Two Months and Half a Century



I arrived conspicuously, in the middle of a Havana evening, after making my family wait for over twelve hours.  I had not been, it seems,  too eager to see the world  so I about-faced and took a nap. Perhaps it was my mother who silently urged me to stay put for a while longer because she sensed that once I was out, I wouldn’t want to be smothered, steered, silenced or shepherded. In brief, I wouldn’t fancy being controlled, classified, criticised or chastised.

From the moment I was born, I was too eclectic and loud. I was too boisterous and unladylike. I was sweet, I guess, but I managed to hide it behind my awkwardness, lack of guile and inquisitiveness. I was, as they say, a pain in the neck, always asking the whys and wherefores and seldom being content with the answers I was given. I was told to pipe down often. My peculiarities were seen as dangerous eccentricities, not fit for being displayed. My ideas were ridiculed and denied.  I never quite managed to fit in anywhere, and my parents loaded me with the responsibility of their happiness, and I doubt I succeeded in giving them what they longed for.

It is only recently that I discovered the word that describes the way I feel: Monachopsis, the subtle but persistent feeling of not belonging, of being maladapted to your surroundings. I feel oddly detached from my surroundings. What ‘everyone’ seems to enjoy does not entertain me, though I try to fit in and participate. I  would much rather be reading a book and sipping tea than having blaring music deafening me. I am at once expected to lead and considered a nag for doing so. People tend to recoil when I speak my mind. I’m too different to feel close to and too similar to discard as a total rarity. I am an owl in a chicken coop. Or  a green dog among a herd of cows. I tried to be a wallflower and almost made it, but a blood red poppy doesn’t really register as drab, however humble it may think itself to be.

Now, counting down the days to my fiftieth birthday, I feel at once happy for having made it and bewildered at the fact that I will be, as of today, two months away from half a century of living as best I could and becoming who I was intended to be in spite of all the detours , the doubts, the tears and the endless carrousel of thoughts that haunt me.

I’ll do the best I can, which is to live fearlessly as myself, to love and dare to be not who I am told I am but the woman that lies deep in the soul of me, a scintillating green wave on the ocean of the universe.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Up ↑

Espacio de Quique Roxíos

El ruxe ruxe del molín de Sanzo

Cloak Unfurled

Life is a journey. Let us meet at the intersection and share a story.


seguís luchando y por nada te des por vencido

Care, Bliss and the Universe

Life, the Universe and Yourself

Periódico Anarquista: La Boina.

"Ved, hermano, he aquí una, de mecha crepitante, es de papel, tinta y dinamita cerebral. ¡Estalla!" Armando Triviño; 1919

milkcarton mugshot baby

I used to be Snow White, but I drifted.

Tish MacWebber

Always Thinking...

The Spanish Berry

I am a local. I am a foreigner.


Break the silence. End the violence.

"I feel in every girl, there is a spirit, a wild pixie, that if let go, would run and dance in grassy fields until the end of the world. And then that girl grows up, that pixie hides, but it is always there...peeking out behind old eyes and reading glasses, laughing, waiting to one day dance again." ~Atticus~

The Libertarian Ideal

For secession, decentralism, mutualism and organic tradition


Where I think out loud

Laura Grace Weldon

Free Range Learning, Creative Living, Gentle Encouragement, Big Questions, Poetry, Occasional Drollery

Poesy plus Polemics

Words of Wonder, Worry and Whimsy

A Writer's Soul

"Diving into a writers soul is discovering the broken treasure and beautiful mysteries that make you gasp for air."


Life isn't about finding yourself. Life is about creating yourself.

%d bloggers like this: