A literary Sunday

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Not all weekends are for parties or outings, because there are some that are meant for growing inward and for doing things we have owed ourselves for a long time. This weekend, and especially this Sunday, has been a literary Sunday.

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I confess: life has given me two passions that, at first glance, seem to inhabit different planets. One is Neurology, my profession, that science that studies the brain, its labyrinths and its silences, and the other is poetry, that territory where words do not seek to explain the brain, but the soul. It is no secret to anyone that I share with my profession as a neurologist a passion for poetry, and I already have published books. However, each new project feels like the first one, with the same mixture of vertigo, respect, and absolute love.

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I am in the planning stage of another book. It is not a process that can be forced, because poetry does not arrive by decree nor does it sit down to work at an exact time, but there are moments when one knows that it is the day. Today, while the city slept that lazy Sunday sleep, I woke up with a different clarity, because I knew that this Sunday I would give the final touches to this new literary child.

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For that, I have placed my usual allies beside me. First, my lucky plant, which I do not know if it really brings fortune, but its mere presence anchors me. Seeing it there, green, stubborn, alive, reminds me that beautiful things grow in silence and with patience, and next to it, a chamomile tea.

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This time no coffee, no energy drinks, just chamomile, with its soft steam, will be the perfect companion for introspection. Its aroma tells me that there is no hurry, that the right words will arrive when the inner noise fades, and, of course, some reference books that I need for the work, because writing poetry is not at odds with structure. Sometimes I need to return to the classics, to those masters who knew how to say so much with so little, to remember that precision is also a form of beauty.

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I review the poems, I read them aloud, I rewrite them, and I let them rest. It is curious how, being a neurologist, sometimes it is hard for me to understand what happens in my own head when I write. Neurology has taught me that the brain is plastic, that it reorganizes itself, that emotions have a chemical basis, but poetry has taught me that there are things that do not fit in an electroencephalogram. There is a mystery in creation that no synapse fully explains, and that mystery is what keeps me here, on an ordinary Sunday, polishing verses as if they were little jewels.

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It is not a sacrifice for me; it feels more like a privilege. While many see Sunday as the last breath before Monday, I see it as a sanctuary, as a day to not be a neurologist, nor a mother, nor a friend, only a poet with my words and my silences.

This literary Sunday has told me that life is not only lived outward, with achievements and schedules; it is also lived inward, in those intimate hours where no one sees you, but where you find yourself. And now, with the empty cup, the lucky plant watching, I feel enormous gratitude, because no party can compare to the peace of having done what the soul was crying out for.

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Tomorrow I will return to the consultation, to reflexes, to clinical histories, but today, for a while, I have been only poetry, and that is also a way of healing.

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_{✨ 𝑻𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈! ✨
𝑰𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒎𝒆 𝒚𝒆𝒕, 𝑰’𝒎 𝒂 𝑪𝒖𝒃𝒂𝒏 𝒏𝒆𝒖𝒓𝒐𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒊𝒔𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒓, 𝒂 𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓, 𝒂 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒐’𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝑯𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒂 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒄𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒐𝒂𝒓.
𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔, 100% 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒏-𝒎𝒂𝒅𝒆 (𝒏𝒐 𝑨𝑰).
𝑩𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒓 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝑳𝒖𝒎𝒊𝒊.
𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕? 𝑼𝒑𝒗𝒐𝒕𝒆, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕, 𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒕𝒚! 💛}