I started this and stopped it over a year ago. My blogger life lasted four posts. It began motivated by this other wanderer that I crossed in the naturist farm. After working the mornings nude in the orchard we would scape to the cliff for some jumps in the river of this little paradise. I seeded, planted, collected, harvested even built a wall. I had to go down to the stream and feel the shapes of stones that fitted well together. Flat, sharp edges is what one looks for when building stone walls without mortar. I learned that in a medieval fotress in a german forest in another time. Sharp edges is what I look for in many things in life.
The other wanderer’s head would rest on my lap and we would share stories. We’ve been wandering differently. He travels faster and with more pleasure involved. I have been in the road longer and stumble a lot, all is lessons of love.
I have been not doing for a while. Stillness. Cause I am looking for the next project and I can’t find it but also because I have been trying to organize all the things in my head, in my heart. I am not lost. I need to gather the threads for the happiness they bring me and to understand this tapestry Weaving becomes important again. Time to write again.
It is almost one year later. I woke up deeply sore right in the middle of the heart. The seasons have moved from crying you, hating you, forgiving you, resenting you once more and then almost forgetting you. In between all the wonders of this year, the topic of you has lingered in the back, in those moments of silence that are not for peace. I now think I will not manage to be your friend and will have to break those promises I gave to you. You never gave promises to me, you remind me each time we speak. You also ask how am I doing but the trust to answer that question got washed away, by a lake, one year ago. The feeling you cared for the answer.
And life is and has been wonderful but today I woke up thinking of you.
I have been in New Zealand for 4 months. Three in the north, one in the south.
I came all the way over here for a mix of purposes. I wanted to learn about self sustainability. I wanted to work in some farm, get involved with intentional communities. Old hippie quarters of resistance.
I wanted to earn some money of a currency that is worth more of that of the country I come from. I wanted to be unprofessional in new fields where I had less worries and less computer duties.
I wanted to say goodbye. I needed a reason that gave me strength after saying farewell to a the old job and the old lover. Something after them.
I have been here 120 days. One season and some. Things look different here, less easy than I though in the distance before.
Now checking the balances I see that i have done many of the things I thought I would. I have look for the soil and all the plants and even learned about wine making and chopping trees.
I have not made any money, which I plan to fix; that or leaving quickly to start a new adventure in other place where my own currency is worth more.
I came here to pause important questions. what is the big next passionate project that I want to look for? where and doing what? what will be done after I am tired of ploughing?
And the love for the old lover is transforming to a lesson of the past, of a beautiful past.
Although I don’t realize it I think throughout all these experiences I am slowly and unpreventedly falling for this land of ends and beginnings.
A couple of days ago I arrived in X-church. My and the friends I am traveling with went to the pier in the artisty and poor neighborhood and then headed into the city center.
Lost in the new city we passed many closed roads and finally decided to park somewhere and explore around.
It was a friday night. The streets were eery. Nobody to be seen and the fences that keep you away from buildings that may collapse. Plenty of them.
As we began walking we began realizing how much damage the earthquake had done. How many of this old beautiful building have become unstable, cracks in the bridges and the sudden appearance of many new empty spaces from the things that had already been turn apart.
It was sad but full with possibility. It is the magic of cities that are recreating themselves.
I love these cities. That is how I first remember Berlin or my impression of Warsaw last summer. Cities with old history that all of a sudden were broken apart and over the debris rebuild themselves.
They create a new horizon on possibilities and dreams for the future both for the city but also when it comes to decide what it is meaningful in life.
The last days I have walked through city gardens, fallen towers, street art and improvised bars. This city is happening, changing, being defined in the now.
It´s creating new beauty.
Cities that re-create themselves are also a good metaphor for life.
After being completely turned apart there is always the possibility to build, rebuild and create something even better than before. The undoing of the self for a bright new growth.
Besides of the blogs from friends where I follow their travel adventures in inconstant updates I have never really followed one. I sort of get what they are about and I have found great advice about places, activities, cook recipies. However the idea of writing a blog seems terrifying to me.
The only thing I have to write about is my own life and experiences. I have no great knowledge of anything else. I have small knowledge of plenty of little things that are beautiful and unuseful. Not useless by any means but not practical either.
I am the material I have to write about. The adventures, places and fantastic people I cross in the way. That alone is worth writing about just to praise all the beauty of the way.
I think at the essence this will be a travel blog where I can list the adventures of the present and link them with those of the past. Where I can build a web of all the crossing and connections. A mental map listing all the realities and fictions that conform me nowadays.
My internal word also makes part of that list of things. Another big question then is how much of the pieces of your heart you can leave exposed for the eye to see. Can I treat this as I do with my journals and just let the pen go unstructured and raw? Is it wise to make that public for the world to see? Rationally the answer seems to be no. However I am not a particularly rational creature.
Another concern is the language. Choosing for some reason English instead of Spanish, my mother tongue, seems an odd choice. English, the language of the web and my international communications or Spanish to remember the childhood songs.
Why not French where I like the complexity of the words that resemble that of my mind?
I will go for English just in case I decide to invite some friends to read this and to have an excuse to make all those grammatical mistakes.
I am terrified about writing a blog. That´s why I think I should start one and simply see where it goes.