I am normally a tea drinker but this morning in Cartagena, a cup of coffee was what I needed. I wandered down to the ship’s coffee station and placed my order.
The barista’s coffee station on the ship, Deck 5
Usually a strict, young blond, most likely of Eastern European background, rations out the coffee requests. She would be pretty if she weren’t so stern and clearly judgmental. But this morning there is a new woman this morning and she is much friendlier. Her dark hair is pulled back and she goes cheerfully about her tasks. I far prefer todays barista who hands me my coffee.
It is hot.
Both the coffee and the weather.
The heat of the weather is oppressive and omnipresent, except in the super cooled ship’s air. This bubble of western opulence is docked in Cartagena for the second day. The first day I had high hopes for this Caribbean city, but my hopes were quickly dashed.
Two Columbian women chat, as they wait for the tourists to arrive
Yesterday I took a tour of Old Town Cartagena. It was a disaster on many levels. Super cooled buses deposited tourists at touristy shops to shop. Colorfully dressed women with fruit baskets balanced on their heads demanding payment for pictures.
But it was the throngs of vendors that appeared with each step that did it fo me. Pearls! Hats! Cigars! They thrust their wares into my face.
“No,” I reply.
But they pester at every step. They step in front of me, impeding my ability to simply walk, and hawk their wares.
I feel hunted.
I feel unsafe.
Then there was the ignomy of group travel. This is just not for me. I like to explore and wander on my own timeline, but yesterday’s foray left me feeling with no feeling for this historic town. My recollections are of oppressive heat, ice cold air conditioning and a moving heard of overweight tourists led by a guide (kindly) hustling for tips.
This is just not my style.
It is day two in the Cartagena harbor and I weigh whether or not to venture out or just stay on the ship as I sip my coffee.
German, French and English wafts across the room. A conversation in accented English catches my ear.
“… Their driver provided a private car…she had it all day.”
My ears perked up.
“He took them everywhere and just waited for them…”
I inserted myself into the conversation.
We introduced ourselves. “Sandra,” one woman says. “Teresa,” the other woman smiles.
Sandra continued her story.
“She paid $50 for the day. A private guide and a car whenever she needed it.”
This was sounding better and better.
I relayed my experiences from the prior day and my resulting trepidations about going into the city alone.
Now I’m seldom fearful of anything. I fly airplanes without engines over un-landable terrain. I’ve taken off traveling, homeless. I’ve done three rounds of chemo, radiation and surgery, alone. It takes more than a little bit to rattle me, but my instincts that arose from yesterday’s experience clearly said be careful.
So I’m wondering how to visit the city on my terms.
And then, thanks to a cup of coffee, serendipity has brought the feisty Teresa into my life. We look at each other and smile.
“Let’s do it!” Perhaps her husband Gerry will join us? We decide to meet up in half an hour.
It would appear that an adventure is in order.
So it was that Teresa, Gerry and I became fellow travelers for the day in Columbia.
And then came Alfonso.
Alfonso presented himself at the exit from the docks.
Alfonso our tour guide in Cartagena, Columbia (See below for information on how to contact him.)
“Hello, Welcome to Colombia,” he greets us in near perfect English. “Would you like to go into the city?”
“How much?”
“How long?’
We talk; we haggle. Teresa clearly enjoys the negotiating process. After some back and forth,we agree on a price. And we’re off.
Three people with three separate agendas.
Gerry wants to buy Colombian coffee.
Teresa wants to shop.
I want to wander and take pictures. Maybe follow the wafting smell of garlic and see where it leads.
We climb into the cab and weave through the streets of Cartagena towards Old Town.
Old ramshackle buildings share the route with gleaming white high-rises. A long beautiful stretch of beach lines the waterway and follows the road. Inside the cab we chat.
Ramshackle buildings along the street in Cartagena, Columbia
Modern white high-rises line the beach front in Cartagena, Columbia
Teresa runs a hotel (one of several) in Florida. It’s a smaller property, more of a middle class property she explains. Not$600/night, she emphasizes.
The recent brush with Irma was devastating for some but thankfully not too bad for her property. She had a downed sign and debris, but power was back on in a day or so. Which meant warm food and hot coffee.
