Notes From A Trip To Past/Present 010
Notes From A Trip To Past/Present 010
Letting myself feel buoyant.
I am currently on an Artist Residency, writing, thinking, and working toward one of my current works in progress. This WIP is a memoir. Each day that I am here, on the residency, I will send you a note. They will reach you at all hours of the day and night. I do not promise that they will be long, coherent, adhere to any one form, or make sense at all. You are welcome to ask about what is shared—though I do not promise to answer or make any meaning for you. This space is after all a documentation of my creative practice—no more, no less.
The last time I went to the sea was in October 2022. I unexpectedly traveled to Cangas, Spain, the last place I lived before everything happened, the weekend of my remission anniversary to gather my things.
Expected because I knew I would have to go back to Cangas eventually. Unexpected because I hadn’t anticipated making the journey then. I was planning to go the following spring. But the place where my stuff was being stored was no longer available. Someone was moving in, so I had to move myself out.
When asked if I could come, I wasn’t sure if my things were worth the trip. Wasn’t sure if I could afford it. Wasn’t sure if I was ready to go back to the place that felt like living in my wildest dream and an answered prayer all at once (which is all wildest dreams maybe ever are anyway).
What I did know was I had some clothes I loved that I’d had to leave in Spain when I got my diagnosis. I knew I had friends there to stay with. I knew it would be nice to go back to my favorite restaurants and see my students.
My parents supported me making the trip and my therapist thought I could handle it too, so off I went.
It has never been easy to get to Cangas. Cangas is this small, sleepy, beautiful fishing town that you can only access via bridge or boat because it’s on the other side of the river from Vigo and Vigo is the city with all the resources, connection points, and energy that cities receive.
I flew from Detroit Metro to Atlanta Hartsfield to Madrid Barajas to Vigo (no second name, small airports don’t get them I guess). The journey took well over 24 hours. And I ended up spending the entire weekend in Cangas alone.
The friend I was staying with let me into her place, showed me how everything worked, and then went off on a hiking expedition. My former co-worker/co-teacher was off on holiday and wouldn’t be back before I had to leave. My schools were closed because of the holiday too. And if anyone I saw in town remembered me, none of them said so.
I was alone with all my stuff.
So, I sat in my friend’s office and sorted through the remnants of my life before cancer, trying to decide what I would keep and what I would leave.
A red printed scarf I got in Turkey.
A vintage, green set I wore all the time in Spain.
Notebooks from work with doodles about my life there.
Tote bags I picked up at museums along the way.
In 2019, I left behind enough stuff to fill two suitcases—one huge, one normal-sized.
In 2022, I left with one suitcase—one normal-sized suitcase filled to the brim with what was allowed to come back with me, back to the aftermath, back to my life post-cancer, back to the whole new world that I am still building, still finding my way through, still feeling into, and charting the borders of.
There was some kind of magic in the sorting. In the return. In sitting at the beach, I used to run to after work. In ordering the same meals from all the restaurants I once loved. In walking the same streets that had known me before.
Before.
Returning enabled me to let go of before, or at least make some sort of peace with it.
I say some sort of peace because I am not exactly sure of the terms of our agreement. Not always clear where the triggers lie. Not at all sure how long the peace will last.
All I know is I left that trip back to Cangas feeling lighter, able to move forward.
It’s been 9 months since that trip. And today, I went back to the sea. Let myself feel buoyant.
I was able to float.