My Blue House

Back in 2005, I went to Brazil to find myself. I was so unhappy, so lost, so far away from what I had imagined I would become one day. I was living a life that was not real. I had to pretend I was happy all the time. I was living somebody else’s life. I didn’t have a job, I didn’t have love, I didn’t have my family close to me, I didn’t have any traces of that loving and lively girl I had once been.

Then I decided to spend two months in Brazil – I gave up on a good job interview, separated from my ex-husband, and decided to start my life from scratch once again. I had plans to stay in Brazil, since I was so tired of my empty American life. I never felt like I belonged here. I didn't even feel like I had a home to go back to. So I did what seemed right at the time: I did some traveling in Brazil, I visited a place that must be very close to the concept we have of paradise, I went out with friends, I danced a lot, laughed and cried a lot, I looked for a job, which by the way seemed to be an Herculean task, I lied to myself again, and I found and fell in love with this small house on the beach. When I came back to my old home in Happy Port, I talked to my mom about that tiny blue house with such excitement that she was very impressed. She wanted to see it; she wanted to see what that house was like. I guess she wanted to understand why it had sparked so much excitement on me.

When I showed it to her, she was disappointed. She said: it’s so small, it looks old, it’s made of wood (not a very good material to build houses in Brazil), it doesn’t look safe. I looked at her and I tried to explain it to her by saying that that little place was magical. It was blue, it was on the beach, it was small indeed – so I would not get lost inside of it. I could have in that house needed things, not a bunch of junk I didn’t know what to do with. I could see myself having a comfortable bed, a hammock, paintings, books and manuscripts, photos, a small and rustic kitchen to make bread, a window to make love to the ocean every morning, a dog to keep me company, the sounds of the ocean always present, all kinds of birds around, wild flowers, a lot of music both inside and outside the house, the moon, a severe winter to remind me of how much I need warmth and how much the sun makes me happy, and I would have freedom to feel what I wanted to feel, to behave like I wanted to: the kind of freedom people have when they feel at home. I would finally regain or build freedom from all the things that made me a slave of an idea I didn’t even approve of.

I also told her I could see myself brewing coffee every morning from that little cottage she was disappointed by, I could see myself barefoot writing from an old typewriter, wearing just a t-shirt, holding and taking care of myself, recovering from all the bruises those past years had caused me. I said: mom, I can see myself looking at it with love and admiration, taking care of it, cleaning it – just cleaning it the necessary to keep it neat enough to my standards.

I tried to convince her: mom, I think I could be really happy in that house. Because it’s what I am going to put inside of it that counts: my soul, my heart, my style, my colors, the music of me being alive, my glimmering eyes, my crazy dances, my sounds, all of myself. That house is now a remote dream in a remote land. It didn’t become my home, I didn’t move back to Brazil, soon after those two months my mom died. I think sometimes that I am getting back on track, but every now and then I remember that house. One day mom, I am going to fill a tiny house like that one with love and life.