Teresa cooked for the volunteer doctors, fireman and others that had come to help, offered them rooms and set up a coffee station. Word of hot coffee spread, and a line formed. People gathered, grateful for the warmth of a beverage, along with some companionship.
With things reasonably under control at her property, Teresa walked the streets of the neighborhood, surveying the damage, sipping on her steaming cup of brew.
“Where did you get the coffee?” a cop asked. At the mention of coffee, the entire compliment of policemen perked up.
Teresa counted. Five. There were five policeman.
“Stay here, I’ll bring you some”, she replied.
Teresa went back to the coffee line with 5 cups in hand. “It’s for the policeman”, she explained as she joined the line. The line parted, allowing her to go to the front.
Five cups of hot coffee. Five cups of community and warmth at a time of need. A simple cup of coffee indeed!
Photo by Javier Molina on Unsplash
Humanity Runs On Coffee –unknown
Teresa is a hard working, grounded woman who immigrated from Poland. Her husband, Gerry, had a stroke a recently.
“He can be a bit difficult”, she confided.
I can handle difficult. But that’s a separate story.
No problem, I tell her, and the three of us, plus our driver Alfonso, head for the Old City where we park just outside the walls.
Vendors with linens and coffee! greet us with their wares. Gerry quickly hones in on the absolute, very best Columbian coffee.
“This is the one I want,” he proclaims. “We’ll get it on the way back.”
“I’ll be back,” he waves to the vendors as we head into the walled city of Cartagena.
Gerry is a friendly, affable fellow. His stroke has meant that Teresa needs to keep an eye on him.
Gerry hates to spend money, Teresa tells me. So his karma, of course, is to attract every vendor in Old Town. He seems to delight in the art of surveying the goods and bargaining.
Shopping and wandering in beautiful Old town Cartagena, Columbia
Today the vendors seem more friendly, even fun, as they approach us with their wares.
Teresa keeps a close eye on Gerry as she divides her attention between shopping and her husband.
“I’ve got him,” Alfonso, offers, giving Teresa has a rare day off. Alfonso and Gerry wander off, a trail of merchants hawking their wares in their wake.
I sense an opportunity to make a break from the solicitations, and Teresa and I head off down the main shopping streets.
On the corner, a leather store beckons. An beautiful, rich orange purse with embossed shapes immediately catches Teresa’s eye. She handles the bag, turning it over, surveying the workmanship.
“How much,” she asks.
The shop keeper comes back with a number. Teresa comes back with another. Back and forth; back and forth, until Teresa walks away.
“I’ll come back later,” she confides once we’re in the street.
“You have to understand the culture here,” she tells me. “The average salary is $300/month. This is how people make money”. And part of the process is the dance of the deal.
So dance we did, everywhere we went.
We wandered the streets and the shops. Jousted with the vendors. Visited the emerald museum and the churches.
A few hours into our foray, everyone has long since sweated through their clothes. The damp fabric just sits on the skin. It’s too humid for the moisture to even evaporate. Sweat-soaked is a constant state of being in the omnipresent heat.
We reconnect with Gerry and Alfonso in the Plaza Santo Domingo. The Plaza was once used as a market for slave trading. Today it’s a meeting place. The sculpture “Fat Lady” by Columbian artist Fernando Botero dominates the square.
I’m not a beer drinker (Woody, an old—and now dead flying buddy—always said that you were allocated so many beers in your life. I feel that I’ve probably had my allocation). But in the incessant, stifling heat and humidity, nothing does it like a cold beer. Even a lukewarm beer offers much needed sustenance.
I sip my beer gratefully and watch the world go by.
And then, a hat vendor decides to hone in on me.
And I am a hat person.
It started years ago in New England in an attempt to keep my naturally wavy hair in place. A hat kept the humidity at bay, at least for a bit.
And along the way there have been sun hats, soaring hats, tennis hats, ski hats, cowboy hats and now, of course, the possibility of a Columbian sun hat.
I have a crushable sun hat with me but it’s just too hot to even wear it. But the persistence of the the hat vendor finally paid off.
Two, two for $15 the vendor offers
Two for $10, Teresa counters.
