Monthly Archives: September 2014

Tour de Reino Unido – Part catorce

Dear readers,

Wednesday 17th July 2014

This was the first day of not doing much. Doctors appointments and washing. My friend Niku was excited to see us, so we stopped for a coffee in Moseley, as well as a stroll around Moseley Park. I insisted upon visiting the Oxfam second-hand bookshop (I bought a Graham Greene book. Needlessly really. I’ve a million books on my shelf) and then we went to an Arabic cafe. I like going to Moseley. Friends who come to Brum insist on going. I miss Moseley Dance Centre. Cheap Red Strip beer and Christmas lights and the greatest mix of music, along with Refreshers sweets on the way out. The bohemian little village. I’ve had many a drunken night there and staggered back to Hall Green. Luckily intact. Today I wanted to impress Pam, two days after proposing to her, so we gave a session in Wetherspoons a miss. Like everyone who met Pamela, they wanted to know where Honduras was. Not in a rude way, but in a charmingly ignorant way that we Brits have mastered without managing to offend anyone. This time it came in the shape of a bubbly pharmacist.

It wasn’t a late night. After all, the next day, London was calling. As was my sister.

To celebrate this, here’s a song about London by the Pogues. It’s one of my favourites.

http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=41aOYa8SLLs


Tour de Reino Unido – part trece

Dear readers,

Tuesday 15th July 2014 continued

My sister drove us back to the hotel in her open top Audi. It must be said, it felt great with the sea breeze, the sun, the feeling of love and alcohol swilling in our veins. Liz, being Liz, was getting dead excited about the wedding. She wanted to talk colours, flowers and dresses, but we were in a small hurry for a big family date at the Minack Theatre to watch the opera Tosca. We got back to the hotel, tarted ourselves up, stacked the car with nibbles, then crossed the county of Cornwall to get to the theatre situated on Cornwall’s south coast.

To many of you in other parts of the world, Minack Theatre might not mean much to you. For me it is one the wonders of Cornwall, one of the most interesting theatres in the world actually. You won’t find many replicas of this. Liz treated us to the tickets. It’s basically cut into a cliff face. The views are dramatic beyond belief and stunning, as you can imagine. I am told in September that the water is warmer and you can see dolphins and whales leaping through waves. I loved seeing the trawlers trawling back after their day’s catch to Penzance. “Minack” in Cornish means a rocky place and the black headed crag below the theatre has always drawn local fishermen. From 1931 until she died in 1983 the Minack Theatre was planned, built and financed by one determined woman – Rowena Cade. I didn’t know it had been around for so long, but like most amphitheaters, it looks like the Romans built it. The seats fall into one and other, stacked awkwardly, which makes it look like a beautiful mess. It’s dramatic as the sunsets, but spooky and mysterious at dark when the mist falls on the place, but the stage lights keep you focused on the action.

I’ve never been too sure about operas and musicals. I prefer that actors just bleedin’ well say the words rather than risk their vocal cords by belting out that they’re feeling a bit pissed off about something. Bloody Latinos getting all emotional again. I have to deal with all that lark in Honduras. I get fed up of having to do the whole, “Calm down” thing like Harry Enfield’s scouser sketch. Tosca I liked. It reminded me of a Mexican Telenovela with all its jealousy. It was quite a drama with the seats though. The usher needs to be ushered into a customer service training course. She wanted to be part of the opera, ordering us to sit so close that we could barely breathe. My father said something and she response was embarrassing. Pamela and I were away in the clouds with love, but the middle aged woman to the other side of me I don’t think wanted too much to do with us. It felt a very good kind of strange to tell her that I had proposed earlier that day. Of course she wished us all the best. It was also where I asked my brother to be my best man.

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But we loved it. The night. The day. Everything about it. 15th July is a day to remember for both of us.

