Not still.

But still moving.

For those reading this post for the first time—and as a reminder to myself—I write to see clearly, to remain attentive, and to stay awake to the extraordinary ordinary that greets me each day.

The Perennial Immigrant has become a way to reflect on the life I’m building in Portugal with a new language, with new customs, with awe-inspiring scenery and the quiet discovery of kindness and generosity that so often appear unasked.

And that change and growth remain possible at any age for those who dare to dream of other ways of being and doing.

If this reflection speaks to you, please press the ❤️ button below — it helps The Perennial Immigrant find its way to new readers.

Walk slowly. Listen closely. Learn always.

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Our creations come not when we’re out in the world, gathering impressions, but when we’re sitting still, turning those impressions into sentences. Our job, you could say, is to turn, through stillness, a life of movement into art. Sitting still is our workplace, sometimes our battlefield. [1]

If you look closely at the treetops that line the river walk, you can see small buds signaling their slow but steady awakening in a spring just a few weeks away. Nature never disappoints and will not be told whether it should bloom or not — it simply does, with its innate and trustworthy intelligence.

There are more sunny days than rainy ones now, lifting a bit of the fog in the psyche. “Did you see the sun?” friends ask incredulously, joking that they’d begun to doubt it still existed.

The afternoon walk with Stitch gave us the full force of the sun on our backs, and on our return, straight into our eyes. I’ve photographed this scene countless times over, yet it feels new, again. The boats, absent for weeks during the rough weather, have returned — moving gently toward the Atlantic in search of the glistening sunsets that now linger on the river-then returning. Seeing it, like feeling the sun on my face, renews my spirits.

Yesterday, another reminder: a lone fisherman stood where soon there will be many, spending the day in quiet companionship — with one another, and with the fish they occasionally catch. I’ve only seen a few brought in over the years. It isn’t really about the fishing.

Inside our home, the rhythm remains steady — laundry drying inside or out depending on wind and sun. Shrimp gumbo reheated and somehow tasting even better the second and third time around. This morning, warm corn muffins with fresh morango jelly. Trips to the grocery store make Ted happy as he checks items off his electronic list. The kitchen is his domain; I’m content with his creativity there.

Two small watercolors are waiting to be framed. An orchid, a gift, sits nearby — I’m hoping it lasts with the new advice I’ve been given for its care. I haven’t always succeeded in the past. A small plant to repot. Fingers crossed.

These days, life moves to a quiet rhythm. Not dramatic. Just steady — and alive.

Our friend’s week-long stay was special on many levels — I’m glad she took me up on the invitation last November. We shared memories of earlier chapters, but we also talked about where our lives stand now. Those kinds of conversations remind me that you can move thousands of miles away and still remain connected.

Her visit also nudged me back out into the world I now call home. It’s easy to stay inside the apartment — inside the bubble — especially when the weather turns rainy and windy. The stretch of sun that welcomed her gave us reason to be out and about, seeing Porto and a bit beyond.

We crossed the Dom Luís I Bridge at the pedestrian level. I remembered walking the upper deck in early 2024, so many meters above the river — on a dare, like other moments in my life that stretched me. No regrets. Still, closer to the water, it felt easier to keep my eyes forward than to look down.

We visited the Sé, Porto’s cathedral, where we began our Camino last September. The view over Porto and Gaia remains one that steadies me. Driving along the river’s edge on the Porto side and out toward the Atlantic offered yet another angle of the place she has now experienced for herself. She didn’t walk the Camino with us, but she saw where we once stood. That felt quietly significant.

She was our first non-family guest to stay with us. Even now that she’s back in Miami, we stay in touch via text. She told us about attending a University of Miami women’s basketball game with a friend. Today, we had lunch with friends here, eating seafood in Afurada — a place she now knows as well.

The connection holds, across the miles.

We added Pilates to our exercise program once a week. Using my own body as weight and counterweight is interesting, energizing, and not easy. Holding my legs in the air while coordinating a complementary movement with my arms can feel like solving a puzzle midair. For someone who struggles with coordination, I am determined to keep trying. When the instructor asks if I’m okay, I answer with resolve, Vou tentar. I will try. And I do — even when my version doesn’t resemble what she demonstrated.

In the middle of one particularly confusing sequence, I felt frustration rising. I glanced to my left and right and saw Ted and our other classmate in the same predicament. That helped. At the end of class, the instructor gave me a hug — a small acknowledgment of effort. I no longer feel the need to get it exactly right. Being present and doing my best feels like its own kind of progress.

I’ve noticed that many of the books I’m drawn to lately carry a certain wanderlust. Through writers like Pico Iyer and José Luís Peixoto, I travel to places far from here—Thailand, North Korea, Singapore, Japan, and others I’ve yet to discover. They immerse themselves in lives and cultures very different from their own, yet family memories weave quietly through their pages. They write of other worlds while revealing their own—doubts, fears, losses, and the small joys that accompany them. As a reader, you see both: the places they move through and the interior landscapes they carry with them.

Lately, Peixoto has allowed me to read him in Portuguese. His sentences—the clarity of them, the movement of the verb tenses—feel natural to me now. In Dentro do Segredo: Uma Viagem pela Coreia do Norte, my travels are to North Korea, an unlikely destination, but one that captured his imagination enough to go.

Reading him this way feels like a small act of travel without leaving the chair. My attention moves between the place he describes, the language I’m learning to inhabit, and the memories that surface quietly alongside it.

It reminds me, in some quiet way, of our own journey to Portugal—a life that has unfolded over these past two years, gradually revealing experiences I never would have anticipated. And as I write about the adventures here, my family history is never far away. Somehow, the path always finds its way back to them.

February is a wrap. March steps forward, carrying us nearer to spring.

If you’re up for it, I’d love to hear your thoughts. Answer all, one, or none—whatever speaks to you. I’m simply grateful that you’ve read all the way to the end.

• What is the view outside your window?

• If you could design your own flag, what colors, and/or symbols might you include?

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As always, até logo—see you later!

Thank you for the gift of your time, attention and support.

This is a reader-supported publication. Subscribing is free, but if you wish to support my work in a more tangible way, you can become a Supporting Subscriber for a nominal monthly or annual fee— or buy me wine, a coffee, or a treat for Stitch, our wonder pug. who believes all good writing begins with snacks.

Obrigada,
Maria—The Perennial Immigrant
Vila Nova de Gaia, Portugal

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Notes and Sources

[1] Pico Iyer. The Art of Stillness: Adventures in Going Nowhere (TED Books) (p. 21). (Function). Kindle Edition.

Most photos were taken by Ted Evangelakis, the guy with a Master of Fine Arts in Photography. The not-so-good ones are all mine.