Tag: mindful living

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Sunday Strolls, Plant Apps, and Fancy Coffee: Our Weekly Walk-and-Talk Ritual

Written June 15, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

A Walk, a Chat, and a Breeze of Domestic Bliss

Ah, Sunday. The day of rest, recovery, and—for us—rambling around the neighborhood like curious kids on a field trip. No running shoes, no dumbbells, no burpees in sight. It’s our official “just walk and talk” day. I don’t work out on Sundays, and my wife only does if her weekday workout schedule goes off-script. This time, she floated the idea: “Why don’t we walk together?” As if I’d say no to strolling beside my favorite chatterbox.

Now, let me tell you—my wife’s morning routine is a masterpiece of consistency. Weekends? Holidays? Zombie apocalypse? Doesn’t matter. She’s up at the same time every day, while I’m still making peace with my alarm clock. Today, she beat me to it by two hours, sipping her tea while I was probably still dreaming of croissants.

Summer mornings, of course, come with a ticking heat clock. If you miss the early window, the sidewalk turns into a skillet. And today? Well, I had my doubts. The rain had pulled an all-nighter, and by morning, it still hadn’t punched out. I thought our Sunday ritual might get rained out—but then, like a polite guest, the storm cleared just in time for a late but lovely 3km wander.

Our walk? Classic. We chatted about everything and nothing. My wife, true to form, had a full playlist of topics: books she’s read, projects she’s juggling at home, and the book she’s writing (yes, plural “books”—she’s got more plots than a garden center). Occasionally, we switch to my favorite subject: my running progress, which she politely pretends to find fascinating.

As we strolled through the neighborhood, we exchanged hellos with friendly neighbors—some by name, others by nod-and-smile status. That’s one of the underrated joys of living in Nashville: people are genuinely nice, the kind who’ll compliment your tomato plant and mean it.

Speaking of plants, I’ve got a plant ID app and a shameless curiosity. If something leafy catches my eye, I snap a photo and hope to discover it’s not just another weed. There’s something endearingly nerdy about playing plant detective. Who knows, maybe one of these will find a new home in our backyard.

Despite the late start and the sun reminding us who’s boss, we managed to stay reasonably cool under the shade and with help from the occasional breeze. Honestly, I’m not complaining. We walked, we talked, and it felt good.

Once home, I whipped up our Sunday fancy coffee—because plain drip just won’t do after a proper stroll—and now I’m rolling up my sleeves to prep next week’s pastry bites. Life’s little rituals? I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

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Negotiations with a Tired Body (and a Lawnmower)

Written June 12, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

As per tradition—and by “tradition,” I mean “necessity born from heat survival instincts”—I began my day mowing the lawn. Here in Nashville, the summer sun doesn’t just rise, it attacks. So if you’ve got a body like mine—one that treats both heatwaves and cold snaps like personal insults—you learn to outsmart the weather before it starts throwing punches.

Normally, I can mow half the yard and still have enough gas left in the tank to face the rest of the day. But today? Nope. After mowing, my body filed a formal complaint and went straight into shutdown mode. I skipped my pre-breakfast exercises, half-expecting that would be it for the day’s physical activity. My body said no. My willpower said maybe. Eventually, I rolled onto the mat for some planks and stretches—not exactly Olympic training, but hey, it counts.

Somehow, I rallied enough energy to squeeze in my planks and arm curls. I didn’t bounce back; I meandered back—like a weary turtle doing yoga. Still, I did it. Not exactly on schedule, but sometimes winning means just showing up… 30 minutes later than planned and slightly annoyed.

Now here’s the kicker. I can’t tell what’s making me tired: the weather, age, my kidneys, or some perfect storm of all three. Whatever it is, when I push too hard, I morph into something between a zombie and a disgruntled houseplant. Meanwhile, my wife bounces around like she’s got a backup battery installed. She claims she struggles in the morning, but by the time I’m up, she’s practically done with her workout and halfway through a motivational podcast. She says she’s slow in the morning. I say she’s just being polite to us mortals.

So I’ve had to learn the art of negotiation—not with clients or coworkers, but with my own body. Some days, I push things to tomorrow, knowing full well tomorrow might need to be negotiated too. Other days, I rest so I can function again in the afternoon. This is not laziness. This is energy management. The strategic pause. The recharge pit stop.

I’ve had a kidney condition for who knows how long—discovered only after a brain stroke crashed the party. Maybe I’ve always been running at 70% battery while others (like my wife) were born with solar panels. And yes, I know comparison is the thief of joy… but sometimes it also leaves a trail of gym clothes and lawn clippings.

I don’t have a high-energy body. But I do have a high-effort mindset. So I’ll keep negotiating with this unpredictable, occasionally rebellious body of mine. I may not be fast. I may not be consistent. But I am persistent—and that counts for something.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to rest heroically so I can finish my to-do list… sometime before winter.

