Waking up to a reel video and a lovely WhatsApp message shared by two friends, I didn’t have much choice other than to sit down and write about how I really feel. What are my joys and worries? What is my mood like? What am I running away from?
Going through a period when I intend to be gentle with myself, it felt as if the day was asking something of me, quietly but insistently. Not productivity, not answers, just honesty. Even if shaken, even if incomplete.
Still lying in bed, a scene from the 1975 movie The Passenger held me still.
Can I ask you one question now, only one, always the same: What are you running away from?
Turn your back to the front seat.
Jack Nicholson not really answering the question, only the past—lines of trees left behind, so poetic and magnetic.
What am I after? Meaning, purpose, truth, reality, honesty, or sincerity?
When traveling, for instance, or starting a course, or watching a movie—am I running away from the real question or the real answer? Rather than sitting in the darkness and trying to write things down, does being exposed to the outer world through the lens of other people’s creations help me feel good about myself?
Am I relating to their stories more than I do to mine? What is my story? What have I got to say to others about my own truth? Do I even know that truth? Can I ever be sure? Can’t a person be the most eligible deceiver instead—believing in something when, in fact, none of it is true? All behind a mask. Aren’t we all?
Maybe I’m not running away at all but just trying to find ways to entertain my soul locked in this imperfect being.
Being raised in a country of simmering tension, a naïve, compassionate creature built a wall of self‑sufficiency to protect herself from the mockery of Lord of the Flies. Taught to be cautious, asked to be risk‑aware, hiding the lively, chirpy girl in unsafe streets and corridors. Born to connect and dance and bond, but too afraid to show her tender feathers—because they can get torn off.
What is her worry?
All the worries of the world: poverty, bias, unfair politics, wars, violence, abuse, disasters, accidents, pollution, cutting down forests to build gold mines. Not being able to protect oneself or one’s loved ones. Poisons in our food. Lack of psychological safety. Too many lies. Ignorance and fanaticism. Populist leaders.
To be more accurate, I worry about the lack of hope for my country’s well‑being and the world’s sanity.
What surprises me most is how easily I can move between despair and normalcy—worrying about high inflation and low income in the morning, choosing what to eat for lunch at noon, getting mad at traffic in the evening and trying to get things done while so many stimuli ask for my attention — as if the state of the world and my own body’s aches exist in separate rooms.
What is her joy?
Music—in different genres and languages. Often I find myself praying for the people who make these songs.
Going for a walk in a new town, with no specific to‑dos, commitments, or plans. Getting lost in the streets. A bright, sunny day with warm—but not hot—weather.
Going to a play or a dance performance, or watching a movie or reading a book and getting lost in that world, connecting with basic human emotions at the core.
Talking with someone in a way that feels sincere, individual, and special—like we’re communicating on a different level. When coaching or mentoring, helping someone experience an aha moment. Seeing my niece grow up is a joy—seeing her courage in vulnerability, sometimes reminding me to be courageous and free myself.
Taking photographs. Being blown away by sunsets, clouds, waves of the sea, or the wind caressing the leaves—and taking pictures again and again. Looking at the light and harmony afterward brings me joy.
Stationery, notebooks, postcards, bookstores—of course, my joy.
Fresh flowers, especially flower shops in Europe, a colorful world of tender petals.
Cooking myself comfort food—pasta, for instance—and enjoying it with a glass of wine by candlelight.
Maybe this is how I stay. Not by forcing answers or escaping uncertainty, but by allowing the questions to exist and listening to what they reveal over time. For now, that seems honest enough.
*
P.S. During lunchtime, I received this poem in our teams chat. We had a nice conversation and realized that there were of course different view points but fortunately we had a wonderful tool -the arts- to communicate them beautifully.
Léon Montenaeken – “Peu de chose” (1887)
La vie est vaine :
Un peu d’amour,
Un peu de haine…
Et puis — bonjour !
La vie est brève :
Un peu d’espoir,
Un peu de rêve…
Et puis — bonsoir !
English Translation by Microsoft Copilot:
Life is vain:
A little love,
A little hate…
And then — good day!
Life is brief:
A little hope,
A little dream…
And then — good night!
*
Listening to: Extreme Ways – Reprise Version – Moby
