Awake and Dreaming

Recently I have been reading a book made up of short stories. They are awkward, with just enough chapters to get you connected and then you're left out in the cold, the story closed up on paper while your mind moves ahead into the unknown, attempting to bring closure and still wanting more.

In a world full of relational snippets my Evan is no short story. Like all good leads the more I read and allowed myself to join the narrative, the more he developed until one day, with a number of chapters come and gone, there stood a hero on the pages of our lives.
There is more to the art of heroics than one would first assume. The legend and strength is built, not just in the moments of glory but rather in the years of dedication that precede it. There are hours behind a desk, doing the bidding of others to turn a coin. Hours of fixing meals and tending scraped knees. Days worth of listening as I circled around and about the emotional turmoil of lifes ups and downs. He has done it all and then some.

If it was just about those things, I would be the luckiest girl. But I'm not. I'm not lucky. I'm chosen. Chosen by him, cherished and loved. Inspite of myself and the flawed humanity I wear. For some reason, he picked me. Like a reflection of the divine narrative that has wrapped itself around me since birth, this one too is holding true and strong. It is not perfect but he makes it the right one for me. It makes me cringe and catch my breath to think that there are moments I've almost put the book down. Almost gave up because the story had slowed down and I thought I knew what was coming next. I couldn't have been more wrong.
Today I will skip the day that celebrates his arrival in the world. I will fly over it through time zones and land too late to salute him for another year well done. But what is one day when you have so many planned ahead. I only pray that there are more than I dare to hope for. Full of the honesty and love that has bound us thus far because all that he is makes me grateful beyond belief to call him mine and so very happy.

Happy Birthday my love.

Old misty eyes glistened behind wrinkled eyelids and his weatherbeaten hand touched my face.
The culture we had immersed ourselves in had become a part of us. We were completely foreign and yet entirely welcomed and at home.
He, the mayor of this small town, was like the spanish grandfather I never knew I wanted. She, the old aunt and 'mi primera amiga', was my first friend in Alcoba, both representing a snapshot of this sleepy life altering hollow.
On the day we left, faltering language was not enough for me. I pulled our friend Jaime with me down the street and asked him to convey with more accuracy my pain at leaving.
As someone who is not prone to many long standing attachments, but rather the kind of person who gathers a menagerie of friends wherever she goes, I was surprised at the depth of my feelings as our departure loomed. Some women kept giving the children toys, and others bought money for them. I had painted cards, faltering when I realised that the woman holidaying nearby was a known spanish artist, but proceeding regardless because I gave not my skill but my heart.

The night before our departure, Jaime returned to Alcoba. He who's house we now called our own. We talked in the street until dark, retelling the stories of our escapades with his crazy friends, who just like his house, had become ours also.
We invited him in and the evening continued, with wine, cheese and new varieties of cured meat bought from further south.

With all our bags wedged into our compact rental and my relic from the demolition site, rescued from destruction after 150 years, restored and squeezed into a backpack, resting on my knee, we headed out of town.

The drive south to Madrid was hot and a little subdued as the deeper realisation that we were again headed into the unknown became ever more apparent.

It was a beautiful whirlwind afternoon that followed. We flew into Germany where we were met by our old friend Timo. We enjoyed a later dinner with him and some of our favourite german friends before one of the kids self destructed, I lost it and we all fell asleep. A few short hours later, as the birds were only thinking of rising, we scrambled through breakfast and towards the train station with our longtime buddy Marcus who had lived with us in New Zealand for a year, starting when E was only five months old.
Our train took us from Basel to Frankfurt with one transfer from platforms required in the middle. It was in that 10 minute window that both children decided they simply must go to the toilet and so I walked them through the terminal towards the bathroom. As we exited, partly in jest and an effort to keep things moving, I joked that our train was almost there and so we'd better get a move on. As we bounded up the stairs I found Mr Evans, standing at the open door of our nearly departing train, his eyes frantically scanning the crowds for us. We dove onboard all together and sighed as the train pulled away from the station.
Thinking that we had dealt with enough travel rush for one day and confident in our more than adequate time allowance for airline check in, we made our way to the Lufthansa terminal at the Frankfurt airport. Only to discover that two days prior our american ESTA visa had expired and although we only had a two night stopover in LA on the way home, we would need these renewed.
No problem, we have lots of time. Mr Evans and the children left to find some lunch while I set up myself up near our collection of cases and pulled out the laptop. Some 40 minutes later, after answering all manner of questions about my mental and criminal history and that of my family, I paid the fee and pushed send. At this point I received the following message. 'Thank you for your application. We will process your request and your visa may be issued within the next 72 hours'. Right, and I am now down to 45 minutes left to check in. Brilliant.

