SO YOU’RE A WHAT??

‘The irony of commitment is that it’s deeply liberating — in work, in play, in love. The act frees you from the tyranny of your internal critic, from the fear that likes to dress itself up and parade around as rational hesitation. To commit is to remove your head as the barrier to your life.’ — Anne Morriss

A woman who ran logistics for the United Nations peace-keeping corps in some of the bloodiest conflict-ridden countries on this planet sends me this quote at the end of her emails. She, Nadine, is now an inspirational yoga teacher (www.universalempress.com) who also guides women toward wellness and wisdom and is one of my closest friends. Here, on the hotel balcony overlooking central Lisbon, having just committed to a farm in Portugal’s Algarve, Nadine’s shared quote comes to mind. The weight of the responsibility of a farm and a new endeavor had at moments sat crushingly on my shoulders. But once I signed the contract, I am exploding with fireworks of elation. It is a moment that reminds me of when I decided to have a child, my daughter. The dread of adding another life to this overburdened planet combined with the fear of doing wrong by this innocent, utterly dependent being dissipated into purest joy, once my commitment to her mere existence, albeit as an amorphous rapidly multiplying mass of cells, was made. It was a joy that erupted like Krakatoa to blow all doubt into oblivion.

It is to my daughter I am now in deepest gratitude for it is she who set in motion all that has manifested in Portugal to date. Without her, I would never have developed the strength to forge out on my own with true independence. I am in gratitude too to her ancestors whose DNA she carries in an even more concentrated quantity than I in her genes. This was her ancestors’ beloved city, Lisbon. Portugal, their country. As I gaze out onto the view of Lisbon, a singular beauty in terms of human intervention on the natural environment, I am knowing more and more why I have returned.

My daughter was scheduled to join me in the city this week at the hotel, but cancelled. “I don’t want to tour around on holiday with you. I want to come home to you there,” she’d said, an introspective young woman of fierce intelligence and gentle empathic intuition. “Find a house, settle in, and then I will come to Portugal.” Her decision is also an act of independence, of releasing my last hold on her as a needing child. And now I am in even greater thankfulness for the farm because in its incarnation as my new home, my beloved daughter will visit.

From the magnificent city vista of the rooftop, Sigrun and I descend to the dark, carpeted hallways with a 60s mod pattern running through. We settle into our room, changing into nightclothes and climbing into our twin beds. It has been a long day for the both of us. I’ve come from a yoga retreat in Ericeira, Sigrun from Spain via Coimbra. We are spent. Before Sigrun pops on her sound-muffling headphones through which she listens to podcasts, she tells me her son-in-law with whom she has just visited in Spain suggests she meet a Portuguese friend of his who has a property in Viseu that he has developed for yoga, permaculture and the like. It sounds similar to what we want to do. “The friend, his name is Manuel, is traveling to Lisbon on Wednesday, the day I leave,” she says, “But perhaps you have time to meet?”

Nadine’s guidance is again with me tonight. In the past few weeks, she has insisted I have a consultation with a psychic-astrologer, Paula, who is based in Australia. I’ve been quite resistant as I don’t feel I need any guidance but want to trust my own instinct. But Nadine and I speak frequently. “Anna, have you booked Paula yet?” “Who’s Paula?” “The woman I told you about.” “Oh, that woman.” Nadine, with patient almost parental deliberation, says, “Anna, listen to me. I’m not forcing you but you are making massive changes and it would be wise to get guidance or at least affirmation. She is good. Very good. Everything she told me is manifesting.” When Nadine is in her knowing, when she speaks from her heart, the granite mountains resonate and listen. I am little more than a stubborn lump of flesh and bone. So my appointment is this evening at ten.

I download Zoom, text Paula to say I am on, and my computer screen flashes to life, life being a chirpy, cheery, fresh-faced Australian woman sipping her morning coffee. I ask her if I can turn off the video. I am wearing pyjamas and what looks like smudged mascara but is just my eyes’ dark circles. It’s even more that I want to turn off the light so Sigrun can sleep but Paula tells me she needs to see me. Better for the reading. She launches in about my north node (I have no idea what she is talking about), saying everything is transforming, a metamorphosis, shedding skin, becoming a different identity and moving, even changing careers. She says I’ve been supporting others intensely, carrying them, its time for their independence. I will be empowering many more people, creating space where they can learn to take care of themselves. (Well, well. All of this fits in quite nicely with my daughter’s journey and my grand plans for Portugal as laid out in previous posts.) 

She mentions a shamanic farm where I’ll be planting medicinal products. I confirm the farm in Portugal. (Meanwhile, if she only knew about my childhood brews and bush medicine…) South America resonates in my past life, and that shamans will be coming to my new space. Did I know any? No. Well, they will find me, she says. She asks if it’s two of us on the farm. I confirm and mention Sigrun. Is Sigrun a healer? Does she have connections to shamans? she asks. Not that I know of. She says Sigrun will make the connection. She then laughs and says she needs a moment. Oh dear, she admits, I am overwhelming her with my energies. (At least she laughs and regains herself. Others run!) She asks if the land came together magically. This time I laugh and tell her to read my blog. She says I’ve got to bless the land, ask permission from the local entities. I have to honor the local energies. Otherwise, she says rather ominously, they’ll talk to me. (Oh, they’ve spoken alright. The land begged for trees, lots of trees. The well whispered that she is sacred and only to be used for purification and watering the living creatures.)

