La versión español está después de la versión inglés.
DUDO AND I have returned to our studies. Yesterday, I renewed my enrollment in the driving school, and Dudo has lately been obsessed with what San Geraldo is reading and writing. More to the point, Dudo has been obsessed with SITTING ON whatever San Geraldo has been reading and writing.
My favorite moment was Thursday morning when I caught Dudo checking out Collins Bird Guide. Sadly for Dudo, there’s no chapter on the most flavorful native birds of Spain. Poor boy. He’ll just have to take his chances (as will the people of Spain when I’m once again behind the wheel).
DUDO Y YO hemos vuelto a nuestros estudios. Ayer renové mi inscripción en la autoescuela, y últimamente Dudo ha estado obsesionado con lo que San Geraldo está leyendo y escribiendo. Más concretamente, Dudo ha estado obsesionado con SENTARSE SOBRE lo que San Geraldo está leyendo y escribiendo.
Mi momento favorito fue la mañana de jueves cuando descubrí a Dudo revisando “Collins Bird Guide” (“Guia de Aves” de Collins). Lamentablemente para Dudo, no hay un capítulo sobre las aves nativas más sabrosas de España. Pobresito. Sólo tendrá que arriesgarse (como lo hará la gente de España cuando vuelva a estar detrás del volante)..
I think I’m suffering the post-holiday blues. Given my life with clinical depression, I suffered the pre-holiday blues and the mid-holiday blues, as well. But, these past couple of days have been a bit worse than the rest.
Dudo and Moose don’t care. As long as there are birds to watch (and a drain hole to monitor). I wish I could be more like them.
Come to think of it, never mind. Although they both know how to chill, they can be even more anxiety prone than I. The sound of the door bell sends them scurrying into the closet. Nothing could make me scurry into the closet. Nothing.
Creo que estoy sufriendo la melancolia después de las fiestas. Dada mi vida con depresión clínica, también sufrí la melancolia previos a las fiestas y durante las fiestas. Pero, estos últimos días han sido un poco peores que el resto.
A Dudo y Moose no les importa. Mientras haya pájaros para observar (y un agujero de drenaje para monitorear). Desearía poder ser más como ellos.
Ahora que lo pienso, no importa. Aunque los dos saben cómo relajarse, pueden ser incluso más propensos a la ansiedad que yo. El sonido del timbre de la puerta los hace correr hacia el armario. Nada podría hacerme salir corriendo hacia el armario. Nada.
I had my regular psychiatrist appointment yesterday. It’s not much more than a “med check” to ensure all is well. All is not well with one of my two meds, which I’ve been on for most of the 4-1/2 years we’ve been in Spain. I’ve noticed I’m experiencing some side-effects in recent months. Really very minor, but enough for us to make a change. So, I’m phasing off this one and will probably try something new soon.
(Click any image to make the trails — all bird prints — more clear.)
My visit was a revelation (I’d say Epiphany, but that was Wednesday). I can now easily speak with my psychiatrist, in Spanish, on any subject.
A WALK ON THE BEACH.
During our brief conversation, as I answered a question, it dawned on me that despite all the bumps in the road it turns out my life is the kind of life I fantasized about as a child. My sister Dale had the same kinds of childhood fantasies and, although her life was filled with bumps and only lasted 29 years, I think a lot of her fantasies came true, as well.
We both imagined lives different from most of our friends and family (not better, just different). We both imagined foreign lands, foreign loves. Dale traveled the world, married young, and lived in England with her foreign prince.
I met San Geraldo from South Dakota (even more foreign to a New Yorker than someone from England). We moved often, constantly re-imagining our lives. And now we’ve made a foreign land our home — and no longer foreign. And we’re still constantly re-imagining our lives.
The psychiatrist asked me if I felt that Dale was traveling with me through life. Without hesitation, I said, “Absolutely.”
I was never a fan of author Louis L’Amour, but I like this:
“No memory is ever alone;
it’s at the end of a trail of memories,
a dozen trails that each have their own associations.”