2 years ago we visited Portugal to find out if it was a land that resonated for our family to move to. After a busy few days gulping glassfuls of experiences mostly centered around high school options, we were left severely sobered by the financial and emotional enormity of a potential move.
The intention for our next chapter was to live more sustainably. How does one do this on a hamster wheel fueled by the need to finance an expat lifestyle? The inspiration is to downscale, to tread lighter, not to continue to tip the scale of an already strained climate. We had, for some time, begun to feel the aching discomfort of a materially comfortable but unsustainable lifestyle and knew that we had to make a change.
By the end of our confusing stay, I visited the waters and in a voice carved away by uncertainty, I offered a prayer of gratitude. Gratitude for that moment and the gift of the visit. If this new land called for us to live here, I trusted that the doors would open and guidance be received every step of the way.
Today, barely 24 hours after arriving to the heart of Ericeira, Portugal, I sit in a morning of mist and drizzle reflecting upon the above photograph taken 2 years ago when I went down to the Portuguese waters to pray.
I am in awe of how this process has unfolded and how allies appeared to support our journey every step of the way. I was called on numerous occasions to observe how solutions to perceived obstacles offered themselves like suitors for our favour. There were, and in this volatile bureaucratic time of Covid, continues to be moments of sheer improbability. But with grace, it seems that the prayer had grown tired of waiting and has simply come to find us.
As we climb this tree of Life towards a new branch, in sweat and fear and soft gasps of “what the heck are we doing?” we look upon our previously positioned comfortable nest with its incredible view and a community of exquisite beings and feel the rawness of saying farewell. But yet we feel the support of the tree whose instinct and purpose is to grow.
As it rises above, so below its roots sing into the lands a new song carrying the notes of the prayer.
My last dream on African soil delivered support and insight just hours before we were due to fly. I received it as a golden nugget of encouragement even though the vivid imagery jolted me at times.
As with all dreams, how we perceive the symbols and metaphors carry the weight of the teaching and it’s unique to all.
The morning after the dream:
The first light of day spilled into the room stealing my much needed slumber, my darkness, my dream. The last splurge of “do I or don’t I pack” things lay scattered around the final half-packed suitcase.
The little things.
Those ones that are small enough to go unnoticed on a shelf but yet carry the weight of something significantly larger.
These little things clutter my bedroom floor and observe me from a distance as I wake still half-tangled in the remnants of the dream. And before they are able to reactivate the memories that keep them in the realm of importance, I hurl myself from the bed before I am dragged to the trenches of the past.. yet again.
Beware the power of the little things.
And as my toes land on the floor, I sober to the moment.
It’s the last suitcase.
This is the last day.
There is not enough space for the little things.
Like I did with all the big things, let.them.go.
But first, the nights dream beckons to be recorded. I venture timidly into the presence of this dream with its dark cubicles and components.
The dream:
A winding path presents before me and instinctively I know to walk it. It’s carved on the belly of a strange world in which day and night exist at the same time. The sun warms my skin and lights my way but yet the sky is bathed in a rusty twinkle of night.
I notice that this world is peopled by device holding beings who are almost translucent as they shimmer between the moment they are in and the place and person they are messaging. They have an everywhereness to them and some hold babies in their arms whom through over virtual sharing of milestone moments by their mothers, have a solid digital footprint tattooed on the soles of their chubby little feet, even before they had touched the earth.
I see that the amount of moments shared on social media directly relates to the size of their digital footprint. Their sole tattoo glows brighter with an increased digital presence which causes their little bodies to be more translucent in form. Their smiles, laughter, tears and pleasures are constantly materialising in pixels in strangers pockets, draining them, keeping them from being solidly here.
This peculiar bleeding away of presence leaves me confused.
I feel at a loss for the skill required to be present bodily and virtually in this world. I feel a distinct lack of the skill available to those who are such a concentrated blend of matter and media that they are able to be solid in all places. I feel drained of life force like these overshared babies.
I cross paths with an elderly woman, without a device, lumped solidly into a camping chair knitting and chatting to two others with voluptuous bottoms and pleated chins. They nod, approving my presence on the path. With this I accept the invitation to a new land and feel my life evaporating and solidifying with each breath. In the distance I see a curtained doorway to a darkling horizon.
“Go on then!” they cackle in unison.
“Dance like no one is watching you!”
Without a clue of why they choose to use this cliche, I walk towards the doorway, peel back the curtains and enter a space of endless darkness. Activated by my presence, music begins to play. I remember the words of the elders and begin to dance, limbs flaying and fingers snapping to a ghostly beat of an unknown source, relishing in the freedom of not being seen.
With open eyes, I close my eyes on all that I have become accustomed to see and allow the spaciousness of nothingness to engulf me as I dance as if no one is watching me. The peace of anonymity is short-lived as fear gushes to mind interpreting the darkness through an age old lens. Suddenly the equation sets in: Darkness = Men, Monsters+Murder.
And so they appear, men with machetes. Beings of human proportions with evil intent who had been watching me dance like no one is watching me. They act according to scenes and graphics stored in the halls of a media and movie filled mind and I am hacked to pieces and stored neatly into compartments of a walled unit in this darkness .
But yet, I live.
All parts of me are still alert while neatly stored in this macabre way. My heart continues to beat in a box alongside my head and to the left of my foot. Instinctively I know how to reconfigure, to hold the frequency of my being, the purity deep within and without, despite this violence. With this, the sections of me are set free from their compartments and realign to a new form. Old dimensions are contorted with ever so slightly new angles and degrees as I am folded by an invisible hand and shaped into being.
I step out of the darkened chamber and see a sign of thanks pitched in a field of wide faced flowers affirming that “No animals were roasted, milked or maimed for your purpose and pleasure” and a 17 year old teen positioned further on, selling her wares.
I approach her and she offers me a bag of baked biscuits with a label that reads “Calm the Fuck down Cookies”
“You want some?” she asks
“Um…No thanks,” I respond
“I reckon I’ll be okay” I say and continue on my way.
As I continue to this new land, my mind starts to replay questions from concerned friends and family of
“Where will you stay?
Why are you leaving??
What will you do for work???
..how will you earn money????!! ”
All of which I have NO answers for. Nope, not one.
Maybe I should of bought the cookies.
I spot another teen in the distance, another 17 year old. (Interesting… same age as my daughter..) She holds a hand-painted sign while simultaneously tending to matters on her phone. I noticed that she was solid, no sole tattoo, no translucent shimmer.
The sign reads:
“Get your ass into alignment with your Self and then who you are will be the answer.”
She smiles mischievously and mildly irritated at my lack of knowing.
Teens… gotta love them.
And so I wake to my last day on African soil for who-knows-how-long with the necessary nudge from the allies who inhabit my dream scape. They have shown support in the decision made to take the step and allude to the possibility that there will be a dramatic rearrangeing of parts of myself to come but not to worry, the teenager will guide the way.
