A Season of Patience

Photo by Sara Kurfeß on Unsplash

In May, I lifted something wrong, resulting in weeks of back and hip pain. In early August, I made a wrong move while working, affecting my left knee. As we live on a hill, with projects dispersed between buildings, walking means taking mini steps and I bend and move more deliberately, slowly.

Last winter was depressingly long as I was plagued by bad health, watching the bright future I imagined disappearing like a soap bubble blown by the winds. I came to Portugal to heal and I am—only it's a lengthy process.

Each summer at Val da Luz, a different theme emerges. This summer, it's patience. I long to be active but instead, I move slowly, waiting and growing impatient. Ironically, our car won’t start, and it needs be towed, but our mechanic is on vacation until next week. We’re both unable to move and plagued by delays, motionless at the height of summer. If the car worked, I’d dash to an airconditioned supermarket for ice cream. But it just sits there, useless, and I sit here typing, seeking to be useful.

In normal circumstances, I’m always on the move, switched on, jumping between tasks, never getting enough sleep. When I do slow down, which is often forced, my mind quickly takes over and the mental chatter is extremely uncomfortable.

This summer, I’ve witnessed the ongoing, frustrating dialogue between my mind, which is focused on solutions, and my physical discomfort. My mind has been negotiating, begging, manipulating and trying to accelerate the healing process. “Come on, come on! Let’s go, enough!” it shrieks like a restless smoker taking a last drag on a cigarette, ignoring the tightness in my gut and the slow, dull ache in my knee.  It disregards how my body is working 24/7 to accommodate me, rebuilding muscles and tendons, recalibrating joints—all this is fine, nuanced, work. This process demands patience and waiting, like allowing fruit to ripen on the tree.

This summer, I've been doing something close to nothing. As walking and moving have been awkward and painful, I've spent a lot of time lying next to the pool--but without a book, notebook, or phone. I just lay there listening to the water gurgle in our eco pool, dealing with waves of frustration and boredom, sinking deeper into exhaustion. I’ve moved carefully to avoid triggering that sharp, random spasm in my back, shifting deeper, gently into the shade. My thoughts have raced: what’s happening to me? where’s the joy in life? But my view from there, looking out onto our land—past the curly willow and blue spruce pine and the zinnias Dennis has planted—at our sweet mustard-colored house on its schist terrace, is beautiful. It resembles provincial France and yet it’s Portugal, dry and hot.  This view has comforted me, despite my mental gymnastics, reminding me to breathe deep. The thoughts ease…

The longer I practice this routine, sinking into what feels like limbo—a place of non-action, just wading through time with no clear direction—the easier it gets (although it's never that easy for an impatient mind like mine). There are moments, though, when the waiting takes too long and I get restless and annoyed: I want my body to get back to normal, my life to get back to normal, to speed up again and optimize every moment. But this summer has been happening in slow motion. “Sit with your discomfort,” it whispers to me, slowly. “Let nature’s beauty sink in. Let the moment sink in. Just be.”

As I do this, it gives me a deeper sense of what matters. This life that I’ve been speeding past, these moments that will never be regained, these deeper insights about myself suffering over my suffering. This softness of the wind playing with my hair while lifting the butterflies nearby.