I’ve always loved the scent of tuberose. It’s intoxicating, heady, and oddly comforting, like a soft perfume that hugs the soul. When I was in the hospital, I almost asked my mother-in-law to bring some fresh tuberose from my favorite flower shop near her house. They always have the best ones there: stems strong, petals thick, fragrance lingering for days.
But then it hit me: this is a hospital. And if urban legend holds true, hospitals are crowded not just with doctors and nurses, but with, well… other invisible residents. Spirits, they say, love floral scents, especially tuberose. Can you imagine them flocking to my hospital room for a midnight buffet of fragrance? Nope. Not while I'm there, Casper. 👻
So today, since I'm back home, I ordered tuberose online. Instant delivery, no ghostly guests invited. Within an hour, my room was filled with that familiar scent I love so much.
This Monday wasn’t like the usual Mondays I’d spend with my eldest. She offered to take me for a stroll on wheel-chair again, but I had to pass. My stomach felt tender, like something inside was tugging at loose threads. The laparoscopic hysterectomy might look fine from the outside (the stitches drying neatly, skin knitting back together) but the inside is still fragile, like a house mid-renovation. If you peeked into my abdomen right now, you’d probably find a construction site with tiny workers yelling, “Careful! Still under repair!” 💢
My friend Aulia Qisthi reminded me of that, actually. She messaged me yesterday asking if I wanted food. I almost said yes to pete (because honestly, I’ve been craving it), but the thought of admitting it felt embarrassing enough that I just said I wasn’t sure. Meanwhile, I already had pete in my Shopee cart. Sneaky survival tactics, don’t judge. 😋
Aulia warned me not to repeat her mistake. After her appendectomy two years ago, she rushed recovery, went walking around too soon, and now she still suffers from occasional stomach pain. Her words were like a gentle nudge: rest isn’t laziness, it’s wisdom. So I promised myself: I’ll listen. I’ll be patient with this fragile body of mine, even when it feels boring. Healing has no shortcuts.
Dinner tonight was simple but rich with conversations. My daughter confessed she’s sometimes stuck in an art block. Like writer’s block, but with pencils and sketchpads instead of words. She asked me how I deal with writer's block. I came up with an analogy that was… well, let’s just say it’s memorable.
To me, reading and writing are like eating and pooping. (Stay with me, I promise this isn’t just bathroom humor.) You can’t keep eating without releasing, and you can’t release without first eating. For me, reading is the “eating” part: it fills me with ideas, textures, flavors. Writing is the “pooping”: a natural output of what’s been consumed.
For my daughter, it’s the opposite problem. She’s been “pooping” too much (producing lots of art) but not feeding herself enough with new input. So I suggested she try consuming different art forms, even ones she’s not normally into. Watch a movie, for instance (coz she never join us on movie time). Inspiration often hides in the unfamiliar. She agreed to watch Sore movie with me and her dad on Wednesday. A small win!
My daughter loves what Newton once said, “A body at motion stays in motion; a body at rest stays at rest.” It applies not just to physics but to creativity, healing, maybe even life itself. The trick is balance: knowing when to keep moving and when to allow yourself to be still.
Tonight, as the sweet scent of tuberose fills my room, I realize how healing is both fragrant and fragile. It asks for patience but rewards with renewal. It slows me down, but in that slowness, I get to notice things: the care of my family, the humor in small accidents, the wisdom tucked inside ordinary conversations.
So here’s my gentle nudge for you, dear friend: don’t underestimate the power of stillness. Whether you’re nursing a wound, stuck in an art block, or simply tired of Mondays, give yourself permission to pause. And maybe, fill your space with flowers. Not for the ghosts, but for your own soul.
Because if life is under renovation, at least let it smell good while the work is in progress. 🌸
Love,
Nuniek Tirta