Home away from home
I always had wandering my blood – a wandering Jew that I inherited from my father’s almost gypsy blood. Don’t know if it is because he was born to Sephardic parents from Turkey who gave birth to him Cuba and then he came to the U.S. or what. Inherited or not, I got it.
I wanted to live in Spain where my ancestors hailed from, then I wanted to live in Istanbul where my grandparents were born, but I never could get my sea legs unless I was in New Orleans – now having New Orleans as home base but Spain as my second home feels about as right as right can be.
Today, Tatjana is off with her students inland and Tin and I are headed to Zahara de los Atunes to see friends and to be on the beach. The coast is the only place to find yourself, that is if you are looking. Cadiz is a little chilly for the beach for me, although that doesn’t stop any of the people here from being on the beach. Not even Tin who will go into the water no matter what the temp is.
I keep having all these hair dreams, where I have tons of it, and yet keep waking up to the same bare head. Meanwhile, I can’t complain because Cadiz and learning how to chill is what the doctor ordered. My only struggle here has been finding me time and we hired a gal here, Africa, who will take Tin for two hours each day to give me some me time. Now to make sure that I don’t use that time to do, but only to be.
I’ve learned that you have to set up a routine even for being because if not there is always something to do – there is laundry in Spain, there is cooking and shopping in Spain, there are always similar demands that compete with simply enjoying, being, and not doing.
On Saturday, our friends arrive from Croatia and will be with us for two weeks; we’re looking forward to their arrival and yet I’m already a little apprehensive about me time, so I told Africa to come every day next week to ensure that there is no equivocation – me time or bust.
You’d think that sun, sea, and Spain would be enough to figure out these things, but I found myself in a pickle the other day – once more there was someone/something that came up that interfered with my just walking out the door, alone, to take my walk and sit in a park and be. My life coach told me to sit with this anger, just sit with it, and not lock it away. And she told me to write, write about what it feels like when your needs aren’t met. Well the anger isn’t directed towards someone/something, it’s all towards me for not figuring out how to take care of myself – I was back in the bedroom trying to figure out how to get my me time in while Tin was blowing his horn loudly and Tatjana was lounging on the sofa – I knew they were not letting anything disturb their time to be, so why was I?
So I figured out that I have to figure this out – one step at a time – I need to meditate, I need to purge my mind of all of the ramblings, I need to let go to go on. So dear reader, I am whittling away at the calcified self and trying to get out of the trick bag I put myself in, and find new tricks.
We are cups, constantly and quietly being filled. The trick is, knowing how to tip ourselves over and let the beautiful stuff out.
Ray Bradbury
And now to pack…and take in the healing waters of Andalusia in the comfortable embrace of summer friends.