Wednesday 16th July 2014

The next day was kind of leaving Cornwall day. Liz had to set off early, Ben kind of early, so we had our breakfasts and said our goodbyes. Mum and Dad then took us to St. Ives, a tourist mayhem but a beautiful old fishing harbour very well known for it’s art shops and surfing shops and shell shops and pasty shops and fish and chip restaurants and ice cream parlors and cider and ghost walks. I love walking around the back streets, dreaming of having a cosy art bohemian life in the small old fisherman’s houses. It’s a special place to visit.

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We first went to the Tate Modern, built out of an old engine room (I think). I’m not an art expert, but my mother said that it wasn’t the best exhibition in the world (she is an artist) but I did like one artist who painted boats out at sea on debris collected from washed up things on the beach. I can’t remember for the life of me his name. If my mother is reading this, she will probably tell me (please!).

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We then went for a quick bite to eat at the busy restaurant in front of the Tate Modern. I watched on as people got attacked by hungry seagulls. Just one look away and you could lose your sandwich. I had some deep fried squid and I kept my hand over it, risking my own fingers, because the squid was so delicious.

We then walked down into the main part of the town. Pamela was thinking of getting a temporary tattoo and then taking a picture of it for her tattoo hating mother that it was a permanent one. I would get the blame, mind, and I managed to talk her out of it. I’ll be quite honest, most the St. Ives residents living in the centre seem to be from outside of the town; most born and bred St Ives people live away from the centre, probably despising the millions of grockles and emmets that swarm their quaint little town. I love it there, always will, but I can understand them.

After giggling a little about seagulls attacking, it was then my turn, with one of the little fuckers taking an ice cream clean out my hand (just the ice cream mind, not the cone: the seagulls seem to be so well fed that they seem that they can be choosy with their nosh). It cost me three quid and I got three licks; pound a lick (sounds a bit grotesque!).

We bought some pasties to go home with (it was my decision), and we set off, stopping briefly at Jamaica Inn, as Pamela wasn’t feeling great. Cornish air my Nan would say. But that just makes you tired. I think it was subconscious; she just didn’t want to leave. I got to buy a sticker of the Cornish flag. I can’t wait to put it on my first Honduran car. They won’t have a clue who it belongs to. Or maybe they will. As stated in the last update, I was pretty sure that pasties had a Latin link, and this website proves that I must just be right: http://www.cornishpasties.org.uk/mexicanconnection.htm. It’s about Cornish miners in Mexico!!!

We were in the car going back to Brum. There was still a lot more of the holiday to go. But for now it was Dha wélez árta Kenrow! – “See you again Cornwall” – in the interesting language of Cornwall, about the beautiful land, of Cornwall.


Tour de Reino Unido – part doce (“Mi chele is now off the market, bitches”)

Dear readers,

Tuesday 15th July 2014

After visiting the grave, it was time for lunch. When one comes to Cornwall, it is a gastronomic rule that they must eat a pasty. Pasties to Cornwall are like pasta is to Italy. Outside the place of origin, it often disappoints. Pasties in train stations in London, Birmingham and Manchester especially. For Hondurans who are not sure what a pasty is, think of empanadas, but bigger, tastier and better. They have a similar pastry (though pasties are thicker and have a bigger crust. They were made like that for miners down in the pits. They would hold the pasty by the crust so they didn’t poision the contents with mucky fingers) but the fillings are with more peppers, spices, and larger chunks of meat and veggies. I have a feeling the ideas were inspired by one or the other. British miners were often sent to Latin America. I’m sure they’re interlinked.

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Nan knew all the best places to get pasties. The pasty community was very close knit, almost like the masonry. If standards dropped somewhere, news would get round. New fangled pasties were rejected and mocked, while commercial pasties were despised. If bakers got a bit big for his boots, he would lose customers rapidly. We got ours in Hayle, then took ourselves off to Godrevy to eat it.

Godrevy is another place that holds such great memories for our family. Before my grandmother died, she would often ask to be taken there. The family would go down to the beach, but she would be content with just looking out to sea from the front seat, basking in the sun or rain. What she thought or felt as she sat there, I don’t know and never will. But she seemed more at peace, especially after being made a widow for a second time. We decided to send a wreath of flowers on the rocks in memory of her.

