#002073 – 30 de Janeiro de 2025

A Open AI acusou a DeepSeek de treinar o seu modelo no modelo da Open AI. A isto se chama destilação, quando se pega num modelo já treinado e se usa as suas respostas para treinar um novo modelo.

O que Arnaud Bertrand avisa é que a form como esta acusação do gigante Open AI foi feita mostra como esta área se pode tornar distópica. A Open AI usa o conhecimento produzido colectivamente e extrai-lhe valor. E depois reclama ser proprietária dos resultados que o seu modelo produz. Quem sabe no futuro tentará processar alguma empresa que faça qualquer coisa que não gostem com os resultados da sua ferramenta (que foi treinada em conhecimento que não lhes pertence). Seria uma forma totalitária de reclamar propriedade do conhecimento humano.

Tropique de la C Submarine des rails Sous-histoire Passeport brûlé Navigue à vide RSA rasa & rasa Jénine Horse & white horse Des burning cross Underdog d'Orient L'électrique en berne Surdose système nerveux Décharge pleine Des reels sur réel MMA sous MDMA Transhumance & Transhumanité Port intérieur Mauvais temps Mauvaises têtes Tête contre tête Moi & muay-thaï Écho d'inespoir L'inhabité Au-dedans au-dehors À la rue & inhabiter Ça crève le monde L'immonde Le soi & Le soir

#image

Thank you for your patience over the last couple months. I’m now available again on most weekdays for support.

As always, please use our public forum for most of your questions, feature requests, customization help, bug reports, and so on. Otherwise please send me an email for private discussions like billing issues, and I'll get to it as soon as possible.

- Matt

It was a long journey, but I finally hit my first milestone.

In April 2023, I enrolled in a Gracie Jiu-jitsu gym. Now, after almost two years, I finally took the test and passed their Gracie Combatives program! This means I'm eligible for the Master Cycle which includes a lot more rolling (sparring), and an infinite number of new techniques.

The journey to this point has been a long one, and it was my own fault. I got bored with the program after about six months or so, and I was still a long way off from being permitted to take the test (I needed four stripes, and at that point I only had two). So, I left the gym to try some others.

I liked the other gyms, but the first one was way too intense. So, I decided to switch to a Gracie Barra location and I really liked it. However, I injured my bicep tendon again and after two classes, I had to stop all training, of any kind.

Returning to GJJ

While I was injured, I exchanged emails with my instructor who was super cool in answering my questions and addressing my concern. The injury ended up bringing me back to GJJ as it was a place that I would experience the least number of injuries. This is especially important as I get older yet plan to continue doing this activity for years to come.

The way GJJ is structured meant I could continue to learn, even with my injury. I began to participate as some of the pain subsided, and then I slowly incorporate private training sessions with the instructor around the July or August timeframe. I was about to take my test, but we ended up moving.

Once I got settled in the new place, I found another GJJ gym, and jumped right into the classes. I was ready. I took two private sessions to sharpen up some areas, and then I scheduled my test, which I took last night.

The test is broken up into five sections (guard, mount, side mount, standing, and light sparring). The point is to demonstrate all the techniques as they are called out on a passive opponent, and it all has to be done within a 25min time period. I ended up getting a 94 out of 100 (you need to get a 90 to pass). I was hoping to do better, but I made some silly mistakes. I still have some things to clean up. Nonetheless, I still passed, and I move on!

Moving to Master Cycle

Now that I have passed, I no longer have to take the slow-moving technique classes. I probably will still take them from time to time, and if I ever have a flare-up of my injury, then they are always an option.

Now I move onto Master Cycle. This class is about 30 minutes of instruction and drills, then 30 minutes of live sparring. More pressure testing, and a lot more tapping out.

I'm excited for this next stage as I continue my march towards achieving my blue belt.

#personal

Found more acorns in my house. Really wish I knew which leaves these match.

#PermacultureDesignCertificate #PDC #OregonStateUniversity #permaculture

We may have three species of oaks instead of two. By the pond this morning I found that the oaks nearer the pond have less rough bark and the sorts of leaves that have deep sinuses from the previous post.

