Sodade sem fim

Dear Philip, 

Such a delight to, at last, feel the pen roll onto the paper. I would like to thank both Maggie and you for sending me pictures of the paths you hiked and the mounts you reached, despite my lack of answer in years. Knowing that someone cares somewhere means the world to me. 

Those three years without Laurie felt like an infinite drift. Across waves and storms. Clinging onto rafts thicker than my sorrow, at times. Illusory and shallow, at others. But I somehow managed to build a raft for myself and it seems I may now be ready to leave the port. 

To answer your question, I did move to the place Laurie and I wanted to refurbish. It’s a modest house in the rear country of Lisbon, with a garden, two floors and a terrasse that overlooks the ocean. I always thought returning after a lifetime of writing and hiking abroad, would feel like a defeat. But it didn’t. Pain left little room for other feelings to settle in - defeat included. 

I remember the first time I entered the house. It smelt damp. It felt lonely. I dragged the sofa from the living room into the corridor by the long window that overlooks the forest, at the back of the house. I sat down. And froze still.

It took me a while to start painting the walls and buying furniture. I threw out the Laurie's plans and ideas, for how could they still hold when everything has changed? 

I chose a crème palette for the living room. With touches of gold and greyish green to, perhaps, reflect my outlook on the future. I leached the walls with soda for days and sanded them for months. I spread paint all across the house, without ever believing in what I was doing. 

It kept my mind occupied, though.

And soon, it wasn't enough.

Therefore, I went to the bathroom upstairs, the one I don’t need, and grabbed a hammer. I hit and smashed, rubbles of porcelain flying all around. For a week, without thinking, without stopping. I still don’t know how that happened. But it did. The spots of blood on the tiles, vivid despite the purge of vinegar and salt, can’t lie.

I threw out the tub and basins. Pegged an oven in the middle of the space. Bought glass blowing material and stored it there. Why? I couldn’t say. But I ended up shaping vases and beads with my breath. Was it my way to expel the steam that had thickened inside? I don’t know.

I leaned my blue and green glass pieces against the wall, like a collection of translucent dices. When the sun comes up, it transpierces them and projects onto the tiles. I could sit and brush my feet against their coloured warmth for hours. And forget about myself.

Again, it was enough until it was not.

I kept my mind busy and anchored my body through touching, brushing and caressing the outside. But I still felt as empty inside. I realized, for instance, that I never go outside. I haven’t met anyone, and I don’t feel vulnerable for it. I just spend time here alone. With flashes of light, sudden and brief, that remind me of that night in the car, where Laurie left us.

I have grown vegetables in the backyard. Rosemary, tomatoes and parsley. The carrots turned out to be more stubborn than I expected. But less than I am. And I have certainly not said my last word.

What I like about gardening is it feels like giving life a second, third, fourth time and, more or less, with a greater control on the outcome. But here again, I might be deluding myself.

You may be surprised that I ended up working so much with my hands. Gone are the days where I lectured people over my latest read or draft. I have had to put my brain to rest and activate other parts of my body. I would be lying if I claimed this had eased my suffering, though. 

Now you may wonder what made me grab a pen and sit down to write my first answer to you in years. 

I wandered through the surrounding hills yesterday. My shortest and most distinctive walk, in months. The dew was almost dry yet its pearls on the grass shone under the rays of the early sun. For the first time in years, I felt protected.

It felt whole. It felt different. And it infused my body from my ankles up to my throat. It filled up my arms and chest like hot water that you’d gulp down after a humid walk through a Yuanyang rice field. I soon recognized that feeling. And decided to shorten my walk. 

I drew out a pen and a notebook. Blew off the dust that had carved into the cover and sat down. I couldn’t say I have ever experienced anything greater than that. I realized, with that feeling, I was getting back to myself, my real self. Not the one that hides in crafts and glass. The real one.

And to be honest after so much time without anything to say or think about, I wouldn’t be surprised if that retrieved sense of self were to vanish again. I would shrug it off, without a second thought. For everything, now I understand, is mist. That is not to say it is trivial, however. Quite the opposite.

With each word I lay down, I want to capture the steam that my sense of self has become after the shattering accident where I lost my unique child. And for that steam being so ephemeral, I’m more accepting of it slipping away from me. When it does come, though, I am willing to follow it where it takes me, without much anticipation. Or expectation.

Regarding your invite to that Colorado-like place, judging from the pictures you sent, in Luberon (Luberan? Luberun?) in south of France, I am afraid I will have to decline. 

I now understand our group hiking has squeezed that subtle steam inside of me. It is a difficult thing to say for I know Maggie and you have been the only ones to bother writing to me when I went under the radar. Which says a lot about what I have built and achieved in that lifetime abroad. I still can’t understand how I have reached that point of loneliness, and I know this has nothing to do with Laurie’s accident. 

But I think since that happened, I obviously feel little need for walking around with a bunch of strangers.

How dare she?

How dare I.

For ten years or more, we’ve been gathering every summer for hikes and talks but I now know I never belonged. Otherwise, someone else but Maggie and you would have reached out to check on me.  

I am uncovering my inner temple. A temple made of steam and pastel colors. I want to sit here and blow invisible glass for myself, and no one else, in that temple.

I thank you for your invites and handmade postcards, once more.

It may sound contradictory to you, but they are all stored in a box by the white chimney downstairs. By the pictures we took in Kilimandjaro a long time ago. I’m surprised you kept sending me those invites but I'm sure there is a noble reason for it somewhere. I just can’t be bothered at the moment to try and read between the lines. 

I've long tried too hard.

It was a pleasure knowing you all and, I guess, each waltz comes to an end. Even those where we never matched the tempo. 

I may think of you as I listen to another air of Fado. Or a song by Cesaria Evora. 

I may also not.

Enjoy your hiking in France.

Best,

Andrea