The views are immense, right across St. Ives Bay. The lighthouse we used to think was Fraggle Rock, and the waves that would batter it made ohh and ahh and shudder. Among the humdreds of annoying seagulls scavenging the area, you can frequently see birds of prey, and on even luckier days, seals. Like all rocky beaches, the rock pools have their own mini bioversities, until the tide comes in and restarts it all over again. As kids, we would throw in wrinkles or bread to see crabs fighting over it. Great amusement.

We sat on a cliff top eating our pasties and saffron bun. We were extremely lucky with the weather, taking advantage of every ray of sun, like the nearby young gull took advantage of every loose or thrown crumb.

During this time, I was nervous. I knew that I would be popping that all important question, making Godrevy an even more special place for our family. I had the ring in a box in my bag. Ben and Liz knew what I was up to. I felt butterflies. Not of doubt. I knew I wanted Pamela as my wife and I was 99.9% sure she would answer yes. I suppose it was just the weight of the question. We made our way down to the beach. I was wearing shorts while Ben and Liz decided to be pussies and wear wetsuits. Having touched the water with my toe a couple of times, I felt that I had been spoilt by the lush warmth of the Caribbean Sea. Ben and Liz decided that I needed a dunking, and I got on. Cold needles, that’s all I can say.

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The next bit was amusing. I wanted to take a little walk with Pamela, for a certain purpose. Mum, however, also wanted to come. I obviously wanted to do this alone, but getting this across to mum without hurting her feelings and not letting Pam know proved a little difficult. Liz managed to sway mum from going, but mum then wanted to take my bag with the ring in it. I said I had to carry it with me at all times, like an obsessed man. I’m pretty sure mum was winding me up at this point. But she let me go, thankfully with my bag.

I then had to take an avalanche of questions from Pamela as we walked along.

“Where are you taking me?”
A special place to take photos.
“Is it safe?”
Yes
“Why can’t your mum come?”
I want to do perverted things to you.
“Can you take my camera?”
Yes
“Are you sure it’s safe?”
Yes
“Are you going to kill me?”
Depends, are you going to ask more questions?

I then chose a rock to climb up to get a good view of Godrevy Lighthouse so Pamela could actually take a picture. Some of the rocks were jagged and difficult to climb, which I heard muffled insults thrown in my direction like “puta” and “loco”. I doubt it’s the same rock we left Gran’s wreath on, as they all pretty much look the same. But we came to a great vantage point which had a man made seat for Pamela to catch her breath. Any more steps and I’m pretty sure Pamela would have just been done with it and pushed me to my death.

“Take a pic, then!” I said, which made her sigh frustratedly.

While Pamela was lining up the camera, I fiddled in my bag and tried to get the ring out of the box trying not to let her notice, nervous and the sun blazing while trying to keep my balance on a rock. She turned her head and didn’t even let me finish the question or go down on one knee.

“Siiiiiiii,” she screamed to the world (and me of course). Tears, kisses and hugs commenced.

“This is perfect,” she confirmed. She didn’t need to. I knew it was. I made sure it was perfect. Planned it for months. Sun. Sea. Lighthouse. Ring. Woman. If you want something in life, you have to fight for it, be patient, but make sure you do anything to get it. That’s what I’m learning in life. It’s taken a long time. And I’ll be launching this attitude in my career now. I have worth. I want to be a success. I’m willing to put in the hard work. I have the best woman in the world (when she’s not moaning). I have the best family in the world. Now I’m after the best job; one that brings happiness and financial security. Pamela has made me very happy, and I’ve made her happy. My father said the same when we announced it to the family when we got down from the rock.

Surprise, surprise, my sister pulled a bottle of Prosecco out of thin air when we returned to the car. Smiles with wine flowed. Happiness was in the air, and I like to believe that Nan was in one of the cars on the cliff top watching on, smiling. If she was with us, I’m without doubt that she would it would have made her happy, Pamela too.

