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Physical Purging Clears the Conscience

I don’t think I am a pack rat, right. But from a closer look at my office, I just might be.  On the surface, it is amazingly neat with lots of personality. From a swanky light on the wall, a globe that turns by sunlight or any kind of light, a gorgeous chair and desk, and a plethora of books relatively neatly packed in a custom-made bookcase, it is all here.

So, what is the problem? Books galore and notebooks and all the rest, so much stuff that I had a pile of books on the floor near my bedside table, and a few others scattered about the house here and there.  When Paul suggested that I give some of them to charity to avoid putting them back on our clean carpet, I went into a melt down and exclaimed quite loudly that he was out of order. Really, was a pile of books bothering him that much?

He looked at me rather quizzically and backed off.  I had won so I thought until about thirty minutes later when my conscience taunted me.

Fine I thought, I will find a small bookcase, a job that proved to be impossible. Though our bedroom is quite big, our house, a modern London townhouse, has minimal wall space and storage space for that matter.

Still, I persevered hoping to find a suitable piece of furniture to stick in the one empty corner of our bedroom. Delighted, Paul happily measured the space and reviewed all my selections. Alas, nothing worked.  Too tall, too dark, too handsome. You get the picture.

Back to the drawing board I went but this time to my office and sat in the middle of the floor, looking for space and then it dawned on me that I had a cabinet full of used notebooks, 23 to be exact, most of them Moleskin, and all sorts of old devices–an iPhone 5, two Blackberry’s, a Nokia phone, an iPad, a Kindle.  I could go on, but I won’t.

Furthermore, I noticed the open shelf beside the cabinet, crammed with all the UIO podcast scripts and mounds of papers from my parents’ estate (if you will), not to mention the rammed packed cupboard on the other side of the room, a part of the bookcase.  In there, I found two old manuscripts, and God knows what else.

Facing unrest from my subconscious, I was relieved when my rational mind reminded me what was at stake. Not only were most of the books good reads and some were my own and the works of friends and other cherished authors, but also the papers and notebooks were packed with memories, and the manuscripts were valuable, too, if only to me.

It prodded me to come up with a plan that would save the books, the memories and manuscripts and find a final resting place, if you will, for the items I needed to let go.

First, I gathered the notebooks and saw that more than half of them could be discarded, and the rest, still had a few empty pages to be filled. So back in the cupboard they went.

With the discards, I learned that Moleskin covers are not recyclable and all anyone on the internet could think to do was remove the paper and recycle it, which is the last thing I was prepared to do, after reading pages of personal dreams, actual nightmares, arguments and discussions which took place over the years. I laughed, even cried and thanked God I had not put some of those words out into the world.

Without hesitation, I got shredding what I could not recycle and began the search for a new home for the Moleskin covers. So far, I have failed at the latter, so they are likely on their way to the tip. Don’t judge!

In the meantime, the other precious items such as my parent’s papers and my manuscripts have found a new home in a box underneath one of our storage beds, with the rest of the manuscripts, while the old devices have made their way back to their originators or a suitable recycling outlet.

As for the books, I kept them all, every one of them but they are in their own happy spaces now on shelves in my office.  The day will come when I must let some of them go but for now, I have had plenty of purging, letting go of the old and embracing the new.  I like the space! My conscience does too.

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Stand for Something in 2025 

Ever heard of Blue Monday? I hadn’t either until a few years ago when a curate from our church used it in his sermon.  Apparently, it has been an annual event in the UK since 2005, normally the third Monday in January billed as the most depressing day of the year owing to the aftermath of the festive season. Its founders pitched it as a marketing ploy to get people to travel to sunnier skies to overcome their woes.

I wish I could say that jetting off to a sunnier place cures the January blues. I can’t! I have tried it. Make no mistake about it, it is a great temporary solution, depending on where you go but getting out of a lull after the high of the holidays takes more than another holiday.

