Deeper sorrow, deeper joy

I know how to hide my feelings from myself. I’ve had practice telling those miniature white lies about how I don’t mind or that I’m unconditionally happy and galloping through life without unwanted feelings lassoing me.

My body gives me a jolt now and then: a wrinkled forehead glimpsed in the mirror, indigestion, weight loss, fatigue. But look on the bright side, I think. I don’t really feel that stressed, weary, cranky, or conflicted. I am living the ideal life. Who in their right mind wouldn’t want to be me right now?

What I don’t remember is that shutting down my “negative” feelings also shuts down my capacity to deeply feel joy.

Earlier this month, I realized that wedding planning all day on my day of rest was not a sustainable pattern. So on my next day off, I forced myself to rest, really rest. I wrote “read” on my to-do list and that was all. As evening came, I transitioned into watching Call the Midwife. Two episodes later, I shut down my computer and cried. It was as if feeling vicariously for almost 2 hours helped to release my store of pent-up feelings.

This is where I want to be: feeling. Even if sometimes it means feeling an aching loneliness or feeling downright scared at what looms ahead. When I open my heart to feel, I experience the richness of the ups and downs of a life fully-lived. Because joy is right there too, every bit as deep… deeper even, but I can’t notice it when I’m only skimming along the top of life.

This season of life is filled with lasts and goodbyes as I prepare to leave Spain in 3 1/2 weeks. “Another last,” said my teammate when we dropped off my final guests. My guests and I had had a marvelous time, exploring and talking, processing and laughing. Their leaving set me into motion, clearing out my house and closing up my life here. It aches, but not all aches are bad.

I’m also filled with energy as I think about trading this life for several months with family and friends in my home community. And then there’s the dizzying delight of marrying J in three short months.

God meant the sorrows and joys of this season to be felt rather than ignored. So today, I choose to stay in this vibrant sense of being alive.

Everyday insanity

A loud voice burst behind me, and I glanced over my shoulder before I could stop myself.

I recognized the man. I’d often seen him wandering the streets while talking at high decibels. Usually, he wore the same outfit: a too-tight, long-sleeved white T-shirt, tan pants, and a disposable mask.

The first few times I had seen him, I had glanced around to find the second half of the heated discussion. Someone behind him? Someone above, leaning over a balcony railing? But then I realized the other participant was invisible. The man was talking to the voice in his head.

As our paths crisscrossed today, his loud monologue slid into song with one of the most guttural singing voices I had ever heard. It began with the quality of a deep belch and moved into a haunting tune, with an almost flamenco sway. But different.

Captivated, I had to force myself to keep walking.

The church plaza was full of elderly gentlemen with canes and audacious pigeons that only fluttered away when they realized I wasn’t planning to step around them. As I started down the street to the supermarket, I crossed paths with another man. This man was also bellowing a one-sided conversation at an invisible participant.

What distinguished this man from the one I had just left behind? Did that tiny black device nestled in his ear give him license to be publicly lost in his own world?

Maybe it’s just because I’m growing older, but sometimes I find it odd that the things that used to send people to asylums have become part of our everyday lives.

Mojácar

Part six: Melancholy and sweet

Click to read: Part one: A palace and a hostel, Part two: A stolen sandwich and art, Part three: Relationship advice and edible puzzles, Part four: Tanneries and street food, and Part five: Friends and ferries

Melancholy and sweet. Those words describe the days following our return from North Africa. We knew our time together was winding down, and we were determined to make the most of it.

At the beach, we walked along the shore until we were among a scruff of bushes and leftover seaweed. We spread our towel in a promising spot, but then had to scramble back to avoid a soaking.

Next, we hiked a horse trail up the side of a cliff. The view of the town and the blue sea beyond was startling and we stopped to drink in the view… and let me catch my out-of-shape breath. From there, we joined a greenhouse tour with a group of German students. Some of them were in the eye-rolling stage and received lectures from our tour guide. J’s mind was brimming with questions, I could tell. But it wasn’t until we had munched our way through samples of tomatoes and cucumbers drizzled with olive oil that he was able to corner the guide and ask his questions.

The next morning, we toured Almería’s Alcazaba (Arab fortress) with two teammates.

On Saturday, we puttered around the center, cleaning and hanging out, then slipping over to my neighbor’s barber shop for J to get a trim.

That evening, my teammates hosted a “romantic date for two” in their living room. To dress up or not to dress up? Not to. That’s what we decided, knowing we would be most comfortable “as is.” So we arrived at the front door, barefoot and the day’s leftover sweat still clinging to our clothes.

A smoldering incense stick, music, games, discussion questions, and a massive charcuterie board. We took a few moments to orient ourselves.