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My Water Bottle is Now My Boss

Written March 8, 2025

Hello Dear Readers,

Yesterday, I embarked on a noble quest—one that involves discipline, perseverance, and a very bossy water bottle. My wife, in her infinite wisdom (and slight exasperation with my forgetfulness), got us matching bottles with a hydration schedule printed on the side. Every hour, there’s a new line taunting me, reminding me to drink up before I inevitably fail my kidneys again. The concept is brilliant: sip gradually instead of realizing at 3 p.m. that I haven’t had a drop of water all day and then chugging a ridiculous amount like I’m a lost traveler in the desert.

As someone with chronic kidney disease, hydration isn’t just a good idea—it’s non-negotiable. But here’s the problem: I forget. A lot. When I do remember, I go into panic mode and overcompensate, leading to an uncomfortable, sloshy-stomach situation that’s about as pleasant as wearing wet socks. This bottle might just save me from myself.

Of course, the real test will be summer. When the sun’s out, I’m outside more, blissfully unaware that my body is slowly turning into a raisin. Dehydration and I have a long history, and my lab results have suffered for it. My doctor gently (read: sternly) reminds me that my kidneys don’t appreciate my forgetfulness. So, this summer, I plan to stick to the hydration schedule like my health depends on it—because, well, it does.

This whole thing got me thinking: where was this hydration discipline when I was younger? I never had the instinct to reach for water like my wife does. Not that I was drowning in soda or anything, but I definitely consumed more sugary drinks than necessary. Meanwhile, my wife has always been ahead of the health game. She avoids sugar like it’s plotting against her (which, in fairness, it kind of is—diabetes runs in her family). No soda, no alcohol, and a highly disciplined approach to carbs. She loves pasta and rice, but you’d never know it from how sparingly she eats them. Instead, she fills her plate with sweet potatoes, carrots, and the occasional apple in her salad. Apparently, those count as her sweet treats.

For me, adopting a healthier lifestyle isn’t so much a choice as it is a medical necessity. But I have to admit, having a wife who’s already on board with the whole “let’s not wreck our bodies” philosophy makes things a lot easier. She’s seen firsthand what happens when health is neglected, so she naturally supports my restrictions without making it a big deal. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: marrying her was my best decision.

This hydration experiment means I’ll be consuming a solid two liters of water daily. Right now, I’m still adjusting to this new reality where my bottle dictates my drinking habits. But with summer just around the corner, I have a feeling this little routine will become second nature. My kidneys, my doctor, and my wife will all be pleased. And hey, maybe I’ll finally stop feeling like a dried-up sponge by midday. One can dream.

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Spring is Here… and So is Temperature Whiplash

Written March 3, 2025

reviewed 3/17

Hello Dear Readers,

Ah, spring in Nashville—the season where the weather behaves like a toddler throwing a tantrum. One moment, it’s flirting with summer warmth; the next, it’s diving headfirst back into winter. A 10-degree (or more) temperature swing within a single day? Completely normal. Convenient? Not in the slightest.

For most people, this just means layering up or peeling off a jacket when needed. But for me, post-brain stroke, my body has lost the ability to adjust to temperature shifts efficiently. Basically, my internal thermostat is broken. You know how your body shivers when it’s cold, constricting blood vessels to keep the heat in? Or how it ramps up metabolism to warm you up? Yeah, mine missed the memo. Instead, I just sit there, fully exposed to whatever the weather decides to throw at me, feeling every degree of change like some kind of human barometer.

After years of trial and (unfortunate) error, I’ve developed a system. Step one: check the weather forecast obsessively. Step two: have an outfit formula for each temperature range. If it’s 65°F or higher? Boom—shorts for running. Below that? Long sleeves, no exceptions. Since my body refuses to regulate heat properly, my only defense is meticulous planning.

Public buildings in summer? A whole different battle. Most people walk in from the heat and sigh in relief at the air conditioning. Me? I’m bracing for the deep freeze. The temperature difference between the scorching outdoors and the arctic indoor settings is brutal. Luckily, our house is the one place where I’m safe from the extremes. My wife always preferred keeping our indoor temperature closer to the natural climate, and after my stroke, she fine-tuned it even more to make things manageable for me.

This morning was another classic example of springtime mood swings. Woke up to temperatures just shy of freezing, and now it’s warmed up to a more tolerable range. But alas, still not 65°F, which means I’m reluctantly sticking to long sleeves for my run.

Honestly, this season keeps me on my toes. Some days start at a crisp 32°F and end pushing 60°F, which means I have to time my outdoor activities with military precision. Between my morning run and any outdoor chores, I’m constantly strategizing around the temperature spikes and drops.

On the bright side, my recovery routine worked wonders—yesterday’s sore legs feel refreshed, and I’m feeling pretty strong today. Now, if only spring could pick a temperature and stick with it, that would be great. But until then, I’ll be out there, battling the elements one run at a time.