentamente, elas vão desocupando espaço e juntando-se a todas as outras pessoas. aquelas pessoas que ocupam menos espaço, menos importância e que sempre foram feitas desse mesmo vidro reciclado que ainda que seja mais resistente e possa até tombar sem partir, não tem a nitidez necessária para conquistar mais uns centímetros quadrados cá dentro.
e assim eu sou dona do espaço que ocupam dentro de mim. assim eu decido de que material são feitos todos aqueles que deixo que passem da porta de entrada e pisem cá dentro. assim eu decido quem pisa e quem fica. mas há uma coisa que feliz ou infelizmente está fora do meu alcance controlar – o momento desamparado da queda. Esse, está à inteira responsabilidade da outra pessoa, ou da vida...mas nunca à minha.
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