“Message us when you’re ready for tea!” And then they closed the door and left us alone.

There were so many options that we hardly knew where to start. We sampled this and then that and then the other things. We paired foods, discussing the flavors and textures. Yes, for a long while our conversation revolved around food, but only because we were both enjoying the experience so much.

We played Dutch Blitz. I won, but he was such a good sport about it that it wasn’t even fun to gloat. We put a puzzle together and talked until we were yawning, or, in J’s case, until long after we were yawning. J managed to walk me home, even with drooping eyelids.

We spent Sunday morning walking around town and looking for murals and other interesting sights. J had the sermon for our team service. I don’t remember how we spent all of our time that day; I just was aware that it was passing too quickly.

Monday was our last day together. We took the bus up the mountain to the springs, spread our blanket, and sat on the thinly-covered knobby ground. We talked, played Qwirkle, and stuck our feet in the chilly stream. I managed to hike partway up the side of the mountain with him, but petered out and parked myself on a nice rock while he ran the rest of the way up. Yes, ran. When he returned, we meandered among the busy beehives we found there and managed not to get stung.

After a stroll through a sprawling Spanish town, we eventually caught the bus back to Mytown just in time to join teammates for a steaming plate of couscous that hit the spot exactly.

A few hours, a walk, and a couple of park benches later, we ate our last supper together and J washed the dishes for the very last time.

Then it was time to go.

We stood shivering in the chilly night air until the bus driver beckoned. It was over. For now.

But like J wrote the next day: “…we have accumulated some good memories and have many more to make.”

Part three: Relationship advice and edible puzzles

Click to read: Part one: A palace and a hostel and Part two: A stolen sandwich and art

J and I spent almost a week in Mytown. He stepped into my life and met my people. Yes, I continued to feel the emotional dissonance of my meshing worlds, but assigning a name to the feeling seemed to rob it of its power.

“Does he have money to take care of you?”

My friends and neighbors invited themselves into the particulars of our relationship. They all had advice about where we should live, how soon we should get married and start a family, etc.– but they always expressed their approval of J in the end.

We found park benches to sit on and people-watch. We discussed things we hadn’t thought to discuss on the phone or through emails and messages. Sometimes we didn’t bother to do anything except “be” with each other.

But that’s not all we did. We had British breakfast at the port. And on the beach, I collected broken shells while he went for a jog along the shoreline. A teammate borrowed J for morning bike rides, giving him the chance to burn off some of his morning energy before I even rolled out of bed.

Late one morning, we bussed to a neighboring town’s restaurant where my friend cooks. She gave me a tour of the kitchen, lifting kettle lids and describing everything inside. She heaped our table full of food we hardly made a dent in: chicken with rice, lentils, beef and prune tagine, salads, fries, bread, vegetables, and tall glasses of orange juice. “I was so happy when you said you were coming that I cried,” she told me later. She expressed her appreciation for our visit by making sure that we were taken care of… right down to ordering our pirated taxi ride home.

Restaurant kitchen filled with prepared food

We delivered birthday gifts to my neighbor boys. We went to the market and bought a buffet of olives and other pickled delights. And J chatted with the various Chinese store owners around town. His Mandarin was typically met with surprise and guarded curiosity… or even an expletive.

We spent a warm afternoon volunteering with the Red Cross, entertaining a group of children while the village women studied basic Spanish. The director had brought puzzles for the children, but the puzzles were too advanced for their ages. One little boy leaned into an open puzzle box and scooped the pieces to his mouth, pretending to eat them: “Om! Om!” he said over and over again. The other children weren’t too concerned as long as his appetite didn’t extend to their puzzle. There were some wild moments, some tattle-tale stories, and a mini lesson on forgiveness. A volunteer from another district had brought virtual reality glasses which entertained a few adults and children at a time.

Over the course of the week, we spent a lot of time at the center where J was staying, learning how to bump around in the same kitchen together while on task. J faithfully washed the dishes after our meals; I could probably count on one hand the number of dishes I washed when he was around. Our team met on Sunday and for a few other activities scattered throughout the week.

In the evenings, J would walk me home. And in the mornings, he would usually meet me on my way to the center. In fact, there was rarely a time that I walked that three-minute walk entirely alone. A delighted smile to greet me on the street was one of those small things that made me miss him terribly when he was gone.

And then, on Thursday evening, we finished our laundry, packed our backpacks, and attempted an early bedtime. The next morning, we left for North Africa.

Part one: A palace and a hostel

It wasn’t cold feet. More like good ol’ butterflies jitterbugging in my belly as I nibbled rice cakes and watched his flight information from my phone. After 5 whole months of communicating, we would finally see each other… and in a completely different capacity than when we had seen each other last.