Also, it takes more than resolutions and the willpower to stick to them. It must be said, however, that while January brings the automatic blues, as well as untimely ones such as loss and tragedy like any other month, it brings happy days for many—births, weddings and wedding anniversary celebrations and so on. We married in January and never miss a beat celebrating.

Still, few are exempt from the greyness of it all. It is contagious.

So, what do you do? Back in 2016 when my mother was at the end of her life in January, I remember coming across a powerful quote that is as appropriate this January as it was then.

“Stand for something or you will fall for anything. Today’s mighty oak is yesterday’s nut that held its ground.” Rosa Parks

Though I have read this quote and others like it many times, it always gets me thinking and reflecting on what it means to stand for something.

First, standing for something doesn’t mean you have to be an activist, a lobbyist, if that is not your thing. It was not Rosa Park’s thing. It is not mine either, but it does mean that you can find a space even in a world that you don’t understand where you can hold your values.

Next, recognise that standing for something doesn’t mean avoiding what is getting you down.  A good friend, who is an executive coach, recently published a fantastic piece about the dangers of avoidance.

She is right. Avoidance has no place in standing for what you believe in. Let’s be clear, I am not telling you to wallow in social media, get puffed up and pick a fight with everyone who has fallen from a cliff and bumped their heads in your opinion, but it does mean staying on high grounds. Don’t engage with nonsense; remember you are an influencer by default. Say what you do and do what you say which leads to the final point.

Do something! We’ve heard that phrase somewhere before and it works a jewel for standing for something. Do what is within your gift to do.  Take mentoring, for example, you don’t have to join an organisation to do this, though there are some great ones out there. Mentor the young women and young men in your life, help them to stand up for what they believe in, help them to shape a better world for everyone, in a constructive way, so they avoid falling for anything.

You don’t need a world stage to do this. You just need your values and a metaphorical place to stand in, holding them proudly and securely. Just stand for something!

 

 

 

 

 

 

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How to Handle Question Dodging

I have a short fuse for question dodging.  The thing is, question dodging is nothing new but back in the day, say even a year ago, it was not so prominent or acceptable.

Just ask my nieces and nephews or anyone who knows me well.  Within a reasonable amount of time, say a day or two, I would call you out and ask if you were still interested, available, etc.  Are you going to answer the question or not?

Admittedly, most times the answer was ‘not,’ followed by a bit of stonewalling. I was busy with so and so and so on. Stonewalling is not great either but at least I got an answer, even if it was evasive.

No matter how you look at it, we are talking poor communications and quite frankly bad behaviour, which is appalling when the question dodger responds to part of the content and ignores the timely, most significant bit.

Ah ha! I reverted to asking one question at a time. Sadly, the dodgers fell back on completely ignoring the message altogether, letting it fall in a black hole of unanswered questions and then when confronted resorted to tired excuses. I didn’t get it! I overlooked it somehow.  You know the drill.

No wonder the short fuse, right.  Admittedly, however, my firing back at the matter sort of backfired, got me isolated. All communications ceased, one short step away from ghosting. You can’t ghost your aunt or friend, right. They no where you live. But if it was a bureaucratic business matter or customer service issue, I got ghosted. And was pulled into the vortex of red tape, as if I was the person behaving badly.

An acquaintance confessed losing the will to live (not literally, of course) when this repeatedly happened to her. I know the feeling. I can’t tell you how many times I have given up, if only momentarily, and found myself stewing in isolation. Not good for the anxiety, either so I had to take a different approach.

First, I acknowledged that question dodging is not acceptable, no matter who tries to normalise it or who does it. It breeds unhealthy relationships that become fragile to any cracks.  So don’t accept it as normal.

Though it is on the rise, most people who do it know it is rude.  Maybe it is the crowd syndrome that sucks people in. Everybody is doing it.  So why not?  Because following the crowd does not pay off, particularly when a situation is unhealthy, and can do far more harm than it can good.

