May 2023

With apologies to  Nikos Kazantzakis for the quote. “Reach what you cannot.”

I’m posting a picture of me here from last summer to remind myself of the flow and beauty of my time and missing flights and to know that this is still possible and miracles happen. And some bluebells as I’m back in Hebden Bridge and enjoying the woods.

Just before I left, I saw a notary or two on Tuesday and signed another document for the golden visa. So we have something decided. We’re going to the wire for 1 June and loans are being made into euros, which feels like the biggest risk I’ve ever taken. The deal is almost struck and yet my house isn’t sold, though a new estate agent is coming tomorrow (so perhaps let’s redouble our efforts on the sex magic, wanking, healing, praying, and miracles.) 

I confess I wonder whether it is naive or dumb to believe we can pull this off, of not wanting this to fail is so strong AND I don’t have a plan b. The people I’m buying it from are so patient and graceful, and we all want this to happen. So far every obstacle has had a solution. It’s too hard to walk away from what I sense is my destiny. Though it gets me questioning our magical thinking. Is 82% woo-woo enough when the rest of me is freaking out.  That 18% - what to do? 

Yet it feels natural, I love it already, there’s a sweetness to the spiritual guests on retreats at Corfu Buddha Hall and my friends Anne, Taylor and Priya arrived here to create Evolve in June. And we had a biodanza event in the olive press space, with so much love & colour, which I hope will be the first of many creative collaborations. I like who I’ve met and the 45-minute walk up and down the hill into Arrillas seeing the spring flowers in the verges. And I had a moment of peace and wonder on an artist’s balcony overlooking the olive groves and shining sea, I could have cried at the beauty. 

Osho discourses, a birthday Campari at sunset with Priya, sunset at 7th Heaven, and the beginning of falling in love with Mandala House. 

My time in Magoulades is often characterised by washing and wrestling with double duvet covers that are bigger than me, next to the scent of orange blossom. For an avowed anti-domesticate, it’s not without irony. Soon, no one will need a duvet. What’s the equivalent of "chop wood, carry water?"