Blowing Bubbles

Hyper Supermarket.

Too big Too Loud Too Much Choice Sensory Overload.

There’s something odd about choice. Choice tends to be only really useful if it is limited to a certain amount. When it gets to Abundance Level it tends to mainly confuse, my mind tells me, while I narrowly avoid being hit by a trolley, pushed by someone who has “Christmas Fatigue” written all over her face.

I smile apologetically, although I’m not sure why.

Abundance is such a pleasant and positive word, my mind thinks for me, and I think I think my mind thinks too much, and that is never a good thing.

“Maybe.”

My mind says.

“Maybe.” I repeat after my mind, out loud, but no one notices.

I spot a bottle of bubble soap at the side of the till. I choose a pink one with fairies and place it in my basket with my groceries.

*

I make chorizo the day after at a friend’s.  I go to his village by car, past ruins and green and where time has stood still and where time will lose itself completely eventually,  reclaimed by yet more green.

I park the car at the edge of the village and walk past the old church with its cemetery  which seems more alive than the village itself.

The weather is perfectly fitting for me,  the type of soul drenching fog which won’t clear by midday.

“You find soul drenching fog mysterious.” My mind suggests. “But there is nothing mysterious about Chorizo making.”

“Maybe. ”

I like the place where we make chorizo every year. It used to feel like home, as if I had been a peasant in a previous life, there is an old bed in the corner and a window which has a view you can only see if you stand on your very tiptoes, an old shotgun hanging from the beams. My friend told me a few years ago that farm workers used to live here in his Grandmother’s time. The place told me stories and I liked standing there and listening to them while I made chorizo. But this year I notice I don’t have the same type of bordering on the ridiculous sentiment.

“The voices are silent because they’re waiting for you to tell their story.”

My mind says.

“I think you have to stop trying to pretend you’re Paulo Coelho.”

I tell my mind.

“Maybe. ”

My mind answers.

“Only talk to me again when you have proof you’re Isabel Allende and Milan Kundera’s love child.”

My mind remains silent.

*

It is New Years Eve and the sun has just gone down and I stand outside with my pink bottle of bubble soap at the top of my stairs.

I’m blowing bubbles. Because it’s silly and profound at the same time and it is there

and gone and

there and

gone

and there and floating

and gone

And it’s so fragile and impossibly beautiful and there and gone and

That is life.

I think.

“You’re 45 and you’re blowing bubbles.”

My daughter says. It is a statement, an observation. And she gets her camera out and takes pics. She recognises that what is fragile and impossibly beautiful and does whatever she can to document it.

“I’m 46.” I correct her.

And I blow more bubbles.

Blowing bubbles. This might be my new New Years Eve tradition: Reminding oneself of the devastating beauty of fragility.

And I forgot how much fun it was.

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Pilgriminiscing, Squashed Salamanders, and Cute Ponies

23120167_10154884571826837_6631287652754084812_oI went on a 22km run this morning, following part of the Pilgrims route. Pilgrimeniscing, I decided, as I was listening to Steven Covey’s 7 Habits audio book at the same time and I thought how I could engage in a Show Off Saturday on social media after this run, casually mentioning my mileage, which would indicate my level of fitness (excellent) and posting pics of views I encountered on the way (gorgeous) and perhaps jokingly mention that I only had one fall (no injuries) and had seen 12 dead salamanders on the road all in different states of squashedness and had pondered on the significance of that, if I were to see it as a sign.

Looking for the meaning of life while being faced with squashed salamanders: perhaps that is the best description of facetiousness.

But more importantly, the answer came from a bunch of My Little Ponies. Their level of cuteness was off the scale and I decided you’re allowed to show off a bit. As long as you know that in the grand scale of things it doesn’t really matter. What matters is stopping when you see cuteness and sing to it. The My Little Pony Theme tune in this case.

Are You Asleep Yet

Insomnia prodded me all night, a bit like when you were a kid and had a sleepover and that friend you were never really sure you liked kept asking if you were asleep yet.

Are you asleep yet. Are you asleep yet. Are you asleep yet.

I get up and read the news, which makes me wonder if I have in fact fallen asleep and I had merely dreamed about having been lying awake.

I put the fire on. Send some emails.

I continue reading Patricia Harman’s gorgeous novel. The first sentence I read is this:

“A song comes to
me and I hum the chorus. “And in the end,
only kindness matters . . .”
Is that true?
I think that it is.”

Yes. I think that it is too.

Z is for Zoom

10985547_10152633705781837_8482271579124366281_nOur village is on Google Street view. Not the entire village, but the main lane into it.

I found it out by accident one day, while checking something on google maps and I was a bit shocked at first. Of course, progress cannot be stopped, and our village isn’t that remote at all, but I just didn’t like the idea that anyone could virtually walk around the lanes where I always walked.

I zoomed in.

You could see my daughter and her friend playing on their bikes at the corner of the lane, faces blurred out. Villager S’s field. Our house from a distance.  I virtually walked on, just for fun, to see who else had been captured. Villager C in front of my neighbour’s house with his donkey. That made me smile,  that donkey had made it on google street view.

Little snapshots of the village, just enough to see the contours, but nothing more. You can zoom in all you like on street view and it will look a little bit as if you’re  there…but it lacks the details.

Some people say it’s the bigger picture that is important, but I’m not so sure.

I prefer experiencing things close up. It’s often where the really interesting stories hide, in the details.