Next, I realised that question dodging is not personal and that it says more about the dodger than it does you.  Sure, some people don’t communicate out of anger for ages and others are poor communicators full stop.  But most people dodge questions when they don’t know the answer or feel uncomfortable saying no or giving an honest answer. Knowing this does not fix the situation but it does wonders for self-worth and anxiety. Nothing to do with you.

Okay, so how do you handle question dodging?  If you are the dodger, recognise that it is poor communications and quite frankly rude and not helping you or the person you are dodging.  Send a holding note, saying I’ll come back to you soon.

That takes the edge off your anxiety and leaves the door open for a gentle nudge from the receiver if too much time lapses. And if you still don’t know or want to answer, say so.  Your relationship will be in much better stead than it would be if you keep dodging. Promise!

As for those of us on the receiving end of question dodging, again recognise it for what it is and that it has nothing to do with you. That will abate the self-righteous bit of your ego that wants to explode. And from a practical standpoint call to ensure that the person has received the message.  If they don’t answer and continue to dodge you, let it go, unless it is life threatening or life altering.

Later, when the turmoil has passed bring it up in a healthy friendly way without naming it question dodging. Remind your acquaintance that it is unhealthy and that you don’t want to pretend like it is normal.  And if the dodger feels offended, leave the offence with them. If they display remorse, laugh it off and move forward together! Now that’s normal and totally acceptable behaviour.

 

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Why Getting My Name Wrong No Longer Triggers Anxiety

All this mispronunciation of Kamala Harris’s name got me thinking about the pronunciation of my own name.  In short, my mother named me Sonja with a hard j and straight from go, society rejected this name. Not sure why but here is the story.

First off, the attending nurse at the hospital recorded Sonja as Sandra, not giving a toss that my mother had clearly said Sonja. The year was 1962 and it was likely a microaggression, plain and simple. Though my mom would have likely asked for a correction early on, her voice was overlooked so rather than to feed into the negative, often volatile loop of the times, she decided there was another way to fight the battle.

Though Sandra reigns on my birth certificate, my parents called me what they named me and so did everyone else around me, until I reached first grade—this was the second rejection.

My first teacher, the most wonderful woman I had ever met, corrected me when I proudly called myself Sonja and carefully explained that the j was silent, therefore I was to be called Sonya.

This revelation brought tears and a heavy heart and quite frankly ripped into my very young identity. I carried this scar home but thankfully, my mom, on the battlefield, made it clear to the teacher that the j was not silent. There, the j was reinstated for the next few years. My dad even nicknamed me Sonj-ay!

But it was not over yet. When the schools integrated, my new teachers consistently silenced the j. It was only when my peers joined in that the scar reappeared. Of course, at 9 years old, I was too young to understand what was brewing.

Looking back, I can see that the j was whitewashed by an American society that felt far more comfortable with the Western European pronunciation, which is a lovely name. Apparently, some eastern European nations recognise the hard j, as do some African and many Asian countries.

As the years flew by, I noticed how interchangeable my name became to peers and even family members—some days the j was unmistakable and other days it was silent. I sort of got used it, though I felt a bit down about it.

As a young reporter, I had a good spate with amateur linguists who loved getting it right. Some even nicknamed me Sonj, which I proudly answer to, even today. There were exceptions, of course, such as when I interviewed the renown Abigail Van Buren ‘Dear Abby’ who decided she would call me Sandy and thus sent me a lovely note underpinning her choice.

In NYC, as a young media specialist, I became Sandy, Sandra, Sonya and even Angela, all because people claimed they couldn’t understand my pronunciation. Imagine being told that you don’t know how to say your own name. The scab came off the wound.

I went into battle correcting and protecting my j. And then about 10 years ago I realised that this battle was like an autoimmune disease. It was debilitating! From a legal perspective I had always been Sandra anyhow, so instead of wasting further energy on the correct pronunciation of my name, I leaned into it. And the wound closed. Honestly!