However some of the oaks standing back from the pond have much rougher bark. Some of their leaves are still on, and they are a different shape than the other two. Oblong with a distinct tip, so definitely a member of the red oak group.

Here are the acorns I found along the fence line yesterday. They are nearly spherical and have a very pronounced tip on the end. The cap is more bumpy than flaky or scaly. As far as I can tell with my limited vision.

How is all this pertinent to permaculture? I'm still working on my maps, and will be for the duration of the course. The base map didn't have any trees on it because any of these trees may be removed. None of them are hands off. However, that doesn't mean they all go either. They do all have to be mapped out as I make a plan. And they need to properly be identified for species.

Why does that matter?

Did you know that some acorns drop the same seasonal year they start forming, while others drop two seasonal years after they start forming, while the next round of acorns are budding? That pattern has a lot to do with the interdependent species in the environment. That has to be taken into account.

#PermacultureDesignCertificate #PDC #OregonStateUniversity #permaculture

#002072 – 29 de Janeiro de 2025

É impossível não ter opiniões sobre coisas que não compreendo. Aliás, talvez só seja possível ter opiniões sobre o que não entendo (exactamente como isto que acabei de dizer). Quando algo está completamente ao alcance das minhas capacidades, dispensa a minha opinião. Mais que trivial, é estúpido eu elaborar uma opinião sobre chamar-me Nuno ou não. Consigo compreender perfeitamente que nome tenho e porquê. Agora se a consciência é computação ou não, algo que está quase completamente fora da esfera das minhas capacidades intelectuais, inquieta-me, não me deixa indiferente. Toda a minha ignorância, todas as dúvidas que tenho sobre o assunto organizam-se melhor sob a forma da minha posição, da minha opinião, sobre o assunto.

https://timsh.org/tracking-myself-down-through-in-app-ads/

I didn't really set out to write anything specific in this space, beyond sorting out my own thoughts about current events; my morals, ethics, and beliefs; my interests; and the occasional intersection between those things in a way that would let me look back at what happened and make sense of it, similar to a recommendation I got from a mutual on Mastodon after I expressed frustration with...gestures vaguely at everything.

Over the last week or so, a structure seems to have emerged – my blog entries seem to largely echo and expand on a thought that strikes me that I share on my home Masto server of https://jawns.club. I think I'm going to largely stick to that format. I toot some really dumb stuff, but quite often I touch on larger topics and the 500 characters that jawns.club provides me just aren't quite enough to make my point or address everything about it that I want to touch on.

As I stated in my first blog entry here: I am not expert. I'm figuring all of this out in real-time, like many of us are. My thoughts are going to be incomplete, they're going to be works-in-progress, they're going to lack nuance. But I can guarantee you that they'll be sincere and honest.

Hello. I missed you. I missed writing way too many words and immediately feeling silly about them the next day, believing I need to delete them all and start again, and then feeling the same the next day, and wondering whether this will ever change.

I missed questioning whether anything I have to say has any merit whatsoever, or if it’s all just an indulgence and the few people who read my words just have no idea what’s good.

I missed thinking I need to hold on to and keep working on everything I do till the end of time. I missed thinking everything I do needs to be perfect.

I missed sticking it out nonetheless, amassing a steaming heap of words — flies swarming — inexpertly strung together to form hapless sentences.

Beginnings suck. Beginnings are the worst thing about life. Remember when you were a baby?

You sucked.

I’m fascinated by just how little beginnings tell you about how the rest of the cycle will unfold: NOTHING. They tell you nothing. Beginnings are fucking hard. Write thousands of words one day, then delete them all to begin again the next.

Again, again, again, againagainagain.

All I ever do is start things. Beginnings are the best! There’s so much goodness in beginnings. Nothing is certain. Everything can change at a moment’s notice. Beginnings are divine.

The Letters are leaving Substack. Idk if this is a surprise to you; probably not.

Being notably absent from anywhere I used to frolic around like a lil lamb once upon a whence, should, at least to myself, serve as a solid indicator I’m long Done With That Place. But alas. Having outgrown or mutated sideways out of a set of limitations that once held me like a snail in its shell must, it seems, somehow shock me into a temporary freeze (which is so funny to me because I’ve been thinking a lot about temperature as it relates to mutation recently. Okay, carry on).

