As time gets tight

On Sunday, Marga and I drove out to the northern tip of the island. We stopped at Playa de Formentor, a pristine and peaceful beach and I waded around in the crystal clear water and marveled at how incredibly blessed I am to be experiencing these things. We quickly loaded back up and drove further north into an otherworldly landscape of jagged grey cliffs, flecked with vegetation which inexplicably sprouted in the rocky landscape. The skyline resembled the spiked spine of a dragon and the narrow lane wound and curved along the steep walls of rock while gravity scooped away at the fringes of the asphalt, which made it very interesting.
We finally arrived at the old house called Cala Murta and, following the instructions in my hiking guide set out to follow the easy 2 hour trail of En Fumat. Allow me to go ahead and deliver the punch line: we never once encountered the trail. Marga was in a foul quitter mood and as such I felt pressured to get her as far out as possible as quickly as possible so she would fall in love with it and change her mind. This resulted in us finding ourselves at the foot of a gigantic embankment following no discernable trail. She spent the first ten minutes telling me she was tired and could not do it but I pointed out this was impossible, as we had not been walking long at all and I started telling an interesting story. Erstwhile we climbed the terraced embankment using our hands and scrambling up walls. By the time she caught on to my ploy, we were half way up and it was the kind of terrain that is easier to ascend than descend. After about an hour we were 4/5 of the way up and decided to stop for lunch. We sat on one of the retaining walls, built many generations ago and enjoyed the view through the layering mountains between which the sea seeped into harbours.It was beautiful and solitary and my nervous glances at Marga confirmed that she too understood and was enjoying the magic inherent in such ventures. It is the sort of thing you know you would never intentionally get into but once you are there it becomes a matter of conquering. Every wall which she stares at and says "no puedo, es imposible," then promptly surmounts, injects a person with that incredible sense of satisfaction and drives her to that next impossibility, to see if she can overcome that one too.
Eventually we made it to the top and after dipping through a high valley we spotted the sign for a trail off down the steep mountain side. As we stood in this pass, looking around I wondered at the people who had built these zig-zagging terraces and thought about what a desolate spot this must be. Then I looked at the cliff nearest us and saw that a beautiful cross had been etched into the stone. Silly, silly, egocentric me. We made our way down to the trail from which we could see the highway down a very steep hill. Marga decided the trail would lead us away from where we wanted to be going and I realized I had maxed out my ability to persuade her so we took off down the treacherous hillside. I slid on the scree as Marga took a more cautious approach. The hill ended with a 15 foot drop to the road. I pulled a maneuver and jumped safely, then realized Marga might not be quite as happy with this method. I was right. She stood there above me, fists on her hips and just stared. Then, behind her, out of nowhere, appeared a man with a helmet and climbing ropes. He climbed down and then expertly guided her, planting her feet into foot holds and giving her simple verbal commands until we were all safely standing on the pavement. The guy caught up with his friends, who had been caving up in the hills and Marga and I quickly found ourselves back at the car, covered in dirt and sweat and positively beaming. It was a...unique...Palm Sunday adventure.
On Tuesday the 1st and 2nd graders were having a surprise going away party for me and, being a secret, they of course had to begin telling me all about it on Monday. When the party happened, on Tuesday afternoon, I was inundated with dozens of hand drawn cards. The presence of potato chips, soda and sweets sufficiently distracted everyone that I was able to tuck into a corner and look through the cards. They were precious. This experience has been a good one.

Now Semana Santa is in full swing and once I have seen it all and can find a Catholic who can actually explain all the facets of the garb and details of the processions, I will in turn pass them on to you.

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One of the biggest lessons I learned in Oxbridge was that nothing kicks a person into gear like a deadline. My imminent departure from the island is the quintessential manifestation of all the adjoining sensations. As I walked out of my last day of classes, beneath the looming cloud bank, I opened myself to the moment wholly. Reality is gigantic and its pressure is immense. It is difficult to explain this sensation. I suppose, the best I can do is to say that, for example, when I looked at a tree, I was aware of how many leaves it had and felt inept for being unable to process them all. Everything around me was so much more than I could process that I had to surrender my attempts at making sense of it all and just let it pass around me. I arrived home and sat quietly and waited to feel something. Again, a sensation I can barely make sense of, much less put into words. The closest I can get to describing it is to compare it to sitting in the absolute darkness of massive cave far beneath the earth. The silence echoes and the open space oppresses. And there is just nothing.
Also, periods of transition always bring on a myriad of dreams. They populate my naps and I wake up out of breath and utterly out of sorts. I wake up in the mornings and find my blankets in a bundle on the other side of the room. It is as if there is all this chaos being riled up inside me but my waking self can't make sense of it, so I ignore it and it comes out by its own avenues. Any insight into or techniques of dealing with these things are more than welcome.