Make no mistake about it. I am not suggesting that VP Harris does any such thing. We need to get her name right. But what I am saying is this: when my name is misused, I do one of two things—ignore it or give the correct pronunciation and shrug it off. I have often said privately and publicly I will happily answer to Sonya or Sandra, too. I know who I am.

In short, the correct pronunciation of a name lies with the pronouncer and if they can’t be bothered, then don’t let it bother you. Anxiety lifted!

 

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Beware of Worry

I am worried.  No surprise there, right!  In the past, I have been a worrier about little and big things and thankfully most of them didn’t come to pass.

As someone who has had health anxiety, I have laid awake at night endlessly worrying about the next big health problem. Some of the worries have landed me in ER while others have culminated in a long tormented sleepless night.

Once before appearing on a major talk show in London, I pulled an all nighter worrying about performance, so when daylight arrived, I dragged myself out of bed to meet my fate. At the studio, all went well—nothing ill-fated about it. I functioned like I had slept and looked that way, too. I can only think of one other time when I pulled this off, but that is another story.

This time let’s say I had an angel holding me up because after the show, I literally just made it into my front door before my body quit. I had to go to bed. I cannot recommend worrying.

It is debilitating, to say the least, and worse yet does not change a thing. So why do we still worry? During the Covid pandemic, one therapist explained that my worry stemmed from the sudden loss of control of life as I knew it. My belief that I was in control was a fallacy anyhow, she insisted. Never mind!

Before Covid what I had worried about rarely came to pass and suddenly, everything spun out of control. Only at that point in life did I come to terms with the statement—the only thing that is certain is change itself.

Furthermore, she explained that I had created this thinking pattern of anticipating a negative outcome, the worst-case scenario and Covid had delivered fast and furiously.  

Four years on and I still worry about many things—health, doom and gloom for girls and women the world over, war, global warming, this new world that normalises gaslighting and worships immorality and so on. Another blog, right.

But wait a minute, I am no longer a hostage to worry. Admittedly, I don’t engage much in the news anymore, except the odd story that flashes across my phone or social media or a special event. Whatever it is, however, when it starts to coax me out of my safe place and fling me into a dangerous one, I put it into perspective.

And you know what, my new Oura ring says I am getting good sleep. Sure, I have learned that worry doesn’t solve problems but, on some level, I must have always known that.

But what I hadn’t known was how to cultivate an awareness about worry that kicks in as natural as my next breath. And in this awareness, my mind assesses what is within my control and what is not. 

Take health, for example, I can’t always say what is around the corner, no one can but what I can control with diet and exercise, I am all in. Just ask anyone who knows me.

Look I don’t want to oversimplify the matter; it is complicated but all I am saying is that trying to stop worrying is counterproductive. What is productive is to beware of worry, recognise it for what is—the mind’s attempt to control and resolve the problem, even if it is global.

Do what you can and accept that the rest is out of your control.  Worrying, yes, it is, but it might be the best way forward for your health’s sake.

 

 

 

 

 

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Stuff Happens: How to Handle It

We had a curious incident with a dog recently, that left us sort of light-hearted and with a profound understanding that stuff happens, often and fast, and most times completely out of your control, save an adjustment or two here and there.

For example, had we not left the driver’s door of our relatively new car opened while sitting on the bumper to change out of our muddy hiking boots, Lucy, the dog, would not have jumped into the seat muddy paws and all.  But we did and so it happened.

Suddenly, there was an outburst of shouting coming from the car next to ours. I ran to close the door, thinking the drama was about not being able to get into their vehicle.  But before I could apologise and close the door, I met a distressed man who explained that Lucy had enjoyed the brief pleasure of romping in our car.

Oh, I said, fumbling for words to only find apologetic ones for creating the opportunity in the first place. I closed the door and shot off to fish out the one microfibre cloth we had for emergencies. Meanwhile, the gentleman produced a wad of wet wipes which were very helpful, and Lucy looked on with doleful eyes as if to apologise for the commotion.