When I come to after the shock has worn off, I remember — OH, RIGHT. I can’t freely create, emote… be where I don’t feel safe. Weird, I keep forgetting that’s a thing.

It’s similar at home currently, coincidentally. It’s been like this since I moved in – I knew I had to get out – but life of late has exposed cracks in the cave I didn’t yet possess the conviction to properly acknowledge.

I started writing a “season” of letters back in December. I was really excited. I loved the prospect of dropping a small book’s worth of words at once, of giving myself the time to peer deeply into whatever was emerging, to go back and forth between “chapters” – to put prolonged dedication and commitment into my words, in a nutshell. To not treat them like disposable cotton swabs, but allow them the space and time they’d need to grow a skeleton, to put on and carry some weight.

The main narrative was, to make it very short, Stepping Into My Power. I planned to make the publication private and put rules of engagement into place. So, to set boundaries around my writing, basically. The season would aim to explain, narrate and lay out the laws of what was happening, because I can’t ever just do a thing and not share What We Learned… (we’ll get back to this in a bit, I think)

Mid-December arrived and my personal life took over. Single mom-itude – mine, at least, at present, still – doesn’t allow for mid-term plans. Interspersed with my health going slightly whack every couple days, the immediacy of childcare issues is the perfect way to deny myself doing the truly, wholly, sustainably satisfying stuff – making fun things and writing from the deep within the deep – the Abysmal. See, there was this whole thing I thought I needed to flesh out about requiring minimal engagement from my subscribers to feel safe enough to continue writing the way I was before my soulmate came along and my cells began to grasp all the ways I’d been overexposing and -extending myself.

Wanna read something shocking? Here’s a passage from said season of Letters I’d been preparing before life/my body/the program/whatever threw a wrench and flattened all my Writing Life’s tires for the time being.

Dear subscriber,

Months ago, I woke up trying not to cry.

In my dream, a person without skin, held together by who knows what, mounted on a rod, like one of the wooden puppets we used to learn to draw with (like Wooden Figure Human Drawing Model Toy Mannequins with Stand Movable Limbs Puppet Art Sketch Models for Art Body Drawing Home Decoration available on Amazon), solemnly, in possession of all their mental capacities, carried a conversation with me while I cowered in a corner trying not to catch their eye, fixing mine on the dinner table in the middle of the room.

That was it, that’s all I remember. The voice was disembodied. Haunting, rasping, deep, rumbling, piercing.* (piercing, like their body was by the rod, get it? Hahahaha oh god fuck why do I find this funny I hate gore) I’d heard it before.

When I was fourteen, I dreamed of my body as a feeding ground. “Pasture for the deer and the bees,” said the voice. My consciousness, a literal sacrifice.

You know, in Human Design terms, I am a martyr. I do have the capacity to go through shitty things so others don’t have to. You can learn from me. You can use me that way.

But I get to choose who may feed on the grass that grows on my limbs. I get to choose who can see me without my skin so they can study the human body by using me as a model. I can put up an electric fence, and I can charge an entrance fee. I can hire a bouncer. You can’t view my inner workings — much less use them — just like that.

ANYWAY. Hiii, welcome back. Don’t worry, that was the most outright uncomfortable part of that letter. At some point, the rest (or what will be left of it) will also be published and you’ll see.

Okay so, we’ve established I originally wanted to make this publication private and require minimal engagement (or else kick people off my list who seemed unappreciative of my oh-so-selfless martyring, yep, lol).

Okay!! But I also couldn’t shake the feeling I was also very, very wrong – not just because I was preparing to do something uncomfortable; yuck “having boundaries,” UGH – but because I *disliked* many of the words pouring out of me. I was unsure whether this was due to solar plexus conditioning, or if it was *real* and maybe I was preparing to (artificially?) assert boundaries I wasn’t actually so clear on –

Dear friend,

I don’t like my tone throughout this email. It’s cynical, it’s kind of harsh, it isn’t nice.

