Recently, I was accused of being a “live-in-the-moment” kind of person. I’m saying accused because in that particular conversation it wasn’t said as a compliment. Or at least that’s not how I saw it.
What matters is, it got me thinking.
First of all, I don’t view myself as that kind of person. I would love to be one, though. I would love to anchor myself to here-and-now, to be fully present in the current moment. Instead, I find myself constantly waiting and chasing. Worrying about the future. Regretting or missing different parts of the past. Always looking forward to something. Always impatient for something. “Can’t wait until” slips from my lips way too often.
As I tried to analyze why I’m like that, I realized that partially (mostly?) it’s based on rarely having any stability in my life.
I was a kid when a country I was born in collapsed. I witnessed a whole empire crumble around me. Not from the news on TV. Not from the stories retold by others. No, I was there, inside it. Everything I knew, everything I was used to—it all changed pretty much in an instant.
Most of the nineties in my part of the world (my teenage years and young adulthood) was pretty much spent in survival mode. It taught me a lot. It made me strong and resilient. But it took its toll. The concept of stability had become alien to me.
Or maybe it started much earlier, when I was a little girl and found out that my father wasn’t a part of a scientific expedition in a faraway land as I had believed. And that he was never coming home. Because he didn’t have any interest or intention to. Because he was living happily with his family in the same city as me and didn’t really care if I existed.
Maybe it was then that I started subconsciously waiting for better, happier times.
Because, as we know, hope dies last.
My first big loss was my grandfather who was like a dad to me. Strong, active, and full of life. He fell and broke his leg, and then he was gone within a month. All of a sudden, everything in his body crumbled like so many things tend to do in my life.
Then there were ten years of marriage. I loved him with all my heart. We built a house together and had a son. We even moved to a different country together. Throughout most of those years he was struggling with addiction. And I kept trying to save him. Needless to say, stability doesn’t belong in a scenario like that.
He lost the battle. Taking his life at 35, leaving behind a 10-year-old son, and shattering my whole world once again.
Years of living in immigration as a single mother didn’t contribute to feeling secure. The mythical concept of stability kept slipping away from me.
So no wonder I struggled to find comfort and security and to be able to look into the future without fear.
Maybe this “can’t wait until” is rooted in the never dying glimmer of hope. I wish I could let go of the fear and doubt. To stop worrying about everything and just live happily in the moment. Such conflicted feelings — fearing the future subconsciously yet craving a better tomorrow and always trying to rush the time to see if that bright future is indeed around the corner.
So yes, I have to admit, becoming a “live-in-the-moment” kind of person is not a reality for me now, but most definitely an aspiration.
If anyone told me a year or two ago that I would be publishing a poetry collection, I’d find it hard to believe.
Since I started writing four years ago, I’ve always had several works in progress. I was working on my fantasy trilogy, writing short stories in between novels (for different anthologies and for my own short story collection), and even started learning screenwriting.
I think the first poem came out of nowhere when I was feeling overwhelmed with my teenage son going away for a month and a half. Writing my feelings down was sort of therapeutic. Back then, I just left those words in a note on my phone, not knowing that it was the moment a new door opened for me. Or, rather, for my words—in poetry form.
I often say that poems pretty much write themselves, and it’s true. They either come or they don’t. I never sit there thinking, “I should write a poem. What will it be about?” No, the words just appear in my head and insist on being written down.
As more and more poems poured out, I started putting them all together into a collection (as well as sharing them on social media and here on my blog).
They’re all different. Some short, some long. Some dark and raw, others uplifting and inspirational.
One thing they all have in common is that they come from the depths of my soul. From looking inward and trying to understand myself and this world.
That’s why I decided to call this book Reflections.
I’m beyond anxious to share this collection with the world, to be honest. I have never considered myself a poet. All the words — as imperfect as they may be — are genuine and heartfelt. And it’s a scary thing, serving your heart on a plate for everyone’s judgement.
But I dare hope that apart from judgement my words will find a different kind of connection with the reader. One where they make you feel something. Where they inspire you to look inside, and ask questions, and seek answers. Where they inspire reflections of your own.
Below is the back cover blurb for Reflections. It releases on November 30, 2024, and is currently available for preorder on Amazon.
If you decide to give my little book a chance, thank you from the bottom of my heart and I truly hope you enjoy it.
Who do you see when you look in the mirror?
A friend? An enemy? A stranger?
Have you ever truly stopped to look into those eyes—not a rushed glance, but a long, deep, searching gaze? They say eyes are the windows to the soul. What do you see in yours? Light or darkness? Hope or despair? Pain, anger, joy, or love?
