A silly thing happened to me this past weekend; a tiny wood splinter got stuck in my hand and as much as I tried, I couldn’t get it out.
Wedged under my skin, it so tiny you could barely see it. I picked at it with tweezers for hours, but it only made the skin around it sore.
It’s remarkable how a tiny speck can make one so miserable – I imagined life with a splinter permanently embedded in my hand, and the possibility of losing my hand from infection.
Drama aside, the internet can be dangerous enabler when you’re desperate, I almost hacked off my fingers with an X-Acto knife.
Thankfully, cooler heads prevailed, I didn’t get to play doctor with a sharp knife.
I went to the urgent care centre first thing the next morning, where a nice doctor after a shot of local anaesthesia, broke the skin open and got the splinter out.

So how did I manage to get a sharp piece of wood stuck inside my palm?
The bloody train tracks! That’s how.

I’ve heard a lot of sad news lately; of people passing away… loved ones, people I’ve known and strangers I wish I’d known.
Last month, my uncle N. passed away after several years of illness.
It was hard on my mom; he was her first cousin, but older and more like an uncle whom she adored dearly.
I didn’t know my uncle N. very well; I only met him a few times but I remember him fondly.
My uncle loved tradition; he was an oral historian who told incredible stories of ancestors I wouldn’t have known otherwise.
His narratives were always riveting with mythical elements.
I loved the stories because it was a connection to exploring my lineage.

I wore black the day after we got the news.
It’s tradition.
It was a sunny spring day, and all around me were nature’s colours; greens and pinks, and whites and blues…
But I wore black… in reverence to my uncle… because it’s tradition.

Outfit Details: Dress – Benetton | Boots – Feet First | Sunglasses – Joe Fresh

I want to try optimism this month.
It was suggested that I start each day by pulling back the curtains, looking unto the skies and allowing a wave of gratitude to wash over me; gratitude for another day and the greatness it holds.
This morning I looked outside towards the skies and all I saw was gloom, rain and dark angry clouds.
The morning felt like an evening foreshadowing an ominous night.
I thought of a quote I’d seen recently, the writer describing his despair said he felt like he lived in the set of ‘The Killing’
This analogy felt accurate this morning, except I really do live on the set of ‘The Killing’
The US version is shot here! Vancouver plays Seattle on the show.
Here are a few shots that could complement the show…

I want to try optimism this month…
I heard someone play ‘Keep The Home Fires Burning’ last night, I hadn’t heard it in ages, but it’s stuck in my head – I hummed it all day
It’s one of those weird songs I learnt from my father, you probably don’t know this song, unless you were around during the First World War in Britain. Neither was my dad… but he was a war buff.
It was still stuck my head this morning when I pulled back the curtains, and at that moment this wartime song seemed fitting.
Especially the last lines, which I naturally changed;

Turn the dark clouds inside out
Till the sun comes out

And by noon, it looked as if the sun was trying to peek through.
It’s going to be a sunny day after all!
I want to try optimism this month…

I don’t remember last year’s cherry blossoms, somehow I missed them; I was either too busy to notice them or perhaps I didn’t look around often enough.
I don’t have a single picture of cherry blossoms from last year, that just mystifies me.

This year though, I can’t seem to get enough it them, I’ve had to hold back from going overboard with the pictures.
When in bloom, cherry blossoms are like pink fluffy clouds, and they line sidewalks like a floral carpet – so enchanting!
Cherry blossoms, like spring is all about renewal, I would have loved to have attended some festivals, but walking around in my neighbourhood was festive enough.

The flowers bloom for a very short time, mirroring how fleeting time is.
On my walk home at the start of this week, I couldn’t help but notice the flowers disappearing already.

I’m really winning with this breakfast stuff, aren’t I?
That’s because breakfast is my favourite meal, even when I don’t always have time for a proper breakfast every morning.

When we were kids my mom would cook a big breakfast on weekends.
This usually involved thick oatmeal with evaporated milk and omelette sandwiches or sardine sandwiches with tomatoes, onions and lettuce, or crepe-like pancakes and fruit salads, and the fanciest of all was a baked custard dish with cake.
We’d get the bread for our sandwiches early that morning from a bakery, whose owner was also a family friend.
We’d call the night before to request a special bread, and if the bakery was out of our special bread for whatever reason, we (usually my sister and I) would then go to a second bakery on Siaka Stevens Street, the bread wasn’t as good as Mila’s but it was far better than the one we usually got from the little kiosk down the street during the week.

Not everyone was a fan of my mom’s elaborate breakfasts; we were such picky eaters she usually had to force us to eat; I was afraid of sardines, my older brother hated eggs and anything with butter in it, my other brother didn’t like it when the bananas and oranges in his fruit salad touched; he’d throw tantrums when they did, and my sister just didn’t like eating, and my father throughout the meal would stare longingly at the clock.

This weekend as I prepared my own little feast I asked my mom about the production that was our Saturday mornings.
She said years before, when we lived in the middle of nowhere and could barely make ends meet, she promised herself that if we ever got out; her children would never go without breakfast again.
Thankfully, my Saturday morning breakfast rituals are a little less ambitious than my mom’s.
I think my aversion to elaborate breakfasts (especially ones I have to make) stems from that period of my life.

For oats and other grains, I usually let it cook overnight in a crock-pot, and I wake up to a quick healthy breakfast in the morning.
It’s even better when I have leftovers; I just heat it up in a bit of almond milk, add in a few slices of fresh strawberries and top with a healthy portion of peanuts for protein.

It’s a miracle!
I found strawberries in winter that didn’t cost a fortune – they look so good and taste pretty good too.