Inhabited

by Marcia

Being an immigrant means bit by bit you rip the skin you cultivated throughout life. The skin where you recognize your impressions, your story. The skin that holds a house. A house that includes dreams coming through, challenges overcome, disappointments replaced. Love, passion, heart-breaking. Family and childhood friends. Several distinct tastes full of memories. Countless senses set on that specific land where you came from.

However, in a sudden high flight, an Olympic pole vault, you realise this fall of not belonging anywhere anymore. The perfect moment to reset to zero. Looking deep into yourself, you might reinvent a life-stile with a new outfit and some adjustments. Calm down and be gentle. Take your time and cuddle up on colder days. You must also be aware you are the animal-person who needs to adapt as a way to survive.

When noticing myself here in my body but there in my mind, for so many times, in the space between an ocean, I feel “saudade”.This word is a noun for when you miss and only exists in Portuguese. It seems to be formed to define how sacred is to miss.

Being an immigrant is an extraordinarily rich experience, but can be very painful sometimes. I recommend you to play in the present moment and dive into your goals, even the most contradictory ones. The ones you are attached to, because of who you used to be and others that will set you free to become someone else. You will keep going, looking for your path.

On the search to discover myself here, running upside down in this intrepid trampoline, I still can find a moment to stop and admire the greenish parakeets having fun on the flowered cherry-trees near the Queens Palace. Someone probably has brought them from Brazil, the biodiverse multicultural tropical place I used to call home. Now the birds, as well as my dreams, are multiplying themselves around the island of Britain. Life always finds a way.

Marcia

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