Dear reader,

I’m laughing at myself because I’m policing my tone exactly the way some defined solar plexus people do when they feel even a little bit *confronted.* I’m not warm enough, I’m too high-pitched, too stern. I won’t listen to you. Swaddle me in sweetness and tell me what I want to hear, then we can “talk.”

---

Dear internet person,

If I wanted to be “brutally honest,” I would share some recent entries in esther’s notebook with you. Honestly, though, I’m not fond of the term “brutally honest.” It’s kinda violent, don’t you think? I don’t want to “use” honesty as a weapon. True honesty confronts. But it doesn’t injure for its own sake. Not others, not oneself. Real honesty loves.

And then, a couple of weeks ago, I stumbled upon this: Don’t call it a Substack.

I believe I’d read it before, but, you know. Things only land when we’re ready for them. When the mind only requires that last bit of convincing to trust that what’s already underway is somehow its “idea” (lol).

Substack has served me well up till now. After I read that piece, I didn’t think I would leave because of it. I mean, that would mean I made a pretty major creative decision on the basis of what some dude suggested people in general (“I’m not people in general IM AN IN-DI-VID-JU-ALL”) might wanna think about.

But well, yeah. I did think about it a little. And, parallel to thinking about it, I started flirting with other ways to blog, some of them provided by people whose philosophies I find incredibly grounded and sane. 

I told myself, and, I mean, it is the truth – this is what I do when somehow, wherever I was before, whatever I was doing, has gone stale. Looking for a new beginning is just a way to avoid the work of processing and enduring the plateau that inevitably arrives after a period of doing something, anything, really, with some regularity.

But, well. It’s been many weeks. And almost a year of trying to “be on Substack” and very, very much failing.

It’s kind of like the way my mind, for several years now, has been acting vewy concewned (☹☹☹) when my appetite wanes for a while and I don’t eat, sometimes for days, without consciously, expressly “fasting,” despite ravenous hunger, despite my temperature dropping, etc. In the absence of other concerning symptoms, the truth here is that my body quite simply needs less input. Sometimes it also needs to not focus for a bit and rest, just be empty. Sometimes the emptiness and resulting deep, cellular relaxation puts me into hyperfocus. It all depends.

I’ve been telling myself to get back the Letters — it’s the right thing!!

Just like mind says that actually, not eating is counterproductive to the long-term goal of losing weight — yes, it is that insidious lol. Notice its main narrative is how I need conviction, determination: my split bridge is in Gate 46 — *the Gate of Determination of the Self.* Also notice it places silly fantasy “goals” that society purports to value above my actual well-being: factually, I am FINE when I don’t eat for a bit. Often, even, I’m better than when I am eating regularly. The only thing not-fine is my mind’s (and sometimes, my actual) yammering about it.

Thus, to get back to Letters: each time I think it’s happening; the next letter is arriving!!!!! It… doesn’t. Or didn’t. Here we are, now, eh.

But today, weirdly (or fittingly?) – on this day of Bigotry/Democracy – in my safe, contained space of wandering and watching the unfolding of what’s inevitable, the following was finally revealed.

It’s not me. I am not the problem. (This in itself is huge for me as a small split, undefined ego and open solar plexus being! just btw)

And – it definitely isn’t you. I thought I needed boundaries around who gets to read me – and I do – but not that way.

What I really need is to not be part of The Instagrammification/Substackification Of Writing.

To whom it may concern,

Letters from the Abysmal will be admission-only starting tomorrow.

It’s taken *many* time, but I now know some arguably important things about why I write. When, what, and to whom, and what I need in return: I must know the audience, I need an exchange, and I’m not after money – no: a paywall will not do (and yes, I still feel the need to affirm this to myself). The internet has become a peep show, and I want no part of it.

Not all of this has proven completely true (we’ll get to what/why) but that last sentence has endured. I do not write to feel seen. I thought this was the case for a long, long time — up till last month, to be honest, even while I was beginning to pack up my small epic of a suitcase of letters.