Perhaps it’s a little of everything. Inside each of us is a vast, unexplored universe—a fascinating, complex world that often feels too scary to confront. But if you find the courage to dive in, to truly look inside, you might discover something you’ve been searching for all along, perhaps without even realizing it.
You might discover yourself.
Reflections is a poetry collection that invites you on a journey of self-discovery, encouraging you to look inward with open eyes. Through raw, honest verse, this book will be your companion as you explore the depths of your soul and meet the person waiting to be found.
“What really matters is that you’re starting a new chapter of your life. On your own. And a piece of my heart goes with you.
My life will never be the same. Neither will yours. And I don’t even know if you feel that piece of me that goes on the journey with you. I hope you do. I want to think it’s one of the essentials you can’t leave behind.
But I don’t know that.
So whatever is left of my fractured heart aches. It’s my problem, though, not yours.
You go. Spread those wings and fly. Face whatever awaits you. You’ve got this, I know.
Live your life. Make the best of it. Have fun. Make mistakes. Learn from them.
And that piece of my heart will always be with you, wherever you go. A souvenir from home. A keepsake. A guiding light, reminding you that you’re loved. So, so loved.”
But I don’t say any of this. Instead, I just remind him to pack all the chargers.
I’m watching my little son as he sleeps. Marveling at this miracle we’ve created. Trying to wrap my head around how perfect he is. And how this perfect human being came from inside me.
It’s such a strange season of my life. My youngest turns 5 next month. And no matter how cliche it sounds, these years just flew by in the blink of an eye. They really did. There was a lot that happened in these five years, of course. There was a whole pandemic that turned the world upside down. There was a start of my writing career that turned my life upside down. There were struggles, adventures, learning curves, moments of joy. Tears and laughter, hellos and goodbyes. Everything you could imagine. And yet, I look at this little angel (aren’t they all angels when they sleep?) and wonder—when did this happen?
I’m about to book a one-way flight to another country for my eldest son. He’s 18. He’s got a life of his own and rarely finds time for me. And he’s getting ready to embark on a journey of a lifetime, going abroad to study.
For a year, to start with.
Although he’s planning to stay longer. Okay, in fact, he’s not planning to return.
Which is a good thing, of course. We can never truly go back, we can only move forward. Besides, every journey, every smallest trip we take always cause irrevocable change inside us. You just can’t come back as the same person.
I know it. And I love it.
When it comes to my journeys.
But as I plan for my young adult’s departure, I realize that those eighteen years also flashed by. My little baby is not a baby anymore. And I have no idea how it happened.
Years.
Decades.
I’ve been building my life.
And a life for my kids.
Rebuilding it.
Sometimes from scratch.
Making decisions.
Going places.
Changing directions.
Countries, cities, homes, identities.
Am I even me anymore?
Who was me, anyway, and does it even matter, if I’m not her?
Who am I now, and who will I be next year?
I’m just someone who finds herself in a funny time.
Turned 45.
Published my 4th book.
Got my 1st tattoo.
Celebrated my mom’s 80th birthday.
Choosing a cake for my son’s 5th birthday.
Hoping my other son can come home for his Christmas break to celebrate his 19th.
Numbers.
They don’t define anything, yet they carry so much weight. We always rely on numbers, don’t we? They scare us but also ground us at the same time. As if they’re something we can desperately hold onto in this whirlwind of a life.
Except we can’t. Because numbers tend to change. They never stay the same. Because this is how time works.
An old lady in the street was selling cherry tomatoes and figs from her own garden. They looked nice, and I decided to get some. Besides, I figured it would be a good deed since she had to sit there in the August heat on a tiny, uncomfortable chair.
I ended up paying much more than I would had I bought them at the marketplace or on a supermarket. Not sure if she did it on purpose. I suspect she did, because she kept telling me different prices and didn’t even weigh the fruit like she did for the previous customer. So I left with a bit of an unpleasant feeling. Like when you want to do something good but people take advantage of you.
But then I sat on a bench, while waiting for my son’s daycare to finish, took out a fresh fig from the bag and just ate it right there and then. It was delicious.
And I thought to myself, it doesn’t really matter, does it? The fact that I overpaid. The fact that she shortchanged me. What matters is I had the right intention, and the result was worth it too.
So instead of spending the rest of my day feeling hard done by and reminding myself that the road to hell is paved with good intentions, I figured I’d just enjoy the taste of a fresh fig.
And as soon as I took that decision, my day got a whole lot better.
Author Elena Carter 