Monday Mantra #18: Make ME Time

Today is Monday. With so much uncertainty in the current affairs of the world, I wanted to bring back for myself, a reminder of what day it was.

Thanks for joining me.

Returning to the blog is part of mine and today’s Monday Mantra: Making ME time. For some, working from home has become the new normal. For others, life may continue as usual, perhaps with more extra anxiety or stress. I have been given the opportunity of time with some financial set-backs. I have felt despair and anxiety for over a month till I decided to come back here to write.

Time that I have decided to use for ME to explore my inner passions has been both exciting and exhilarating. No matter what your circumstances are, I think it is important to remember you still have the option to be away from people you might be in close contact with at all times. Since doing so, I have felt a sense of freedom (while being inside most of the time.) The kind of control that is not egotistical or rude or disrespectful. Rather a control that equals self-love. Having this control has given me hope. Since during ME time, I have been creative, a student , a reader of new found knowledge, and also an observer of a world that perhaps needs me to listen to it (using Zoom and other platforms to connect!) Whoever you are and whatever your role might be right now, giving yourself ME time is important for the well being of our society.

You can interpret ME time as you wish. For me perhaps it is the hope that people will find if only a minute at least or ten at best, for their mind to truly tune in with their inner being; their self-love. My hope is that doing so will offer some kind of relief and resilience, and maybe even joy!

If any one would like to share what they have been doing thus far or any suggestions, that would be wonderful. I think it would help right now to feel connected heart-to-heart during a time when the future is truly unknown.

PODisode #15: Visions of 2020

Lil’ Minimalovin’ Podcast

In this fifteenth PODisode of the simple life, Lil’ Minimalovin’ bids farewell to the year with tools, tips and tricks for her visions of 2020.

Music by Joseph Reilly 

Reference to 

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Story #15: Why are you late?

Why am I late? I thought.

How do I explain a lifetime of events that accumulates into a single instance of lateness. It began before a time of conception when a distant relative of a relative had began to act awkwardly at all social events and the like. Somehow those behaviors imprinted into the DNA of the humans of the future. That mutated through wars, hardships, famines and social upheavals. Then it has landed on my genome, like a dust particle settling unnoticed. Gosh, where does my own behavior control begin and end? Am I on automatic response time?

This was an annual health check-up at my general physician’s office and I had just traveled a century back in time.

“Can we reschedule you to another date and time, we are overbooked today outside of set appointments” said a meagerly lady of no significance.

“Sure, how about September 9th, 1919? Do you guys have one of those bulky time machines back there there? Those people from that time period, will explain everything, my lateness, my illness, my weirdness.”


I had forgotten to speak. I was stuck in a thought loop and began to feel dizzy after remembering my knees haven’t moved more than a few feet in over an hour.

“I will call back to reschedule.” I lied. I will never see a doctor again.

Breathing in the fresh autumn air, I felt alive in the modern world. Splashing in puddles, walking with a sassy tune in my head. Embracing the morning rain fall, orange and yellow leaves stuck to the sole of my shoe and hair whisked by the wind.

Deep breaths.

In and Out.

At last a moment of freedom from myself.

A moment alone.

I closed my eyes and stepped onto the street.

A car turned from around the corner and had hit my side, ribs cracking into all my organs. I was rushed to the emergency room where I bled internally.

September 9th, 2019 forever taking with me to the grave the lateness gene.

Story #14: Caturday Night

The night fills with a whispering wind. I watch intently through the screen. Will I see her again tonight? A breeze whiffs her scent near my window. The stronger the scent the closer she is. My hair feels jolted, my eyes dilating. Foot steps and cigarette smoke make me feel uneasy. I lay low. The scent fades. The alleyway quiets down. Seeing the sun come out, my night post ends then exhaustion takes over. Eating a snack from a crusty bowl seems savory. Lightly cleaning my hands and face with some moisture, puts me into a slumber. As I lay down half-dreaming the day seems to unfold.

Story #13: The Mediocre Child

In this small town in a rather basic building structure of no decade-worthy architectural feat, lived a family of average means. It did what most family do: get by. Tommy was an only child. He understood only what was in front of him, which then only meant, same breakfast of oatmeal and raisins, and the occasional birthday pizza. He never cared much for food, it did not interest him. He was never irked by it’s commonplace taste. His parents worked a job, one each. Mom was a neighborhood seamstress and dad was a produce delivery man. Tommy went to school, rarely called in sick and not much excitement happened to him on the playground. He was rarely bullied. He did his homework most of the time and if he was not getting good grades, his teacher never noticed and his parents did not reprimand him. He blended well into the medley of life. Unaffected by its variables he did not seek to pursue passionate hobbies or notice its unjust nature. At home he watched television and doodled some easily forgotten drawings. Life was a bland spice that was fitting for Tommy. He rarely laughed out loud and sometimes spoke to some of the boys on the playground. Mostly he kept to himself. Neither sad nor happy to play alone, he was okay to just exist. Life was neither to be understood or to be lived fully, it just was. Nothing to get upset over and nothing to complain about. Tommy lived to be of average adult age. Accomplishing nothing beyond forgotten school grades. This is Tommys’ story.

