I am still sad and some days I am not strong enough to leave my bed. It is too complicated to live in this tiny studio where every little movement requires thought and organization. Just making my bed or doing the dishes makes me stressful. So far the laundry is the worst chore. There is neither clothesline nor dryer machine. Wet clothes are always around and the studio, even if cozy, seems messy. This chaos is extenuating and I do not know how to face it any more. I recently spent a long weekend in the USA, the tender Thanksgiving weekend. My days in Syosset were pretty intense, emotionally and physically. The trip was arranged in a rush and I could not understand some things at first. Now, back in Spain, I see this experience more clearly and I miss the lovely white house that sheltered my helplessness. I especially miss the kitchen, the family breakfast, the scent and the love. Every corner was full of love and sometimes the beauty was so overwhelming that I had to hold my tears. Family, despite imperfection as all human works, is about love, warmth and protection. Unlike my old home where violence was the day-to-day, nothing hurt me there, so I did not mind spending time in that lovely place instead of visiting the City. I am sure I will go back to the USA soon. Then I will enjoy NYC one more time and also Cape Cod. I know it for sure.
I am stricken with grief, stricken to the heart. I did not know it was possible to mourn for a house, for an old and wobbly house. It was my home, where memories, bad and good, lingered on, where numberless things— useful or impractical but always beautiful— lived in cozy and unexpected nooks. It was where I came to terms to myself; I accepted my story and turned my restless frustration into a startling source of peace and bliss. It was where I learned to find beauty in dailiness, to enjoy its balmy and gleeful effects; every little corner was embellished with charm and delicacy, everything was full with love, with God’s love, with human’s love. In that place nature and solitude aroused my longing for life, hope and truth, inflamed my rusty dreams and even spurred on me the desire of knowing myself better. Once awareness was awaken all things gained a different tinge, an extraordinary tint of allure, freshness and color and my humble preferences were replaced by more eager goals. I left this magical house more than week ago. I will grieve over my lost home as much as I need.
Since I moved back to the country house, I have had no time for anything but cleaning and organizing. Today I finally decided to sit down on the balcony with a book and a cup of coffee. I have been devouring English books since July and I thought it was time for Jiménez Lozano’s last work, «Retorno de un Cruzado», a long-postponed reading. I could not focus on it. Maybe it was time for writing, for starting the new project I have been thinking of for the last past months. Although writing a book in English is as bold and insane as climbing Everest, I keep brooding over it. If I decide to embark on this audacious journey, my poor brains will be racketed with foreign words, with frustration and sorrowful music. A dreadful creature will constantly whisper in my ears perturbing and dishearting words to ruin my hopes and confidence. Moreover, its ghast shadow will be casted over me to infect me with doubts and fears. I might be a lunatic, but unsettling jobs can be as encouraging as sunny mornings after stormy nights. The sounds and scents of thrill, the colors of adventure, the velvet light of dreams inflame inspiration and make life much more interesting.
I am good at making decisions, even if they come with headaches and sleepless nights. Lately, I have been working on a crazy project. At the beginning, I was enthralled. It was like forging myself anew, like putting a foot on the rung of a ladder that led up into blue and endless skies. One day I realized that instead of rising, I was sinking into a gloomy hole with no sign of real life in sight. The project was sapping my strength. Morevoer, I was losing my ability to determine right from wrong, to distinguish what I really wanted from what I was pursuing. My inner desires were still in that delightful spot where hope dances with laughter, where eyes sparkle with happiness, where angels lift me up to glimpse eternity. I had heard their whispers here and there and silenced their voices. Frustration made me forget my goals, the ones I have been ranking for, and made me see light where only darkness abides. When I returned as a prodigal son to the right path, the one that will always await me no matter how stubborn and blind I become, I found out that the thrill was a delusion full of false promises, a blur that dazzled my confused mind. Since then, I feel lighter and things are going with a dreamlike smoothness.
August is a lazy month. Nothing really happens, but life keeps on going. I used to spend August swiming, naping and reading. Now it seems the right time to make decisions, finding answers and reasons. I have been drown in fears, doubts and concerns. I have suffered from insomnia and loss of hair. I have decided not to give the last of my strength to illusions but to facts. Whenever I stop living in the here and now, anguish and anxiety pay me a visit and stay with me for a while. No more, no more. You can have dreams and live in the real world at the same time. Running away from truth means missing life, its little and beautiful details. Building castles in the clouds can be a dangerous passtime, since realities achieved do not seem strong enough to equal delusions. Fantasy has nothing to do with hope because hopes are always young, dispel fears and give life a bright atmosphere. One more time, I leave gloomy shadows behind and embrace what I really are. It is not so bad.