At that point, I was laughing in my heart, so outwardly confessed that it was kind of funny. Lucy’s owner disagreed. He was mortified but surely quite relieved that Paul and I were more relaxed than he had anticipated.

There, we had a story to tell and had no idea what lesson we had learned, other than to keep the doors of our car always closed, particularly after a muddy walk in the Lake District.

But there was more to come, which leads me back to my first point. Stuff happens that is often well beyond your control which likely pushes your melt down buttons. Feeling the heat, we have a choice to escalate the matter or shrink it so to speak. Depending on our reaction, we maintain calm or cause further calamity.

So, what happened?  We had a flat tire on a relatively narrow country road and had to pull the car over to the side but not off road, as the road was not big enough for that. Meanwhile, we stood on the boggy, leafy verge for three hours. Cars whizzed by. Most of them approached at a dangerous driving distance with the speed of a demon and others sceptically looking on as if we were simply out of our minds for breaking down in such an inopportune place.

However, two or three slowed and offered help, which we respectfully declined, awaiting pick up from our vehicle’s rescue team, which arrived three hours later.

So, what does Lucy have to do with this? First, the experience with her reminded us that incidents and accidents happen. The question is what perspective do you take—one that starts from a place of calm or one of upset? Thankfully we chose calm. Instead of blaming one another or someone else, we encouraged and helped each other to stay safe and well.

When we had the flat tyre Paul could have reminded me that it was all my fault that we were out in the first place. He wanted to stay at our lovely spa suite kitted out with an outdoor hot tub and indoor sauna, steam room, massage chair and infrared light. This was our penultimate day on holiday and the only good weather day we had experienced. Never mind!

Next, our priorities were in order as we quickly recognised that the situation could have been far worse. So, the road was country and narrow, but it was not a dirt track where only one car can pass safely at a time. And most importantly, no harm was done to us or the car.

Finally, we focused on gratitude. Sure, it was unthinkable that the wait was three hours, and we had to rely heavily on our crisis management skills to get rescued and wait at the dealer for a rental car for a further two hours, all the while the day was fading. But we were grateful that we had a solution in sight.

Sure, there were many moments when the melt down buttons blinked glowing amber, but we overcame before they burned red. Well, I probably over heated once and was quickly reminded that melting down stalls action.

That is not to say that passivity is the key in times such as these. It is not! But there is a space somewhere in between that hinges on perspective, priorities and gratitude.  Remember, stuff happens!

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That Holiday Feeling

I love visitors! Please, however, do not take this as an open invitation to visit me. I do have limits; you know.

But here is the thing. Visitors get me out of the house and into London and surrounding areas and I am always amazed at what there is to see and do. I get that holiday feeling right here at home.

For example, during my niece Nikki and her husband Keydrick’s recent visit, off we went to tour the state rooms of Buckingham Palace, a place we had not toured since my sister, Carrie, visited with her son Chandler, who was eight at the time. Chandler, now 28, visited again at age 21, and likely opened other doors to us at that time, too.

In the last year, say August to August, we have visited the Tower of London, Windsor Castle, Hampton Court Palace, as well as Buckingham Palace, and a whole host of other places that visitors love to frequent.

I know. I know. These are all tourist hot spots, the last place where any local wants to be. Can’t argue with that. Anyone who knows me, knows that I don’t enjoy battling crowds. Nearly forty years ago, a longstanding friend and I got caught up into the New York City Fourth of July celebrations, firecrackers being thrown into what felt like a mob. Scary!

Thank God, we lived to tell the tale, but I have been wary of massive gatherings ever since. Over the years, I have only made a few exceptions, one being the Notting Hill Carnival some 20 years ago where I had a ring side view from my then hairdresser’s balcony just off Ladbroke Grove.

That was a wonderful experience, soaking up the colourful sights and taking in the echoes of steel bands, until we braved the crowds to make our way home. We were jostled and squeezed no sooner than we hit the streets, conjuring up the fear of a stampede ensuing.

