Month: August 2017

Richly flavoured yellow.

I still remember the spring of last year. When September rolled around and the canola flowers bloomed in rich yellow as we passed in our daily haste. I remember feeling the still chilly wind as I ambled around my backyard with my hose, careful, knowing that the thorns will start to breathe life and colour once more.

I took out my journal, 31st of August 2016, dog-eared (an accident) and I’m reading through my flowery script as I regaled nobody – myself – something to do with rainy days and sweepstakes, and missing verdant Massachusetts. The plane ride to Hartford, Springfield from Dallas was a nightmare, but the landing was a dream. Fresh lobsters served butter-hot in our exhaustion, quaint, rustic, American dream house with its trademark squeaky floorboards.

It’s haunting, alluring, and I feel so unapologetic that I fainted while waiting in line for a ride at Six Flags.

Spring has a quality of superstition about it. Hades and Persephone, a fave. It can be dark, but light, humorous, but itchy. I wonder how this year will go. Will it be inescapable? Will it be richly flavoured?

Hmm, hmm, hmm…

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Empathy.

I have been ill for three consecutive weeks. I have missed two work days out of five for these three consecutive weeks and it is more than putting a glower on myself, I am feeling a basketful of guilt for leaving the manning of the fort to my two superiors. My two unequivocally professional and beyond worthy to my superiors. They are vastly more improved than I in this profession (I still use the Media and Comms excuse) but their invaluable kindness and mentorship has made it much, much easier for me to be ill. And I say this for the entire company.

The company that knows just how much an individual person is worth.

Even so, in the creative department, I have disappeared upon these pages too. How have you all been? Did any of you have a sweet apple today? Dipped it in yoghurt for a snack? Did someone climb a particularly challenging staircase this week? Or fumbled down the couch as they reach for the remote control?

I know I have done less than dismal of physical activities. If I count walking to the car, walking to the refrigerator, stretching by the bed, using my thumbs as I wreak havoc on a gaming console…

To continue is to make a fool of myself.

Alas, I feel braver. Braver in my insecurity, that is. As oftentimes I catch myself needing to apologise for my human condition of illness. And I thought, why should I?

But it helps. It thoroughly helps when empathy is your ally.