It‚´s late at night. Or, at least, the sun is down and the moon has not yet risen. Which is about as precise as my awareness of time usually goes these days. I‚´m lying on the floor in our simple bamboo hut, and through holes in the ceiling I see the stars above, while through holes in the wall I see the dark waves hit the shore below. Wave after wave after wave, in the sea‚´s own rhytmic motion. Meanwhile Sky, an English guy and my current roommate in our lazily patched together shelter, lies stretched out on his back and is playing guitar – inbetween the sounds of the sea I recognize the sound of Pink Floyd; Comfortably Numb.
For a week now I‚´ve lived here in this gathering on the beach, in a small bay on the south coast of Spain. Some days of this week have done justice to the picture many people have of Spain as a hot country – on these days it was comfortable enough for nudism on the beach, even in March. Most days have been rainy and cloudy however, and I spent these wrapped up in two warm sweaters reading some Eckhart Tolle or playing chess under the shelter which is our kitchen.
No matter though if it‚´s some abandoned Spanish beach, a mountain top in Poland or some kibbutz in Israel, the places I go to are actually only the superficial layer of my travels. Of much more significance is the personal journey – the journey to get to know myself. My own mind is in the end a lot more important in creating happiness or misery for myself then anything outside can ever be.