Hi Y'all. My head is pounding. The effects of a third dose of the COVID vaccine is coursing through my veins. But I have vowed to write, so write I will.
I have been reflecting on the correlation of freedom and solitude. Freedom has always been my greatest pursuit Freedom of time, of spirit, of agency. The ability to travel when I want, where I want. To afford a life with little restriction. To escape the cage of cultural expectations, and weave a life full of meaning and purpose. However, when I extract the moments within freedom that I prize above all, they are moments of solitude. Of internal wanderings sparked and created by experiences of newness. Sometimes it is found in moments of being alone together. My husband and I working in the same room on various projects yields a low hum of productivity that heightens my ability to connect in, and to work in presence.
As I sit here dripping in the solitude of sickness, I am reminded of the "why". I received my booster shot because I want to travel to Spain. A land where I have experienced countless moments of awakenings. SO today I share with you the beginnings of my travel series on Spain. I hope you enjoy.
Breaking Away: Carving New Beginnings in Spain
Breath flows from my mouth with deep satisfaction, as stress relinquishes it’s hold on my shoulders. I settle back into the erect blue seat and buckle my seatbelt. We made it. The month preceding my five week trip has been a flurry of Grad School final exams, bartending shifts, and weekly visits to REI. This is the first invitation in months to just sit with nothing to do but reflect and ponder how the hell I got here.
My husband fiddles with his headphones and gazes over my shoulder out the window. We watch hand in hand as the city skyline recedes, the buildings get smaller, and our little Brooklyn apartment is no longer within reach. This is the moment that calls to my traveler’s soul. The excited anticipation of what lies ahead. The long flight pulling me further away from my obligations and ushering in the unknown.
My mind wanders back in time and revisits the decision to come here. I watch myself from above as I sit on the couch, cross legged, balancing my coffee and my laptop. The google browser spits back an array of abroad summer art programs. I think of spending the summer with a group of 20 somethings and I shudder. I begin my search for the obscure. Five pages into my google search I discover Stoneinspain.org. A welsh stone carver and sculptor who has bought a crumbling home on the mountainside in one of Spain’s most remote villages. Excitement hums as I scroll through the outdated and simple website. There is no marketing, just the facts and love the artist has for this region. I need to fulfill a 3-D art course I was missing from undergraduate study, and I seem to have hit the jackpot. Two weeks, in a remote village learning an ancient art technique? Yes. Very yes, I fire off an inquiry email, shut my computer, close my eyes and dream of Spain.
My phone rings and pulls me from my daydream. My sister's daily Facetime call, I excitedly swipe to accept giddy to ramble about my new possible venture.
“Hey!”, I say.
“Hey!, I have a proposition.” Abra replies.
“What?”
“Erika called me, and she wants to do The Camino de Santiago in Spain, with just the three of us. I have no idea if we can do it, but I downloaded a memoir and a guide book on the Kindle, so read it and let us know what you think.”
I look down at my arm which is covered in goosebumps. “Abra, I JUST emailed a program in Spain for this summer. I don’t need to read about it. I’m in”
That’s how thorough my research was. I read travel memoirs and marveled at the simplicity of the author's days. Wake, walk, reflect, eat, drink, laugh, repeat. It sounded like exactly what I needed. So here I am. First stop… Barcelona to celebrate the end of my first year in grad school, then two weeks of stone carving in a tiny little village while my husband, Mike, works on his music. Then we will drive to San Sebastian for a few days of relaxation, surfing, eating and sun. After which he will drive me to St. Jean Pied De Port, where I will meet with my sisters and begin our 500 mile journey across Spain. The weight of the undertaking catches me by surprise. I slump back in my seat and shut my eyes. One Step at a time, I remind myself.
Canada de Benetanduz Spain
The clank of metal hitting stone echoes across the valley. A bead of sweat sticks a strand of hair to my forehead, as a chilling air rips through my thin jacket. I hear only the sound of our chisels striking alabaster. I try to focus on the sound in order to escape the internal persistence of my thoughts.
I arrived in Spain a week ago today, and five days ago my husband and I wound our way south and west into the barren hills of Canada De Benetanduz. A small village home to 16 human residents, and about 200 sheep. The sheep are the masters of this land, commanding and controlling the economy and one side eyeing shepherd. The village wakes to the consistent clang of the sheep's bells, and the guttural yelps of the shepherd as he weaves them out of their gate for their daily graze.
What a simple life, I wonder while watching the herd shift and move through space like flour through a siv. One man’s Purpose found in the company of animals, wandering, watching, care taking. No phone, no Instagram, completely connected to his surroundings. I am entranced.
My system is in utter disarray. This landscape bears no similarity to my home of Brooklyn New York. Where the people ride like cattle on the subway, and inhale each others exhales. It is a constant battle to find space, it is riveting, exciting, and intense. So much distraction from self, so much importance on ambition. The mere thought of working as a shepherd for a living is as alien to me as, well... an actual alien. Yet, so very intriguing.
Last night the shepherd drunkenly offered Mike what he thought was a fair deal, me for 15 sheep. Women, apparently, are scarce in these parts.