Paula continues. She says I will mother the land but will also create jewelry, the designs will be tribal-like, source memory work, expressing the changes in me. I show her a pendant I’m wearing. It’s from my brand-new collection, Inanna, named after the Sumerian goddess. Oh my god, you’re already doing it, she yells. (And she thinks I’m intense…) She asks if I paint. She sees painting retreats. It’s a good thing she records the conversation as I am so mentally drained that I can hardly take in anything. Sigrun has long floated off into dreamland. The session wraps up, Paula and I say goodbye, and I slip quickly into the deepest of sleep.

The following morning, Sigrun zips up her little 4-wheeler cabin case (another sign that we will are well-matched companions for I can’t think of any of my friends who could travel for six weeks with hand luggage only) and orders an Uber. I accompany her to the sidewalk where we hug goodbye. She climbs in to the car and pulls the door shut. I wonder if it is a strange, discombobulating moment because I find all goodbyes discomfiting or if it’s that these last few weeks have been a weird wrinkle in the flatline of normal time. But the second I say the word normal in my head, I realize that nothing to do with Portugal has been normal. Everything has been strangely and exponentially better than I have been able to imagine. Every moment to do with Portugal has been an unexpected gift. Did I mention at the very beginning of this trip at Newark Airport about to board, I offered my seat up to a passenger desperate to travel on the flight out and was given a voucher that will bring me back at least two more times to the country? Even when I leave in a few days, the universe is conspiring to ensure I return. 

The next day, as I am running errands in Lisbon, my phone rings. I answer and a male voice asks, “Hi Anna, would you still like to meet?” My mind is blank. Oh! One of the yoga participants, Michael (pronounced Mi-kel), had told me he would be in Lisbon. “Sure, Mi-kel,” I say. “Not Miguel. Manuel,” says the deep voice. Ah, yes! Sigrun’s son-in-law’s Portuguese friend with a farm. He suggests I join him where he currently is or where he will be meeting some others. Where are you? I ask. The problem is I have no idea what he answers. He names areas of Lisbon that must be pretty familiar to most but I can’t even begin to make out the words. My brain tries to spell out what he’s saying. Impossible. With spoken Portuguese, I’m rendered illiterate. To give an example, earlier this year, I’d visited Obidos (that I pronounced Oh-bi-dos), a castle town north of Lisbon. On this trip, a Portuguese acquaintance recommended I see Ohbidge. “Will do,” I answered, pulling out my phone to put it in my notes. “Could you spell it for me?” “Sure. O-b-i-d-o-s. Ohbidge.” Yup, that’s Portuguese for you.

So Manuel gives up on suggesting places for me to meet and asks instead where I am. That too is a mystery. So I open Google Map and name the closest subway, Rossio. “Be there in ten minutes. Coming on my bike,” he says. I dawdle along the limestone squares that make up Lisbon’s sidewalks, in amongst small herds of tour bus tourists, moving and milling about like cattle in new pasture. The native species have fled as this invasion. It doesn’t seem as if many Portuguese remain in Lisbon at this time of year. Even the store staff is from elsewhere, Poland, Uzbekistan, Brazil. I reach the meeting area thinking I’ll have to call to ask how to identify him when I spot a man in a white shirt and black pants locking his bike to a stand. Certainly not a tourist, but maybe a mormon (white shirt, black pants and bicycle) until I notice his semi-long black hair pulled into a ponytail. Mormon heads look like they’re coiffed by army barbers. Ok, yes, I have a highly developed creative center in my brain but it has crowded out, even atrophied, the adjacent language cortex. I almost call out ‘Mi-kel.’ Damn. Now his name won’t come to me. Luckily, Cortisol kicks in and snaps the synapses to attention. “Manuel!” I say and wave.

Manuel and I sink into chairs at an outdoor café where we chat a bit about his farm Zen Vougaand its endeavors when he asks me if by chance I know a woman called Dee and a man, Dominic, the former had lived in, the latter was from no other than Jamaica. Of course, as chance would have it, I know Dominic. Needless to say, I also knew his grandmother, his father, his siblings. “But Dee,” I tell him, “I’ve never met. The strange thing is that she and I had exchanged texts last year.” I explain my Reiki teacher had suggested I reach out to her as she knew Dee had moved to Portugal. “How do YOU know them?” I ask. “Well,” he says hesitatingly, “Dee’s mentoring me.” “In what?” I ask, knowing nothing of Dee except her Jamaican connections. He pauses again and then sheepishly mumbles, “Shamanism.” I almost fall off of my chair. No, it is not the vino verde. It is Paula’s predictions. “So you… you’re a shaman?” I practically yell.

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