The journey to ‘Here’ #3

Ibiza – 6pm – night warmed … hug warmed … and a circle of women that talked about what we wanted from the week.

I wanted to crack – or rather, to be cracked – split – to somehow break … my spirit was tight; emotions held, fingertips gripping the side of a building …

My brain felt dulled, flat. J’étais dégonflée comme un vieux ballon … the ‘grey’ had become a part of me …

Anything beyond the every day felt like it was birthed through wet cement.

So I wanted to be split, because that was the way that I changed. Change needed to be blunt, brusque; it needed to be irreversible or at least have a finality about it.

I have always been slightly suspicious of anything  gentle. I preferred hard training, hard massage, clear messaging; all or nothing; black or white; either or

It needed to crack.

I thought that it needed to crack.

Turns out – change can be accomplished more gently.

 

The journey to ‘Here’ #2

… and so I ended up in Ibiza …

Farmhouse

 

… leaving my door at a grizzly 8C;

lying flat on my back on an airport lounge shower floor in a desperate attempt to rid myself of, if not my head, at least its interior ache;

medicating myself with sleep-inducing, pain relieving concoctions;

being delayed by three hours that resulted in an additional wait of five and a new destination;

arriving at an airport without an address for a mountain-hidden Spanish farmhouse …

 

 

… after 41 hours, with a hug-welcome.

I had being saying for months that I needed hugs – more hugs, more often, stronger hugs, more touch … ironic that, when the wish is granted but the outcome is not one that looks like that expected … so …

I accepted the hug the way that I accept most hugs – with a veneer of my social self separating the other.

Ibiza – light-filled with a memory of the day’s warmth at 6pm.