I wanted to savor the moments without really knowing how.

We had both missed a night of sleep–J on his flight and I on my overnight bus–and here we were, on the point of meeting in the Madrid-Barajas Airport, both sleep-deprived and with questionable hygiene. If we couldn’t like each other like this, we probably wouldn’t like each other for other reasons either.

When his flight arrived, I stood at the arrivals door in a near-panic, only to find that when we were face to face, he was exactly who I knew he would be. No surprises. In fact, the only surprise for both of us was how un-awkward we felt together. Like old friends or comfortable siblings with an extra layer of excitement exactly because we weren’t.

We bumbled around in terminal 4 until we found the right train to downtown. Our Airbnb rooms had canceled on us at some point during the night. So we stood in the middle of the downtown Atocha station, booking the hostel I had been determined to avoid.

Doesn’t the very word “hostel” strike a chord of dread in your heart? It sure did in mine! I imagined a dilapidated row of bunk beds, scummy showers, and an aura of unwelcome free love. J was accommodating to my fears, but our pickings were slim at this point. So a hostel it was. And, (spoiler alert!) it wasn’t at all what I had been picturing.

Since it was still morning and we couldn’t check in to our hostel until the afternoon, we wandered Retiro Park, enjoying nature, street musicians, and even a man reading poetry aloud among bright rose bushes. We sat on a bench to watch people and talk.

In our search for lunch, we walked through the Puerta del Sol, a plaza which just happened to be overflowing with people because of some sort of celebration. We watched red and yellow parachutes descend from the sky like Spanish flags, the parachuters guiding themselves to a giant stage.

At this point, J was drooping with jetlag and I kept a wary eye on him as we pushed through the crowd. We found a place to eat, and, at the server’s recommendations, ordered a plate of cured meats and cheese and pulpo a feira. The octopus was doubtless the best I’d ever tasted and we left the restaurant with enough “umph” to tour the Royal Palace.

platters of octupus and tray with cured meat and cheese

We walked to the end of an impossibly long and stagnant line. After waiting a few minutes, J politely asked the couple in front of us if we were waiting in the right line (at least, I can only assume that’s what he asked, since the conversation happened in Mandarin) and we discovered that indeed we weren’t. After relocating, we were soon granted entrance and wandered through the rooms, gaping at the ornate decor. Palaces are so curious. Do people really want to live amidst so much useless wealth? Or is it only for tourists to come and gape?

We left the palace, luggage in tow–J with his backpack for the entire 3 week visit and me with my equally-heavy backpack for a mere 3 days. We checked in at our hostel. I know I already slipped you the spoiler, but imagine a friendly clerk, a relaxed atmosphere, privacy curtains on each bunk, and all-inclusive bathroom stalls–shower, sink, toilet–with doors that locked! I didn’t even have to put on a brave front.

The rest of the evening was filled with a walk and a talk before we headed back to the hostel for a supper of leftovers, snacks, and a much-needed cup of tea.

Much blessings

This morning, a friend sent a voice message that ended with “Much blessings!”

Her non-native English made me smile; I love the way she talks. “Many blessings” is grammatically correct–my work email even signs off with that–because blessings are individual and countable. Or are they? We count our blessings, the many ways which we are thankful for what God has given us, but can we really count them all?

I’m pondering this on after saying goodbye to visitors who celebrated life with me. We toured an Arab fortress, a cathedral, and a greenhouse. We strolled the beach, picnicked by mountain springs, housecleaned, marketed, and tasted lots of foods. And my favorite parts were the conversations, prayers, and laughter woven through all of it. My friends brought gifts and letters from home. On the board above my desk, hang two letters from a nephew and a niece who are big enough to write in beautiful cursive and sign their letters, “Yours truly” and “Love.”

And this week, I have another visitor–one I’ve been looking forward to seeing since… well, since a long time.

With all of the extra activity infused with normal life and work, I sometimes struggle to keep up. Yet, I am filled, sandwiched here between the goodness that was and the goodness that is to come.

“Much blessings” describes this perfectly, I think.

Photos don’t capture life

For the past 10 days or so, I have been enjoying a dear friend’s visit…and then savoring the lingering memories. Below are some of the photos from our time together. But remember that photos don’t capture life. Not really.

We spend a few wonderful days in rainy Córdoba. We wore plastic bags on our feet to keep out the puddles and streams and broke into delighted gasps whenever the valiant sun peeked through the gray clouds. “It hasn’t rain all this time, and then you came and it rained,” laughed my Cordoban friend when we met for coffee and then an Indian dinner.

arches of mosque-cathedral in Cordoba — Photo credit: M.B.

