The sun threw long, soft brush strokes of orange and pink across the sky as the clouds caught it’s setting blaze. It sank below the bluff reaching out into the sea, creating a dramatic silhouette from the high, sheer cliff. Waves pushed by the ever-present breeze of northwest Mallorca rushed in and out of the tiny cove, smashing against limestone towers carved and warped by thousands of years of swells.
I tugged off my shorts and shirt, kicked out of my Birkenstocks, and balanced them all in a pile on top of a boulder along with my book, carefully arranging them so the book would not tip into the tiny pool of water caught in a nearby rock crevice. I stepped tentatively toward the water, feeling for relatively flat places in boulders with my toes, trying not to slip. I reached the water and dipped my feet in, expecting cold. My skin was met with a pleasant coolness, much warmer than I anticipated. I picked up my pace, climbing with my weight partially supported by my hands on jagged limestone boulders. A flat rock reached out into the cove forming a ramp just below the ocean’s surface. I stepped out onto it, pushed and pulled by rhythmic swells, then shoved off the end and into deeper water.
I swam out into the cove away from the waves smashing into rocks, then glanced down into the water beneath me. My breath quickened momentarily at the blurred, unidentifiable shapes I could see through the choppy surface. The sun had set, and it was growing dark, yet there was just enough light that I could make out shadowy shapes beneath me. I felt the familiar fear and discomfort that comes with swimming into deeper water, drifting over shadowed depths.
I looked up at the fading glow of the sunset, then focused on the waves rising and falling around me. I took a few deep, steady breaths, closing my eyes. The swells lifted and dropped me, cyclical but irregular as the energy from incoming waves met the energy rebounding back off the stone walls. The density of the saltwater supported me easily, so I needed tread only lightly and slowly to maintain my buoyancy. I tipped my head back to look up and the cool water splashed up the back of my neck. My body felt warmer under the water than my face did above it, exposed to the wind. I was beautifully balanced, perfectly supported by the sea. I could taste the salt in the air just above the surface before the water even splashed into my mouth. A smile spread on my lips.
I heard my friends laugh from the stony path leading up the hill above the cove. I turned and saw the two of them that had accompanied me seated on the ancient steps set into the limestone. They talked, but their words were drowned out by the sound of waves hitting rocks around me. Their laughter carried through to me clearly.
I spent last week on the west coast of Mallorca in a 17th century home perched on the steep mountainside over the ocean near the small, ancient town of Deiá. I went with old friends from university, many of which I have known for over 10 years, and a couple new friends.
I began the trip with my anxiety in overdrive, nearly panicked by the long, lonely travel and at leaving my partner behind. Our attachment is deep, and separating feels more painful each time. I used to travel internationally alone a fair bit in my early 20’s, but it felt much more daunting now.
I coped with the travel stress by listening to a series of long lectures by Ram Dass on the Bhagavad Gita, which brought me into my time in Mallorca with a sense of peaceful detachment. However, when you’re going into your first real vacation in years with the goal of reconnecting with old friends, a feeling of detachment is hardly ideal.
I struggled with jet lag and engaging in conversation for the first few days. Most topics did not hold my attention, although I tried diligently to remain present and stay in the moment. I could not sleep well, and my appetite was almost non-existent until evening. The narrow, winding roads made me carsick, so I arrived at each of our destinations feeling nauseated.
My exhaustion, emotional distance, and longing for my partner weighed on me. I felt an emptiness growing, a dark cloud of apathy seeping into me. This has been happening each time I try to rest lately. When I break from work and other creative projects, this slippery sort of depression slinks in to visit. It’s as if I don’t know what to do with myself when given some days without direction or a to do list, yet this is exactly what my mind and body crave when I am working. It’s a frustrating and heavy sentiment.
But on this night, we arrived home just before sunset. I changed into my swimsuit, grabbed a towel and a book, and invited my friend to walk down the short path to the sea. When we arrived, we found another friend seated at the entrance of the sea cave at the back of the cove. My friends watched the sunset as I used the last of the daylight to illuminate my swim.
The following day, a few of us set off to hike along the steep, forested coastline to another town. We wandered along the coast, drawn to whatever caught our attention. We followed a rocky path to the shore to investigate a door seemingly leading to the inside of a large boulder, then walked out onto the rocks to watch the waves ricochet off them. My friend waded through strong swells to a large rock surrounded by sea and giggled as the ocean spray rocketed up around her, soaking her shorts.
We climbed a steep hill and arrived in a large, terraced field of olive trees. The path meandered through the grove, taking us past old stone terraces and twisted, gnarled olive tees. A few sheep with tiny lambs in tow grazed in the grove.
The path leading out of the olive grove was paved with irregular stones, the cobbles polished soft and smooth by hundreds of years of human and goat steps. It wound through forests growing on hillsides and in wild ravines tamed by archaic terraces contained by sturdy low stone walls. The paved path reached the peak of the high bluff crowned with an old lighthouse. From there, we followed the winding road down into Port de Sóller.
As we walked along the busy waterfront of Port de Sóller, I felt a ball of anxiety form near my solar plexus. The proximity of so many strangers made me think only of being in the forest on that trail again. I soon left to begin the long hike back alone.
My nerves calmed as I climbed the hill to the lighthouse again, and I settled into a brisk pace as my feet found the old cobbles of the trail leading into the woods. My worn-out running shoes slipped on the polished stones as my mind slipped into a meditative reflection.
It was easy to see how this landscape had inspired such deep and fantastic mythology. It was not surprising that its ancient inhabitants saw gods in forest shadows, dryads in twisted olive trunks, epics of adventure on ocean storm swells. Beautiful and brutal themes of nature expressed in semi-human representatives.
I soon found myself murmuring my own prayers to these deities as I walked, speaking my hopes out loud. I thanked the olive trees for each unique spiral in their trunks, thanked the ocean for each dramatic crashing wave. The light was fading with sunset, and I passed nobody else. I sank into the quiet calm, the type of enigmatic peace only natural and ancient places hold. My thoughts were lured into creative and spiritual depths as I hiked. My emotional waters began to calm and ease their swells, the ship of my conscious no longer tossed and turned with the internal storm.
Nature and mythology, biology and spirituality are inextricably linked. Our natural surroundings govern our spiritual states. The world outside us inspires our internal dialogue, the conversation of our hearts and bodies with natural places, with each other. Our human interpretations of our environments feed our mythology and theology. Natural phenomenon become our gods, our heroes, our tales. We “personify” traits of nature, distill them into stories that we pass along to teach, warn, and comfort each other. We express our connection to nature through tales of nature spirits like naiads, animal gods, reincarnation of humans as animals and then rebirth as humans again, or of shapeshifting spirits, like selkies. Each unique manifestation of the theme is birthed by the natural climate and ecosystem its people called home.
Spirituality is palpable within a landscape, if you pay attention. You can see God in all the same places humans always have, if you look closely enough.
Sounds like just the uplifting yet relaxing tonic you needed.
From this and other posts, I can tell you are a very sensual person who deeply absorbs her surroundings.
Wonderful post!