Something from another lifetime, found in the drafts.

Have yourself a merry little Christmas,
Let your heart be light
From now on
our troubles will be out of sight

Have yourself a merry little Christmas,
Make the Yuletide gay,
From now on
our troubles will be miles away

Here we are as in olden days,
Happy golden days of yore
Faithful friends who are dear to us
Gather near to us once more

Through the years
We all will be together,
If the Fates allow
Hang a shining star upon the highest bough.
And have yourself A merry little Christmas now...

I know it's early, but I came across the picture... and then the song matches the image... so you'l forgive me for jumping the gun here. 

Buscando alento e inspiração

Obrigada, Van, pela postagem.

Dreams of J - March 24th 2016

A Dream

I dreamt of you last night. You were wearing that dark blue polo shirt you hadn't worn in a long time. It looked good on you, not too tight.

Daddy and Paper Birds, 2012

You were sitting on the tv rack we placed to the right of the living room, and I was standing across the room, leaning on the multicolored table. You were playing with the paper birds I made a long time ago, but only now they were alive, hovering over your head and arms, landing on your hair and shoulder. I said: 'I dreamt that somehow you were alive again', or something like that. You just chuckled, distracted with the birds, and said 'Ah, no... No...' You were not sad, not at all. You were fine, just sitting there, playing with the paper birds. Delicately picking them up in your hands, gently handling them, caressing their feathers... And then placing them back on your shoulder, or your head. You looked contented and comfortable. 

I miss you terribly. And I'm writing this because I know it was a good dream, and I will cherish it later. But right now it just hurts me. Because it is hard to conceive you are no more. 

A thing of beauty

Joshua and I parked the car a block away from the bookstore and walked. As we waited to cross the street, we see this guy diligently working on this amazing, colorful mural.

I think I stared so much and for such a long time that he stopped working and looked down. I waved, pointed at the mural and gave him a thumbs up. He smiled and thanked me. 

We managed to talk over the noise of the cars and buses going by. He tells me he was given the theme of the mural (Yoga, Oriental practices, etc) and then started drawing. He had no drafts. He just started sketching on the walls and came up with that work of art.

I was amazed. Joshua was just embarrassed because I kept staring at the mural at first, then he was embarrassed because I kept talking/shouting to 'a stranger' on the street. And taking pictures.

It may be that shamelessness is earned with age, but I think most of mine I learned with J, who was never shy and talked to strangers freely and shamelessly. And usually loudly.

Another small way of acknowledging his enormous impact in my life. 

...

I must go back to that street, stand on the sidewalk, look up and see what else my artist friend has come up with. 

I am just glad we happened to have caught him working. I am glad I could show him my appreciation. Hidden behind trucks and buses and ugly electrical wires, something beautiful to look at.

Recycling a quote from Sunday, November 04, 2012

'To live in the hearts we leave behind is not to die.' 

(Thomas Campbell, 1777-1844)

Pools of Desolation - a family e-mail

So, oh, so much has happened since I last wrote here. I mean to come back more often, feed this with the stories that I have to tell now. I won't start from the end, which happened officially on March 7th, but from today. This is the e-mail I sent to the group I call 'Family'.

It happened last Sunday afternoon. I was driving home from my private class, and a friend texted me about finding a rat in her house. Amused, I told her she should watch 'Ratatouille'. I don't know if everybody knows it, but Ratatouille is the Disney animation about a rat that likes to cook. It is one of my all-time favorites. The story is great and full of elegance and humor. And it is a sweet declaration of love to cooking, and eating.

So I decided to look up the theme song for the film, a delicate French song called Le Festin, to send to my dear friend with the rat problem. I turned on Spotify, found the song and hit play. And that's where I found this pool of desolation.

 There seems to be pools of desolation all around me. I sometimes walk into them knowingly, like when I go somewhere John and I used to go to together. The supermarket, or the drugstore around the corner. Or when I eat something he liked. Or when I sit on the bed where he used to sit, looking out the window. These pools are large and scary, but they are not too deep and I can wade to the other side. I have found there are other pools, though. Like the one I walked in last Sunday. As the song started playing I felt a twinge of pain, like I was about to remember something devastatingly sad. And then, as the song progressed and escalated to its beautiful and cheerful  'summit', my heart felt very small and painful, and I started to cry. All this sadness poured out and I had no control over it. I was in a pool, and drowning.