My new found friends bargain for me. I walk off with two hats. One a classic black and white; the other a cream hat with a black band. I am a sucker for a good hat.
Gerry orders another beer.
Alfonso and I stick with one.
Teresa shops.
Our conversation ranges, from history to shopping to coffee to immigration.
“Have you ever thought of going to America”, Teresa asks?
“A green card is needed to get into the U.S.,” Alfonso explains.
The precious green card. Traveling through the Caribbean I see how wealthy we must appear to many of the people we come into contact with. I think of my former perfect house with endless air conditioning. Such a luxury would be unattainable here for most.
“Coffee,” Gerry interjects after the beer. It is time to move on.
Along the way, we stop at one of the street side fruit vendors. While Columbia boasts over 400 types of mango, there are lots of other exotics that I don’t recognize.
The street vendor beckons to me, holding a piece of fruit. The universal language of a food offering is one everyone understands.
“What is it?” I ask.
The vendor cuts an opening in the top of the orange like fruit. A grey mass huddles beneath the rind. It really doesn’t look too appetizing.
He hands me a fork and gestures for me to scoop out the sticky grey goo.
Grey goo? Seriously. This looks like dead brain matter. Should I at least see what it smells like before I taste it?
I eye the strange fruit with the fork sticking out of its belly.
When in Cartagena…
Inside the citrus rind are pearl-like bubbles, bound by a viscous goo. I stick the plastic fork into the hull of the fruit and it comes up with pearls suspended in a grey mass.
Grey goo belies the sweetness of the granadilla.
I look at it and pause. I think fleetingly of my cancer impaired immune system, of sanitary conditions and of the goo.
What the heck. I put the muck into my mouth.
And I smile. A big and unexpected smile. It is sweet and oh so good! I greedily gobble the contents of the fruit.
“What is this,” I ask Alfonso?
“Sweet granadilla,” He replies. I ask him to spell it.
Granadilla is a variety of passion fruit.
I buy another, and one for the ride back, delighting in the sweet, grey goo.
I am always pleased when I discover something new to add to my culinary repertoire. No matter that it’s an ancient fruit, known to many. It’s new to me, and I am delighted.
Old Town Cartegena is well policed, and seemingly safe from a tourist perspective. Or at least that is my perspective today. I’m gratetul for the chance to dispel my first impressions from the previous day. Perhaps it was just too much oppressive heat, too many people attracting aggressive vendors like flies feasting on a carcass. Today even the vendors are more playful. and probably so am I.
“Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we find it not.”
–Ralph Waldo Emerson
Alfonso is fabulous. He indulges our individual quirks, herds us carefully in a general direction, and keeps an eye on Gerry as he is surrounded by various vendors on every street.
With a cold beer refreshing my ability to continue to sweat, we decide to keep wandering. Teresa revisits the leather store where she finds an acceptable bargain, not only for the orange handbag, but for several pairs of shoes as well. Gradually we wander back towards the cab, just outside the old city walls. The heat permeates everything, everyday, everywhere, and it is inescapable. The thought of arctic shipboard cool beckons. It’s time to head back, unless of course staying on in Cartagena is on one’s agenda.
The walls of the old city are thick and time tested. We pass through one of the gates one last time on the way back to Alfonso’s cab, looking for the coffee vendors Gerry had seen when we first arrived. We brace for the final onslaught of linens, hats and coffee sellers. Perhaps a few cigar vendors or sellers offering strands of pearls.
But it is quiet; empty. They were gone! The vendors had left for the day!
Gerry spun about. None of us could believe it.
No coffee.
Gerry is disappointed but the disappointment seems to pass as we weave our way back to the dock where another a cold beer potentially awaits, not to mention the arctic air that will freeze our sweaty clothes in place on our exhausted bodies. A shower is definitely in order.
After cleaning up, I head to the lawn deck where a sunset awaits. I wear my new hat and watch as the ship pulls out to sea, leaving Cartagena in its wake.
Sunset over Cartagena, Columbia
I order a glass of wine as I watch the coastline of Colombia recede. Cool white wine.
It’s been a long time since I spent that year in New Orleans. It seems like a lifetime away. So I was curious about whether or not I’d feel sentimental about the town and my past.