The rumble of Enraged Enrique’s ox cart, the hay which has been left on the lane by Villager J, the see through skin of Villager P’s ancient mother, the colour of freshly made chorizo hanging in the smoking shed.

And so much more.

 

 

 

Y is for Yellow

If you’d have asked me ten years ago what colour I could live without, I’d probably have said yellow. It never did anything for me. Too loud, too brash, too here I am look at me, vulgar, cheap.

But in recent years, since living here, this has changed.

I cannot possibly imagine life without yellow now.

11057850_10152670249661837_5866380272029020920_nBright yellow,  the colour of mimosa which grows in abundance everywhere. It’s not a native plant and considered to be a pain in the neck, but I find it hard to dislike it.

People use the stakes of mimosa for tomato and bean plants as well as vines and the bigger pieces as firewood.

When you drive through Galician countryside in early spring you become aware just how prolific this plant is. It’s like one continuous firework display, as if nature has exploded. And the smell which lingers especially in the evenings is just…  bright yellow.

Another yellow is the yellow of gorse which grows in the hills. It’s a painful color once you’ve walked through it a few times.  The branches leave horrific scratches.  But the smell.  A blend of honey roasted coconut. I’d hug the flowering bushes if it weren’t for the fact that it would hurt so much.

11222412_10152969488371837_3109425769352200224_nBut the most invigorating yellow is that of sunflowers. Who on earth dreamed up these giant beauties? And how can anything possibly smell that good?

I grew some a few years ago and I’ve allowed them to self seed, so every year I have more in the veggieplot. The villagers find it a bit strange and ask me what I do with them.

They don’t understand that  I simply want to stand under them and peer at all  that insanely heavenly smelling yellow.

X is for XO, hugs and kisses

12391872_10153202658191837_914117197206254820_nMy name sounds different when yelled in desperation.  The vocal chords remain stuck on the Ba, so at first I don’t take notice of Villager S yelling outside.

Villager S often yells, at the cats who are procreating at an alarming rate,  at the little dog which her kids bought and which she cannot stand, at her husband who she doesn’t like very much either or at life in general.

When I open the door to investigate, because it does sound an unusual type of yelling, Villager S is standing next to my house,  in tears now she’s seen I’ve opened the door.

I can’t quite make out what she’s saying, but I walk up to her and tell her things will be ok, put my arm around her shoulder and hug her, because whatever is the matter, she could do with a hug.  “Tell me what happened.”

In between sobs I can make out she’s locked herself out again. This has happened before. And her husband, who’s only got one leg and can’t get up on his own is stuck indoors.

It’s tricky to get through the bedroom window, it isn’t that high up but there is a sloped corrugated roof I have to climb on first, and if I’d slide off it and fall, it would surely hurt and there’s nothing to hold on to.  The window doesn’t open at first and panic sets in when I’m worried I lose my footing, but I push again and it opens. I haul myself up and jump into the bedroom, go to the front door and open it.

Villager S’s thanks Jesus and God and the heaven above and declares me a Saint.  She kisses and hugs me and cries and tells me what a bitch life is because she’s old and she’s nearly at the end.

She’s right. Life is a bitch. I’ll be where she is one day. Locking myself out and having to shout for others to help me because I can’t climb through the window myself any longer.

And that scares me.

So I let her hug me a bit longer.

 

 

W is for Weather

sunflowerPeople tend to think it’s always sunny here in Spain.

But this is Galicia.

Galicia is green, and that green has to come from somewhere.  Rain. Lots of rain. I’ve read somewhere that the average yearly rainfall on Galicia is more than Manchester. This is probably true.

Before living here, I didn’t really occupy myself that much with the weather. Sure,  it would be inconvenient perhaps if it was raining when I wanted to go out, and of course sunshine is much nicer but apart from that, it wasn’t that big of a deal.

Here it is.

Here, the weather has a bigger impact on daily life. Logical, it affects crops, sowing times, harvesting times, the animals, wood gathering.

It even affects slaughter: chorizo needs cold crisp dry weather. Too humid and the chorizo doesn’t cure quickly enough.

Although my life isn’t as outdoor dependent now as it was in the beginning (we no longer cook on wood and we have water connected to the house now) I still find myself checking different weather websites several times a day, a bit like one would with horoscopes, just in case the other prediction is more suitable.

The last few years it seems the weather is all over the place. The predictions change drastically within days. It’s impossible to tell when a season has started or ended. At times it seems everything has descended into a perpetual autumn, but without the gorgeous colours.

The first year we lived here, we were at the beach in April and the potatoes had been in the ground since March. Currently the ground is so soggy that apart from Villager C who always wants to be first in the potato race, no one has planted any yet. And Villager P told me her garlic has drowned. The mimosa already flowered the end of January, convinced it was Spring, the same with many fruit trees. But alas, winter came back.

We were convinced we had more than enough fire wood for winter but we had to order 2 extra tractor loads of wood this year, which was tricky because  in the middle of winter all the wood is wet.

Villagers talk about the weather constantly, and hence I do too.

Especially with Villager T, the village clown.  We always complain to each other how hot it is and that we want to go to the beach when it’s freezing, and how cold it is and that we have to put the fire on when dogs and cats have reduced themselves to puddles and the tarmac of the lane into the village resembles sticky liquorice.

Summer has to start soon. It has to.

Outside a lonely cricket is chirping. They tend to be the best forecasters. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s wearing a raincoat. Just in case.