So I parked the car and just sat there, feeling overwhelmed and lonely. I cried because of John, because I miss him so terribly, but also because I realized there are much more pools that I could ever have dreamed of. Because you see, this song had no special meaning to our history together. Except, I understand now, everything has a special meaning. And pools of desolation can be in a place, in a scent, in a person. And I'll have to deal with them somehow. So here's what I did: For 2 or 3 nights after that Sunday, I sat at the kitchen table and drew as I listened to Le Festin, and other unrelated I songs. I just drew and erased and drew again and erased again. It exhausted me, but I kept going. And when I was done, I looked at my production and was proud. I turned my immense, almost unbearable pain into a humble but unmistakable work of art.  Even if I do say so myself. I see my pain and long sleepless hours in the trembling, imperfect lines. I see my love through all the shapes, aiming to reach John, longing for him. I got out of that pool. My clothes and shoes are still wet, but I got out alive and maybe a little stronger.

I'm sending the drawing I made along with this e-mail. And also the link to the song. If you have some minutes to spare, listen to the song, look at my drawing and think of John. That's what I'll do after I hit 'Send'.

Le Festin -  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ca5ae-ovQl4

Back to the origins : water

Parque Estoril, April 2014. Got 4th place! Yay!

Started swimming again. 45-minute sessions, twice a week. Last night, first 'class'.

(Just found this draft  I wrote way back in February about my swimming classes! They are great, by the way, so this tiny, incomplete post is going up!)

Life in a nutshell

Dear Diary,

Life, right now, sucks.

I took up running on May 20th. For the very first week of runs, the app said '8x 1-minute runs'. I remember nearly quitting several times. It was so very fucking hard.

Two days ago I finished the 6th week of the program. The app said '1x 25-minute run'. And I did it. Nearly killed me, I thought then, but I managed to complete the run. It was very hard and I did not enjoy it, but I got through it.

With the help of J., who drops everything he's doing and drives me to the park and then sits there to cheeer me on when I pass, I now manage to run every other day, basically.

I've lost weight. Don't know how much. Had to have clothes taken in. Clothes started to look much better on me. I started to look better I think. Except for my hair, but that's material for another post.

We live in a good place, we have two good dogs. Got involved in a fender-bender just the other day. The benderer turned out to be a decent guy who paid for the repairs.

Our kids are great, and growing, and I love them to death. They go to good schools. They fight like siblings do, they are jealous of each other (like siblings are), they share secrets and silly jokes and tiny little sibling moments in that chaotic, happy bedroom of theirs. They are loud.

J. tries to plan our family life around my comings and goings. He cooks wonderful, sometimes miraculous meals with what we happen to have had money to buy. He too is trying to exercise, and I'm proud of him. Of whom he has allowed himself to become for love. His love for me and the kids, for our life together. That, also, is the subject for a whole other post.

I still buy books. Although money, after the move from Prospê, has been painfully short, books still find a way to get in the house.

My very few friends are still good friends. Loyal, caring. But not so close at hand. Besides, they also have their own preoccupations. Life just takes over.

Family. I have brothers and sisters. Some closer, some not so close. My dad is doing good, brave man, Hanging in there. Nieces and nephews. In-laws. Uncles, ants, cousins. The whole frigging lot. Lovely bunch of people, really.

Still.

Life sucks big time.

Funny in a miserable sort of way

6:35 am

Tem um stand-up comedian que eu gosto. Ele é americano e dispara one-liners com voz e cara de quem está muito, muito triste. Seu nome é Steve Wright. O J não gosta muito, prefere aqueles que contam estórias engraçadas, que têm um contexto. Gosto também, mas me agrada o jeito que ele, Steve Wright, pensa: coisas absurdamente aleatórias, algumas vezes só um jogo de palavras, às vezes nonsense, às vezes surreal, às vezes irônico. Nunca abusivo. Em nenhum sentido.

Outra coisa: odeio ter problemas com dinheiro. Eles me limitam (não no sentido óbvio), eles delimitam meus espaços e põem limites a quem eu sou. Minha identidade é limitada por estas questões. Faz sentido, isso? Para alguém além de mim, quero dizer? Por que eu me pergunto quem eu seria se isso não fosse uma constante. Quão melhor profissional? Melhor mãe? Filha, irmã, amiga, mulher. Mais interessante, mais saudável - isso com certeza. Parece mesquinho e pequeno, mas taí um dos meus desejos para o gênio da lâmpada.

Antes de ontem fez 3 anos que minha mãe morreu. A Mãezinha, como a chamávamos. Só que depois que vieram os netos, e para mim mais especificamente meus filhos, ela virou Obá. Que engloba mãe também, né, só que é ainda maior. Ela se preocupava muito comigo. Acho que, dos 5 filhos, eu era quem mais lhe afligia, talvez por quem ela mais rezava. E isso não tem nada a ver com amores maiores ou menores. Era só um olhar atento, tentando entender. Será que ela me achava triste? 

São 06:54. Preciso ir.