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Tour de Reino Unido – parte once (“Mi Chele is now off the market, bitches”)

Dear readers,

Tuesday 15th July 2014

Yes, today was the day that I became owned. Pamela has been pressuring me for weeks to stop writing about the other days and just concentrate on that single moment of today. She also suggested that I put the title of this update too.

The day started with a small hangover, but having a full English breakfast helped aplenty. For once, it was nice to have a bean on my plate that wasn’t brown and refried: baked beans ruled that morning, the plate and my gas emissions. The owner, originally from near Bodmin, continued to fascinate yet confuse Pamela with his strong Cornish accent as he slurred out happy thoughts and recommendations for the day, as any host would. His Welsh wife was a bit easier for Pamela, she too wishing us great thoughts for the day with smiley glee. We left for the day with full bellies (and me with the ring in my bag, my brother and sister having knowledge of my big announcement).

Our first stop was Portowan, where my grandmother had a summer chalet for many years. I can’t remember her selling it as I was very young, but I do remember watching 70s/80s American TV shows about cops on motorbikes, while I was sitting on the floor eating yogurt. The chalet was on top of a hill and the holiday community had a swimming pool. It was many moons ago, and I remember being very fond of the place. I remember the cove being more vast than it is today. Nostalgia playing mind games. We stopped off anyhow and saw a digger ploughing sand. It’s turned into a bit of a surfer’s beach, not that I’m complaining. I remember going five years ago by myself during sunset and I felt I was abroad on a paradise island. The beaches in the British Isles don’t always get the credit they deserve. I do prefer beaches a little untouched, left to the elements of nature and not touched by man. I hope the digger was preserving the beach, rather than building an unnecessary complex. The below picture was taken five years ago. Pretty much untouched since then.

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And today….

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We then hopped along the north coast to another beach of special significance to the Rogers/West family; Portreath. This beach is a little more developed. It was known for tin mining and having a small fishing harbour, which is still used today. The tin mining tunnels sadly not, but the dangers for miners were immense, with tunnels going for miles out to sea. Explosions and drowning were a constant threat (I have a feeling that Portowan was better known for the mining though). There is a small island (I can’t remember it’s name) not far from shore which is a little cold and choppy for the likes of me to swim there. Nan told us that some had made it, others had not. She told us this at a young age, which left it engrained in my head that it might not be a good idea to attempt it. I’ve always wanted to go to the island. There’s nothing much there, just a large piece of mystical rock sitting there. It used to fill me of fantasies of caves full of pirate treasure. Maybe I shouldn’t go. Maybe I’d be disappointed. I’ll just keep my smugglers stories to the smuggler’s cottage tucked in at the corner of the beach.

The amusements that sat behind the car park, which I remember from a young age looked very sorry for itself, is now a nice looking chippy. The pub is still there. A pub that holds funny memories. It sits in the hill right close to the car park. I remember the Rogers and West family stayed in Portreath back in 2002 to spread Nan’s ashes. We stayed in a strange little hotel near a train tunnel, which seemed to be a spiritual retreat (the hotel, not the train tunnel). I liked the place, with its prayer rooms and aviaries and peacocks running around. Ben, Sam and I got a little rowdy in our room one night and started pelting a football at each other. We were all adults. Our parents or hotel owners were not amused. The pub though. On this particular trip, we all went for a drink at this wonderful establishment, which I think is called the King’s Arms, and there was a pub quiz taking place. Of course, we felt obliged to take part. There were many locals and it seemed to be taken extremely seriously. The family formed two teams; one of youth and other of wisdom (a tactical way of saying older members of the clan and the kids). The kids straddled behind, but my parents and Uncle Pat and Aunty Gill absolutely tore the competition apart. They broke out the gates into a lead, so cold and focused, like a Jose Mourinho team, with the same arrogance and swagger, leaving the poor Cornish country folk looking a bit, well, like poor Cornish country folk. They needed help from the younger members on the contemporary entertainment round of the quiz. Some answers we gave, others they just copied us. At the end of the night, our parents walked away with the prize (a free meal I think) and a record number of points, which left us getting furious stares and few slightly racist comments about bloody northerners. Never mind the fact that we too are very much Celts, they didn’t like other more intelligent (and better looking and slightly more healthier) Celts stealing their very proud thunder.
We all sat there smug, which may have wound them up more.