A child at heart, I promised to never enter that magnitude of crowd again if I got out alive.

And maybe I have kept my word, barring sporting events and concerts, themed events and tourist attractions, which tend to be well orchestrated to provide enough order to avoid chaos. For example, when we last visited the O2 Arena, we ducked out early and was amongst the first to hop into a taxi. It was a smooth get away if I must say so myself.

Still, I am so glad we hit the tourist trail with our visitors some of the time. We do leave them to it most of their holiday unless they really need company. Anyhow, aside from taking in many intriguing lessons in British history, we have seen countless gems and jewels that are not displayed elsewhere. As for art, the walls at castles and palaces are lined with Vermeer’s and Rodin’s and other famous originals, too, much like a popular museum.

Admittedly, however, I could not tell you who created the most memorable paintings I saw hanging in Buckingham Palace. These life-like beauties featured Queen Charlotte, wife of King George III, and Queen Alexandra, wife of Edward VII, especially Queen Alexandra’s painting. There was something about her style that felt eerily modern. Apparently, to hide a scar on her neck she made the neck choker famous.

How lovely I thought, overcome by that holiday feeling, even if the temperature was uncharacteristically hot both in and outside.

Alas, the holiday is over, the English summer of great and inclement weather all in one day has returned and has turned its face towards autumn.  Even more reason to leave it with the tourists, right? Enjoy, weather and all!

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I Take My Coffee Black

I love coffee, its alluring aroma, its gown-up taste, the buzz it offers, the latter so much so that my grandmother used to ward us off it, contending that coffee would make you ‘omnish,’ her vernacular for womanish.

Her warning has stayed with me for years, wondering what in the world she meant. If a sip of it was going to turn me into my graceful mother and her lovely sister sipping coffee in the early mornings over a past due catch up, after my aunt had made the gruelling 14 hour drive from Ohio, then I would happily suffer the fate of becoming ‘omnish’.

In hindsight, I think Mama, my gran, must have been protecting us from the drink’s bold taste, which can be too big for a child, and its addictive nature owing to caffeine and other perceived health hazards.

From being called the ‘new cocaine’ recently by a chatty London taxi driver, who notices coffee shop queues spilling onto the streets regularly, to being blamed for a many sleepless nights, anxiety and all the rest, coffee gets a bad rap.

And quite frankly some folks just don’t like it, my taxi driver being one of them. “I don’t see what people see in it. Can’t stand it.” He twisted his face much like a child who has tasted tar.

Though I have no basis to make the comparison to cocaine, I do know it can be addictive, but so can love if it becomes unhealthy. Okay, so an unfair comparison but you get my point.

All I am trying to say is that coffee does have a good side. No wonder its popularity on the high street and in hotels everywhere has surpassed other drinks of its kind.

For a small price to pay (relatively speaking) in a big-ticket world, people can indulge in an invigorating drink that gives them pleasure, if only for a little while, and something about it is binding to relationships.

We meet friends for coffee, make business deals over coffee, settle arguments over coffee and some find love over the hot stuff. We even catch up with relatives over it.

Remember my mom and her sister. Tid, our affectionate name for my mom, would add a dash of evaporated milk to hers and likely some sugar, but Auntie would take hers black, which is apparently the ticket to getting many of the benefits. Here, here to that. I take my coffee black.

According to recent research by Zoe Science and Nutrition, coffee has many benefits. Let’s be clear, drank in excess and at the wrong time, it can surely become a problem for some.

But if drank in the right dosage and at the correct time, (not before bed), it offers rewards such as improving microbiome diversity, cognitive function and healing damaged cells.

Go figure the beans have polyphenols, which are a type of antioxidant that has anti-inflammatory properties. According to the National Institutes of Health (NIH), all plants have polyphenols on some level and science is rapidly uncovering their benefits to human health.

