To be seen. To love. To be loved.

My peace, my quiet mind, my calm, is always in love.

Last December I didn’t write, play, breathe. My husband was dying. Every day he would lose a bit more of weight, the shadows around his eyes were deeper. Every day, our daughters and me, sat with him, laughed, talked about life, music and art. Love was everywhere.

We should write letters more. I miss that. I would say: My love, it is the last Sunday of November. The world keeps spinning, but it is very quiet here where I am now and I can hear my heart clearly. I miss the peace I felt with you, sound of your voice, your strength. I miss us

Find me again among the trees, in the whisper of the wind and quiet of the sea.

Moment is enough to change the course of your life. Don’t miss it.

In the forest among the tall cedars, at the horizon where the sea kisses the stormy sky, laying on the grass watching the stars, the colours of sunset, in the silence filled with love between our two hearts. This is where my home is.

Life will never be the same. It will be something different. And just like grief that comes in waves, joy will come too.

I love messy and raw. I love mistakes, typos and bad grammar. I love people who speak one language and dream in the other. I love passion and imperfection. I love our humanity.

Music sleeps in the silence of my heart, in the longing of my dreams, in the world where words are magic and you love me still.

It takes courage to be gentle.

I am aging differently from my friends. It is a lonely road. I am more open, more tender. While everyone around me is focused on their own comfort and themselves, I am looking outside, paying attention to the world. I see and feel everything. My life is evolving. I am growing.

Slow Sundays

I just want to be, for a moment, lost in time with you.

Never underestimate the strength of art, poetry and music, even in the darkest times.

This past year I truly learned how to be alone. To go to the movies, to laugh at things by myself. To travel alone, visit art galleries. I learned to have meal at the restaurant and toast my reflection in the window. I learned to love my own company, to love myself.

Sadness is a poem I live in silence.

Write me into symphony of the wind. Paint me into the hues of the stormy sky. Love me like a raging sea.

Change is inevitable if we want to survive.

Every day I celebrate kindness, celebrate compassion, celebrate tenderness.

The world needs people like us, people who get lost in the music, people who write poetry in the early morning hours, people who never give up on dreams, people who know that love is the answer.

One day all the languages will be forgotten, but music will stay. Song of the bird. Whisper of the wind.

Remember me when you think I am better. Remember that there is no better in grief. Remember that when I laugh and feel the joy of life I also cry.  Find words.  Words of truth.  It will never get easier. This grief. But I got you.

I lay under the falling leaves. There is no wind, no whisper, only an ache of my heart missing you.

Poem of Ordinary Things (new music)

More bravery, more magic, more kindness, more dreams, more passion, more love.

I have sea under my skin. I have wind in my thoughts. I have a fire in my heart. Leave me wild, leave me free.

Everything inside me becomes more visible, more beautiful, when I love.

But are you fluent in the language of sunsets

I want to be a poem of ordinary things.

Living free from  inhibitions judgement oppression Living free from rules expectations time tables Living free for openness kindness goodness Living free for passion dreams love

I prefer to be real.

In every fallen leaf I hear a song of you.

I stay awake listening to the song of the moon, dreaming of a better world and loving, always loving.

Courage to blossom, in every season.

I hear music in the fog, in rainy days, in a melancholy of a fading sun, in falling leaves, and hearts that long for something more.

We should write letters more. I miss that. I would say: My love, with you gone, I lost the whole language too. Language of love and silliness, we built for 33 years. Language of dreams, and imaginary things, of stories and poetry, language only you and I knew how to speak.

I write of you in the language of dreams.

To believe in goodness and kindness again.

It takes courage to love this world over and over again.

Life will do everything to make you hard. But true courage is to stay open. When you keep your heart tender, when you don't allow life to harden you, only then you can evolve, grow, only then you can call yourself brave.

I am just a woman lost in her dreams, rising from grief, sharing my light.

Past few days I quietly fell apart. Then I got sick. If you are someone like me, who feels everything, at some point, the world becomes too much, the noise very loud, and you are lost. No one can pulls you away from the darkness. Only your own hard work can get you to the light.

What is dead is gone. Memories, conversations will linger. Stories and words are all we have left, and that is an invisible thread connecting us with our loved ones who are gone.

I don’t want to be strong nor resilient I want to fall apart I want to be fearless and brave and do silly things Like crying in the morning and  falling in love in the afternoon I want to become I want to keep becoming every time I fall apart

A peaceful existence in the midst of storm.

To be gentle in this world is an act of rebellion.

Life is always beautiful. Even when it’s harsh.

I am learning to be brave again and live life with joy.

I close my eyes and travel to cities where we will love.