The past few nights, I’ve found myself waking up in the middle of the night with remnants of my dream lingering. Like a phrase stuck on the tip of my tongue, desperately scrambling to collect all the words before they simply fall away into nothingness.
Last night, I dreamt I was still in Portugal, caught somewhere between the mountains and the ocean. Life has given me something to think about: do I stay somewhere that feels like home, or do I stay with people who feel like home? Is there a place where both worlds can align? It’s hard to say, but right now, I would have to say no.
In these dreams, I find myself by the beach. The sun radiates warmth, the waves lap against the soft sand, and the world feels quiet. I miss the quiet, the feeling of peace.
I moved to Boston to be closer to family, closer to home, and yet, despite only being an hour away, I see them about as much as I did when I lived in Vermont. Funny how life works itself out.
But these dreams, how they call to me. Each time I have them, it’s one of two beaches. I see myself walking along the shoreline, tracing the outlines of the waves like I once did with a lover’s lips, gently observing the change in tide. I am home. Transported back to the little house I lived in, where eucalyptus surrounded the property and a chamomile field sat at the end of the drive. I miss Sam, the property dog who would walk me to the front door in the evenings and wait by the entrance for me to wake each morning. Since I lived there, Sam has passed on. But in my dreams, he is still there, playing in the fields, walking alongside me.
When I was living in Portugal, there was a day I was using a small brush to scrape paint splatters off the patio. It took hours, and it was tedious work, but there was a point when I looked up, past the yard toward the glimpses of the ocean that revealed themselves. All I could think was, if this is what I have to do to be here, I would be happy. A profound realization to have, and an odd one at that. I had so much that brought me joy. The only thing missing were the people I love most.
I can’t help but think of my mom when I’m feeling this way. When she was my age, maybe a bit younger, she spent a good chunk of time living in Italy. She loved it. She talks fondly of her time there, and I remember when she told me how she cried in the airport on her way back home. I wonder if she resonates with feeling at home somewhere else, but family was what brought her back. I wonder what life would’ve looked like for her if she had stayed somewhere that felt like home. A hug from my mother is the most at-home I have ever felt.
Maybe this is the constant battle of life, deciding how to bring together all the things that provide us joy. For now, I am happy. I am happy despite the longing for another place. I am happy because I get to take long walks in the sun, I can make myself yummy coffee, and I share my life with people brimming with love.