After finding a helpdesk, which was more hassle than help, I again went back to my laptop, with now only 20 minutes elbow room and instructions to redo the forms. Fortunately soon after I began we found out the payment for some of us had to be processed seperately which I rushed through and with a small tick of the minute hand left we were checked in. Another quick jog to the end of yet another terminal and through security before we collapsed at the gate to wait the short moments until we boarded. It felt good to get on the plane and finally rest, albeit in a somewhat twisted position to accomodate the sleeping children.
Flying back into LA felt strangely comforting. We know what it means to go to America now. Rental cars and wide roads. Diners and Wholefoods. There is a familiar twang in the voices and we unwittingly adjust our accents to accommodate it. While I've never really been a fan of LA, our only previous experience was the highway to Anaheim and then the magical kingdom so I had little to judge the city on. This time we simply stayed a shorter distance from LAX and spent a day exploring Manhattan beach.
Standing partway around the world we splashed and played in the pacific ocean that linked our worlds. The younger generation of hasslehoffs were present and on duty. We walked home and crossed under the pier I remembered so well from watching inappropriate clips of Baywatch as a young girl. It was a completely different LA and we liked it.
Then in what seemed to be the blink of an eye we were NZ bound. Excitedly we found the empty row next to ours, which I snuck into pre take off to claim as our own, was in fact a skycouch. G and I stretched across it, his little frame tucked into mine and we prepared to sleep our way home. I looked across to see Mr Evans, tired but ever attentive to our girl, adjusting pillows and preparing their rows for sleeping. Despite of and because of everything that has transpired over this trip I looked at him differently as he tucked her in. If we were strong before, this trip was our crucible. Heated through pressure and change, I burned as we were reshaped and now I looked across the aisle with more conviction than ever that we must continue to live out the unconventional lives we've been called to together. Our dreams must be let out, given up and then found again, allowed to evolve until they become a reality better and brighter than we could have planned them ourselves. We locked eyes and hearts in a moment, and with knowing smiles, prepared to head into the unknown once again.

How do you suitably describe two of the most enlightening months of your life?
There is so much to write about Alcoba and our time in Spain but part of me is holding back.
I fear that if I put it into words it will become just a story, instead of the living breathing part of me that it is now. One day I will write about it more fully but for now, those memories hold a special place in my mind. They are preserved by my longing and loving of them.

The questions come thick and fast now that we're home.
How was it? Did you have the best time!. Your pictures look amazing. I'm so jealous!.
In short the answers are:
It was incredible, the best and the worst, lucky for those filters. Yeah, sorry, not sorry.

For those that want a little more expansion on that, the pictures are not really even sorted but here is a small trip through my very own memory lane, currently available only through these few images and lightly descriptive captions.
Enjoy.

Siblings walking the streets of Alcoba at Fiesta time

Fiesta Bouncy Castle Time

Driving the 4wd on the way to the Roman ruins of Clunia

The Ruins of Clunia

E's 8th Birthday

Just one of the 150+ chapter books E devoured while we were away.

Hail, while the air around was 25 degrees. Go figure.

One of the only times it rained the kids managed to get stuck in the downpour.

Crab fishing at the river

Sunflowers for days

Traffic jam Alcoba style

Out and about with Uncle Mat Uncle Mat creating a 'Flower Beard'

Watercolour classes with Paloma, a Spanish artist who happened to be our neighbour for a week.

Catching up on the construction progress.

Beauty by the wayside

When we arrived in Alcoba de la Torre we found a small sleepy pocket of history. Nestled in the province of Soria, two hours north of Madrid, down a web of country lanes, we uncovered our new home. It is a blink and miss it town. One in a beaded string made of main roads that break regularly into cobbled streets, flanked by centuries old stone buildings, through the heartland of northern Spain. We were met by Jaime, the owner of the dream casa we are living in which is nestled directly next to the remains of a 900 year old castle, complete with dungeon tunnels under the hill.
Jaimie is one of a group of around six families from Madrid who have followed their friend Pedro here, one by one over the years, slowly convincing various village members to allow them to purchase and restore old homes. They have done a fine job and assimilated into the village culture, taking great interest and care in the older people who still live here, many of whom ran these cobbled streets as youngsters.

Everyone we were introduced to has been so open. Rather surprised that these forigners would want to live here due to it's isolation but happy to have us join them. While only 35 minutes to a larger town and with other small villages in the surrounding countryside it is hemmed by fields of wheat, sunflowers and tilled earth. The families from Madrid only come on the weekends or for summer and bring with them the only english that is spoken in the village so we understood when the thought of this isolation proved too much for Emma. It's hard work looking after someone elses kids and dealing with another families way of living. Doing that as the lone young adult in a village where no one speaks english is undoubtedly daunting.
After two weeks and a memorable farewell lunch in the closest big town I returned her with our love to Madrid. She now contiki's her way around europe, surrounded by people who understand Like's and Lol. We're so grateful for the incredible part of our team that she was over the madly busy parts of this trip. It was sad to see her go but timely I think as it has allowed us to explore some of the deeper concepts that have been swilling about our brains with regards to parenting and living in general.
Even with our new friends from Madrid there have been hilarious lost in translation moments, like when one of the weekend neighbours Sandro invited us for lunch and told Mr Evans that he'd had a pretty relaxed morning, hanging out at home, doing cocaine. "Really? Cocaine?" asked Mr Evans, attempting to keep his concern at bay. "Yeah. Just chilling. Come soon for lunch" replied Sandro. With a little trepidation we walked down to their house and after a while I casually asked Sandro's gorgeous wife if that was a common thing in Spain or perhaps a word we didn't understand? "Oh he was cooking!!!". Let the hassling of Mr Evans commence.

