Bemvindo Brasil

My bags are (mostly) packed. My presentation is under control. I am cleaning my house, on a lazy Saturday, after making a lemon custard tart with almond meal crust, a strawberry apricot crumble in an identical crust, and homemade brownies, all for a little girl's (not my own, but practically) birthday tea and sleepover.

So I am a breeder, he laughs at me. I suppose I am. There is this insatiable desire for a new baby, the baby smell is intoxicating, as is the soft skin, the adorable searching mouth. Baby. No. Baby. Yes?

There will be no babies for the time being, as my travels will take me places that were I strapped with a squirming infant, would be impossible. So I let my mind relax, enjoy this singlehood fully. I haven't enjoyed it really, never stopped and took the time. Or perhaps I did enjoy it, but not enough.

So off I go to Río, the destination that has been my dream for years. Ever since I can remember I have wanted to go to Río, much in the way that I knew I had to live in Mexico, and California. There are places that call to us, and others that take us by surprise.
I am caught wondering, these days, about where the next grand adventure will take me. This desire to be immersed in a culture foreign yet familiar is almost as strong (stronger? - certainly more acceptable) as the desire for a baby, and doesn't require my body to undergo massive and transformative procedures. Just a few long plane rides. This time armed with anxiolytics. I am not ashamed to admit that with the passage of years, or perhaps, motherhood itself, I have become much more fearful when flying, and do my best to restrain myself from grasping for the hands of strangers in abject terror as I (believe) I am plunging to my death. It hasn't happened yet, which of course doesn't mean it won't or can't. But I am still hopeful.

So, back to this language thing, or the cleaning thing. It is a little strategy that I employ when feeling anxious about things beyond my control (which are many and diverse). I don't feel nervous about not being understood, or able to communicate in Portuguese, but I do feel a bit uncertain of how I will move myself about, without being a conspicuous foreigner. I suppose that is just a risk I will take, to stick out like a sore thumb, or to move awkwardly among strangers. I must not mind it too much because I feel the wandering need so strong sometimes. It is time to move on.

The dissertation has been moving along, there is no more ache in my bones. Smiles come easily and naturally. It is time to be alone, and exploring, eating up the world with my eyes, bringing new flavors to my lips (much like an infant might). I shall make every effort to report of my travels while gone, but make no promises, not even to myself.

Santa Barbara is burning

The smoke unfurls in rich brown curtains, and the wind kicks up, sending dust in swirling patterns along the path.

Through almost unbearable heat, thick waves of refracting light seem to rise from the pavement. Sundowner gusts favor nothing but the eternal renewal of the burning season. Phoenix wings are consumed, like paper, as the flames mix with oxygen, releasing energy, transforming matter into nothing... and everything unknowable, intangible...

Rebirth will come, too. I think.

But when?