Alguero

I love my husband dearly.

However, the joy I feel as I walk, solo, out of our Sardinian apartment is overwhelming. As I step into the narrow, winding cobblestone alley I feel joy bubble up inside of me. Unable to contain myself, it comes out as a squeak, with a simultaneous skip of the feet.

Alone, at last! My introverted soul soars out towards the glittering harbour and up to the blue skies. This moment... is mine. I breathe a deep, satisfying breath. It is just me and my journal, and the waves of the Mediterranean, crashing against ancient stone walls.

I find a stone bench, warm from the sun, with the word "madness" written in green graffiti across it. An old, ivory building with forest green shutters and rust stains dripping from the windows acts as a buffer for the brisk, southerly wind. Perfect. Sitting down, a smile of contentment spreads across my face. I take in my surroundings. The sea stretches out before me, my view of it partially blocked by what was clearly once a wall of defence. Little divots are cut into the top of the weather-worn stone, presumably for brave archers to shoot their arrows through. Catapults and cannons speckle the promenade, an ode to a time long gone.

Now in 2018, a row of apartments face the water. White-washed buildings with turquoise doors, pink façades with blue windows, and yellow buildings with wooden shutters. All of them aglow in the late afternoon sun.

In the summer, this coastal walk must be busting with foreigners. But now, in November, the tourists have left, and the local Sardinians have the quiet, sleepy town to themselves once more. Shops boasting reams of vibrant coral necklaces close at midday, opening again later in the evening, or not at all. Half the pizzerias are shut for the season, leaving about a dozen still open, just a stones throw from our apartment in old town Alghero.

And the sun... oh, the sun! So delightfully gentle. I could sit for hours on this bench and not worry about burning.

This is happiness for me. A harbour full of gleaming masts, swaying and clanking; the percussion for the seagulls symphony. Nowhere to be, nothing to be done. Just me and my journal, and the warm, crinkled smiles of wizened Sardinians, nodding silent greetings as they pass by.

The sun has dipped behind a fluffy bank of clouds, streaming glorious beams of celestial light from behind it. This is my heaven. But it's time to move on.

Following the curve of the promenade, I step into the wind. My skirt whips around my knees as I walk, my cardigan billowing out behind me. The coolness of the salty wind on my face edges on discomfort. It reminds me how alive I am.

Stopping to lean on the ancient wall, I watch as the rugged shoreline entices the deep, azure waters to join it, again and again. Not a stone seems to budge with the relentless chase of the tide. Such bravery! Such fortitude! These rocks and the wall that is built upon them have withstood the waves for centuries, and will likely stand for centuries more.

The birds in the rustling palms behind me twitter with excitement. Twilight approaches.

In a few moments the sun will drop below the bank of clouds and hover above the horizon. This brief time of day is my most favourite, for it's the most mysterious. Shadows stretch, yawning across the pavement. Sandstone buildings glow, almost other-worldly in their luminosity. It feels as if reality hovers on the edge of another dimension. As if now, and only now, I could walk under the nearby old stone arch and be transported to another realm.

The moment shimmers with possibility! But the shimmering is brief. Lamps click on, pouring fluorescence onto the cobblestones. The spell is broken. The moment is beckoned away by the departed sun, now illuminating the other side of the world with early morning light.

All enchantment is not lost, however. The night is a new kind of wonder, a new kind of adventure.

For someone else, perhaps.

For me, it is my queue to head home. I did not dress for the chill that is now present beneath the darkening sky. I begin to walk back. Just me and my journal, and the slap of my sandals on the stones.

As I wander slowly back through the narrow, winding alleys, I ponder the moment that has just passed. Such magic always comes and goes with astonishing brevity. For me, it is a poignant reminder of the nature of life and the importance of presence. Appreciation for what is, and a child-like eagerness for more seems to be the only way to live a joyful existence.

These moments, like grains of sand in our hands, glint golden while we hold them, only to fall through our fingers and be carried away by the breeze, seconds later. Let them fall. Do not try to catch the grains as they fly away, lest you lose sight of the new ones being poured into your palms, ready to be admired.

Accordian blues

The sun is setting over Porto...

The sun shines gold on architectural relics, and silver on cement apartment blocks. The clouds are rippled, like a disturbed pond frozen in time. Each time I blink they are a new shade of tangerine and rose. At first brilliant and eye-catching, then soft and faded, with lavender smudges.

There is an accordion being played in the distance. I saw its player as I walked back to our humble abode in the Cedofeita barrio of Porto. She had a cable-knit sweater on, loose around the neck. It's deep, umber colour brought out her matte, burgundy lipstick, which looked striking against her porcelain skin. She sat on a wooden box, curly hair tossed into a bun. Her denim legs were crossed, capped by black boots that probably used to shine. A cigarette dangled from her full lips. She began to stretch the accordion. She seemed reluctant about it, almost apathetic. In fact, she appeared to care more about getting what she could get out of that cigarette than about what was coming from the yawning instrument in her lap.

