Portugal trip reminds me I am loved, life does not suck

I’m sitting on an airplane heading West over the Atlantic, trying to catch the sun.

It is time to go home. Apparently I’m an adult with responsibilities, including a job, a home to take care of, a life to get back to. Besides, my plane ticket says today is the day. So here I am in seat 22H, which is not my seat but I’m a putz and can’t read row numbers. Insert a Portuguese cuss word here (I’ve learned a few. Take your pick).

I don’t want to be on this plane.

It’s hard to put into words what these last two weeks have meant to my life; to my healing. I’ve talked about some of it in my other posts: about letting go of some of the guilt I’ve been dragging around; about the love of my heart sister and my heart brother in law; about falling in love with a country that feels familiar.

I’ve done a lot of sightseeing, eaten a lot of good food, walked a lot. I’ve let the beauty of fado wash over me, let the beauty of the ocean and the coastline wash over me, let the rolling hills of the countryside and the steep slopes of the cobblestone streets surround me. 

I’ve slowed down even though I didn’t think I was going fast. 

I ... didn’t ... think ... I ... was ... going ... fast.

I’m going to miss the life I lived the past two weeks; living Portugal like a local. I had this experience only because of my heart sister and brother-in-law. They opened up their amazing home to me and I stayed. Staying here for my entire vacation was never the plan. I was going to visit them for a day or two, see the entire country and hit Gibraltar. You can go ahead laugh. We did. My “one- or two-day stay” became two weeks once they convinced me they wanted me for the entire time.

So this final post from Portugal is going to be about the love I have from them and for them. 

I have a few heart sisters; women with whom I can trust the secrets of my soul. Women who will be honest and real with me. Women who ask the tough questions and are interested in anything but the standard answer. We have always had each other’s backs; had open arms for each other. When My Favourite Husband (MFH) died, no matter where they were, they connected with me and let me scream, cry and rage. They let me figure shit out on my own. They just loved me no matter what kind of mess I was. They’ve cheered me on as I’ve taken baby steps and giant leaps forward. They’ve soothed my heart when I’ve taken baby steps and giant leaps back. 

My Canadian sister who gave her heart to an incredible Portuguese man and followed him there is a heart sister. Seeing her physically for the first time in over a dozen years was like seeing her yesterday. We’ve kept in touch but running into her arms and hugging her — physically connecting with her — the world was right again.

We talked constantly about everything. We talked about MFH and about how I was healing and trying to balance it all: the love, the pain, the past and the present.

We talked about how chocolate croissants were “sex." Olives are, as well.

We talked about her move halfway around the world and her work and about opening up your heart to love again even when it’s challenging. If you can think up a topic, we talked about it. We laughed and cried and shared mascara. 

I love this woman. She loves me.

I didn’t really know her husband prior to my trip but, if she loved him, I knew I would. And I do. He sparkles just like she does. He’s funny and smart and kind. And he welcomed me into the family immediately. I was never made to feel like a third wheel. He told me I’m family and I believe it. 

I love this man. He loves me.

Not long after MFH died, I told my Mom that my life sucked. She gave me a sharp look and told me, “No, it doesn’t.” When I questioned her about it, she told me that my life was filled with people who loved me so, while my life was hard right now, it didn’t “suck”.

She’s right. I love. I am loved.

And this visit was another reminder of how much.