Author: Fulvio Gonella

So, few days ago the universe decided to hit the “shuffle” button on my life. One minute, I’m tackling my endless to-do list, thinking I’ve got everything under control, and the next—bam! I’m in the emergency room, clutching my side like I’m auditioning for a low-budget drama. No warning, no time to argue with my body about “today not being a good day for this.” Just, “Surprise! Forget your plans.”

I don’t know if you’ve spent any time in an emergency room recently, but let me tell you, it’s a whole new level of “hurry up and wait.” Beeping machines (why do they always sound like something terrible is happening? Can someone ask medical device makers to tone down the drama?) and the strange, sterile limbo where time stretches out forever. It’s like a never-ending Wednesday. You’re stuck there, trying not to freak out while life marches on without you.

And this is where life pulls one of its classic moves: yanks the rug out from under you, forces you to sit down (literally) and be still. Whether you like it or not. Spoiler alert: I did not.

I had big plans. I had a list. A really long one (like, truly epic). But no, the universe decided I needed to cancel all that. So, there I was, lying on a hospital bed, stripped of any schedule, any control. And you know what? It wasn’t just my physical self that hit the brakes. My brain, my very overactive, idea-generating, always-in-motion brain, came to a grinding halt too. 

At first, that felt terrifying. Like, where did all the noise go? The creative chaos? I mean, I’m used to ideas flying at me faster than I can catch them (it’s like a mental dodgeball game most days). But there, in that beeping, sterile silence, the ideas stopped. Everything stopped. 

And weirdly… it was exactly what I needed. 

Because here’s the thing: sometimes the noise in our heads gets so loud, we forget to actually hear ourselves. We’re so busy chasing the next project, the next spark, that we forget to pause, to breathe. To check in with who we are, underneath all that noise.

Pain has a funny way of doing that. It grabs you by the shoulders and shakes you until you’re forced to pay attention. To yourself. To what really matters. It’s like life saying, “Hey, maybe it’s time to stop. Just for a second. Maybe you’re missing something.”

And it turned out, I was.

When I’m in my usual zone, creating, writing, painting (sometimes all at once), my mind is in constant overdrive. I’m juggling a million things—pages of ideas, images, concepts—all competing for space. And yes, it’s exhilarating. But it’s also exhausting. It’s like trying to watch ten different TV shows on ten different screens, all at the same time. Fun? Sure. Focused? Not so much.

But lying there, in that emergency room, with nothing to do but feel (and wait), I realized that sometimes, to really move forward, you have to stop. You have to let the dust settle, let the chaos die down. And that’s when clarity hits.

It was like all the ideas I’d been trying to wrangle into some kind of order suddenly found their places. The mental clutter cleared, and I could actually see the big picture. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, I could think. I could focus on what I truly wanted to create, what really mattered, and why I do what I do.

That forced pause, uncomfortable as it was, gave me a gift: perspective. It gave me the chance to slow down and reconnect with the core of my creativity, with the reason I started all of this in the first place. Without the constant pressure to produce, I could just… be. Be still. Be present. Be me.

And guess what? That stillness fueled my creativity in ways I hadn’t expected. Ideas came back, but not in the usual chaotic flurry. They were clear, precise. Almost calm. It’s like my brain went on a much-needed vacation, and when it returned, it was ready to get back to work. But smarter this time. More intentional.

I realized that creativity isn’t just about constantly producing. It’s about pausing, reflecting, letting things settle. It’s about stepping away from the easel, or the keyboard, or the to-do list, and remembering why you picked them up in the first place. It’s about finding balance between the doing and the being.

So yes, life swiped my schedule away, with zero warning, zero discussion. And it was frustrating, and yes, a little scary. But it was also exactly what I needed. It reminded me that I can’t control everything (shocking, I know). That sometimes, I have to let go and trust the process—even when it’s painful. Even when it’s uncomfortable.

Because here’s the truth: pain and illness, as much as they suck, have a way of stripping away the unnecessary. They force you to refocus on the essentials. And in that emergency room, I rediscovered the essentials—why I create, what drives me, and how to move forward with more clarity and purpose.

It’s funny how life works sometimes. It throws you curveballs, cancels your plans, forces you to hit pause. And in that stillness, in that silence, you can find yourself again. And maybe, just maybe, that’s the real point of it all.

So here’s to schedules being swiped away, to painful pauses (ok, it’s weird but epically powerful in a sentence), and to finding clarity in the chaos. Because sometimes, losing control is exactly how you regain it.

Ah… and here’s to dreams of silence—and those beeping machines.

Last night I had a dream.

Ok, not a visionary dream that will change the world, but one that helped me better understand the art process (or my art process, at least).

In the dream, I was on a massive mountain trying to reach the top and get to the other side. I was walking with all my senses on full alert mode because this mountain was crazy high, and a misstep could have been dangerous (read: deadly).