My parents shall soon arrive to spend August and the early days of September. My first reaction to this news was panic and in a few seconds I became so tense that my neck and my back throbbed in agony. Ten minutes later, unbearable pain descended – leaving me unable to walk. I dislike their company and the mere mention of their names gives me the shivers. They are neither respectful nor clean people. While visiting, they keep both radio and television on the entire day. It becomes immensely difficult to focus on writing or reading with such noise in the background. They seem to fear silence. Could it be, that they are afraid of listening to their own thoughts, and simply resist being fully exposed to their own fears and frustrations? Nevertheless, the very reason for my rejection stems from their abuse and bad manners. I cannot prevent them from coming here since this house belongs to them and I have no other place to go. After weeks of dreadful anticipation, I am trying to see this visit in a different light. It is useless to suffer in advance, to outline the supposed horrors of our living together, to think about sleepless nights and gloomy shadows. What shall happen, I do not know, but at least I am rid of despair and have a new project in mind. Projects always bring hope, which gives strength and deepens my faith in life.
Nothing is more balmy than a happy Sunday. Its softness caresses my soul and speaks comfort. Calm and stillness are like quiet music very softy played, the sort of sound which helps to forget wrongs and shadows, releasing fears, so hearts can open freely to beauty and love. This peace gently inspires us to face the paths we usually shun, to live life as a journey of mistery where trees rustle in the light wind and freshness of the spring fields. It is everywhere, even where it should not be. On happy Sundays, I need not fight against my senses nor the little goblins always trying to sink me into sorrow and confusion. Everything seems disposed to please and to be pleased. Dark shapes are not allowed to descend on the horizon. On happy Sundays, I simply bear contentment and peace, feeling blessed by a blazing angel who looks down upon me from a bright and joyful Heaven.
It is a chilly summer. I do not complain, for I detest heat. The carcasses of ants cover my floor. They usually come in June, but this weather is confusing them. I have done some cleaning and arranged flowers in vases to give my home a dash of color, a dash of beauty, a dash of gleam. Details count and give life sheen. Lately, I have a penchant for pondering a crazy dream, moving to L.A. for writing and better living. There are always things to wait for, always things to come; God meant something when He made me. So, I keep hoping and making light of fears. I might have a distorted memory of the past, but I do not let it run my life. I try to listen to the jingling daily grind, to see glint in silly and annoying matters. I am in the mood for Summer even if Summer behaves as Spring.
I tried to read in the garden beneath the shadow of a tree, under my old cotton hat, but it was too hot, too humid. Yet, the rays of a newly risen hope were sorrounding me, even if I chose to remain indoors. Wafts of roses blew toward to me from time to time, remindining me of beauty and the privilege of enjoying a country life, a slow and noiseless contemplation of what really matters. The touch of that magic wand released me from the constraints of fears and concerns, from grizzled days. Its soft caress revealed to me a path of sparkles and colors. Faith always brings hope and beauty, transforming misfortune into chances for growth of wisdom and patience. Beauty is never afraid of time, death or pain. Beauty frees me from terrestrial burdens, of all those little worries that bind me to anxiety, rankling my mind and soul like poison. Liberty is fun, light and silent. Liberty dignifies me, making my movements sluggish and elegant.
From time to time I sink into a gloomy fit, on account of many little things, on account of annoyances and failures. The world is not a garden full of perfume, as it seems on joyful days, but a blackness of hell, a dreadful place where you just curse the day that gave you birth. There is no gratitude, no beauty. Instead, there exists only anger, shame, misery and listless eyes. At the end of two or three somber sunsets, I always see sparkling points on the surface of darkness and I begin to get my breath back. My voice and my mien become more lively. My mind forgets the reasons of my mischief, and I stop arranging intrigues against myself. Things are no grizzled, but bright; things do not flurry but give me peace. Then, I gracefully walk beneath the rays of a newly risen sun, under a heaven hung by rosy and light veils instead of heavy storm clouds. The cause of my folly never change: stubborness and oversight. When my soul becomes a slave of this body, forgetting the purpose of life, I sink into absurdity. I do not need a reader of Fate to know I will go the bad road again.