I didn’t. Which was good.
It allowed me to look at New Orleans with fresh eyes.
So it was that I decided to get up early one morning and just go walking. I started in the French Quarter.
Cabildo in Jackson Square at Sunrise
Cathedral and Cabildo, New Orleans
New Orleans French Quarter
I always enjoy wandering the streets. Being the foodie that I am (it’s in my DNA; I can’t help myself) one of my favorite stores is Lucullus, a culinary antique shop on Royal Street:
Lucullus in the French Quarter, a culinary antique store
Antique candlesticks with a pedigree at Lucullus in the French quarter
The sheen of old copper is stunning at Lucullus in the French Quarter
And of course, the standards like Napoleon House:
Napoleon statue on the Napoleon House bar in French Quarter, New Orleans
Bartending at Napoleon House, New Orleans
Drinks at Napoleon House in the French Quarter, New Orleans
Not to mention the street processions celebrating…anything and everything! Here are three videos I took while just strolling about. Let the good times roll!
Many New Orleanians have said to me that they couldn’t imagine ever leaving New Orleans. I can understand that. It’s a blend of history, heredity and a melting pot of culture that is unique. From Louis Armstrong:
I was curious to get away from the touristed streets and re-visit some of my old haunts further uptown. I started with the warehouse district.
Since Katrina, New Orleans has grown up. The entire warehouse district–which was definitely on the shabby (not chic) and dangerous end of the social spectrum when I lived there–has been totally renovated. It’s full of hotels and galleries and a serious cruise ship terminal. And now it boasts the National World War II Museum that is simply extraordinary. The museum inspires, informs, engages and awes the visitor, through film, artifact and emotion.
I am always moved by World War II history because my father flew in the 8th Army Air Corps as a navigator. It was a brutal job. The 8th army Air Force was tasked with the air war over Europe . It had the highest casualty rate of all the service branches.
My father flew two tours. Knowing what I know now, about history and war and as a pilot, I do not know how these men survived this, physically and emotionally.
But on a lighter note, the museum also captures some of the revelry of the day:
History, and war, always creates winners and losers. It’s seldom as black and white as it’s sometimes presented. Take General Robert E. Lee for example.
The empty monument at Lee’s Circle, New Orleans
Lee is no longer atop the monument at Lee Circle. He had faced north because “you never turn your back on the enemy”. Lee and all the history he represents–of vanquished slavery, of a changing way of life, of the re-unification of this country under terribly difficult circumstances–was recently deemed to be “politically incorrect”.
Now an empty column sits awkwardly in the traffic circle.
Somehow his absence speaks louder than his quiet presence ever did.
In the ’80’s when I lived in New Orleans, the Civil War was just 100 years past. That meant that memories were still alive. People’s great grandparents experienced being on the losing end of a war, a war that ripped apart their traditions and culture and dramatically changed the trajectory of many lives.
That history–those very personal experiences– lived on through subsequent generations. The stories were of ordinary people, living ordinary lives, impacted by extraordinary events and times.
Like most history, the story that evolved was incredibly imperfect, unfair, uncertain, and full of imbalances. It’s one of the reasons that we need historic reminders. Not to celebrate defunct institutions or ideas, but to remember them with humility not hubris. For better and for worse, they are part of our human experience.
Those who fail to learn from history are condemned to repeat it. -Winston Churchill
Such wise words.
The Garden District
Commander’s Palace in the Garden District, New Orleans
I’m not yet ready for museum wandering this early morning . The sun is rising, and I want to head uptown. I snag a cab and head for the garden district using Commander’s Palace as a starting point.
Commander’s Palace will always have a fond spot in my heart. It’s my quintessential old New Orleans restaurant. Some prefer Antoine’s (where local families have their own waiter that looks after them) or perhaps Tujaques (which dates back to the 1850’s), both of which are terrific. But for me, it will always be those aqua striped awnings of this building nestled into the Garden District.
