Still a Student

On attention, use, and staying open

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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As palavras são espelhos imperfeitos. Escrever, mesmo com todas as insuficiências, é o que sei fazer para descobrir quem sou. [1]  Translation in Notes.

The day woke up cloudless, with a muted winter light that made it possible to put the laundry outside. I cracked open the window to let the world in — cars passing, a loud motorcycle, people out walking, seeing and feeling what was also in my view. A snippet of spring. Not spring.

The laundry went onto the rack outside, not so much in the hope that it would dry as for what the open window offered: the heat turned off, air moving through the room, a brief relief after weeks of steady rain and strong winds. It’s supposed to rain again this afternoon. Even that doesn’t dampen my mood.

It feels like a reprieve. Even if only for a few hours, I’ll take it. Even Stitch seems optimistic.

I’m writing from the living area, with a clear view of the river. It’s calm now, the tide moving outward toward the Atlantic. It’s been a while. For several days no boats were allowed out — too dangerous to contend with the whitecaps that formed, almost like porpoises moving in and through rough water.

I hope to be back on the balcony in a few months. For now, the furniture is tucked safely away, in case of other named or unnamed storms. I picture that first day back outside and wait, quietly, in anticipation.

Farther south, in the central regions of Portugal, the storms have been harder, the losses greater. From here, in this more sheltered place, I hold those neighbors in mind — hoping for power restored, for homes made livable again.

Ted and I usually drive without the radio on. That night, given the dangerous weather farther south, we turned it on to catch up on what was happening. The voices — in many different sotaques — offered a steady account of the coming storm, the evacuations underway, and the announcement of a speech by the prime minister.

As we drove, the Zenith Trans-Oceanic radio my mother relied on during her early exile from Cuba came to mind — its dials, its reach into other parts of the world, the voices from many countries carried through static. When my attention returned to the broadcast, I didn’t catch every word, but there was enough context to follow along.

The next morning we left early so I could get in line to renew my driver’s license, something that will happen every two years now that I’m turning seventy. As we approached the IMT office, the rain and wind picked up. A line had already formed outside, and I joined the group gathered under the overhang to escape the weather. It was about a forty-minute wait. At nine, the line began to move.

I took a senha with an early number. The waiting room was full but calm, the crowd quiet and orderly, much like it had been outside. When my number was called, I sat down. After the usual greetings, I explained what I needed. She pulled up my documents, asked a few questions, then told me the fee. I paid, thanked her, wished her a bom fim de semana, and left with a copy of my renewal papers.

This time, the exchange stayed in Portuguese. There was no pause, no shift. I stepped back into the rain and we headed home.

I’ve been reading José Luís Peixoto, drawn to the steadiness of his sentences and the way the language moves without excess. O Caminho Imperfeito has been where I’ve settled in — a travel narrative, this time set mostly in Thailand.

Reading in another language is different work. It’s slower. I pause often, reread, move through pages deliberately. Still, I haven’t set the book aside for something easier.

Lately, the language offers less resistance. I follow it with fewer stops, not always precisely, but enough to stay with it.

This little man gets a lot of love. We’re generous with it. As he approaches his twelfth birthday, we know that in dog years he’s an old guy. Still, today, as he crossed the street with Ted on their way back from the morning walk, I noticed his tail — curled just as tightly as it was when he first arrived at our home in Coral Gables.

Recent scans were clear. The doctor mentioned that the tumor on his back leg may have shrunk. In another six months, there will be more scans. For now, a kiss on the head feels warranted. A quiet sigh of relief.

These crosses carry memory more than theology. They were last displayed in our home, before being packed away when we put the house on the market. Each has an origin story — from Africa, Poland, Haiti, and Ireland. A few are from the United States. The smallest belonged to my mother, likely received in exchange for a donation to a Catholic cause. Many were purchased at my home church’s fair-trade shop, in support of women making a living through their work.

Now they’re arranged on the wall as you enter our bedroom. They read as a piece of wall art, layered with memory — and with some beliefs I no longer hold, but still cherish, if that makes sense. It took nearly three years to put them up. Like other artwork in our home, they needed to tell me where they belonged. I think they chose well.

Loving fiercely and holding close what resonates — people, places, objects — feels right at this point. Letting go of what no longer works does too. This is where I am now, still a student.

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 your favorite shoe style?

• Are you left or right-handed, maybe ambidextrous?

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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] José Luís Peixoto. O caminho imperfeito (Portuguese Edition) (p. 91). (Function). Kindle Edition. Quote translated by DeepL: Words are imperfect mirrors. Writing, even with all its shortcomings, is what I know how to do to discover who I am.

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.