What I dreamt of
Fresh air and the sun’s warmth, almond and apricot and lemon trees, fresh bread and strong moroccan coffee, the ocean in late afternoon — these are the immediate elements.
Just prior, I have handed in my resignation, believing I am headed for London in a matter of months. But before this I return to one of the most beautiful places I have ever lived — Deia, a village ringed by mountains on the Spanish island of Mallorca. I put my furniture into storage and pack two suitcases, out of which I live, as it turns out, for the next ten years.
Finally, I begin to realize how tired I am. I feel this physically, before I can turn it into ideas and words. It is salutary for me.
I had made my way through the world up to now — and this is still my greatest virtue and vice rolled together — by my wits alone, headfirst. I forced myself out of bed at daybreak every day and rushed a silly novel of a life into being.
My task now is to write.
In moments I determine are not productive, I look out the tiny window by my desk. I see a mountain, sky, and air that dwarfs nuclear weapons and the life and death they seem to threaten. I will breathe deeply. The world realigns itself more generously, or rather my visions do.
None of this is logical, none of it makes sense.
Quite early, I put away most of the books I brought along. I learn to have patience with everything unresolved in my heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. I stop searching for the answers, which could not be given to me now because I would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now.
Perhaps then, someday in the future, I will gradually, without even noticing it, live my way into the answers.
I like this very much.