We walked around the promenade and round to the harbour while sharing stories, like the pub quiz, and things that embarrassed me in front of Pamela, the chief aim of my brother and sister.

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We then went to Camborne where we went lay flowers at my Nan’s graves. Nan remarried after her first husband Arthur died. I was five or six when he died, but I still remember him. He was a serious man. I think I used to annoy him, as I used to roll around on a furry rug in front of him. The rug is on my bedroom floor in Brum, but my imagination turned into mass waves or antartica for my toy helicopter. I remember watching athletics on his lap. I seem to remember it being the 1984 Olympics. Nan then married five years or so later who was also called Arthur. He too was widowed but he didn’t have grandchildren. His daughter Jennifer lived in the US but we lost contact with her. The last I heard she lived in state Washington with her husband who had some right of centre views that might have made him feel a bit left out in our family. This Arthur loved his bowls. The president of the club for many years, I seem to believe. A great walker too. Every evening without fail, while in his 70s and 80s. He’d tire us all out if we went with him.

Nan’s wish was to have her grave stone placed with both her husband’s graves. We went to the grave of her second husband first, which is close to the Camborne centre. It’s not the best kept graveyard, I must say, but I like going back.

We then went to her first husband’s grave in Beacon. We drove past the bungalow, which had a path beside the house that lead to a meadow of cows. I used to love that as a kid. So exciting. The smell. The noises. I was fascinated. Aunty Olli lived there too. I can just about remember her. She was blind or deaf, but on one party occasion, no idea what age I was, my mother still reminds me, I kept feeding her peanuts. Unfortunately, I fed her too much this time and she began to choke. I don’t know how the story ended but I’m sure I didn’t kill her. We drove on from the bungalow, past the gingerbread house whose owners got rid of the giant gingerbread man statue in front of their house (shithead gingerbread man murderers), and up to the grave. It has a sweet little chapel and is surrounded by misty meadows with disused mining buildings dotting the landscape, as welly as the beautiful Victorian folly that is Carn Brea. The yard is well looked after. I could see Dad getting emotional being there. It’s a special place for all of us.

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At this point, I must apologise to Pamela and say she might need to wait for the next update for the moment I proposed. My eyes are sore, as well as my fingers, from typing loads. I’m going to leave you with some Cornish Celtic music. Lovely views of Cornwall too.

http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=phpvylKuMM8


Tour de Reino Unido – part diez

Dear readers,

    Monday 14th July 2014

An early rise. I think it was some delayed jet lag. It may have been that I was still in work mode and my body clock’s alarm was awaking me at 5am. It could have just been excitement of going to Cornwall and seeing places that I’ve not been to in two years or more. Nostalgia. Days from my youth. Seeing meadows and the remains mines dotted in the vast landscapes. I wolfed down some crumpets and coffee, then we got in the car only to hear on the traffic news that the route to the motorway had queues of up to two hours or more. My dad has never been one for new fangled gadgets, and has always baulked at the idea of having a satellite navigation system. He is a maps man. Speeding down long diverted routes looking for an entrances to the motorway on Monday morning, I was beginning to feel my crumpets and coffee. There were jokes thrown my way about the amount of books that I always carry in my bag. My answer to that is very simple: I’m used to waiting long, long hours in Honduras, whether it’s for banks, immigration or whatever, and the thought of having nothing to do in that time torments me like water to a cat. I carry a substantial amount of reading material because I fear boredom, which leads to depression and/or madness, so consider it a type of therapy. It also builds upper body strength from carrying books in my bag all day long. It inspires me to write recommendations for books on my blog too. If that is a nutshell, I have dictated me reasons quite clearly. So put that in your pipe and smoke it.

We got to my brother’s house in Crowle, where we saw Ben, his son Leo and his dog Oso on a trampoline. At the same time. Oso was barking. Leo and Ben are laughing like barking mad people. Soon we were in the car and heading down the motorway to Cornwall listening to Spanish/Latin American rap and hip-hop. The song below I have included before in my blog, from Molotov, which is about the racial conflicts between Latin Americans (more specially Mexicans) against North Americans.

