Quiet Sundays
Reflections on Language, Identity, and the Passing of Time
It's been a slow Sunday.
Between reading fellow newsletter entries for inspiration and listening to my 'milk & honey' playlist for the third time since waking, I've been contemplating the vastness of my thoughts over a bowl of arroz con dulce, spiced with fresh cloves, nutmeg, and vanilla.
Right now, I’m reflecting on how unproductive this weekend, particularly today, has felt. Caught up in routine errands around my neighborhood, I had hoped to visit the local farmer’s market, only to realize it had been held earlier in the week. I had a feeling it might not be open on a Sunday, so I’m not sure if I’m truly disappointed, as I could’ve gone earlier. Still, it felt a bit discouraging to end up browsing fresh fruit and raw honey at the grocery store instead.
I’d intended to pick up a fruit I’ve yet to taste called sapodilla, described as having a warm, slightly malty flavor reminiscent of molasses or candied yams. After stumbling upon a video from a local vendor on social media, I found myself scrolling through hundreds of comments from people in the Caribbean and Central America, sharing all the varieties and ways the fruit could be enjoyed. The most enticing suggestion was blending it into a milkshake with cinnamon and vanilla.
Thoughts of this shake lingered in my mind, making the grocery store experience feel like a missed opportunity. But after picking up a basket full of fruit and some fresh agave, running a few more errands, and doing some housework, I finally settled down to write.
In the background, Frida Touray’s “Man on Wings” from her latest EP, Mending, plays while the scent from this last spoonful of my morning meal wafts beside me. I’ve just read Danya Issawi's entry, The Promise of Suburbia – a simple piece where she writes about nostalgia, identity, and the tension between past and present. She grapples with feelings of disdain and jealousy towards those who stayed behind, and the allure of suburban stability and predictability. Despite her love for city life, she yearns for the familiar comfort of her hometown, questioning her choices and the pursuit of a different life saying,
“Sometimes, I find myself running errands that don’t exist, driving down streets aimlessly, in the opposite direction of where I need to be. I think I’m searching for something — maybe a place where I still exist.”
In that sentiment alone, it feels as though we are connected. Not because I'm going through the exact same situation, but because there's a shared feeling of searching and longing that resonates deeply. It's hard to describe, but it's like capturing a fleeting moment of clarity, where everything feels both familiar and foreign, stirring emotions that are often difficult to articulate.
While I love reading—almost obsessively—I rarely find myself truly captivated by it, and as both a reader and a writer, that's something I deeply cherish. I've found myself gravitating towards first-person narratives over other styles for this reason as well. My love and understanding of linguistics have made me acutely aware that much of my disconnect with language comes from the way I choose to express sentiments.
“…There are moments when I struggle to find the right words because they simply don't exist…”
Growing up in a multilingual home, I've always known there's more than one way to convey a feeling. However, there are moments when I struggle to find the right words because they simply don't exist in the language I'm using. For example, in English, when you miss someone, you might say, "I missed you." It's straightforward but might not fully capture the depth of the emotion. In Portuguese, which I'm currently relearning, there's the word "saudade," which conveys a complex and profound feeling of longing, nostalgia, and love for something or someone that is absent.
It's not just about missing someone; it's about the deep ache of love left behind, a longing for a moment that can never be fully recaptured. This concept is so unique that there isn't an exact equivalent in English. So, when I encounter a piece of writing or someone who captures a feeling I've experienced but couldn't quite express, it resonates deeply with me, and this piece is one.
Over the last few months, especially since the start of summer, I've found it more challenging than usual to express myself. I've had to communicate in subtler ways, as other languages have started to influence my thoughts and feelings, and sharing other people's words has become a significant way for me to articulate my own. I've confided in a few people about this, even at work, and I often wonder if this shift in language has also impacted other areas of my life.
I wonder if my personality shifts depending on the language I’m speaking or thinking in—whether I am truly this vibrant, expressive person only when using English, and if my more subdued, introspective side emerges with Spanish and now, Portuguese. I ponder if I am both of these people simultaneously or if there was ever a time when these personalities seamlessly blended or switched.
“I find myself trying to understand why there are parts of me that still feel unexplored or misunderstood.”
As I mentioned in my last entry, there are aspects of my identity that have been set aside in the rush of daily life. Despite this growing self-awareness, I often feel as though I am under constant evaluation—both by myself and by others. I find myself trying to understand why there are parts of me that still feel unexplored or misunderstood. At the same time, I realize that no one understands me quite like I do.
This paradox of seeking self-knowledge while recognizing the unique intimacy of self-awareness is both comforting and unsettling. It feels like I am on a continuous journey of self-discovery, always evolving yet remaining familiar to myself in ways that others may never fully grasp.
I don't shy away from these reflections, no matter how intense they can get, because at least I'm engaging with them in whatever way I can. It’s usually around this time of year that I start to reflect more deeply, especially with my birthday just a few horizons away. By the time of my next post, I'll have celebrated another one, reached a new age, and closed another chapter.
Twenty-six has been a journey.
Best,
S.
