Perhaps it’s a symptom of getting older. I’ve begun to recognise the spaces between. Those interludes when life is no longer was what it was, yet is not yet what it will be. Multiple, big changes were made, you’re working away consistently, things are ok: but it doesn't feel like anything is happening. In some ways, it’s a relief. Nothing happening is a good thing. The dust is settling; there was a lot of dust. The dust does not yet resemble a beautiful structure that you’re proud to show off, the finished article.
The in between is messy.
The in between is time spent in solitude.
The in between is realisations emerging from the depth of your unconscious.
The in between is processing those things.
In the interim, Lisbon is beautiful company. It’s generous. Even in January, not a day goes by without it waving you off with a sunset that hits like a beat drop. Clear skies, a messy, brilliant canvas, and a smattering of mirodouros that you can’t help but encounter at golden hour, by chance or design.
Yes, Lisbon is a good place to rebuild. A place once shattered and flooded by an earthquake so violent it claimed much of the city’s residents. It holds the spirit of new beginnings and possibility, eyes cast outwards to the ocean and what awaits in the expanse of the great unknown.
It’s just foreign enough, friendly enough, anonymous enough. You can blend in or you can burn brightly here; either way, no one seems that bothered. There is something so simple about it, it almost feels like you’ve done it before. It’s coaxing things out that felt unreachable in the past, with little or no effort at all.
Things move slowly, sometimes frustrating so. Occasionally it feels like you’re falling behind, but when you arrive on time no one else is there so you end up waiting even longer. You let yourself be. People here don’t necessarily feel as though they’re striving. You begin to accept yourself. You begin to let yourself simply live.
Life has its petty worries, but on the whole, it’s infinitely better than it was before. Slowly you encounter more and more like-minded souls, all drawn here too. Their stories are familiar. Some make you wonder if everything that happened was part of a bigger plan, to lead you here now – late, but right on time. Portuguese time.
Last May, I moved here in the midst of purple rain. Jacarandas in full bloom on the Avenidas, fallen flowers carpeting the ground beneath them. A message from the heavens, a wink and a nod: affirming a choice well made. Perhaps when they emerge this year, the dust will have finally settled. The particles and petals will fuse and mix magic, forming a beautiful creation.
For now, I remain in the space where I no longer feel the loss of before. No saudade, no longing. Not knowing what life has in store. No anticipation, no restlessness.
Breathing deeply into the emptiness. Trusting there is a higher intelligence, an invisible order, filling in the blanks.
Divine wisdom.
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