We stopped off at the Exeter services where my sister and Pamela finally met face to face. My sister, you have to understand, is more like an older brother. Any partner I have must pass her inspection, no matter if the rest of the family love her. It’s exactly why I love my sister. They have talked via Whatsapp since the beginning our relationship, and they are quite similar in personalities. It took one second for Liz to say, “You’re coming in my Audi for the rest of the journey, Pamela. Nick, f–k off. You’re going with Ben.” They seem to have cemented their friendship/sisterhood forever. It also gave Ben and I catch up time.

We got to the hotel, named The Beacon Country House Hotel (http://www.booking.com/hotel/gb/beacon-country-house.en-gb.html?aid=330631;label=msn-iThx3_3FwCYLrgZHthQsQA-4037425742;sid=f1dd0515df64139ba38a61a4e55a7c27;dcid=1;ucfs=1;srfid=3acac8b828d4f6434750406e159bfade78e5b795X1;highlight_room=), near St Agnes, with beautiful views of the Cornish countryside. Bunnies hoped in the gardens, and Pamela got to see the rugged coastline; beautiful beaches going on miles, with giant waves and mystic shards of cliff rock sticking out the sea like daggers. We were met by a lovely Welsh lady and her larger than life husband who had a accent of a sailor/pirate/farmer but the heart of happy dolphin. It was also amusing to see Pam’s face when she heard Cornish caliche (slang dialect)!

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Ben, Liz, Pamela and I then took a walk into St. Agnes. Pamela and I were in our Galeano Lempira t-shirts. Galeano is a clothes range using logos and faces important to Honduran history (i.e. Lempira and Francisco Morazan). They are stylish and look very cool, of course, and they are also doing a project to have people take photos of people wearing their clothes in other parts of the world. Pamela, armed with a camera phone and Canon Camera she calls Lola Flash, took many snaps, while the four of us talked about embarrassing stories about me, and got more and more ‘dwunk’. My sister has an expensive, but luxurious taste in Italian champagne, Prosecco. I don’t know how much we drank, but I can’t remember much about the night, nor the walk home.

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It was a nice kind of homecoming. Cornwall has a special place in our hearts, and the next day, it would hold a special place in Pam’s heart too.

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Vera M. Cano

Dear readers,

I want to apologize for not doing any updates in the last week or so. I’ve been occupied by lots of work, a cold and questioning where I am going in life career-wise. I suppose we need these moments to analyze at ourselves, dust ourselves down and see what we’re doing wrong to put things right. Career: no offense to where I work, but I feel a bit stalled (I know I’m worth more than the job and salary that I currently have). Maybe it’s the thought that I’m nearly 35 years old and I’m fed up of feeling broke. I do my best to be an inspiration to others, but it’s not always easy when you don’t feel inspired. Therefore, one most do something about it.

Nevertheless, I will continue with the Tour de Reino Unido series soon.

Someone who has changed their life, or someone who had to change their life in a tragic car accident, is my friend Vera. I have talked about what happened to her before. I don’t know her amazingly well, but she made me laugh in the couple of times we have bumped into each other.

Yesterday was four months to the day that the incident that changed her life took place. The doctor’s forecast was not great (you will see below in the following text), but through her personality, which is very much a force of nature, and God’s will, the future is looking so much brighter.

She posted this update on Facebook yesterday, a truly inspiring speech if anyone needed one (and I would count myself as one of those). Even if you are no religious, you cannot help but be moved. Faith in yourself and God is still something I’m learning. Many speeches go through one ear and out the other, but when it’s someone you know, the words obviously hold more weight and meaning. I hope it inspires you.