Although profoundly melancholic, the whole scene cheered me considerably. It reminded me of how I felt when I first saw the film, Amelie. A sad-sweet feeling. Perhaps she was playing a song about life. Life, after all, is both sweet, and sad; full of joys and sorrows. Just as the push and pull of the accordion creates music, the ebb and flow of happy moments defines our lives. With that thought, need she play a song about life, or need she just play? Thinking about life, it's nature, and its elusive meaning always cheers me a bit. As does blues music. The croon of a broken heart backed by a wailing guitar does wonders for my soul. Maybe I need a therapist.

Or maybe I need to learn the accordion.

Seagulls

So much of life is about expectations and perspective...

Porto, Portugal - 22 October 2018

If I had come to the beach expecting a spiritual revelation, or an awakening of the soul, I'd be sorely disappointed. 

But if I had come to  the beach expecting to get shat on by a seagull, followed by a late afternoon nap behind a rock to keep the sand from getting in my eyes, I'd be satisfied.

Satisfaction is the result of expectations being met, and perspective is what determines our experience.

Pudding

Traveling forces one to be flexible. If you are not, you will break.

Our train got cancelled on our way to Gent from Amsterdam. The turn of events landed us in Rotterdam Centraal on a "layover" en route to Belgium.

If our train hadn't been cancelled, and if we hadn't had to twice change platforms, we wouldn't have enjoyed our moment in the sun, drinking coffee and eating a warm slice of Dutch apple pie. If we didn't just accept the circumstances and let go of the oars, so to speak, we would've been thrashing against the current, fighting the flow of events, and potentially missing out on one of Holland's finest desserts. Instead, we peacefully drifted on, munching contentedly, while observing a few such thrashers.

One of these was a lovely, blond woman who looked to be in her late 20's. She fought the current with all her might. Blush and lipstick delicately - purposefully - applied, hair coiffed just so, toffee-coloured peacoat cinched around her tiny waist, she clomp, clomp, clomped in dainty heels to the new train platform. Italian curses and manicured hands flew feverishly around her head. The way she furrowed her brow and huffed and puffed through her cute little nose, one might have mistaken her for a rhinoceros in pumps.

The proof's there in the pudding: Beauty does not beget happiness. Especially when paired with inflexibility.

"Accepting what is", however, does. I am not traveling in style. My hair is due to be washed, and the little make-up I did have on has been rubbed off absentmindedly as the day progresses. I don't mind. Like unpredictable train travel, I accept it, and move on.

While I admire those who find joy in traveling stylishly, for me it is just something else to think about. Something to distract me. The hair up-keep, the lipstick maintenance - these things would keep me from being fully immersed in the present moment.

I cast no judgement on those who look like they've stepped out of a fashion magazine, complete with a matching roller bag. By all means, carry on with your attractive ways, strut your stuff from London to Paris. The bedraggled rest of us are looking on with admiration, enjoying the view - and the pie.

Freedom within the form

How can we create a kind of structure,

a routine and a rhythm

while also embracing the freedom we long for?

Is this lack of structure

a lack of discipline?

Because we’re so used to being told where to be when, and for how long?

And this desire for freedom,

this desire to change something,

to re-invent ourselves –

is it not just a façade?

A mask we wear,

covering our true desire?

Our desire for purpose?

What, then, is more important?

The form?

Or what’s within it?

Are they equal parts of the same whole?

Or are they separate things that can survive alone,

but thrive when living in symbiosis?

You can have the form.

But it can crush you.

It doesn’t mean you have the freedom within it

to explore and travel through life with joy,

knowing full well your purpose within.

And you can have the freedom,

but without the form,

you just…

drift.

Some people are okay with the latter.

They are called drifters for a reason.

Rolling stones,

gathering no moss.

There is something poetic, in here, 

somewhere.

Trapped between the prose lies a poem.

It oozes from between the letters, wanting to be seen.

Why so elusive?

As elusive as one’s purpose.

Ha!

But purpose with a capital “P” is only there if we need it to be.

If we choose it to be.

But what is purpose without structure?

What is freedom without form?

Does ‘boundaries’ have to be such a dirty word?

Or can it just be a cage without the bars?

Just a box that the wind blows through.

Lines that guide you but don’t trap you. 

Poles that protect you but don’t tame you.

No one ever said freedom came with a price.

Oh wait…

but why must that price be so goddamn high?

Why can’t it be something joyfully paid?

Let’s, each of us, ask ourselves,

what do we want?

But more importantly,

why?

Here I am, punching words into the keyboard,

letting go of the oars

in this stream of consciousness.

Drifting.

There’s no right way,

there’s no wrong answer.

There’s just energy,

contrast,

and desire.

Telling a New Story

I sat down to write about how overwhelmed I was with everything that's on my plate. I thought that if I wrote it all out, it would somehow leave that part of my brain where everything spins like a squeaky hamster wheel, and take all the accompanying anxiety with it.