I must say this is good news for me and coffee lovers everywhere. Still, it is best not to overdose. Experts say caffeine has an average half-life of about six hours. In short, that means if you have it three hours before you sleep, you might be in for an awakening that night.

For some time, I have come to love coffee in the early mornings or rely on decaffeinated coffee, particularly in the evening on the occasion that I grab a coffee after dinner.

Apparently, caffeine does provide some of the benefits to coffee that decaf lacks, but all is not lost, not even in taste. There are some good decafs out there. I should know. After all, I take my coffee black.

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Knowing When to Quit

That’s it I have decided to quit sports.

Shocking for those who know me because I am not an athlete, not the least bit athletic, withstanding training twice per week with my PT and going to the gym for a run on the treadmill. And I am at best a fair-weather sports fan. I can only hang in there when the going is good but when it gets tough, I run for the hills.

So, what is this throwing in the towel all about. It’s about suffering, deeply felt emotions that keep me awake at night and turn me inside out. Let me tell you, this season, if you will, has been one for tossing and turning. I have certainly experienced the thrill of winning and the agony of defeat with people I don’t even know and never will.

Fair enough, when I know the person – it is much worse. During my niece Jana’s sophomore year at university as a leading softball player, known for hitting and pitching, I revved up so much energy and emotions that I would wake up in the middle of the night checking my phone for a word from abroad, anything. And if Jana had a bad game, I had several sleepless nights. Just ask my therapist or even my husband for that matter. It was costly. 

As a result, last year, her junior year, I dialled down my participation several notches. I happily found out after the game was over, sometimes the next day.

So proud of myself, I thought I was strong enough to enjoy a few sports this summer–a live tennis match here and there, a live basketball game, an English football game via osmosis and then the Olympics, a peak here and there—I jumped in this summer, I think feet first.

And all I can say is you would have thought that Taylor Townsend was my long-lost daughter as I watched her play doubles at Wimbledon. Though Taylor and doubles partner, Katerina Siniakova, prevailed and went on to win the final the next day, I was emotionally spent by the time it was all over, and well beyond. Honestly!

I repeated a similar experience with the USA Women’s Basketball Team in a pre-Olympics showcase. They were nowhere near losing when I decided to exit, owing to a palpitating heart. They gave a stellar performance, but Germany had a couple of NBA players who were stellar, too.

Exhausting and the Olympics were yet to come, but before we go there, let’s finish Wimbledon—the Men’s Final.

I outright refused to watch, quite worried that my favourite Carlos Alcaraz, who I sort of latched onto last year in the absence of Rafael Nadal, would not prevail. When it was clear that Carlos was the victor and that the match was about to end, Paul called me in to watch. I showed up and fled quickly after he missed two or three match points. But I did come back to see him recover and wrap it up.

On that same day, England’s Football team lost to Spain in the Euro 2024 final. And here is the thing, I don’t even like football, but like the rest of the folks in the country I had high hopes for the young lads and when they experienced the agony of defeat, so did I, for days.

Now on to the Olympics. What a roller coaster ride for Nadal, albeit it a short one. He exited in the second singles round, falling to Novak Djokovic and in the quarterfinal rounds of the Doubles when he and Alcaraz fell to Austin Krajicek and Rajeev Ram from the USA, my country. Still, I was gutted.

Never mind, I stayed with Alcaraz until the very end, well sort of.  Again, I refused to watch and good thing, I did not. In his rematch with Novak Djokovic, whom he played at Wimbledon, the latter was the victor this time.

Although the win was well deserved, it underscores why I have had to quit sports. Being involved causes too much emotional unrest when the win is not with my person. Never mind that these athletes are strangers.

Admittedly, I have not watched any full sporting event during the Olympics, not even gymnastics, to avoid the racing emotions which leave me exhausted. Sadly, I do repeatedly check the medals tally, mostly at night when I should be lulling off to sleep.

