Portugal and The Map of Writing

The sun casts its corridor of white light here where the Atlantic rounds the landscape on all three sides. From the orange cliffs of Sagres, Portugal, we look out toward Africa and Spain…the sailing ships once plied the waters for cargo and power, following the map of conquest. A bleached white monastery stands sentinel to the quest for conversion. The southwesternmost point of continental Europe, Sagres offers both beauty and a moment to contemplate the wreck.

Above the sea, the sky drapes its flawless blue mantle of time immemorial, beyond the reach of memory and with unperturbed grace. The corridor of light shines and beckons, but where does it lead? Perhaps, no probably, writing offers the clue, the map to reflection and contemplation.

After Sagres, we travel to Porto and the famous bookstore, Livraria Lello. There’s a line to get in and an admission of ten euros. Who says people aren’t reading books anymore? With its stained-glass windows, ornate wooden balustrades, steep steps, and darkened nooks and crannies, the bookstore supposedly inspired J. K. Rowling when she lived in Porto.  Shelves are stocked with the stories of the woman scorned. She’s been bullied and mistreated, yet she still returns to him. Why? Perhaps, as some say, it was her fragile mental state, the near-fatal flaw that led her to her death. I am reminded of Adrienne Rich and her famous poem, “Diving into the Wreck”, which was about women diving deep to find equal rights.

The stories of revenge are here too … my son picks up a copy of his favorite book The Count of Monte Cristo. There are the stories of Israel and Palestine, of the potency of revenge. The story of Ukraine, and the impoverished of war who suffer with nowhere to go…the waste the destitution, the wreck of life.

The wreck shines as a brilliant and unyielding diamond in all languages throughout the pages of time.

I remember as a child lying awake at night, reading about the ships, the cargo, the sea,  and the woman throwing herself under the train.

When I return home from Portugal and attend our Women’s Writing Circle, I am reminded of my father, and although I haven’t written about him in quite some time, I share who he was. He would have loved Sagres, the old bleached white mission atop the sea-salted weathered rocks looking out on the Atlantic. A scholar, my father taught me to think for myself and offered up an entire library in our first-floor den. I could browse the titles. It was mine for the taking from Frost to Dorothy Parker, from Hemingway to Shakespeare. Just read. He wasn’t a writer, but a teacher. He taught me to think for myself, not by telling me what to do, but by showing me the way through that burnished library with its sweet smell of pipe smoke. Empowerment is an overused word, but it was his gift to me.

We are all older women now, women who have been around the proverbial block more than once, and whose writing lifts the spirits of the others. We write of parents who disappoint, of a friend whose dementia lay hidden until a daughter reveals it. We write of the aroma of mint and chocolate chip cookies and a tattered recipe in the faded hand of a beloved mother. We write of a man who betrayed with a false declaration of love. We write of the fleeting and the focus on gratitude and a healthy walk through the woods.

They say to write what you know. What do I know? That was our writing prompt this month in the Circle. I do know. I don’t know.

I do know the sea is imponderable, the sky unreadable. I don’t know the meaning or the purpose of what came before or comes after, but travel offers a clue. I do know the days are mine to explore and to keep learning. I don’t know where the journey leads. I do know people. I don’t know all the people. I do understand revenge. I don’t understand revenge. I know to keep writing. I know writing is the map.