Thirsty for water
Bright, blue, clear skies. Tall waves, the sun, the moon. The town elderly nodding at me. Bom Dia.
I arrived here, in this town by the coast, with its little squares painted in blue, white and yellow, feeling fragile. Sensitive, delicate, with a head full of questions. One more existential crisis I decided to let pass by the ocean. Drained by the past six months that kept me chained at a table, a window on the park, working on a new project. Finally fulfilled, but poured out and thirsty for water. For laughs, inspiration and adventure. For being shaken.
Ask and it’s given, a wise man told me once. I ask the ocean, it delivers. It shatters in pieces all the questions twirling in my mind, washes away the existential crisis and sends me back home with a souvenir, a brand new scar on my forehead.
Ten days in Ericeira, to change perspective without biting off more than I can chew. A corner table by the window, on the ocean. Foolish to think I could stay still.
A karmic encounter told me last night, over tapas and red wine: We are still girls, isn’t it? Deep down, we still want to meet someone that makes us stay. She is right, yet I wanted to add: we stay for a person, a community, or simply, an energy. I’ve planted a seed many years ago, here, and I come back every now and then to check upon it. I see it is quietly making roots, in my absence. But, like Plath, I see figs hanging from trees, juicy and delicious, all holding reasons to stay. Here, or there. I still want to take a few bites of each, before picking one.
I wake up to cotton candy mornings, a thick pink fog hiding the ocean. Walking in the rain or resting in sunshine. My pants dirty with salty water. The crunchy crust of 1€ pastel de nata.
I try to journal, but thoughts don’t come out. My mind is on holiday too. Feeling, instead of over-analysing. I watch M. having breakfast outside, on the porch. Beautiful in her solitude. She reminds me of someone, ten years ago, battling between head and heart. I wonder what will win this time.
One rule for these ten days: stay open.
I tried to leave expectations in Amsterdam, though few managed to sneak in and hide in my backpack. Bastards. I vow not to look at every good-looking man as a potential sexual partner, wondering if he is THE ONE that will make me stay. Not to look at surfing as a new life style, clinging to another form to satisfy that old desire of belonging. Not to look at every meal as a chance to fulfil a craving for always getting something better.
I wanted to leave my expectations at home, yet I want to stay human.
Flirt with the surf instructor, not because I want to sleep with him (or he wants to sleep with me), but because I know that when days look all the same at work, flirting makes time going faster.
Go out in the water even when I know I was not born for surfing. Without dropping it just because I am not good at it. I don’t have to be good or getting better at everything. Sure, my ego is in there screaming look at Viktoriia, she’s so much better than you but the voice of the ocean covers the one of my ego and leaves me laughing, mouth open, while I fall one more time from the surfboard and drink one more mouthful of water. Do it for the fun.
My dear demons came for a quick visit too, to remind me they are part of the package. The price I set for helping people, when asked for cash to send a letter, and reply I can’t because I have only a 20€ piece (“coincidence” the following day I lose my water bottle which cost exactly 20€). Saw again too that part of me that can’t hold presence when eager to be somewhere else. And my beloved sickness of controlling, planning and fixing showing up again after symptoms were gone for a few days. I welcomed them all back but didn’t invite them in. They come and go, like the waves at Nazaré on the day of the Red Bull competition.
Shared dinners of garlicky codfish, house white wine. The lemon scent of the hands wet wipes. The fireplace is cracking while I touch my face, burnt, as usual. My aversion to sunscreen came on this trip too.
I let go of my meditation practice on the cushion. Here, meditation is done on the water.
I feel inspired. Inspired by the many people I have met in these days. At surf classes, in the dorm, in a bar, at a table outside in the sunshine, over coffee. Friends of friends, out in the street. When watching the sunset, on a bench by the sea. I am reminded age is just a number and wisdom, confidence and depth are innate. I take notes.
Inspired by the little moments: eating store-brought frango with my hands, in the hostel kitchen on Saturday night. Sitting in a café by the ocean, spills of salty water carried by the wind reaching my face. Talking rubbish after 3 moscow mules, because that’s part of the dance too. Communal dinners. A solo night walk through town, mid-week, the sound of the waves passing through the buildings.
I get glimpses of nowness, energy shifts.
They last a moment. But for now, that’s enough.
