I was watching the news last week and there was a poll asking whether you feel safe in your neighbourhood. I’ve been thinking about that Sesame Street song for a little while now, but let’s not get carried away by that nostalgic melody.
If you haven’t already noticed through reading my blog, I have a thing for sayings, Bemba ones mostly, grew up with a lot of them and as years have gone by, most have turned out to be true.
It’s hard to meditate when you’re a mouth breather.
I’ve been a little stressed the past couple of weeks, partly due to my jam-packed to-do list and my over achieving attitude. Needless to say, “woo-sah” has been an inevitable mantra I’ve been chanting.
In the past five years I’ve lost two friendships that if you’d asked five years ago if we’d be where we are now, I’d have told you, you were out of your mind.
The recent mix up of Obama and Osama got me thinking about my frequent encounters with such errors with my own name, some which have been forgiving, most just plain annoying.
There’s a certain serenity that comes over me when I’m visiting my home country. It sounds corny but being there really helps contribute to my mental wellbeing. And that’s not to say everything is peaches and cream but there’s an obvious calmness.
I always enjoy going home. The journey, not so much. When you have to make a total of approximately 18 hours travel time, a fight for the armrest can become an important one. Both the departure and returning do not do well for my emotional wellbeing as I am plagued by anxiety during the former and mildly depressed on the latter.
I’ve always been eerie of death.
Growing up, I had a lot of people pass away and watched my parents attend funerals as often as they did weddings.