Story #11: Cloudscape Paradox

I was riding on a bus
being transported through
space and time.

I was jolted into another dimension.
Looking at the clouds for six hours.
I don’t remember the last time I had
given myself permission to daydream.

The beauty of nature,
the complexities of life 
began to overwhelm me
with their presence.

* * *

Live for this moment. 
Not a second in the past, 
Not a second into the future.
What is now is now yours.
The unknown will always be there.
The mysterious is what will guide you,
Especially when everything makes no sense.

Pain does not go away.
Mistakes are not forgiven.
Nor forgotten.
Heartache tears through you
At every chance you give it.

The moment of now, 
just me and the clouds
floating together with the wind,
An escape into the present.

Story #9: The Yellow Line

The train’s tootin’ horn woke me up. My book fell out of my hands, sliding in between my boots. As I was wiping down the half-moist drool off my lip, a whiff of bacon entered my nostrils and reminded me what I had eaten the last time I saw her. I looked past the scratched fiberglass of a window. The rain drops holding on for dear life, flying back up into the clouds. The train breaks screeching; my ears itching.

We have arrived.

The station was bustling with life. It was an early spring morning and shoes clattered on the wet pavement. The station’s diner seats were being filled by soon to be half asleep passengers. Grabbing my suitcase, books and notepads, I managed to set foot on the ground — a bit more alert, I adjusted my glasses. Akin to the landing on the Moon, I felt a cloud of dust behind me. Dust that has some time to settle before my life’s choices will be made.


The scent of her perfume floating together with the bacon, eggs and coffee.

She must have been here standing waiting for me; now probably fixing her hair up real nice in the ladies washroom.

I fiddled in my pocket to find the lipstick covered letter she had sent just a few months prior. She had included a recent photo. I should have been, then again was not, surprised to find she had changed the color of her hair. A brunette now a reddish brown with curls. Her smile just as infectious; making my heart tingle with a just a tad bit of joy.

A tap on my shoulder reminded me I was standing amidst the chaos of commuters. The security guard had directed me to step forward past the yellow line.

My heart beating faster with each step toward the diner. Scanning endlessly for a head of curls, I saw what seemed to be her. As I saw the curls in slow motion turning toward me, the blood in my throat began to boil. I couldn’t breathe. My eyes began to shut way behind a cloud of smoke. My thoughts disappearing into a tight soundproof shell that existed in my mind just for these moments.

Putting my best foot forward, my notepad fell into a puddle. My hand landed on a taxi door and I crawled inside asking to be driven to the nearest park. The rain started to pour as I saw a silhouette of curls in the back window, trying to wave me down. Mouthing words that were now washing away into the sewers of the street. I will never have known their utterance.

A callous on my heart grows daily as a build up of regret slowly kills me.

A floating dust particle always surrounds me.

We shall have never met again.

Story #7: A Flattering; then Feeling Flat

An air of laughter fills the room; celebration is often a slow-motion Kodak moment that suddenly dissipates into the air like a puff of cigarette smoke. Leaving an evidence of residue as everyone gathers their coats, shoes and flutters on home. Celebrations bring one person in the spotlight, receiving all the pomp and circumstance that one can afford in friends and fellow acquaintances. It’s a social matter practiced rather quintessentially.

Rooms brightened with ambient orange light, illuminating champagne soaked lips with a glistening of hope. Vibrating with heart beats whose joy is either equated or fabulated. For what is a lie if not a story we tell ourselves.

Stories shared and promises exchanged. Celebratory occasions bring the best of our intentions forward, everything appearing prim and proper, without conflict. Yet conflicting with our inner intentions.

Never, have I ever felt a flattering without then feeling flat – a doubt filled string of strong willed thoughts tied together by an emptiness so cold, a ghost would not even abide.

Story #6: Black Ink Puddles

Memory is a stack of papers soaked with water, dripping black ink puddles of gibberish onto the wooden floor just mopped prior. Often time we try to dry out some of the pages, recall what was once written, mouthing out the words to ourselves as if our life depended on it.

We fail to retrieve its contents in its most purest form. Forever doubting the source from which it came, never knowing if the life we have led is truly the one we remember. Yet only knowing we are who we are because of the contents of our memories.

A paradox without a paradox.

