Being Playful


I remember as a child wanting to go out to play with my neighbours and expending most of the time engaging in creating a different world every day. Being playful was the fuel for being creative, and being creative gave me the courage to conquer everything I wanted.

One day, we were playing the rescuer hero, and suddenly, the building became a rocky mountain from where we needed to escape helping each other. We needed to climb down the rope, but not a regular rope, this was a superhero one made by a combination of our skipping ropes, our dad’s belt, and a blanket that we tightened together and attached to the second floor railing, and started our mission climbing down when one of our neighbours -thank God for neighbours- saw us and run to stop us calling, yelling, at our mother

“Olivia! your kids are about to jump from the second floooooor”

by that moment my brother had already arrived at the ground and I was getting to the outside of the rail when I was stopped on my mission, good time!

Every time that memory comes to mind I can clearly see that I wouldn’t make it, the robe was already loose after supported my brother weight and I was a chubby child, most likely I would’ve landed in an unfashionable way.

Anyway, we used to have fun and the link between our imagination and reality was unlimited, we could do and be whatever we wanted, and it felt GOOD. But, at some point that I can’t define, everything started to be difficult or impossible to conquer, my creations started to grow apart from my reality and they would be less frequent. I stopped marvelling, stopped creating, and one day without noticing what was going on I found myself searching for the meaning of things, a purpose, a life.20191102_132637

At that moment I knew I needed to go back to play.







On writing

The joy that writing has brought me has been healing. I have been able to feel a rainbow of emotions that have allowed me to cleanse my soul.

Like many of you, I have written in my diaries here and there since I was a child. Sometimes I was inspired enough to put together a poem, even filled some notebooks. Other times I would have written just a few words and fill in the blanks with drawings.

I remember spending hours fantasizing about what I had read and writing my own stories. When I was a child, my father uses to read me fables, mostly from our Venezuelan natives, but also from around the world. My favorites were the fables from the Venezuelan editorial Ekare and those from the Danish author Hans Christian AndersenRelated image

Image result for fables from ekare

Just now writing about these memories has drawn a big smile on my face! I also remember when my brother and I used to create our own comic books. We even had our own editorial house, those times when we considered ourselves professionals in all our affairs!

The walls in our home entrance were plaster with books, giving me the impression of arriving at a magic place every time I came back from school.

The walls at the entrance of our house were covered with books, which use to give me the impression of arriving at a magical place every time I returned from school.

I also used to use the space to lie alone on the floor every time I got upset looking at the books and waiting for them to talk to me.

That space was full of surprises to discover, such as when I managed to sneak into the forbidden books, or when I found the first cigarette I ever smoked, in a box left by one of my father’s colleagues. I found them on the high shelf where my father tried to hide Marlboro’s box that I would never forget.

Being around books became a big part of my childhood, there was always a reminder, either because my dad used to leave the dining room table full of disorganized books, magazines and newspapers, or just hearing my mom’s voice telling dad

Victor, why do you always have to leave a mess? continuing with her deceiving threaten

I will throw all your books!

My parents used writing as a way to express themselves, my mother wrote about her emotions or when I wanted to tell my father something that was not easy for her, I wrote her a note. My father always wrote for academic purposes.



P.S. Here is my memory of that Marlboro’s box, so you can see the reason why I never forgot it 🙂Image result for marlboro man


I lived my first year of the 50s to tell you

My first year into this decade is over. honestly, I’m glad I left it behind!
I was ready for something else, ready for a glamorous year. I had idealized my fifty years, therefore was not prepared for this gift: a set of health tests that I did not expect, at least not all at once.
Wait a minute! Am I dying?
Each of the letters of the health system, especially those that came from Cancer Care, made me feel uncomfortable, due to the idea that something was wrong with me, this triggered the anxiety that I experienced and that made my life impossible during the period of those tests.
Although, by now, I was already accustomed to the symptoms of my hormonal changes, I was not fully aware of them and the fact that these are symptoms of old age.
I survived anyway after some panic attacks, and I understood the need to change some habits in my life.
Meditation is now part of my routine, paying attention to what I am eating is the biggest challenge, but I am trying my best to curb some of the bad habits I have in this area, I also returned to an exercise routine to regulate the metabolism.
Finally, I wonder if there is a rule to receive the symptoms of aging, if so, I think I broke it at the time I felt that turning one year was like turning 50 at a time.

#50s #vintage #art #fifties #life

My journey to begin the fifties

Hola Chicas,
I have been having fun recording and writing experiences about how it feels to be fifty years old.
This idea occurred to me before I turned 50.
The months after my birthday passed between joys, dislikes, sorrows, illnesses (mostly hypochondriac), successes and failures (many of them to be honest), and of course always accompanied by waves of inhuman heat, followed by sub-zero moments.

Now, a couple of weeks to finish this chimeric and at the same time authentic “junior year” of training, I am ready to begin to live my “senior fifties” fully.


Our time to harvest!

IMG_0775Hello darling,

If you missed me, here is the reason for my absence …
I am working on a project that I had been thinking about for a while, so now I have the confidence to fulfill it, and I would love for you to accompany me along the way with your stories, and feedback. I can assure you that you will enjoy this concept of the second adult age as much as I am enjoying myself.
I learned a lot in my “first adulthood” and it is time to put this learning into practice, to recover my curiosity about things that surround me, to investigate what I want to investigate, to read and write what I please, don’t you think?. This is the moment where I am a little girl again, only now I am inside a woman’s body with 50 years of experience.
Less “responsibilities” and more adventures.
Then, tell me if you do not feel like freeing yourself from the norms of society in this period of your life and being yourself.



Two important seasons 

In Toronto Summer season is a big deal, people start to get ready physically and emotionally to embrace the warmth of the city. and even counting how many sunny weekends we would have. This is an interesting behavior, at least to me who spend most of my life over 30 degrees “Celsius” ha!

It was 2005  the year I experienced my first four-season weather. By the moment Winter appeared I wasn’t ready nonetheless I enjoyed the magic of Winter, and remember been happy of experiencing the beauty of the snowflakes dropping down refreshing my face. Also getting cozy with my family and close friends to admire the whiteness of the landscapes while away from the cold, drinking hot cocoa or tea. Those were new rituals I learned and loved.

When summer came I could see another city, the streets were looking different, to the point that I was feeling lost. Who could have known what would you found under that mountain of snow, anyway.

One thing that was very notable to me, was the attitude of the locals, they became friendly and approachable, all of a sudden they had time for quick chitchat on the streets, their facial expressions were different, more like the faces I was used to. I started to received an invitation to BBQs, picnics, movies, public events. It felt like I had moved to another country altogether, not only the city changed in front of my eyes, but the same people I was encountering earlier in winter were acting different.

Still now 14 years later I found Winter and Summer the two special seasons that taught me to appreciate their beauty, and at the time understand that Life is also seasonal, therefore embrace all the changes coming.