At some point, I reached a difficult and scary passage where I was supposed to squeeze through an extremely narrow rock with hundreds of meters of void just below.

Nope!

After thinking it over (and over), trying to weigh all the options, I decided to give up and look for an alternative route. It was a wise choice because the new path I chose was much longer but reasonably safer and smoother.

While I was walking on this alternative path, I discovered a small cave entrance and was amazed by its beauty. Millennial mineral formations struck me with their intricacy until I realized that just behind a big rock formation, there was a small pond of crystal-clear water.

Jackpot!

Once I had drunk enough and filled my canteen, I decided it was too late to keep climbing and that I should stay in the cave for the night.

So there I was, enjoying a nice meal, comforted by a warm fire I somehow managed to light in the middle of the cave (in dreams, lighting a fire is easy, and you have infinite wood sticks to burn).

It was one of the best parts of the dream. I could feel the warmth of the fire and the beautiful sensation of being safe and relaxed.

But here’s the kicker—I could only enjoy the beautiful experience of the cave because of that dangerous passage I decided to avoid. Without that obstacle, I would’ve kept going and never discovered the cave.

And after a long, restful sleep (yes, in the dream), I was finally able to get back on track and reach the top of the mountain.

The sight? Breathtaking.

Mountains and valleys surrounded me in a mix of colors. I had reached the top and enjoyed the incredible views, even though I had to change my original plan.

Sure, I walked many more hours with the risk of being caught by nightfall, but I found a different way that let me discover the cave.

Accepting that I couldn’t take the first path wasn’t easy (not because it felt like admitting defeat, but because the planned path was shorter, and you could almost see the top from there).

But here’s the thing—I still reached the top. I still saw the view. And maybe, even more importantly, I discovered something unexpected and beautiful along the way.

That so-called “defeat” didn’t stop me from getting where I wanted to go. If anything, it made the journey richer, filled with surprises I wouldn’t have had if everything had gone according to plan.

And isn’t that just like the creative process?

In art (and let’s face it, in life), things don’t always go as planned. You start with an idea, a vision of what you want to create.

Then, boom.

Mistakes happen. Obstacles pop up. Suddenly, you’re standing there, staring at a mess, thinking, “Now what?” Do you keep pushing through? (Risking everything?) Or do you adjust, adapt, and take a different route?

Here’s the thing: that’s not a sign of failure. It’s part of the process.

Sometimes the painting takes a turn you didn’t expect. Or the poem starts to write itself. Or the sculpture? Yeah, it carves itself into something totally different from what you planned.

But that’s where the magic happens. Those unexpected twists? They’re the essence of creativity. It’s not about having total control (spoiler: you don’t). It’s about rolling with the surprises along the way.

And you know what? I’ve been thinking—maybe life is just like the creative process.

What if, when our plans fail (and they do), it’s not a sign of impending doom? What if it’s an opportunity for something unexpected (and dare I say it—better)?

Maybe accepting that we can’t always follow our original path is key. Maybe it’s about trusting that even when things go sideways (and they will), they’re still leading us somewhere good. Somewhere beautiful.

Because, just like in art, life’s twists and turns might lead us to places we never imagined. Hidden caves, crystal-clear ponds, breathtaking views (who knew?). And maybe, just maybe, the journey will be all the richer for it.

So here’s to the detours, the changed plans, and the obstacles that force us to take a different path.

Here’s to the creativity that flows when we let go of the need for control (and the control itself) and just go with it.

Here’s to life—messy, unpredictable, and way more beautiful than anything we could plan.

And here’s to dreams and the messages from our inner selves that we often just brush off.

So, yesterday, I decided to do something radical. I spent the entire day reading a book. Yes, you heard that right—a whole day. The book in question? The Creative Act: A Way of Being by Rick Rubin. And let me tell you, it was like my brain finally found the “pause” button. 

If you know me (and by now, I hope you do), my mind is usually a nonstop carnival ride—ideas swirling, colors splashing, and the occasional circus clown juggling in the background. I write pages and pages every week, paint until the canvas pleads for mercy, and create visual poetry that probably baffles and amuses Bimba, my dog. (I swear, she’s my toughest critic.)

But this book—wow—this book was like a breath of fresh air (or more like a cool breeze on a hot Andalusian summer day). It didn’t just calm the chaotic storm in my head; it helped me organize that endless flood of ideas into something workable. You know, something I can actually use without drowning in my own creativity. (I mean, who knew that was possible?)

After hours of absorbing wisdom and feeling my brain gently settle into a state of calm (which, let’s be honest, is a rare occurrence), I realized I needed to stretch my legs and clear my head. So, I grabbed Bimba—who was already giving me the “Are we going or what?” look—and headed to the pine tree wood nearby. 