I do not write to feel seen. I don’t write from a desire to prove myself in any sense (even if this is what ends up happening, as a side effect, sometimes. Even if my mind would like to say it’s because I [insert stupidest reasons for doing, anything, ever, here])

I recently started reading George Orwell’s On Writing and stopped, laughing, on page six, to check his design – yes, he is a defined ego being with close to zero drive to create and/or individuate for its own sake. His Reasons for Writing are, verbatim:

1. Sheer egoism

2. Aesthetic enthusiasm

3. Historical impulse

4. Political purpose

Supposedly, only these exist — universally — among writers. I mean, these are very noble and honest coming from someone designed to survive with material talent, with the skills to share the patterns about the future survival of humankind. On the Cross of Prevention, no less.

But yeah, I am so, SO, not he. My primary reason for writing is (quite unspectacularly, I find) —

Personal hygiene. From a recent notebook entry:

when I don’t write, I cry a lot

• is it because I’m not writing or am I not writing because I’m crying so much
• everything undistracting seems to make me want to cry and scream
  • while the distractions don’t really distract from wanting to cry and scream

WHY NOT JUST JOURNAL THEN, you are quite right to ask. Well!! The tricky thing about the way my voice is designed — what I’ve been unable to put my finger on for most of my life, causing MANY distress and doubt and denial and the whole shebang — is walking the tightrope of innocently influencing the collective whilst maintaining the boundaries needed for intimate sharing required for said influence, and the general vulnerability in the concrete WHAT I need to share: *stories about failure* and What We Learn From It All.

In short: Yes, I do journal a little bit. But me writing to myself is like Boomers talking about the weather at work: journaling is not *sharing*. Nobody is reading my journals, and I cannot, *absolutely cannot,* not even in the most delusional and grandeur-prone corner of my mind, pretend that someday, when I’m dead and famous, people will clamor over them and publish them and analyze them in eleventh-grade English class. Lol, fuck heavens, no.

If the purpose of my voice is influence, journaling is the equivalent of…

Look, Idk. I stopped writing there for a whole hour because I couldn’t think of an analogy that works. Which is telling; the premise is fucked – journaling has nothing to do with influence. Zero! My voice is *all about* sharing patterns and experience; the Laws of being alive.

Journaling is, to me, max self-indulgence. Journaling is romanticism. That said, though, who says a little self-romancing is that bad.

I do not write to feel or be seen – especially not when I’m becoming (or already am) little else than a product. I won’t tell you what Substack, the platform, is or isn’t in my opinion – that’s another thing my voice doesn’t do, haha. Making my writing into a product sums up what Substack feels like to me nicely, though.

Stats, everywhere the eye wanders. Actual, built-in social media; a thinly veiled Twitter-ersatz. All these growth-centric shenanigans. Live videos???

In a way, I need to thank Substack for making me aware of what I don’t want and can’t handle. I view this move of mine, this change, as just another step away from the trap of the homogenized dream of being a content machine committed to pleasing the algorithm.

Er, I mean, *financially independent content creator traveling the globe.* Freedom.

Whatever. Idk. IDK, OK? What matters is that *I personally* can no longer publish on Substack. (This could’ve been evident when I began using Google Docs as my primary editor a while ago, despite previously having expressed such fondness for the Substack editor when publishing there, haha.)

Okay, and not that it matters, and I don’t actually think anyone will try to argue (mostly because I’m quite sure not many people will read this anyway) but: YES, I know there are MANY good writers on Substack. I am *painfully* aware. They do very very good jobs, and I love reading them. And I have nothing, absolutely nothing against them doing what they do there.

I don’t have a vendetta against Substack, *I* just don’t feel at home there anymore. It’s too crowded and it plants a desire to be liked, to be seen – to want, in short – in me that isn’t there when I’m writing simply from The Abysmal into The Void. When anyone could be reading, or nobody. Schrödinger’s Reader.

This is perhaps a reason I never felt/feel truly at home on Platforms in general. Yes, maybe I’m shooting myself and my “message” in the foot by not participating (whatever that is; probably some combination of fuck everything and look at my stupid calendar) (which is, coincidentally, for the first time since the first time, not even close to finished as mistakenly promised in October and November and December. Yup. Who knows where this is all going)

what I have learnt after a decade in the Food & Beverage Industry

I have worked as a bartender – more specifically, a bar-back, a manual labourer who assists the bar captain with washing glassware.

