A Bold Move in a Technicolor World

(versão portuguesa)

The other day a friend asked me how I was; «I’m well enough», I said. He hesitated.

We were arriving at the Calouste Gulbenkian Gardens, one of Lisbon’s most beautiful green spaces, home to a museum where we were going to see a photography exhibition. I caught on to his hesitation and felt the need to explain myself. The words were borrowed from Out of Africa, a movie I saw too many times on one of the few VHS tapes I had growing up. They stuck with me for more than thirty years. «I know they don’t sound right, but they feel right.»

The garden was full of spring green vegetation, and the noise of the city faded into the restless chatter of birds. We walked the concrete paths and crossed a small bridge that led us to a massive eucalyptus, more than two meters in diameter. The story goes that they built the museum around these giant trees that belonged to the 19th-century park that was there before. One of the landscape architects that designed the space, Gonçalo Ribeiro Telles, believed it was possible to seamlessly integrate the built environment into nature, preserving the landscape. At a time when Lisbon was expanding and concrete was king, keeping those trees was a statement.

As I read that story, a memory surfaced. When I finished university, the economy was collapsing and no one was hiring. During my mission to find a job in my field of study, I kept busy with side gigs, and one of them was handing out pamphlets outside a football stadium.

When the game ended, people flooded the street, smiling and chanting. As I handed out pamphlets, I became part of the celebration, greeting people, smiling and making conversation, truly enjoying the whole experience. It puzzled me: was finding joy in such an odd job a skill or a trap?

That doubt followed me into adulthood, through better jobs, creative endeavours, and relationships: should I learn to appreciate what I have or actively go after what I want? Should we keep the trees or build a more magnificent museum?

Keeping the trees was a bold move for the 1960s, almost as bold as saying «I’m well enough» in the 2020s, when we are expected to live Instagram-worthy Technicolor lives and when there is always room for improvement. It feels like being well enough lacks ambition, and that’s a conundrum, because more than enough is, by definition, wasteful. And if good enough can be a trap to endure what can be improved, not enough can lead to the endless rat race.

Maybe the real question is, what is enough?

Right after being diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer, when the end seemed much closer than it does now, I looked back and felt at peace. I wrote, «I had a good run at life. I loved people and felt loved by people. I experienced beauty. I laughed so hard that I couldn’t stop crying. I walked down a road to the rhythm of the perfect soundtrack.»

Three years later, I still feel this deep gratitude for my life. Even if I’m not looking for bigger, shinier things, I’m striving to be healthier, more self-aware, and a better writer, and the list goes on. And there are days when peace feels a lot like numbness, when I’m just too tired to want more, and the words «I’ve had enough» carry a darker, heavier weight.

The magnificent eucalyptus thrives in the garden, but it doesn’t try to outgrow the museum. It doesn’t question if lightning will strike or if a plague will come. It doesn’t count the years it has until it starts to wither.

Is there a moment when we are able to say from deep within, freely, with no lingering guilt, we are happy with who we are and with the life we have? Can we say, with conviction, we are well enough? Like that eucalyptus, can we be enough, exactly as we are?