Vera’s speech, in English and Spanish:

4 months. 4 months today since my greatest challenge, hardest hit and rebirth.
4 months ago doctors’ diagnose:
– Possible death, will remain in the hospital at least 6 months, won’t be able to walk again, won’t be able to see with the right eye, total dependency on others to perform tasks.
4 months later reality:
– Still alive, currently living at a house, walking everywhere I can (or that I’m allowed), climbing stairs and possibly running soon, still double vision but able to see, writing this status on my own without anyone’s help to sit in front of this computer nor anything else.
4 months later lessons learned:
1) I will not bow down to fear.
2) I live by God’s promises and not by His explanations.
3) Faith may move mountains, but prayer moves God.
4) Whatever it is: “Don’t look down”.
5) Don’t spend your life trying to keep a whole bunch of people happy that don’t care one bit rather you’re happy or not.
6) What you do with your life will be remembered not just on Earth but also in eternity.
7) I only have 2 options in life:
a) I remain down living a miserable rest of my life
b) I raise and shine brighter than ever
….. I chose the second option…..
Thank you Lord.

4 meses. 4 meses hoy desde mi reto más grande, golpe más fuerte y nuevo nacimiento.
Diagnóstico médico hace 4 meses:
– Posible muerte, hospitalizada por 6 meses, no volver a caminar, perdida de visión en ojo derecho, dependencia total de otros para realizar cualquier actividad.
Realidad 4 meses después:
– Aún con vida, viviendo en un hogar no en un hospital, caminando hacia todo lugar que pueda (o me autoricen), subiendo gradas y posiblemente corriendo pronto, aún visión doble pero capaz de ver, escribiendo este mensaje sin ayuda de nadie al sentarme frente a esta computadora.
Lecciones aprendidas 4 meses después:
1) No voy a rendirme ante el miedo.
2) Vivo por las promesas de Dios, no por sus explicaciones.
3) La fé puede mover montañas pero la oración mueve a Dios.
4) Lo que sea: “No mires hacia abajo”.
5) No gastes tu vida tratando de mantener a muchas personas feliz, personas a las que no les importa ni un poco si tu eres feliz o no.
6) Lo que hagas en esta vida será recordado no solo en la Tierra si no tambien en la eternidad.
7) Solo tenemos 2 opciones en esta vida:
a) Nos quedamos tirados viviendo un resto de nuestras vidas miserablemente
b) Nos levantamos y brillamos como nunca antes.
…..Yo escogí la segunda opción….
Gracias Dios.


The Mirror

Dear readers,

Mirrors. For narcissists they cannot live without them. A pessimist in the morning might want to snap it into tiny pieces and think of the seven years bad luck they will get on top of their already destructive thoughts. The average person goes through life looking into the mirror, not quite deciding how happy they really are, and just want to spruce up the material image which is their face. Sometimes in our lives, we are all three of these people. Maybe we should just use it to motivate us. It’s one of the strangest yet most simple inventions known to man.

Recently I have been questioning myself in the mirror. I guess now I’m nearly 35, mid-life crisis might be on the way. But this is a poem for those who judge themselves, every day, in a less than positive light. I hope you enjoy it.

    The Mirror

When you look in the mirror,
What do you see?
The person you want,
Starring back at thee?
Are the eyes vacant,
Or are they full of life?
Do they profess joy,
Or are they grey and strife?
Are the shoulders strident,
Or are they lax?
Is that person ready for the day,
To run a marathon or type another boring fax?
Have you given a compliment,
Said, “You’re doing well,”
To move on spiritedly,
If they don’t like where they dwell.
Be kind to the reflection,
And make it a habit,
Look at yourself like a lion,
And not a scared rabbit.
Calm the nerves in your belly,
Keep the tears in the ducts,
Put a smile on your face,
Say, “My life, I’ll reconstruct.”
Drink your coffee,
Eat your french toast,
Then think of the day,
And shout, “Of today, I’ll make the most.”

mirror

I’m including a song by the King of Pop, Michael Jackson. It’s four years since he passed away. I didn’t like all his songs, but there are one or two that live with me for life. Especially Man in the Mirror. Cliched, maybe. The song is more about changing the world. By using the mirror to change ourselves we can change the way we see the world around us. I will include the video below