This morning, I made a grand declaration: “I’m going to write a book!” My husband, deep in his weekly-column trance, mumbled something without lifting his eyes from the screen. I don’t know if he heard me — his automatic, half-conscious response sounded like pure gibberish. I’d like to think it meant, “Mind-blah-blah-blah…” For the past few days, I’ve been consumed by an unstoppable urge to write. I left journalism because I was tired of turning in stories every single day — and now here I am, planning a book . Oh, the irony. But somewhere beneath the irony, I sense a quiet calling — maybe this urge to write is less about producing something and more about pausing long enough to listen to what wants to be expressed. A mindful whisper from within, perhaps. Two ideas are swirling in my head, both aimed at helping educators. Having shifted from journalism to elementary teaching, I have enormous respect (and plenty of empathy) for this tribe. My first idea is a practical phonics work...
A simple peeler set off interesting train of thoughts today. This morning, as I was about to scrape some carrots, I noticed my favourite peeler was missing. Instinctively, I assumed my husband had misplaced it—after all, there had been a few such incidents before. Without skipping a beat, I asked him, “Why did you misplace the peeler again?” That small question quickly turned into a minor argument—who uses it more, who bought it, why always him, and so on. Thankfully, my mindfulness training kicked in just in time. I paused. Took a breath. And reflected—what exactly was I doing? In that moment, my mind flashed to a scene from a K-drama I’ve been watching. A young patient sneaks out of the hospital at night and gets hurt. When she's brought back, it’s the doctor who apologizes to her—for not being there when she needed him. That scene suddenly put things into perspective. I wasn’t even sure who had misplaced the peeler, yet I had jumped to conclusions and pointed fingers. It reminde...