NUMBERED DAYS

  This morning, as I was getting ready to shave, as I do every day, I “saw” myself in the mirror. Surprised by the slightly familiar face leaning toward me, as if trying to examine me closely, I focused on the details that defined it: the scar beside the eyelid, the new patches without hair, the latest furrows carved into the skin. Little by little, I began to reassemble the pieces of my own life story that explain the appearance of this “new me” that is gradually replacing the “old me.” It took me a while to recognize myself. And to accept myself as I am, I first had to persuade my critical mind, determined to deny the evidence of time passing and demanding convincing answers to questions that are almost impossible to satisfy: Why am I who I am? Why do the things that happen to me happen? Why haven’t I achieved what I wanted? What am I still missing? Why haven’t I managed to become more…? Questions that feel like a final exam with no chance of retaking it. I felt like an old objec...

  Suddenly, a furious downpour, driven by the wind, turns umbrellas into nothing more than useless ornaments. Despite the long raincoat I wear on days that threaten rain, I can feel the gusts of wind smashing the heavy drops against the lower part of my legs. My hands are soaked, and the fabric of my coat feels like a dishcloth from the sink. My destination is close enough to dismiss the idea of a quick coffee while the rain eases, yet far enough to anticipate the inevitable soaking: getting home, changing clothes, hanging the wet ones to dry, slipping into my slippers, and dealing with the dripping umbrella from the front door to the laundry area, where I’ll have to open it “full sail” until it dries. Too many inconveniences. I have “important” things to do, and it annoys me to think of all the time I’m going to waste on such trivialities. Then, a cold, damp, impertinent drop sneaks down the collar of my raincoat and traces an irritating path along my back. “As soon as I get home,...

  Less glitter and more clarity Fewer promises nad more follow-through Less laziness and more presence Clarity to choose Courage to ACT Tenderness to give

  Once again, a new year begins, and with it the familiar list of unfulfilled resolutions: we did not persevere with our fitness programme; we only attended English classes for a couple of weeks; we gained some weight, and we remain just as trapped in old routines as in previous years… And more than a quarter of a century of this new century has already gone by. Are we incapable of changing? Do we lack willpower, or do we aim too high when we formulate our resolutions? Perhaps the problem does not lie in us, but in the method we use. The self we are today did not appear overnight. It has been shaped over the years, since childhood, and has become a compact block of habits and routines—almost like a computer faithfully executing the instructions it has absorbed along the way. But change does not mean cancelling that programme and starting from scratch. It means introducing small improvements that lead to new, more pleasant, richer and more satisfying ways of living. The sugg...

One foot on the sidewalk and the other, already stepping forward, on the road. The light was still red, but she wavered between prudence and haste. Cars came from both directions, and it wasn’t easy to time the gap between them to reach the other side without a jolt. When it comes to children or elderly people, my rule is always to wait for the green light, even if no cars are passing. I believe that, in doing so, I both set an example and respect the other person’s freedom to choose as they see fit. In this case, the woman muttered something under her breath: she was torn between risking it or waiting. She looked at me as if asking for advice. And while I was still thinking of an answer, the little green man of the traffic light cleared the doubt for both of us. We crossed side by side, and the woman, in a very low voice and staring at the ground, as if it had nothing to do with me, murmured an address without daring to frame it as a direct question. Without stopping, I pointed her in...

  Clara leaned out the window to feel the fresh early morning air. At the edge of the windowsill, she saw the sad, withered geranium, wilted and shriveled, as much in need of water as she was of a sense of security and control over her own body. The flare-up was still active, evident in her persistent weakness, her blurred vision, and the strange numbness that coursed through her body and face. Across the street, she saw the blind woman she often crossed paths with, walking with her usual determined stride—a woman with a confident air, always well-dressed, carrying that dignity that comes with age and experience. How could someone with such a disability manage to live the active life she seemed to lead? She looked away. Her eyes ached if she focused on a single point for too long. Another symptom of the flare-up. At first, it had been just minor discomforts, small functional glitches—words that wouldn’t come to mind, a light-headedness that pulled her away from her chores, a slig...