Brigadoon

There's something about this village. I feel pulled to Gaucin, bonded to it already, even after only two days, like I just might want to stay awhile, or forever. Perched high in the mountains, it's made of washed-white buildings dating back to the days of the Moors, with a ruined Roman castle watching over the whole thing. On a good day, the Rock of Gibraltar pops up in the distance, beyond the blue hillsides and green fields of Andalusia, Morocco beckoning from further off. The sun seems bright as an X-ray here, like you might be able to see bones beneath flesh if you peered hard enough, but the breeze is strong and the spring temperatures cool. 

Little children in torn tutus prance down the streets of Gaucin and restaurant owners named Antonio will set down a bowl of chopped fruit doused in Cointreau on your table, unasked, if they like you. Paco leads visitors up to the "castillo," though he is in no way an official guide, and Toby the dog will perform tricks in the cemetery, but only under duress, resentfully. Everything closes up, the cafes and shops, the bank and the bar, for siesta at 1:30. After the sun sets the only sound is the wind rushing up from the valley and a discontented donkey braying epically, at the top of his lungs.

I love it here. I love my small single bed, tucked under the tiny window I keep open at night, the better to burrow snug under the duvet. I love the villa's pool, cold as a shaken martini, but a good excuse nonetheless to laze in the afternoon sun, to let the beams bring out my freckles, turning my skin first the color of a blush and then, finally, pinky-gold.

I should, obviously, be happy here. It's my own Brigadoon, where the days I spend are simple and sweet, filled with writing and wandering curved streets, bidding "hola" to every old man I meet - there's a virtual army of them in Gaucin, none reaching much over 5', all topped with brown flat caps and wearing smiles that further crinkle their little faces. 

But happiness is playing a game of hide and seek with me. Peace in this peaceful place remains a wish. I'm anxious - panicked, even - and very sad. How can I be sad here, I wonder, and then my disquiet deepens. The donkey, the sun, Antonio, and Paco, too, even Gibraltar can't help me. It's because you're ill, I hear whispered in my head, with a broken brain filled with chemicals in the wrong combinations, not enough of one, too much of the other. It's because my emotions are big, far too big for one woman to hold, even one 5'9", broad-shouldered and wide-hipped. 

I pushed myself too hard. That's probably part of it. Too many 14-hour days traipsing all over Greenland and Iceland and the Faroes, too many nights staying up as late as need be to meet deadlines, sleeping four or five hours and back up again, telling myself I'm fine. M, gently suggesting via text, on Skype, that he's concerned I'm not taking care of myself. Me not listening, my ability to go and go and go, to run myself fast and long, a point of pride. I've spent my whole life burning the candle at both ends. I don't know how to do it any other way. 

M. He's part of this, too. Because I'm scared. Scared by how much I like him, scared that I'm not ready to feel this way, or be someone's girlfriend. Scared that I'll maybe never be ready. But...I wasn't happy alone, either. I'm just not built that way. I did the time, nearly two years by myself - save that wild little respite with C.C. - working to heal. And being with M, it feels good. Up until this trip there was no pointless fretting, no worry at all. When we were together we just existed in the moment, goony smiles on our faces. Apart wasn't agony, just missing. This anxiety, out of nowhere, is overwhelming. I thought I was better. Healthy.

What if I can't be happy with someone? What if I can't be happy alone? Even Brigadoon can't fix these thoughts.

There's the work, too - the pain of facing it, pounding out another chapter, teasing out the essence of the story. This is the time to dig in, these far too few days in paradise. But what if I'm simply not good enough? What if I fail? 

I know I can fight these feelings to a draw, if not outright victory, eventually. I understand fears of unworthiness about M and my work are transitory, even if I'm afraid they're not. I'll talk to M, tell him that I'm struggling. He'll be sweet and soothing, believing. I hope, that I'm worth the patience it takes to be with me. I'll write something I'm proud of, something that offers a little bit of my soul. And I'll be fine.

Except. Except that message from Anne, the woman who took my brother's dog when he died. Orbit, a little black lab mix that Gunnar loved as fiercely and endlessly as he did me, or our mom and dad. I once watched my brother dive without a second thought into a roaring Boulder Creek when Orbit, who so loves to swim, was struggling to stay afloat in viciously churning whitewater. I thought Gunnar would drown in that moment. Instead he died a couple years later, a heroin overdose. I don't know exactly when it happened, or how long he laid in his bed in faraway Colorado, Orbit by his side. But I do know that when the ambulance came to take his body away, Orbit howled and howled. The girl who found my brother told me that.

Anne, Gunnar's neighbor, kept Orbit that night, consoling him as best she could, a kindness we repaid by letting her keep him. It was the best thing we could do - Orbit knew and loved her - and I'm not sure we could been able to withstand having him with us then, a constant, unavoidable reminder of our loss. But when Anne messaged two days ago to tell me that Orbit has lymphoma, that he's not strong enough to swim anymore, that she's told him it's okay for him to go be with Gunnar when he needs to, it was a little like losing my brother all over again.

This, I think, is what death is. A series of losses without end for those of us left. Or maybe, even worse, the losses do end, until there is nothing more of the lost but half-remembered recollections. Though it would ease the pain, I can't let this happen to my brother. I will stand vigil for him for the rest of my life.

Somehow we find a way to bear it, don't we, all the pain living brings? Maybe for awhile, if we're lucky, in a place so perfect it might be mythical.