My first experiences at Commander’s occurred when Emeril Lagasse was chef. At the time he was unknown, but his bread pudding souffle with a bourbon creme anglaise became rapidly known. Talk about decadent! Rich, yes. Lucious, yes. Yet it was never to sweet. Really just the perfect, totally decadent balance. Teamed with dark, rich chicory coffee, a dinner at Commanders was to be savored.
That perfect balance of decadence and delight has found its way into dishes at other Brennan properties as well. At Sobu, the bread pudding was absolutely perfect. Hot sweet rich crunch from pecan; cold ice cream over a hot, fresh from the oven casserole… I almost never eat dessert, but a few bites of this was irresistible and I’m glad I was weak of will.
“New Orleans food is as delicious as the less criminal forms of sin.” –Mark Twain
Mr B’s in the French Quarter, New Orleans
Mr. B’s, one of my all time standbys was, however, somewhat disappointing. I stopped in late in the afternoon and ordered a bowl of gumbo. the bowl arrived heaped with seafood. Yum. But it was cold. I sent it back.
The bowl returned, but it was only barely warmed. And that pile of seafood was gone.
In all fairness, it was late in the day, after lunch, but quite before dinner. And they didn’t charge me for the gumbo. But surely managing to serve a basic bowl of gumbo HOT in a premier New Orleans French Quarter restaurant isn’t asking too much.
My tepid gumbo aside, if you’ve never been to New Orleans, it’s almost impossible to be disappointed, It’s a fun town, ready to party. The food is both local and exotic; the architecture wonderfully dated and original; the weather, is well, gulf weather.
***
At the Garden District I lighted from the cab and started walking. I had no particular plans, other than to simply explore. The gates to the cemetery across from Commanders was open and the morning light poured in:
New Orleans Cemetery
Cemetery New Orleans
Cemetery, New Orleans
Cemeteries are a unique and fascinating part of the New Orleans landscape. These “cities of the dead” exist because the city is below sea level. Digging down six feet simply isn’t an option so bodies are buried above ground. This practice follows the Spanish custom of using vaults for burial. Wealthier families created ornate tombs, some resemble small houses complete with iron fences.
The cemeteries are scattered throughout New Orleans, and each has its own tale to tell. They say dead men tell no tales, but in New Orleans, I wouldn’t be so sure of that.
***
Just down the way from the glorious mansions of the Garden District is Magazine Street, a funkier area that stretches from the Garden District to Uptown. But it’s too early for any shops to be open, except of course for breakfast.
Breakfast, Big Easy Style
Now you have to understand that breakfast in New Orleans is a genre unto itself. Decadent, sometimes heavy, always creative, and usually mouthwatering.
I had a fabulous breakfast at The Ruby Slipper on Magazine street. Here is a link to their menu. Try not to drool on your electronic device as you read this.
There is an option to combine any two items on the menu so I went for the Shrimp Boogaloo Benedict:
Gulf shrimp sauteed with pork tasso and creole tomato sauce served over fried green tomatoes, a buttermilk biscuit and two poached eggs
And the Hot-Smoked Salmon Bennie:
Hot-smoked salmon served over a buttermilk biscuit, topped with two poached eggs, finished with red onion, flash-fried capers & dill hollandaise
Both were great, but the Shrimp Boogaloo had me nearly licking the plate.
OMG.
Serious #Foodgasm!
The combination is simply irresistable as the slight acidity of the fried green tomatoes perfectly plays with the eggs and creole sauce. You’ll note that I totally abandoned my usual vegetarian diet here and it was worth every bite. (Life after all is about balance, rather than absolutes).
Let the good times roll!
While we’re on the topic of food, so many options, so little time! I had a wonderful dinner at Sobu:
Dinner at Sobu, New Orleans: Lightly blackened fish lends just an undertone of deep flavor, over a slightly smokey broth filled with charred tomato and corn.
An unbelievable desert at Sobu. This qualifies as #foodporn, as they say on Twitter.
Bartender Laura Bellucci at Sobu
Bartender Laura Bellucci also came up with some fabulous drinks including a milk punch with desert. I can’t say enough good things about my dinner at Sobu. It was sophisticated, well executed and creative. New Orleans at its best!
