Do you get to delight in your life?
Delight is contagious, and I want what she is having, so strip down to my bathing suit and jump in.
Two other women who've also been watching decide to do the same.
Why not? We want to feed our souls today, too.
I often feel guilty about feeling happy, about being away in Europe to write for three months when I know not everyone has this luxury. I know so many others are not enjoying a beautiful life. Do I dare to delight in my own?
This morning, I wake up to a voice. Not a loud God-is-speaking-to-me-with-lightning-bolts kind of voice, but more of an internal knowing kind of voice. It’s a voice that I’ve learned to listen to over the last few years because it usually comes with what I believe is Divine wisdom.
“Go to St. Sophia today,” says the voice.
St. Sophia is an ancient church in Ohrid within walking distance from my apartment that houses wonderful architecture and art and well preserved frescoes from the 11th, 12th and 13th century,
“But today is a writing day,” I remind the Voice.
“Go to St. Sophia.”
I’ve felt these internal inclinations for long enough to know that when they come, and when they are insistent, there’s a reason. So I get up and get ready.
I make my way down the ancient stairs that lead to the church. Full of awkward inclines and uneven stones, I alternate between watching my steps and admiring the beauty around me.
I pass peonies and rose bushes and fig and plum trees. A woman hanging out a window, cooking long, red peppers over coals on a grill fastened just outside her kitchen window sill. Even though it is October and still nearly 80 degrees, a man gathers wood for the coming winter while a couple next door sit on their terrace, enjoying a morning coffee. As I round the corner, there is an old Yugo, clearly out of commission, and a nod to the nation’s past as a member of the former Yugoslavia.
I arrive at the small courtyard that surrounds the church, and Immediately I feel a sense of awe, as if I’ve somehow entered sacred ground. The intense feeling in my chest brings tears to my eyes, and I avert them downward, embarrassed.
At this point, I am used to a growing spiritual sensitivity inside of me, but I am still very aware that others might not understand, or think it all quite strange. I walk toward the entrance, hoping no one will notice the tears under my sunglasses, and I notice a simple plaque on the wall that reads: St. Sophia, Church of Holy Wisdom.
Inside, a distinctly feminine presence washes over me as I sit there in the corner, on a simple folding chair. I’ve learned to recognize these moments as portals to rich Wisdom important for my spiritual and emotional journey, so she has my full attention. It feels like words of wisdom pouring from her heart into mine. They come so fast that I grab my journal, writing down every word.
“Wisdom comes in the stillness.” she says. “It does not come in your striving. You’re so used to quashing your aliveness, at prioritizing urgent work ahead of what your soul needs. You’ve buried your vitality. You’ve been doing this so long that delight feels foreign to you, almost prohibited.”
“Inside of you is a young girl, full of delight. Delight in seeing the world. In meeting new people. Noticing. Observing. Learning. Remember that girl who delighted in adventure? She was so curious about the world and had so many questions. Grown up her gets to delight in all those same things.”
Tears slowly made their way down my cheeks and I no longer noticed my surroundings. “Dawn, delight is your choice. Don’t hide that you're living your life. You've worked hard to create a life you can delight in. You have made one choice at a time, some safe, some scary. But this delight—you’ve earned it. Everyone’s delight will be different, it’s their own recipe. This is yours.”
This journey to Macedonia marks the beginning of my coming back to life. It is no accident that I came to Ohrid. I believe my soul called me here because it knows I am finally ready to trust in the unknown and the unfolding of what life can look like if I am finally willing to step out of grief and into joy. I don't yet know what allowing my full range of emotions—both great sadness and incredible delight—to co-exist look like. But I am ready to give myself permission to embrace the beautiful life I am creating.
So the next morning I decide to try delight on for a day. I begin by walking through my neighborhood streets, allowing my five sense to note what I see, hear, smell, touch, taste:
The perfect sweetness of a morning macchiato.
The lapping of waves onto the shore as I sip it by the water.
The way the light dances on the lake at twilight.
The gruff tones of Slavic languages, completely indecipherable to my ear. Fresh roasted corn from outdoor vendors.
Cigarette smoke.
My sore feet after hours of walking on stone pathways.
Men and women laughing with their children, finding joy, despite the fact that many from this region have experienced horrifying things in their life—war, losing their home, even their own country and resettling into another, never able to return.
Sipping an Aperol Spritz as I listen to 80s cover band music that seems to be everywhere.
I begin to notice the details of the birds and flowers and the people and sounds around me in ways I haven’t in a long time. And as I do, I slowly feel vitality growing, aliveness pulsing inside of me.
I decide to ask myself each morning, “What feels like it will feed your soul today?”
Walking on the main boardwalk, it is cool, almost cold. The weather has turned quickly after a warm morning and the wind feels as if it is whipping up a fall storm. I planned to go swimming, but I’m not so sure now that the sun has disappeared.
But I notice a woman in the water alone, floating atop a massive pink flamenco, smiling and laughing as she bobs up and down in the waves. I stop to watch.
Delight is contagious, and I want what she is having, so strip down to my bathing suit and jump in.
Two other women who've also been watching decide to do the same.
Why not? We want to feed our souls today, too.