Expressing MySelf Institute

22/03/2026

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.
~Carl Sandburg

21/03/2026

Poetry is nearer to vital truth than history.

~ Plato

18/03/2026

How many a man has dated a new era in his life from the readingof a book!

~Henry David Thoreau

15/03/2026

This is an excellent meditation combined with writing exercise to do first thing in the morning, once you have woken up, in order to start your day with positive energy and gratitude.

By Dimitra Didangelou, psychologist, MSc, Writing Therapist

This is an excellent meditation combined with writing exercise to do first thing in the morning, once you have woken up, in order to start your day with positive energy and gratitude. Alternatively, you can practice it in the middle of the day when you feel like boosting yourself up with strength an...

11/03/2026

08/03/2026

In February 1909, the foundations of International Women's Day were laid in the form of a “Women's Day” held in response to a large-scale New York City garment workers' strike for better pay, shorter hours, improved working conditions, and voting rights.

04/03/2026

If you write long enough, you will be a healthy person. That is, if you write what you need to write, as opposed to what will make money, or what will make fame.

~ Alice Walker

28/02/2026

And if art is one of the ways to transform pain into creation, Cave proves it once again by revealing that he is currently working on his new album with the Bad Seeds.

Written by Dimitra Didangelou, Psychologist, MSc Published on The Brussels Review   So keep your candles burning And make her journey bright and pure That she will keep returning Always and forever Nick Cave, Into my Arms   When a man who has lost his two sons speaks openly about the deep pain of ...

22/02/2026

Sleeping in the Forest, by Mary Oliver

I thought the earth remembered me,
she took me back so tenderly,
arranging her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds.

I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,
nothing between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths
among the branches of the perfect trees.

All night I heard the small kingdoms
breathing around me, the insects,
and the birds who do their work in the darkness.

All night I rose and fell, as if in water,
grappling with a luminous doom. By morning I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.

14/02/2026

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way than this:

where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

~ P. Neruda, Sonnet XVII