Back in Almería, we went up the mountain with teammates to watch the sun set, sifted through produce at the market, ate churros and pastries, enjoyed a British breakfast and crashing waves on one the windiest days of the year… and a gorgeous, sunny beach just 24 hours later. We also climbed Almería’s alcazaba and spent an afternoon admiring pottery in the town of Níjar. On her last evening, three of us celebrated Valentine’s Day with cheese fondue.

colorful fruit and vegetable market stall — Photo credit: M.B.

blue sea with blue sky and sailboat — Photo credit: M.B.

Arab fortress wall with city beyond — Photo credit: M.B.

elderly woman painting pottery — Photo credit: M.B.

But we don’t have pictures of those long heart-to-hearts or the laughter that erupted from just being together. Those are the real memories.

Little 2015 “poems”

In 2015, I challenged myself to a one thing every month. One month, the challenge was to write a poem a day. The challenge was that: a challenge and most of my “poems” turned into tiny definitions using the same rhythm: 8/6/7.

I found them a few months ago while I was looking through my old journals and decided to pull out several to share with you. They’re not artistic, but they’re fun. And maybe I’ll inspire you to write your own! If you do, share them in the comments section below.

Flowers
Sweet thoughts shrouded in timely death:
Bliss to those remembered;
Tear drops to those forgotten.

TV
Exclusive members only, but
Please show brain parking pass.
Night is full of undreamed dreams.

Music
The heart’s expression put to dance.
Tones that beckon listeners.
Message in a bottle, found.

Music 2
Listening to another’s heart
In catchy rhyme and rhythm
And wishing you’d thought of that.

Blank Pages
Rolling stretches of nothingness
Packed into neat, white squares:
Deserts in languished places.

Clocks
Ever-present competitors
Daring life to vanish
Before we decide to dance.

Childhood Memories
Poignant traveling of the mind
That pinches can’t awake:
Bitter, sweet, and bittersweet.

Death
A monster posed to frustrate life;
Yet, mingled with heaven
Will strangely bring relief.

Heartbreak
Initial tears have disappeared;
Descends the selfish numb—
It’s only I who suffers!

Books
For a stolen moment letting
Reality fade and
Becoming who you are not.

Trust
Relinquishing every control
To one you believe in
Though sometimes you feel equipped.

Photo by Zaini Izzuddin on Unsplash

Blooming and growing

Less than a month ago, I was driving a winding road through trees that were just changing color. As I drove, golden leaves sprinkled my car, catching the afternoon sunlight.

My chest ached like something was trying to get out. Or in. The beauty of the moment was so sharp it physically hurt.

I knew I was leaving this beauty–the golden leaves and dry cornfields–for a different world with a different beauty. I was in between seasons of life again.

Despite the busyness of an Illinois summer, my family managed to make quite a few memories. I became “Isha” to three of my nephews. Exclamations of “Isha” were usually accompanied by sparkling eyes and an equally sparkly grins. Well, except that rough day during potty-training when Alex said wistfully, “Bye-bye, Isha.”

My oldest niece decided to pray for a “good husband” for me. When did this little fluffy blondie get so big? Every time I visited their house, her little sister Joanna asked me to “pick stones.” She has a fondness for all things little and finds remarkable traits in the unremarkable. I love that about her.

When feeling particularly independent, some of us would quote Camden, “Camden do it self!”

Zayne called a tiny Fisher Price slide a “wee.” We spent our last moments together on our backs, wildly kicking the air like we were running and then dissolving into giggles much to the amused consternation of the other adults in the house.

Nettie came over to me after church to tell me that her new little cousin, Boone, “–is like a tiny pea!” She squeezed the tips of her thumbs and index fingers to make a tiny dot as if to indicate Boone’s unnatural smallness.

Boone was small, although not quite that small. Just small enough to snuggle and smell like a new baby.

I read stories to ones who are learning to read for themselves. I had them read to me too. They were excited when Grandma brought home The Pancake Pie from the library (one of the best children’s books ever!).

There were days I just wanted to squeeze them tight because they were so cute–like when Dylan pointed out the “-ole” in his sock. There were also days when I was relieved when everyone went home and the house stilled. Oh, we made lots of memories, not just the littles but the “bigs” too. And I return to Spain with a full heart.

It’s time for another season. This season includes a time of not feeling well. I spend more hours than I would like in bed or curled around a hot water bottle, as my body fights the bacteria in my system. But seasons don’t last forever, and the drier seasons often make room for us to dig our roots deeper as we search for water and nutrients.

Besides, I heard recently that one doesn’t have to bloom to be growing.