I have worked as a barista, making coffee with expensive machines, at both slow-paced and fast-paced outlets.

I have worked as a cook, preparing dishes according to a specified recipe (I must have cooked tens of plates, if not hundreds of plates, throughout my cooking career.)

I have worked as a waiter, bearing the brunt of customer displeasure about food that takes longer to arrive than they would have liked. (which is most of the time).

What was all this for? Especially considering my undergraduate eduation in Computer Science, at prestigious universities.

Firstly, of course, I have made money. Minimum-wage or low-wage, it's still wage. (The question to myself is: have I used the money wisely?)

Secondly, I have built relationships, with colleagues and with customers. This is fulfilling, emotionally. Even fun. It's fun to work in a team with co-workers who know what you are thinking, at a glance. (“we use eye-contact to communicate”, one co-worker said about our built-up camaraderie).

Thirdly, I have developed a sense of respect, for the erudition of chefs and baristas who have spent many (often painful) hours on getting better at their craft and profession. And many of them are not done yet – they are keen on continuing education: learning from other industry professionals, whether through healthy competition, or regional conferences.

Fourth, I have gained a better awareness of what my strengths and weaknesses are. For example, I have discovered that my fluency in the English language – both written and spoken – is better than most of my colleagues. That is to my advantage, in this country. However, I have discovered that I am slower than most of my colleagues, when it comes to producing an item of food or beverage, on a repetitive basis. (say, twenty cups of latte in a row). That is to my disadvantage, especially in a outlet that experiences a high volume of customer-orders per working hour.

Fifth, I have overcome some of the limiting beliefs inside my mind, that I didn't even know I had. “I can't do it”. “this is such a demeaning job.” “only failures in life do this kind of job.” but thanks to King Jesus, now I have a sense of self-respect. I realise that not everyone on the street can make latte art on demand, even if given suitable equipment. Yet I am confident that I can do so, as long as I keep my skills honed and sharp. I feel a sense of healthy pride and confidence. (not to be confused with arrogance, nor insolence, nor presumptuous-ness). As an aside, I think this industry teaches me to be humble, as there is always someone out there with a wonderful new technique that I haven't heard of. And that someone won't teach me unless I have the proper attitude.

I see that the above are qualities and experiences that no university can teach me. I have no regrets about having spent the past ten years in such a way. It has been difficult, and now it feels rewarding. (notice I say “and”, not “but”).

Thank you.

---

what's next?

Some possibilities.

One, I could go to universities again to learn some field of study. Assuming I have the time and money. And health. (the prerequisite of any endeavour is health. once you have no health, you are just sucked in a vortex of pain and dis-ease. It leaves you with no energy for anything else – to borrow a term from the field of poverty reduction, it imposes a cognitive tax).

Second, I could spend more time with my siblings-in-Christ. They are no longer young. And their bodies are bringing them pain with increasing intensity. (A sister limps when she climbs up the stairs, due to a mysterious pain in her back, that doctors have yet to diagnose; and a brother has to make never-ending visits to a hospital to see if a tumour, which is growing in his nose, will pose a danger). My days are numbered, as is everyone else's – the fact of the matter is that we were all dying, since the day that we were born – and I want to spend what little time I have left, with God's people. (note to myself: identify God's people wisely, for false prophets and false Christs abound, in this end-times).

Third, I could seek wisdom like a jade-gatherer digs into the dark recesses of the soil beneath, to see if any treasure appears. (as the writer of the Book of Proverbs, in the Bible, expresses it: “the fear of God is the beginning of wisdom, but fools despise wisdom and instruction”). Wisdom is security, as cash – and gold bars, and their like – is security.

Four, I could attend to the poor, the ill-treated foreigner, the orphan, the widow. But I must balance this with strategy and discernment and insight, lest I suffer “burn-out”. And indeed, there is an element of danger, as many human beings among these groups may present false claims, even disputing among one another. (see the article of the so-called Judgement of Solomon, at Wikipedia.)