Now, if you haven’t experienced the simple joy of watching a dog in the woods, let me paint the picture for you: Bimba was a blur of fur and excitement, darting between trees, sniffing every pinecone, and chasing imaginary squirrels like they owed her money. (Seriously, where does she get all that energy?) 

As I walked, I felt the creative dust in my mind finally start to settle. The ideas that had been swirling like a tornado were now gently landing, forming neat little piles ready to be picked up and turned into something—dare I say it—brilliant. (Okay, maybe “brilliant” is aiming high, but you get the idea.)

There’s something magical about the combination of a good book and a walk in the woods. It’s like hitting the “refresh” button on your brain. By the time we made it back home, both Bimba and I were happily exhausted—her from all the running, and me from the rare experience of a peaceful, organized mind.

So, what’s the takeaway from all this? Sometimes, you need to step back, take a day to read, and let your brain chill out for a bit. Who knows? You might just find that your wild ideas start to make sense, and your dog might finally catch that squirrel. (Okay, maybe not the last part—but she can dream, right?)

I just want to be silly. For a minute or two. Maybe even a whole day. You know, let go of all the serious stuff—the endless to-do lists, the constant parade of adult responsibilities—and just… be ridiculous.

I want to take a mini-vacation from conformity, a little glorious trip with no luggage and no airport rules.

I just want to be silly, for a while.

Imagine this: you wake up in the morning, and instead of diving straight into the grind, you decide to do something completely nonsensical. Maybe you wear your clothes backward for the day or greet your family with an overly dramatic bow and a Shakespearean “Good morrow, fair people!” as you pour your cereal (or müsli, if you’re fancy like that).

Why not? Life is full of opportunities to be quirky, and we too often pass them by in our quest to be oh-so-serious adults.

Seriousness is overrated, silliness is sublime.

And yes, I want to be sublime. For a while.

Let’s dive into absurdity, let’s walk in zigzags! When was the last time you paused your responsibilities and had genuine fun doing something silly?

Be a rebel for a moment—doesn’t that sound superb?

What if, just for today, you turned every mundane task into a game? Turn grocery shopping into a scavenger hunt, write a blog post (okay, maybe that’s pushing it), or see how many things you can balance on your head while you make dinner. (You could even imagine your dinner being made by flying octopuses, but you might need a system upgrade for that one.)

I know this might sound absurd and senseless, but don’t you think that being serious and responsible all the time is absurd too?

Adults are so scared to ditch their uniform of conventionality (let’s call it “orthodoxy”) and abandon themselves to silliness, they often forget that being silly means embracing the joy of being alive—of not taking everything so seriously.

It’s a reminder that even in the chaos of adult life, there’s always room for a little play.

And here’s the best part: silliness is free.

No special equipment, no subscription. All it takes is a willingness to let go and a dash of creativity.

So go ahead, give yourself permission to be silly today. Do something that makes absolutely no sense. Laugh at yourself, and watch how your mood instantly lifts.

I can promise you, by the end of the day, you’ll feel lighter, happier, and maybe even a bit more in tune with that old playful spirit you thought you had lost.

Because in the end, it’s not just about being silly for a minute or two. It’s about remembering that life is too short to be serious all the time. It’s about finding joy in the unexpected and relishing the freedom to be as ridiculous as you want.

So, let’s all be silly today.

Let’s disconnect.

Maybe even for the whole day.

Why not?

The world could use a little more laughter, and who better to start than you?

Once, there was this man named Ned,  

Who really liked to paint walls, especially red.  

But his ladder was crooked—it wobbled a bunch,  

Which made painting hard, and he had to hunch.

The ladder seemed to have its own funny brain,  

Swaying left and right, kinda like a train.  

But Ned wouldn’t trade it, not even for gold,  

“I can make it work!” is what he always told.

One day, Ned got a really big gig,  

He had to paint the tallest wall—oh, it was big!  

He climbed up high, paintbrush in his hand,  

Hoping his ladder wouldn’t make him land.

As he painted a stripe, so wide and so tall,  

The ladder tipped left, he almost did fall!  

He grabbed the wall, his brush went flying,  

And made a bear shape—he wasn’t even trying!

People below started to clap and shout,  

“Hey, look at that bear!” they were really loud!  

They thought Ned meant to make it like that,  

But he was just trying not to fall flat!

The ladder leaned right, and so did Ned,  

He tried to stay steady, but paint spilled instead.  

It made a funny face next to the bear,  

And people said, “Wow, you’ve got real flair!”

Ned laughed, and the crowd did too,  

Even though his ladder should be in a zoo.  

That wobbly thing made the best art yet,  

And in that town, no one would forget.

Now folks come from places near and far,  

To see Ned’s art that’s really bizarre.  

And he still uses that old crooked friend,  

‘Cause making mistakes is the best in the end!