Well, my plans were foiled. When I opened my journal, I saw the end of the last entry I had made only two days prior. It went something like this: "I am loving watching my life unfold with such ease and beauty. Everything is just coming together, with very little effort and so many joyous moments of serendipity."

What has changed in the last two days? I asked myself. The answer? Nothing. Nothing, that is, but my perspective. In a moment of weakness, I had succumbed to the temptation to believe that I should be accomplishing all-the-things, and all-the-things should be perfectly executed. (Thanks, social media).

By choosing to believe that falsehood, however briefly, I threw myself into a downward spiral and ran to my journal to vent. Upon seeing my last entry it dawned on me:

When I am overwhelmed, I am putting myself in a position of powerlessness. I am, in essence, choosing to let my circumstances dictate how I feel about my life. In this case, I was giving my "to-do" list power over my sense of well-being.

That power has now returned to it's rightful owner: me. How? I chose to see my list of all-the-things as opportunities and ideas to pursue from a good-feeling place. It has become a rough guide, not a task master. A reminder of all the beautiful things unfolding in my life, not a dictator that controls my daily experience.

In other words, I began to tell myself a new story. The characters and the plot have not changed. But the tone of the story has undergone a metamorphosis simply by altering my perspective.

From this place, from this stronger stance, I am empowered, and once again in control of my experience, rather than a "victim to my circumstances".

Even in this place of empowerment, I gave into the temptation yet again another two days later. I saw someone who is embodying the true essence of what it means to be wild and free. I felt envious. I wondered if I was doing something wrong, and how I could change it. (Thanks again, social media).

Before I dove head first into that shame-spiral, I realised that I was making a choice to feel something other than wild and free. I was holding up a mirror that did not reflect who I really am. A mirror that told me lies. I was changing my story.

Can I choose to be wild and free in my daily experience? I asked myself. The answer? Yes. It is a myth that my ideal set of circumstances must in be place before I can feel free to be me. But I have to make a choice. And that choice begins with telling myself a new, and better, story.

The Freedom to Choose

More and more these days, I find that I enjoy time to my myself. For myself. By myself. I used to not know if I was introverted or extroverted. I know now, undoubtedly, that I am an introvert. I require this time alone, in silence, without so much as music on, to maintain my mental health.

It's not exactly silent, however. Even at 7:30am on a Saturday. I can hear traffic to my left, a child rambling on about something outside to my right, Jacques' deep-sleep breathing in the loft upstairs, and pigeons. So... many... bloody... pigeons.

But there is no one speaking to me, and no one I am obligated to speak to. Just me, my journal, and a golden milk latte.

This, for me, is freedom. Yet, there is a current of fear that threads its way through this river of freedom. Adjacent to this current is joy, and the two are intrinsically connected by choice.

Allow me to explain. In this moment of solitude, with my to-do list set aside, I am free. I am free to choose to do - or not do - whatever I wish. This freedom of choice can be exhilarating. It can also be paralyzing.

In a society where most of us operate out of obligations and responsibilities, moments of freedom such as this can be terrifying. These responsibilities appear to be choices that are made for us. (Or so we perceive). We've learned to thrive off of fulfilling commitments, accomplishing tasks, and moving purposefully down our to-do lists. There's no shame in this. I personally love ticking the boxes next to my never-ending list of items. There is a certain feeling of pride in knowing you are taking care of things that need to taken care of.

There are repercussions to this way of being, however. When given the option to do whatever we want, and that whatever we choose needn't have any inherent purpose other than the sheer joy of doing it... we panic.

How many times have you heard, "My life is so busy, I don't even know what I would do with free time if I had it." I hear fear in these words. "What do I even like anymore? What do I truly want to do with my time?"

Perhaps what we are really asking is: "Who am I?"

Have we gotten so caught up in the perceived necessities of life that we have forgotten who we truly are? How many of us root our identity in our accomplishments? How many of us have the daily dialogue of: "I want to do this, but I should do that instead"?

Therein lies that evil word: should. I've said many times to anxious friends and family when they go on a "should" rant: "Stop should-ing all over yourself!" I am not suggesting that we cease to be responsible adults. I am, however, suggesting that it is time to zoom out and take a look at how we identify ourselves, specifically through the lens of how we choose to spend our time.

We do not have to live a life of obligation. It can be filled with play, with joy, with the freedom to choose. The dishes can wait - go out and chase the blue skies. Delight yourself with the outdoors. Roll around in the grass if it pleases you. Curl up with a book and a cup of tea. Get a baby-sitter and go dancing. Do something that makes you smile.

If there is time enough to make a to-do list and subsequently stress over it, there is time enough to play. Choose to laugh, choose to relax, and enjoy the exhilaration of making that choice. Through this process of choosing joy, we begin to see more clearly the true essence of who we are.

We have enough time. We simply have to choose how we use it.