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Southern Spain moves slow. 4.5 hours for a load of laundry.

Southern Spain moves slow. 4.5 hours for a load of laundry. A beer accenting moments of the day. A 5 hour dinner with friends.

In the USA I ask “what’s next?” In Spain, I ask “what now?”
There is a quiet that allows my deeper hungers to surface.
Here I can feel that there are 4 things I want
And none of them can be bought.

I plundered the USA when I was there. Filled myself with oaky wine and ethnic foods. Absconded with beautiful bras, chocolate, and even stuffed my suitcase with my favorite tampons.

In a few days I’ll WOW my Spanish friends with bacon chocolate, jalapeno popcorn, rose water gin and a red wine that is so smoky, it tastes like fire.

Honestly, I feel more whole since I went “home.” Because it was clear that whatever bit of belonging I had in my country, is mostly gone. I long for the land, the poignant questions arising about love, sex, and gender, and I miss having an English speaking audience for my work.

But I don’t miss being pushed towards eternal questions that lead to nothing.
The endless frustration of being educated that security can be bought.
Or living in a culture of competition
where financial abundance is paired with emotional starvation.

My home now is in the hearts of my friends, the wild of the forest, the refuge of a soft sweater, and the promise of a deep kiss.

Perhaps I have come back to my roots.

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