Here, in a land founded by the Knights of Templar, in Spain’s second highest village, I can't escape myself. I watch my Mike, less comfortable with inactivity, fumble to try and find his center. The shocking revelation that we will be here for nearly two weeks ripples through our little room. Anxiety grabs at me, irritation grabs him. We soothe each other with words of reassurance. “We came here to get away from work.” We came here to work on our art”. Take advantage, be grateful. Stay present”. We vow to try our best.
The people here are deeply kind, and old. I seemed to have stumbled on a land of grandparents, who have no children to care for. I was stopped three times on my way to the studio and asked “Vas a comer?” Are you going to eat? I assure them I have, they seem unconvinced. I shuffle away quickly before they can hand me food from their cupboards.
I sit at the counter of the town bar, there is one, it is also the hotel, the restaurant, and the store. It is overseen by Juan, the youngest of the village, who excitedly tells me about his daughter who is studying English in University in Seville. I sip hot espresso, no one makes it better than the Spanish, and watch Juan place a canister of wine on the table next to me with three glasses.
I pay for my espresso and leave as the farmers are shuffling inside after already spending hours in the field. Juan pulls up a chair and settles in next to them as they sip their wine and discuss local politics. I walk slowly over to the sculpting studio and meet with John, my instructor and the owner of Stone in Spain, who is there to teach me stone sculpting.
John is a tall, thin man from Wales, who seems permanently stained gray from the cloud of alabaster dust that sprays from his stone with each strike. He is a man of the world in the truest sense. He observes his environment slowly and has a deep scarring interest for people. He tells tales of riding through India by train, and of his time working with incarcerated men back home. He explains each carving tool with detail, and asks me to observe his collection of large alabaster stones and choose the one I am meant to carve. I sit with my stone on my lap, looking out over the valley and feel insecurity wash over me. That feeling of foolishness that arrives when we start something new. The Fool card in Tarot, a true beginning.
John regales me with information on how to begin.
"Sit with the stone" he says in between puffs of a self rolled cigarette.
"Listen to. it. What does it want to be?"
I sit and breathe, like the good student I am, and allow visions to run through my mind. I choose my stone, large in comparison to my petite build, I envision viking altarpieces, and listen deeply to what I want to begin. I start by carving detail into the stone. Slowly, with little force. Fearful of harming the stone, but the slowness is getting to me.
As a graduate student studying Art Therapy, I am acutely aware of the challenge this medium is providing me. It is completely at odds with my inner rhythm. I have always moved fast. Craving instant gratification. I spent my teenage years and my 20’s slinging drinks behind a bar, and slinging them back afterwards. Always in an effort to drown out the internal voice, the desire I had to be bigger, respected, fulfilled. Yet here I stand, looking out over a valley making painstakingly slow strides. Chipping away layer after layer, and I have no other choice but to be inside.
We break for lunch and walk to “The Sculptor house”. The residence of a friend of John’s who allows his students, or visiting artists to stay, as they no longer reside in the village. This year it is home to a tiny Turkish sculptor Meryem. She is pure fire barely confined within human form. Her laugh spreads quick and fast, like a brush fire in the desert. She devastates us with her kind soul, and her love of life. A survivor, a rebel, a gift.
We prepare a lunch of local cheese, cured meats, and lentil salad. We all sit around a big table and dive into a conversation on American and English politics. John and Meryem seem genuinely surprised that Mike and I speak passionately and informed about current events. We are in our thirties, well into their 60’s, two sparring generations, with common views. It bonds us strong and fast.
We return to the studio, and I return to making small drawings, or carvings, on the surface of my stone. Afraid that if I begin to strike below the surface I will become consumed, overwhelmed with my past. I play it safe for the rest of the day, and we all walk back to the bar for dinner. Wine, paella, conversation late into the night, and Carajillos, a strong Spanish coffee drink with sugar, brandy or rum create magic in the room. I am falling in love with this village.
Feeling buzzed and connected I lie awake in bed feeling the familiar unease that a new setting so often brings. A mix of excitement and fear. Palpable, Stirring. I remind myself I am safe. I fall into a fitful night's sleep.
A new day brings me to my stone. A single strike below the surface, one chip offers one memory. As bits of alabaster shower over my feet, my mind weaves through a collection of feelings. Memories of past lovers, relationships so dramatic, so charged. The ability to drive a man to the brink of himself. To lash out, to violate, to whip me with their words.
This land I stand on was founded through persecution. It’s memory blends with my own and surges through the bottom of my feet. Tears release through my eyes and fall back to the earth. The energy of pain, sadness, and loss engulfs me. I continue to chip, chip, chip. Through tears and persistence I discover moments of forgiveness. I project my gratitude in quiet reverence, as I stare out at the Canyon below. Aware of something cracking open deep within, a gentle hum of fear and excitement swirl upwards as I consider the weeks of travel ahead. My chisel clanks with new purpose blasting through layers that need shedding. I am ready, a voice whispers. "You are ready." I whisper to the wind.
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