It feels like a lifetime since I last cared to write and share anything about my life; mostly, it’s been feeling like I want to, need to, wrap it all up and never look at that bundle of events ever again. But that’s not how healing and growing works. Despite how hard it can be, and no matter how many times one might have heard about a particular pain, if ones does not wear the shoes, they will not ever walk the miles.
After leaving Marrakech’s heat, I landed in Rome, Italy. I was really debating going to Sicily as it sounds way more exciting than another big city and a million ancient things to experience. Don’t get me wrong, I am super interested in ancient Rome and the crafty ways they found to copy ancient Greece’s art, mythos, pathos, and gods’ agápe for incest and rape; however, being in nature and close to the water sounded way nicer. The flights’ prices and the general plan did not work out, so I ended up in the thousand-sang city of Rome, and a small (yet expensive) room for three nights, walking distance from everything I might need. Since this was so last minute I had no real plans other than being a classic tourist: see the Colosseum, eat some pasta, get Covid. And, despite the short notice, I managed all three.
It wasn’t until I landed in my next and last stop before Greece, Dubrovnik, Croatia that I realized that the absurd tiredness I was feeling was not normal, and even then, I wouldn’t have connected the dots unless the sense of taste had not become inexplicably absent.
Since the Game of Thrones series made its passing through this gorgeous small town, the prices of seemingly everything went off the roof, and thankfully, small grocery shops were there to provide some reasonably priced meals. Sitting at my balcony on the top of a hill overlooking the full moon rising from the ocean on one side, and the Old City, an UNESCO World Heritage site, reflecting myriads of lights into the dark sky on the other, eating a simple meal, that’s when I realized I had no taste. Having heard some horror stories from people regarding their Covid experiences, and since I only felt a couple of mild symptoms, I dismissed the thought of being sick, and went to sleep.
The next day, right when I got a positive Covid test result, I also got a call from my father: my mom was diagnosed with cancer.
My mom is my greatest teacher. I inherited my love for rock music from her, along with my silliness, my love for reading, and my kin affiliation to cats. She taught me the virtues of kindness and patience, and always told me how proud she was of me. My mom also passed down on me several cultural and religious beliefs about many different things that were passed down on her from the previous generations, beliefs that to this day I am working tirelessly on dismantling. She did not do this because she didn’t know better; she simply couldn’t find the ways to dismantle them herself.
Don’t worry mom, I got this. For me, for you, and the women before us.
I lost my mom at the end of last August. I remember the denial. The pain, so strong, it made me wish I alone could feel the whole world’s pain, so that no one has to go through this experience ever again. I remember not knowing how to act, what to say. Feeling alone, unable to share my emotions.
So I did what I do best: I traveled.
(Diamond Beach, Iceland)
Iceland, with its endless roads and unreal beauty called for me and my pain. I drove countless miles each day for one week, stopping in different places to allow my senses to feel grounded: the touch of moss, wet shoes and socks from hiking waterfalls, the sound of seals playfully swimming around the icebergs, the scent of sulfur in my hair after soaking in the hot springs. I pushed my emotions to the side so much, it almost felt like my sadness was a pretense. Iceland, with all its antithesis of ice and fire, cradled me throughout all the array of my own emotions, the road only taking me forward.
A road that has never failed me throughout my life.