7/24/25

I'm sitting on the couch in my parent's marital home in Portugal. This time, I'm here for a month—last year, it was just three weeks. My goal is to eventually spend June through September here, like I did as a teenager.  I was sent in exile from Newark to stay with my maternal grandmother when I was 13 and boy did I hate in the beginning.  I'd call my parents crying and begging to come back but they stayed steady. I never asked or found out why they sent me here alone, but I'm glad they did.  That summer of 88 I made so many friends and had so much fun that by September I was begging to not come back. One day, I'll write a book about it—I already have the intro, but it'll take many summers here to finish. There's no other place where I can write this story but here. It's late as I'm writing this, and I can hear the ocean and the waves crashing from our house. The ocean was rough today; it's a New Moon in Leo, so o mar está bravo. This place has always been so healing for me, it truly changed my life and probably even saved it.  Although this year I wasn't as excited about coming as I usually am. Even the day I arrived, I wanted to fly back home and it bothered me so much to feel that way. Catharsis is like that, though. Something is shifting, and change is never easy—maybe that's why, subconsciously, I was fighting coming here.  Us humans do not like change.

Today I took my usual walk on the beach, but this time at the end of my walk I layed down on the sand and closed my eyes.  I was laying there listening to the ocean speaking to me.  There were people walking by and probably wondering what I was doing, but I didn’t care. The ocean screamed at me to stop caring about what people think and to lay there unapologetically.  It felt amazing to let go, be free and do what I wanted without a care in the world.   I asked for answers, and the ocean delivered. After an hour, I stood up and searched for the biggest rock I could find.  When I found it, I held it in my hand and I whispered into it, pouring every piece of fear and doubt everyone placed inside of me.  Then I hurled it far into the ocean where all my fears will stay from now on. I’m done conforming to others expectations of who I should be, when my uniqueness is my gift. Everything ingrained in me by people too scared to live on their own terms is now gone, thrown into the ocean. I’m done with all of it. My healing journey is complete, and one day, I’ll share the story without caring who approves.

The beauty of today was discovering a little rock right after I tossed the larger one.  It was in the shape of a heart, a gift from the ocean.  That was enough for me. People come and go, loving me one day and being indifferent the next, and that’s okay. There’s not a single person in this world who can change who I was born to be or what’s destined for me. I deserve to be happy and loved despite everyone who has tried to dampen that for me.   I'm weird they say, that's fine with me.  

Making time for people...

Every now and then, I dream about my dad, and the first thing I do the next day is visit him at the cemetery. Today, while I was sitting in the mausoleum where he's interred, someone walked into our block. I call it our block because he's indoors, and it's a maze of hallways with dead ends. I like going there because it's quiet, and I can think clearly. In my version of heaven, they get a ping when someone visits their gravesite, and they come to be with you. I've never been interrupted there before; everyone usually minds their business but today was different. A gentleman walked in and said, "Oh, it's a busy day here." He came in while I was texting my friend about something important I have tomorrow. I could feel his energy right away—he wanted me to leave so he could sit and cry for whoever he was visiting. He left but came back quickly. He seemed sad, and I was sad too, but it was a different kind of sadness. 

I got up from the communal dead-end bench and said, "I hate that they don't have ladders here so I can climb up and leave my dad this quarter." I looked at him, and he immediately opened up like a flower. He told me he was visiting his wife, who passed away in 2023 after a surgery on her uterus. They accidentally perforated her intestines, and she died from sepsis. He started trauma-dumping, and I realized I needed to stay and talk to him. I complained about how hot it was in there and why the AC wasn't working—those drawers cost a lot of money, and it literally smells like a decomposing body in the summer. He said, "That's what I used to work in. I'm retired now. If someone asks me to help with an AC issue, I say no. I'm done." I could understand that—if you're not doing what you're passionate about, it's exhausting. He told me his wife used to be a teacher for special needs kids and was really good at it. He was so hurt; his energy was heavy and all over me.  

I stayed a little longer and shared how I had worked with numbers for 30 years before deciding at 50 to become a substitute teacher, wondering if it was time to finally listen to all the psychics and astrologers I'd visited over the years. They always said teaching. We chatted for a while, and then I left him there with his grief over losing his best friend. She was young, born in the early '60s.

My dad must see him there all the time and was like let me call Michelle here because he needed some words. Sometimes I feel like people like him are angels.  Testing me, to see how good I am.   Now next time I'm there and we run into each other, he has a friend.