My own moment came a few days later when Rofino, one of my favourite new friends here, who is in fact the mayor of the village, attempted to explain where he had gone yesterday. With zero english we rely heavily on sign language but I was rather concerned, although we were in the broad daylight, when he began unbuttoning his pants and pointing. As I dared to look I saw a surgical guaze patch taped just below his waist line and I had a new association for the word 'medico'.

The first four weeks our days were very quiet overall, with the exception of the late nights working, and allowed us the chance to decompress some. So much of the first half of this entire trip was a large scale decontruction of my thinking and our ways of being.
I have questioned it all and felt like my heart has been laid bare in a way that hasn't happened for a long time. It was raw and painful but entirely necessary and now these last few weeks in Spain have allowed space for the rebuilding process. Unfettered by the weight of opinion, real or imagined, we are picking the path that is being slowly illuminated, joining the dots as we look back on what has been. I am clearer now on my 'always' truths and while the days are not without their bumps as I find my footing as wife and mother, they are rich and full.

Morning calls but we are oblivious to the rising of the sun until small bellies crawl towards their plates.

Before long droplets of sweat bead consistently around our brows as the temperature moves closer to the almost unbearable mid day. In the relative cool of the early morning legs pump cylindrically as we hurtle down gravel pathways.
 I watch as her hair blows in the wind and his eyes shine as the speed requires extra pull on the handlebars.

Wheels give way under sliding gravel and we stop to recover. I am in awe of these bodies. All of them, growing browner, stronger and freer as our souls have space to explore and ponder.

Ripe fields of wheat which loosely waved short days ago, now succumb to the motorised scythe and we watch day after day as the landscape is cut in glorious patterns of yellow. Soon the neigbouring fields of green will erupt with sunflowers and we wait somewhat impatiently for the display.
Deer tread gently on the edges of the woods at dusk we're told. This raucous crowd is yet to see one but is that any wonder given the speed these children of ours move at. The quiet comes only when young heads are tucked in books. If not electronic there would be oceans of them, slowly drowning the free space about us. Instead it is their imaginations afloat, full of fancy, mystery and delight as sleuths uncover the truth and animals have voice. What a gift it is to love the written word. That mere marks on a page could weave a world in their minds brings me great joy.

There are other worlds here that unfold. Worlds where this daughter of mine experiments with reigning surpreme. She has nutured, taking over where mother nature fell short.
Her gentle hands have cradled these gangly bodies of too big wings and beaks surrounded by down and tiny pin feathers. With such tender care and love invested in the starving trio, the river of tears was long and wide when the nearby feline stole her prize.
All I could do was hold her and it hurt this mama's heart too. With divine display, just one day later three new baby beaks appeared, high in the rock wall of our courtyard, this time still tended by their mother bird, allowing us the joy again without the weight of attempting the care.

This is the ebb and flow of life in this quiet place. We are lead beside the figurative pools of still water and we are finding restoration. It is well.

After dropping Emma off at Gatwick where she was leaving to holiday in Croatia and Rome with friends we drove closer to the heart of London.

It was possibly the worst time to be without a nanny given that we now had books full of tradeshow leads to follow up but we had five to six days to fill in London for the sake of our Schengen visa time limits before we went back to Spain and her tickets had already been booked. Rounding a corner near to our next apartment we saw caution tape authoratively stuck across a doorway and questioned our online booking skills. Still, where we were staying was the street behind the crime scene and as it was late in the afternoon we decided to check it out and arrange new accomodation the next day if we felt the area was too dicey. I forgot however that I had to drop the rental car up the road and given that I hadn't set myself up with an oyster card yet for the buses and it was getting on towards dinner time, I walked the 20 minutes down Old Kent Road back to our London house. Turns out it really wasn't too bad a little neighbourhood and we spent the next week there happily in close proximity to the bus routes and Tescos.

While Mr Evans caught up on some more urgent tasks I took the kids for the day to Horniman Museum and Gardens.
We travelled via the big red double deckers which was an adventure in itself and traipsed about the beautiful property, stopping to admire llamas in the petting zoo, where you couldn't actually pet anything. It was lovely to go at the kids pace and I put the piles of work out of my mind, until the evening time that is, and we explored various parts of London over the week.