New

One of the best things about being back in Wolfville was joining with two congregations dear to my heart for a celebration of Epiphany, the campus chapel and Wolfville Baptist. As I was welcomed back by one individual, they mentioned that at least this was more home than Portugal. Surprisingly, that couldn’t be further from the truth. In a country where I speak the language with a limited vocabulary and spotty grammar, I have felt perfectly at home for two weeks. Maybe it’s the familiar flavours of childhood: Pao de Mafra, palmeiras, fresh clementines, Portuguese frango, and mountains of delicious European chocolate… Maybe it’s the familiar voices of childhood speaking rapid Portuguese in my direction and showering greetings and kisses on my family. Maybe it’s the winding cobblestone streets and orange trees. It was as if every corner we turned contained yet another beautiful memory of one of my favourite places as a child. I remember building houses and making salads out of garden greenery with my brother. I remember birthday parties and treasure hunts and yet another round of Parabens. I remember cold tile floors and snuggly Christmases. I remember days at the beach and being introduced to Bocce Ball. I remember dancing in the living room of Casa Azul. I remember the pirate ship playground wonderland at the Parque de Eduardo VII. I remember climbing on the cannons at Castelo Jorge. 

So, for two weeks, I re-lived this joy. I swung in a Indian fabric chair in a restored farmhouse listening to guitarists play off each other’s skill and joined in conversations of faith and life. I rang in the New Year by singing music I had sung in Sunday School as a child, not even missing the unwritten but always sung “bum badum bum bum bum”. I spent our last night in the country with more dear friends,

trying to figure out how to explain the discipline of calculus in Portuguese. I existed in this pleasant space between childhood and adulthood and let the happiness settle around my soul. 

I also had the privilege to explore Lisbon with my parents and discover Granada, Spain. Monasteries and monuments and churches and castles alike took my breath away. My parents’ SLR has never been so well suited to a task as recording these wanderings. I wish I could capture what it’s like to climb a castle’s stone steps in sparkly shoes or what’s it like to let exhaustion catch up to you in a castle garden and giggle while the endless stream of guided tours walk by. It is good, good life. 

I find it terribly difficult to be ungrateful after this trip. While this life holds hurt and pain and difficulty, I have been so richly endowed with experience and relationships that complaints are empty. Portugal is just one piece of the rich journey I’ve travelled. 

So life is not new because it’s a new year. Life is new because I have fresh perspective and fresh breath and fresh energy. I read Charles Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities this break for the first time. Shocking, for a self-proclaimed literature geek. It was marvellous. Last time I was in Portugal for Christmas, I fell madly in love with Jane Eyre. This time, I giggled my way through Dickens’ classic. My parents have been accusing each other of “floppin’ agin me” for years and I finally caught on. His scathing satire of all things nobility and wealth was remarkable. And I was struck to the core by the image of Madame Defarge and her knitting. What an incredible picture of the sweeping forces of revolution. So, about halfway through, I made a decision. There’s a magical second hand bookstore in Wolfville brimming with classics. So, I will take it on my hands to buy one classic book at a time and finish each one before buying the next, and in such a way, savour the delight of finding a life-changing story even amongst the more tedious ones. Because I need to be more of a bookish nerd. As Rachel Lynde would sing, “At least all those books haven’t spoiled the beauty of her looks”. One can only hope!

I’m glad that one of the attributes that has carried over from my childhood is an ability to look at the world with fresh, eager eyes. This ability is clouded as stress and work and responsibility pile up, but they can’t crush it completely. Last semester, I lost all sense of dignity every time a beautiful sunset lit up the valley sky. And, it’s those little moments that continue to keep me encouraged and refreshed and joyful. I read an article for my Tolkien class about how sorrow and joy must exist in partnership for joy to be complete in an eucatastrophic ending. There’s something beautiful about bad existing with good, so that the good is that much sweeter. Beside the mundane, the extraordinary shines even brighter. Beside the stress, the freedom of laughter is sweeter. Beside the rush, the moments of quiet and space are more powerful. Beside the drudgery, the moments of inspiration are all the more striking. 

Carrying me into the new year is the beautiful intermingling of past and present I was immersed in. In a place that has only been a brief part of my present, it’s difficult to find the same gravity that pulls me back to the winding roads of the Algarve and the sunny streets of Nairobi and even the sweaty coasts of Mozambique. It’s good to be back in a familiar bed and back amongst familiar faces, but the fit is still not as easy as I could hope. Thankfully, I have new perspective. A friend of ours made a comment that most people she observes seem to be uncomfortable in their own skin and out of place in their respective crowds, no matter how acclimatized they look. Maybe I just like this thought because it makes my situation less solitary, but it carried some weight for my thoughts… Maybe Portugal fits so comfortably because it really has no logical reason to fit in reality. Instead, it’s just another sign that our God is so so good in the way He provides for His children.

In the mean time, my heart is open and looking for the social discomfort around me. I believe that men and women are made in the image of God and all carry the potential for the extraordinary. Now to treat them like it. The more I travel, the more fellow nomads I meet, the less I’m satisfied with ordinary. In my brush with adulthood, I’m starting to understand that that’s a challenging dissatisfaction to be left with. But hope lives in my heart, next to all the inspiration and joy and energy brewing. Adventure is as much of an attitude as it is an actual event. And it’s an old attitude that I intend to keep around this year. 

This song was a favourite of my dad’s to play this Christmas and I can’t complain. The melody, the words, carry such beauty and such power. It’s such a comprehensive picture of passion, in all of its forms. So, I’ll let Dylan finish this one off: 

"The storms are raging on the rolling sea, and on the highway of regret. The winds of change are blowing wild and free. You ain’t seen nothing like me yet."