I also ate at Suzan Spicer’s Bayona. Suzan is a highly regarded NOLA chef. The dinner was good but I didn’t see a brilliance of creativity or execution that evening. The fried oyster salad I had to start was on the menu at Maison de Ville (a “hot” restaurant in its time) over 25 years ago. And the dish wasn’t executed with the attention to detail that makes this sing. The breading was heavy and less than artful. I don’t even recall what my main course was.
While we’re on the topic of restaurants, I also stopped int the Flying Pig Cafe near the World War II Museum for lunch. Another terrific meal in a luscious bowl of gumbo:
After breakfast at Ruby Slipper, I continued uptown. I walked off part of my breakfast (hah! I wish!) and bought a street car pass for the day for $3. While I lived here, I never rode the street car. My air conditioned car allowed me to insulate myself from the relentless heat and humidity and I used that to navigate town.
But the weather is pleasant today and as a tourist, it offered the perfect way to get around town. So along with some other tourists and a few locals, the car headed north. I got off at Audubon Park, walked and wandered.
Street car New Orleans
The architecture throughout New Orleans is so magnificent. Having studied architectural history for a year in New Orleans was a gift. The course was divided into the Quarter, Garden District, Uptown and the Plantations.
My professor was the principal of THE architectural renovation firm in town, and he loved his subject. Everywhere we went, people knew him. So we were invited into numerous houses, mansions and places that one might not normally see. Between classes, field trips and new friends, I explored New Orleans.
Since those days, much has changed. Much has remained the same. A wonderful new addition is The National world War II Museum.
This is a stellar museum. From the entry that simulates the experience of boarding a train to leave for war, to the films and the airplanes (and more!) this is simply a stunning museum. From the museum home page:
The National WWII Museum tells the story of the American experience in the war that changed the world—why it was fought, how it was won, and what it means today—so that all generations will understand the price of freedom and be inspired by what they learn.
May the lessons of history be learned, never to be repeated.
Here are just a few pictures from the Museum:
Suspended World War II bomber in theNew Orleans Nation World War II Museum
One of the propellers, up close, National World War II Museum New Orleans
World War II bomber, New Orleans National World War II Museum
New Orleans is so much more than one can present in a brief post. In just a few days I covered all this and so much more. Pictures from my wanderings are in the Gallery, accompanied by some “”Nawlins” jazz, some chicory coffee and lots of luscious pictures. Do visit!
Final thoughts: I’m grateful for the chance to revisit this town. It’s a fun town. In many ways it is smaller than I recall, but then the characters from my stay here in the eighties were somewhat larger than life. They were all very real as were their faults and foibles. But these days, the appeal of a reality grounded in now rather than escapism or egotism, is more my style.
New Orleans will never be a place that resonates for me. But this visit reminds me that we take ourselves wherever we go, and whatever we encounter we view through our own prism of time and experience.
I think back to a woman who sat next to me at the bar at Mr. B’s. She loved New Orleans, and made it a point to come regularly. For her, it’s a three day party. And she’s quite right. New Orleans really needs to adopt that motto that what happens here, stays here. Viva New Orleans!
“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;
I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.”
–Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken
I am always moved when I read this poem. I feel as though Robert Frost stood not just at a parting roadway, but perhaps a roadway with one path to the future and one to the past. But only the path forward, the path into uncertainty, was worth taking.
It is the beginning of a new year. I am grateful. And in gratitude, I take the time to look back and to look ahead.
What wisdom comes from six months of travel, six months without a home or an endpoint? Without certainty, possessions or security of place?
What have I learned? Here are some of my go-to lessons to cope with life, travel and, oh, yeah, cancer!
Some Lessons From The Road
Life Lesson #1: Have A Sense of Adventure
Some travel to take tours.
I say travel for the detours!
Set sail, and go with the wind. I actually knew a pilot that would simply take off and fly into high pressure (i.e. good weather). He landed wherever he landed. He visited the most unusual places!
Travel for life’s detours!
Life Lesson #2: Take The Time To Be Still
Only when you’re still can you progress. I know that sounds contradictory, but consider: A life well lived implies some creativity and creativity needs quiet to take root and grow. Quiet is nurturing; restorative.
Sometimes it is the change of place that allows one peace. That’s where travel comes in.