A forever loop with an ending.

A flashback into the dark caves of flashlight lit moments.

Story #5: Thank you, unique Eunice

I saw her outside the supermarket, just far enough to notice the ocean-blue green-moss eyes glistening, her grey gloved hand waving to me, as I biked away with a loaded basket of groceries. The brown bag crinkling was so loud, I barely heard her say “I like your hat.” To which I responded to, “thank you, I made it” as I wobbly navigated to a stop next to the sidewalk.

Then just like that in a moment of exchange we became appreciators of craft making. Right before my eyes, she unbuttoned her peacoat to reveal a talisman draping her neckline that she had made just the week prior. “I found the chain laying in the grass,” she said in what I finally heard as a London accent. “Isn’t it nice dear?” The pendant was round like the Moon with green emerald-like gemstones covering its cheese-holes. She smiled and asked me to guess her age. “Ooooh this is really a tough one”, I said wearily, “hmm.. maybe 65?”

She took a pause, put down her purse and did a yoga stretch, left to right and then touched her toes. “Honey, I am 87 years old.” She had a happy laugh, if there was one, this one was filled with joy. Having lost her husband a decade ago, she lives with her daughter in town. Not a twinkle in her eye lost, her life must have been a good one. I wanted this to be the end of the small, brief exchange. I did not feel like socializing that day. However she wanted me to come over her house sometime to see her craft work. I felt hesitant yet societally pressured to not refuse the kind gesture of an elderly woman.

What I thought of as I biked away from her is how I misjudged her. As I was waving good-bye, thoughts flared my mind realizing that some people are open to the possibilities of life, open to risk, to creativity and she did not even budge to question me, let alone hesitate when inviting me over her house. In an instant I felt as if there is a chance to feel equality, peace and hope in the world. She simply made me feel human, not asking where I am from, what I do and why I do it. Simply cause, I just was. Not many people can possess this quality and even more will not appreciate it when they see it.

Story #4: Adrenaline Junkie

Crackle and pop of a record plays into the the afternoon breeze. Windows wide open, the sounds of music emanating into the world. A sense of calm envelops the room, as he lay there, reminiscing about the past.

A doorbell rings. He springs up to put on his pants, buttons up crookedly, his last clean shirt. The buzz-“ZZ”-ing sound irritates his ear hairs, pinches his mood into a sour feeling. Stumbling over worn out shoes, cigarette butts and beer bottles, he opens the door.

There is no one there. His mind resting, trying to find meaning, when chaos tries to break into the home. When adventure seeks you out. When there is more to this day, than just this day.

His pupils dilated from excitement, he lights up a cigarette. The smoke as empty and meaningless as it started, waves itself out the room with the wobbly spinning of the vinyl.

Story #3: Totally Clutterless

Laying bare naked on a wooden floor of papers; unpaid bills, one-way letters. Coffee stained postcards. Rain drenched receipts. Pressing down on the cigarette lighter, a surge of endorphins swims in my brain; a mind still possessed by someone else.

Fiery thoughts of opportunities lost, money wasted. Time forgotten, memories deleted.

Totally clutterless, I will never be.
A white-wall room, feng shui-ed with tranquility.

Monday Mantra #14: Discomfort is good for you

We usually want comfort in our life: the word itself sounds like a warm blanket wrapped up around our mind, soft and fuzzy — it is a safe place. Life is already complicated with its own obstacles. We want safety and security, right? We battled enough in the world that we deserve a cave of food, warmth and enough money to keep the lights on.

Here are reasons why discomfort is good for you, too.

For the you that will shine and change the world. For the you that you were meant to be. For the life you dream of to become reality.

Whenever I think of examples where I went above and beyond my own capabilities, beyond my skill level, and kept going, pushing, believing in a vision that has not truly made sense yet — all of this happened in discomfort.

Discomfort challenges the mind.

Continue reading

Story #16: Forever Fall

An ending with a beginning.

The fall season brought with it the rot that had lived inside her heart. Guilt written thoughts waiting for the leaves to fall, regurgitating in her guts. Rainfall to wash away the past and the cold stiff air to awaken the senses of the moment. Moving forward an action dictated by the autobot; refused by manual sensations.

“I’ve been here before” she thought, struggling to zip up her jacket and searching for her house keys. Thinking this feeling of disarray becoming a common character in her not so abundant life.

Life seasons continue to rotate and repeat. Spinning Moons around our minds, continue to flood us with the high and lows.

“I just wish things were different, better somehow” she almost muttered loudly waiting in line to pay for this weeks worth of groceries.

As soon as we get it, we lose it. As soon as we lose it, we often retrieve it. It’s a game of give and receive and get and get lost.

A beginning with an ending.