incense and honey and forgiveness.
what the three wisewomen would've brought.
The last time I saw Alicia was in January 2020, during my baby shower. We rented her amazing photobooth and I posed like a pregnant Beyoncé and my life was complete.
We talked briefly about how I was gonna have a baby and that would probably be the most stressful thing about 2020. We talked about how her and her husband were looking to adopt a pre-teen in foster care with the goal of moving to Portugal as a family.
But the last time Alicia and I really hung out was probably December 2006 in one of our apartments at the University of Mary-Hardin Baylor. Either for an American Sign Language final that we stayed up cramming for and going a little nuts.
Or when she was my editor at our school newspaper (The Belles… I don’t wanna talk about it) and was helping me make my review of the Garden State soundtrack even better.
LONG STORY SHORT IT’S BEEN A WHILE. We’ve both changed a ton and we both knew that we have changed. (thanks, Instagram!) Notably: Neither of us is super religious anymore. But hanging out with Alicia this past week on the Azores Islands was nothing short of spiritual.
They call the Azores “the Hawaii of Europe” and I felt that deeply. We hiked in what felt like a jungle.
The communities were small and prideful of their traditions. I loved the food, the parades, the bull fights (not actual bull fights), the coffee!, the swimming holes, the snack shakes, so much of it all. We even went whale watching and saw dozens of dolphins. The first time they swam next to our boat, Marcie excitedly yelled, “Papa, the dolphins are coming to say hi! Wave at them, Papa!” It was magic.
Alicia and I constantly snuck time away from our families (sometimes at only a few yards distance) to baptize ourselves in the Atlantic sea and take a communion of sangria. We talked about how salty the ocean was and I asked her if she had ever heard one of my favorite quotes:
The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears, or the sea.
I told her I couldn’t remember the last time I cried, but then quickly remembered it was in Ireland. But then felt lucky that I truly couldn’t remember the last time I cried sad tears, devastated tears. (honestly, this is probably because I haven’t watched any movies this Summer. I save my best pent-up projection cries for a slightly-depressing movie.) The next day, our last day on Terceira Island, my friend Emma sent me a poem from Emory Hall that got tears (moving tears, not devastating tears) going.
make peace
with all the women
you once were.lay flowers
at their feet.offer them incense
and honey
and forgiveness.honor them
and give them
your silence.listen.
bless them
and let them be.for they are the bones
of the temple
you sit in now.for they are
the rivers
of wisdom
leading you toward
the sea.// i have been a thousand different women
Wow. I’ve sat in many temples this trip. And now I think of the thousand women I was and how they are the bones of the temple I sit in now. And after being in Lisbon with one million Christian pilgrims, I couldn’t help but think about my past self. That woman. That Christian youth. The 18 through 21-year-old Rachel that Alicia knew well and I’ve been trying to forget.
It wasn’t until this trip to Terceira that I truly made peace with this specific woman that I was. Our last day on the island, Alicia and I set off on her scooter to go snorkeling. It was so much fun: the scootering AND the snorkeling…
When we were done at one swimming hole, we decided to try another, but on the scenic scooter ride over, it started raining. When we got there, only two people were in the water braving the drizzle: a girl about eight-years-old and her father. They were swimming in a naturally protected pool at the edge of the ocean, with waves crashing up against the rocks. Alicia and I decided to wait out the rain at the snack bar a bit above the water and get a glass of sangria under an umbrella.
The rain did not let up, but the father/daughter duo did not care. The girl was learning to dive. Over and over again, she would get to the edge of the rocks, point her arms above her head, and then completely belly-flop. You would hear her “dive”, if you didn’t see her—the big SLAP of her body hitting the water Her father would be there to “catch” her and she would come up from the water laughing so sweetly as he picked her up in his arms. Soon she would be out of the water, ready to try again. Alicia and I talked about our past selves and the way we used to be, drinking sangria, and watching this little girl try dive after dive in the rain. She must have dove into that water twenty times. And each time she did it, I would watch intently and chuckle as she belly-flopped again and giggled again. It felt like watching another past self of my own. Trying over and over—gleefully—as the rain poured down harder and harder.
The last two dives the little girl did were incredible improvement. I was thoroughly impressed. You didn’t hear these dives… she glided into the water with grace. Satisfied with two-great-dives-in-a-row, the little girl and her father decided to call it a day. The rain hadn’t stopped completely, but it had let up enough for Alicia and I want to get in the ocean.
On the stairs down, we passed the girl and her dad going up from the water. Afterwards, Alicia said, “I wish I knew how to say ‘great diving’ in Portuguese” to which I replied, “Oh my god, me too!” (a funny wish, since I don’t know how to say anything in Portuguese.) We got down to the wild ocean—the unprotected part—and Alicia took the ladder down into the cool water.
“I want to jump. How deep is it?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. I wouldn’t jump. I would do a shallow dive.”
I thought for a few seconds about how much safer I think a jump is than a shallow dive, but saw that the water was definitely deep. I hesitated a couple times and then asked Alicia to count me down. She laughed before realizing I was serious.
“Okay… 3, 2, 1… Go!”
And I dove into the ocean, barely making a sound, grateful for all the diving practice the thousand different woman I’ve been have had.
Thank you, past selves. Here is incense and honey and forgiveness.
A Little View:
some photos of late…
Each week feels like a dream and a trip of a lifetime and a lesson and big love and gratitude. And then it’s time to go to the next trip of a lifetime. Today, we start our hike in the Swiss Alps… with a three-year-old… wish us luck!
xxo,
Rachel.
We really enjoyed having you guys here! Here's to past selves and everything they teach us!