No wonder I’ve quit. I know, I know. Quitting has been given a bad name and likely well deserved when you give up on something that matters, but when it is taking an emotional toll on you and threatening physical health too, kick the habit.

Knowing when to say when can be a restorative thing. I am much calmer now, particularly that the Olympics are nearly over.

 

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Celebrating Jasper National Park

Our trip to Jasper National Pak happened nearly a month before the out-of-control wildfire hit, destroying some 358 of the 1,113 structures in the town, as reported in a BBC article dated Friday, July 27..

A giant of a fire, it rose some 328 ft. Unimaginable, even to the mind of a novelist, at least this one anyhow. Of course, I prefer to think of the peaceful, quaint resort town bustling with life, exemplar of the Canadian Rockies.

And the astounding beauty that we witnessed driving along the, now closed to the public, Icefields Parkway to reach Jasper. It is still fresh in my mind, particularly the Athabasca Glacier, as is the lovely Fairmont Jasper Park Lodge, where we stayed overnight before heading back to Lake Louise, a beautiful small village in Banff National Park. And the Rockies themselves cannot go unmentioned in a piece trekking the drive to Jasper.

I must have imagined hundreds of castles in the mountains and all the rest but alas there is a real Castle Mountain.

In the meantime, though the fire has left many businesses and residents homeless and laden with grief, the Fairmont miraculously escaped irreparable damage and posts on its website, its heartfelt sorrow for everyone who has been impacted and confirms that though the hotel did incur fire damage, most of its structures, including the main lodge, remain standing and intact.

Ah, the main lodge. That is where we checked in and later had a drink in their cozy lounge and enjoyed dinner in their restaurant.

Though I didn’t post so much as a single photo on social media while travelling, so hypnotised by nature and quite frankly traumatised by the lack of phone service, I poured over my amazing images every evening and sent some off to family and friends in both the US and the UK, who oohed and aahed as if they were there, too.

With them I had much exchange about the beauty of Canada in general, as we took the first week of our holiday in the Maritimes (another fantastic story). Particularly, however, when we entered the Rockies, the natural beauty took on a level that I have only ever seen in Norway. Arguably, Icefields Parkway is one of the most beautiful drives in the world.

I can’t help but feel deep gratitude for having had the opportunity to witness one country’s astounding beauty. In Banff National Park, for example, we viewed Moraine Lake, unmistakably the bluest lake I have ever seen. And the scenery in Lake Louise was phenomenal, too. There, our hotel, where we stayed for two nights, overlooked the famous lake itself.

I have never been an outdoorsy person, as I don’t think cartwheels in the open air in Georgia and sitting in the grass taking in the smell of freshly ploughed peanuts counts. Not to mention the time I abandoned a Girl Scout Camp out in the middle of the night for the safety of my bed. Still, I enjoyed being in the open air and hiking up steep hills to discover more astounding beauty, even if it did feel more like a very cool Autum, when it was in fact summer.

As for the wildlife, we saw our fair share of bears, deer and the odd elk, though admittedly we admired them from our rental car or the safety of a restaurant. These animals are the real deal, so much so that every garbage bin in the park is bear claw proof, locked and only openable by human hands. Took me a while to figure out how to open the thing, admittedly with the help of a Canadian tourist.

Anyhow, it is hard to imagine the smog that continues to hover above the Rockies, masking the beauty and disturbing life that abounds there. It has surely left its mark on Jasper, devastating acres and acres of land and hundreds of structures and broken thousands of hearts.

But from what I gather and read, it has not crushed the fighting spirit of the locals and their fellow Canadian citizens to rebuild and to heal along with its beautiful land.

What a pleasure to have visited and to come away with breathtaking memories. As mentioned early, other narratives unfolded on this trip, too—the Maritimes story is not the only one. We attended the Calgary Stampede. Yes, you read that right, a rodeo in real time and a chuck wagon race too, all organised and powered by authentic professional cowboys.

Watch this space, you will be glad you did.