so much to do

My previous post was not intended to be a substitute for my witty and entertaining prose that you have been accustomed to consuming. When I initially read it as a friend's Facebook status, I felt as though it had been written about me. My state of mind, before Spain was put into action, was: "create your own destiny." We have the power to choose: good or evil, right or wrong, boy or girl, etc. I will never forget when I would come home from ten-hour days of mental and physical exhaustion, too deflated to even put a fork to my mouth, much less a pen to paper...I also remember when I quit that position, which I had believed was the source of my internal angst and perpetual worry. I figured that my problems and malcontented feelings would dissolve into a gaseous cloud of happiness that floated around my head and carried me along a path of rainbows and smiles...But, that isn't exactly how it went...nor should it have been...or should ever be. Because that is false hope... lo no es actual. 

I have a culpa of things I want to do to better myself in this lifetime...I don't call it my bucket list...it is an anonymous amalgam of activities I want to aprovechar while I can. One of them being learn Spanish and speak it fluently.

"Why,"do you ask?

Pardon the only French I know...

"Why the fuck not?"

The stress that brews within me here are remnants of a poisonous cycle that I taught myself how to function within. I convinced myself that I was powerless until time had presented an open window that white doves flew through, where the sun shone a path that began on my feet, and I knew exactly what I was meant to do next. But, that mentality felt funky. (I like the word funky because it is awkward to say...Onomoeatapeia...). Why had everyone accepted this world of stress, worry, and economic success/failure as a value scale?

Pues, I realized two things.

First, do not wait for the sun to come to you. Rather, you seek out the sun.
Secondly, it is not "what am I meant to do next." Instead, it is "who am I?"

If you seek out the sun, you will figure out who you are along the way. Sometimes it is shining and sometimes there is rain or wind or a muddy puddle that you have to walk through and can't go around. But, seguro, I am happy. I used to walk with my head down, faster than everyone else, too preoccupied with the puddle that I saw ahead in the distance. I would plot multiple strategies about the best route to go around the puddle with hypotheticals subconsciously inserted as a precaution. (ps that sentence does not exist in Spanish because no one in Spain would ever want to a] think about hypotheticals & b] no one talks in sentences longer than 6 words...)

Pero, ahora, I take in everything...While I stroll along the cobblestone, the harsh reflection of the heat encapsulating both my body and face, I dwell in its comfort rather than lament it as an inconvenience. I say hi to everyone I see: Hola, Buenos Días, Qué tal? EVERYONE responds. People enjoy, listen, respond, make eye contact, smile...I met la pandera today.

Me: ¿Tienes pan fibra listo?
Sabtia: No. Pero, lo estará listo en 7 minutos. Cuando tú quieres, me dice y lo haré parati. ¿Venga?
Me: Serio? Fabulosa! Y, ¿Comó te llamas?
Sabtia: Oh, Sabtia. ¿Y tú?
*kiss on cheek, kiss on cheek*
Me: Mi nombre es más o menos más dificil para la gente aquí. Soy Courtney. 
Sabtia: Ay. *shake of the hand with lips pursed, which quickly curves into a smile* ¿Horní?
Me: *smile* Cerca. Cort está bien. 

So many things just happened in a 1 minute interaction that would very rarely occur to me in the States. The open willingness to be friendly, helpful, and curious provides a sunshine-less Andalusian warmth that only emanates from within their big hearts.

But, it starts with you. I came here and put myself in this position. My eyes are not closed and my head is not down, but, very easily, I could do that. I could go to nearby cities every weekend to hang out with other Americans, speak English, and go to discotechas. The road paved with paper green cobblestones and plastic VISA sidewalks are the paths with the most congestion. The air quality is horrible, the people are tired and angry, and the solution to getting what you want is materialistic and synthetic. My road is one that Spanish conquistadores walked along 700 years ago. Mi casa antigua sits on a lot of orange fields (a universe of seemingly endless orange fields) that was built 125 years ago.

My soul lives here, but my body has only just arrived. Once my brain catches up, and my tongue handles all the pronunciation and I no longer need to use my brain so much to translate...I will be the girl that didn't sit and wait and settle. I wended, carved, and yielded all that I want so it is all that I have. Because...it really is just that simple.