The sun was shining that morning, but it was not warm. That is how the conversation began. The Mayor asked me if the birds were singing in my world, and I said yes, they were singing, but it was windy, and we only had five degrees. He told me he had ten. It was a…
She came back from holiday and the work was waiting for her. Not politely waiting. Not in a small pile. It was sitting there heavily, already late, already complicated. The banking system had not worked properly the week before, and now it was only just starting to behave again. Since yesterday, it was better for…
There’s something cinematic about catching someone in the middle of a life transition—half-packed bags, a friends couch, and a future that’s equal parts thrilling and terrifying. When Fruitloop (Janita) checks in with Maxime, she finds him not in a tidy apartment, but in the in-between: crashing at a friend’s place, waiting for a final inspection,…
There are many elegant stories about first jobs. Stories about ambition.Stories about discipline.Stories about a young person stepping confidently into the world of work, ready to learn, grow, and become a productive member of society. This is not one of those stories. This is the story of two men who entered working life in very…
Janita wrote this week about our Spud meeting, our potato lists, and the strange little names we give to things behind the scenes. She is right. We do name things strangely. We have Spuds, Pineapples, Peeling Potatoes, cheerios, Fruitloops, tables, chairs, cartoons, conversations, and probably a few other names that would make absolutely no sense…
This morning, I met with Mr. Mayor for our weekly “Spud meeting.” This is where ideas and plans come to life, where we create our “potato lists” (that’s our version of a to-do list), and where the real magic happens behind the scenes. We have quirky, fun names for everything we do because being a…
It begins, as these things often do, with an image. Not an abstract idea of “a farm,” but two very specific landscapes—two childhood worlds that happen to share the same word, and almost nothing else. If you arrived at Ismar’s farm in Brazil, you would first notice the house. A wooden structure, painted yellow, standing…
I remember that morning quite well, sitting there and talking with The Mayor. He had this question in his head—how to make work more fun—and I could already feel where this was going. I told him straight away, “Sometimes difficult… better we leave that topic.” We both laughed. But in general, yes… in general, it…
Whenever I pass a café in my city—one that sits quietly, emptied of voices, or where the owner is gently gathering the remnants of a day—I feel something inside me ache. It’s the same quiet sorrow that autumn carries in its air: soft, elusive, and impossible to fully name… a tender loneliness that settles deep…
There are weeks that pass quietly. And then there are weeks that leave something behind — not loudly, not dramatically, but in fragments. A conversation here. A memory there. A moment that stays longer than expected. This has been one of those weeks. It begins, as it often does, somewhere familiar.In conversations about work —…