To capture that peace day to day, that’s where discipline comes into play. (see Life Lesson #9)
Wisdom from Oprah
Life Lesson #3: Believe In Yourself
Look to your own inner guidance. Believe in it.
The most powerful voice is the one that lives in your head. Learn to calm your mind; observe your thoughts. Learn to carefully craft them as well. This is a conscious choice, one that involves ongoing effort. (See Life Lesson #9)
Healthy Attitude
Life Lesson #4: Be Optimistic
According to Oscar Wilde : “The basis of optimism is sheer terror”.
I laughed (see Life Lesson #7) when I read this because there are days when I have to agree.
I like to think of optimism as positive energy. It’s where I prefer to dwell. And why not? It takes considerably less energy than living in fear; it’s fun; it is the energy that makes good things happen. Optimism means taking the time to dream, and pursuing those dreams.
Optimism alone isn’t a cure all. (See Life Lesson # 9). But the energy it creates can drive events and it certainly makes the journey much more fun. (See Life Lesson #7 again and be sure to at least smile).
Optimism from the Dalai Lama
Life Lesson #5: Be True To Yourself
Only in truth, do we find our way. Stop, be still, listen to yourself. (see Life Lesson #2 and #3).
Life is short. Live it well.
Make Each Day A Masterpiece
Life Lesson #6: Choose Beauty
Beauty is everywhere if you choose to see it. It pleases the eye and fills the soul. Do you choose to see it?
And if so, did you notice, that it’s hardly “perfect”?
Perfectionism robs us of beauty. Instead we look for flaws. And they’re always there if that’s what you’re seeking.
When I saw the picture below, and the weeds in the field of flowers, it seemed perfect to capture the essence of this life lesson:
Beauty is wonderfully imperfect.
Life Lesson #7: Have Fun
Make fun a priority. It’s really quite easy. First it’s a decision; secondly it’s an outlook. It becomes a mindset.
I’m not talking about partying ’til dawn. Fun can be gentle, quiet and kind. I’m talking about enjoying the moment here and now.
How does one survive life– much less cancer!– without a sense of humor and fun? Make it a habit to cultivate both.
Remember to laugh and play
Life Lesson #8: Be Curious
Be ready for some twists and turns; be prepared to double back on yourself, and always be learning! Learning breeds curiosity, curiosity makes us focus and with focus we can enter “the flow”, that wonderful, timeless place of maximum creativity and productivity. Only in the flow of life can serendipity occur.
Curiosity breeds serendipity.
Embrace both.
Only in the flow of life can serendipity occur.
Life Lesson #9: Be Dogged
Things do not magically happen. On a daily basis, do what must be done. Meditate. Work. Eat well. Be persistent even when the climb seems insurmountable.
An old Zen saying:
“Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.
After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.”
Baby Steps and Perseverance
Life Lesson #10: Embrace Change
For whatever reason, change is hard for most of us. Yet staying stuck in an outdated past can be deadly on so many levels.
Why not learn to cultivate curiosity about change and integrate it into your life? Since change is inevitable, why not make it pleasurable as well? (see Life Lessons # 1, 3, and 5)
Life Lesson #11: Be In The World But Not Of The World
This is a saying attributed to the Bible (which I must admit I’ve not read–organized religion just isn’t my thing). And it’s one of my favorite phrases.
To me it speaks of being here, now. Being fully alive. But remembering that the meaning in the experience isn’t the trend du jour, the bigger house, the newest car or the coolest electronic.
The meaning in life comes from within.
Wisdom transcends time.
To looking within; To helping out.
Looking ahead to 2018, May it be a year of prosperity, wisdom and peace for all of us.
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11 Life Lessons From The Road
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What is #CancerRoadTrip and how did it come to be? Read this post to get the backstory!
Inspiration, joy & discovery through travel. Oh, did I mention with supposedly incurable cancer?
What's on your bucket list?
Thank you for stopping by!
CancerRoadTrip is about making lemonade out of lemons.
As you read my story, you may want to start at the beginning to "grok" how CancerRoadTrip came to be. You can click here to start at the end (which is actually the beginning) and read forward! The posts are chronological, with the most recent posts appearing on the front page.