Five, I could live out, (however awkwardly, within the limits of my imperfections and weaknesses), the oft-quoted instruction in the Biblical book of Micah, Chapter 6, Verse 8:

“O [mortal] man, the Lord has shown you what is good. And what does He require of you but to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with God.”

I had an interview call today with the recruiter for Meta, and it went well. The interviewer told me they were going to try to prepare me as much as possible and give me all they can to help me succeed, so I’m incredibly thankful for that. I also later received an email from apple for an interview for a ML/DS position, and so I’m both anxious and nervous but also incredibly excited and thankful. I am going to try to cram as much as possible for ML interview prep, since I realized my school hasn’t really prepared me for the kinds of questions they would ask me. I will get through this.

Una de las tantas características del ser humano es la capacidad de ponerse en el lugar del otro por un momento para tan siquiera imaginar lo que el otro está sintiendo y así poder entender y aceptar a ese otro. Ahora, ¿cuánto lo practicamos? ¿qué tan conscientes somos de si lo hacemos o no?

Hoy a mis casi 40 años siento que por fin puedo responder estas preguntas. No fue de la noche a la mañana que esto ocurrió. De hecho, creo que algunas situaciones en las que fui empática con alguien fue algo casi que automático, algo tan natural como respirar, caminar o correr. En sí, una habilidad más.

Sin embargo, fue una necesidad que surgió dentro de mi hogar cuando mi esposo se rompió una de sus manos. Bueno, para ser honesta se ha roto las dos, pero solo una fue tratada médicamente con un yeso y de esta es de la que estoy hablando.

Tengo la fortuna de tener un esposo que cocina y lo hace con mucho amor. Cuando el incidente de la mano ocurrió él no pensó para nada en parar de cocinar, ni siquiera paró de trabajar. Yo estaba aún en un rechazo hacia cocinar que me ponía en una posición cómoda y su recuperación duraría por lo menos seis semanas como mínimo.

Al pasar los días, Leo empezó a darse cuenta de que su mano enyesada hasta el codo estaba siendo un impedimento para diferentes tareas, lo que hizo que me tuviera que pedir ayuda con pequeñas cosas. No voy a mentir, yo no quería salir de mi posición cómoda en el sofá y los primeros favores no fueron hechos sonriendo. Pero fue precisamente en eso que observando lo incómodo que él estaba por su mano rota, que para empeorarlo era su mano dominante, la izquierda, vi y sentí la necesidad de ayudarlo ya desde otra actitud.  

Yo nunca me he roto un solo hueso de mi cuerpo y por lo tanto me quedaba difícil ponerme en su lugar, pero lo logré y entendí que no era una ayuda, era mi parte porque en nuestro hogar solo somos dos, bueno y Luna, pero ella no cocina ni porque tenga cuatro patas.

Esta situación no solo despertó mi empatía para ayudarlo, sino que hizo que me convirtiera casi que en la asistente de cocina. Y sin darme cuenta ya estaba yo iniciando mi camino de reconciliación con la cocina que por tanto tiempo fue símbolo de castigo. Pero esa es otra historia.

En resumen, ponerme en los zapatos de Leo nos unió e hicimos nuevas conexiones como pareja, mi mayor ganancia.

La empatía es lo que nos permite entre tantas cosas conectar con los que nos rodean, sean familia o no, sean conocidos o no. Caminar por una calle con una mente más consciente de ese poder que tenemos nos puede hacer ver esas caras extrañas con otros ojos, ¿qué está viviendo el otro que no sé?

Y es así como ahora todos los días al mirarme frente al espejo trato de tener un momento donde me observo pausadamente para poder experimentar algo que nos han enseñado a hacer con los demás, pero fácilmente olvidamos hacerlo con nosotros mismos, la empatía o en este caso la auto empatía. 

Gracias, amor!

after all, I’ve never seen my cat have self-doubts about if he’s being a good cat or not

To my beloved Generation X, my fellow Xennials, & my dear, impassioned Millenials:

It’s time to wake up now, baby.