End of the odyssey not yet in sight...

Maybe the journey isn’t so much about becoming anything. Maybe it’s about un-becoming everything that isn’t really you so you can be who you were meant to be in the first place.  

--author unknown

It was exactly a year ago today that I left Zurich a frazzled mess, frantic with fear and an almost paralyzing sense of failure.  I’ve now returned from my global circumnavigation…somewhat slightly less frazzled.  I wish I could report a full recovery but if I learned anything on my journey, it’s that healing is not a linear process and does not adhere to deadlines.  However, the assessment is primarily positive for sure, as the report below attests.  Currently, I am negotiating my re-entry with not a little trepidation, worried that this tsk-tsking, Zwinglian, overambitious, status-conscious town may ultimately suck the optimistic life force out of me – but I’ll save the tale of this travail for another, new blog and take a moment to record my takeaway. 

First the physical tally: I am back hale and whole.  Figured I owed my kids at least that much.  During the 12 months, I suffered no illness, no injury, nary a headache, not even a slightly upset stomach.  The huge bag of medications that I schlepped all around the world remained untouched.   The best tan of my life has long faded and with it, thankfully, my freckles, old and new alike, but undoubtedly some sun damage has been done.  There are scars from a few of the more vicious mosquito bites but I’m grateful I didn’t come down with dengue fever or malaria. Been detoxed, retoxed, redetoxed and retoxed again.  Yoga was a central pillar throughout, and I am elated to have deepened my practice to such an extent that I know it will support me through any and all trials and tribulations. 

Emotionally, the story is much more dramatic.  On the verge of hysteria upon taking leave of my children last summer, I retreated to the Montana mountains and, surrounded by 30 new soul sisters, listened to a wise, young spiritual activist assure us that shit happens to everybody.  She shared her own story of how she has repeatedly been breezing successfully through life’s landscapes, gaining confidence, hitting her stride when – BAM! – down she plunges into a deep, dirty ditch.   Of course there’s nothing to do but crawl out, pluck the twigs and leaves from her hair, bandage her wounds, and limp along her way, picking up momentum as she goes until the next gorge gets in the way. 

It was weirdly comforting to realize that my disastrous divorce will not be the last time I fall in a ditch, and from that first week on I spent the rest of my sabbatical shoring up my resilience in preparation for inevitable future falls.

The phenomenal folks along the way provided priceless support to my endeavor, and to think that I wouldn’t have met them had I not been on my own. Heartfelt gratitude to my peeps, you know who you are! Being alone has its challenges and yes, I was ofttimes lonely, but solo travel is really the only way to go.  For a year, I went to places I’d never been where I knew no one; all I encountered thought me either crazy or courageous and sometimes both, but I wouldn’t have done it any other way.  As part of a couple, a family, a group, my experiences would have been so much poorer because of the normal insularity of such configurations.  Wouldn’t have had the necessary time for reflection, introspection, contemplation, all those other –tions, either.

And what about the acceptance and serenity I set out to find?  I admit that I struggled a good deal with feelings of resentment and guilt and inadequacy but also experienced many moments of profound peace and supreme confidence.  I worked hard at opening my heart, letting go, renewing faith in myself.

As already averred, getting past an upheaval such as I went through does not always proceed smoothly from one step to the next, is full of ups and downs, milestones followed by setbacks.  It’s really a three-steps-forward-one-step-back kind of movement.  But I’m getting there. 

Dear loved ones, please accept it when I tell you how essential it is to establish what makes your life worthwhile.  What deserves to be agonized about, sweated out, dedicated to.  Don’t fritter away precious energy and time fretting over things that just don’t matter.  

A few months ago, I came across this blog entry that I feel is totally on target (a lengthy but brilliant read) -- props to Mark Manson:

The Subtle Art of Not Giving A Fuck 

For my part, I have determined what does me good, what feeds my soul and nourishes my spirit, what enables me to be my true self. I am committed to leading a life of yes / now / why not.  I am living in the moment and not letting fear get a foothold.  I do not have to have the next 25 years figured out.  Whatever comes my way, I can handle it. 

My mantra: so ham (I am)

mwah! arohanui all around!

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If you’ve read this far, then you deserve the answers to the FAQs I got at every single stop and continue to hear:

1) I missed my kids the most; truthfully, they were all I missed.

2) No, I did not get a tattoo.

3) I refuse to choose a favorite place; each was superlative in its own way:

Montana: Most Breathtaking Big Sky

Grand Canyon: Best Geological Awesomeness

Costa Rica: Most Exotic Rainforest Wildlife

Belize: Most Aggressive Mozzies

Anguilla: Gorgeousest Beaches

Tortola: Best Xmas Gift

LA: Coolest Neighborhood Discovery (Studio City)

Auckland, New Zealand: Best Alternative to Zurich

South Island, New Zealand: Most Luxurious Wellness Retreat

Sydney:  Grooviest Music Scene

Vietnam: Best Time with Daughter

Myanmar: Most Spiritual & Friendliest Folk

Singapore: Biggest Culture Shock

Sri Lanka:  Best Ayurvedic Experience

Istanbul:  Most Heaving Metropolis

Paris:  Tastiest Oysters

And there you have it. 

J'adore cette ville!

Walking home from my yoga class on the Right Bank on a perfect summer evening, I exulted yet again in the magnificence of this city.  My route took me through the Jardin de Tuileries and past the Louvre where young adults gamboled among the Maillol statuary and picnicked on the grass in a modern version of Le Déjeuner sur l’Herbe.   I paused on the Axe historique, almost breathless: the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel, and Pei’s pyramid in one direction; and in the other, the golden-tipped Luxor Obelisque, setting sun glinting on the cars lined up the Champs Élysée, the imposing Arc de Triomphe de l’Étoile.  Continuing on my way, the Tour Eiffel was visible above the treetops, and crossing the Seine on the Pont Royal I had a view of Notre-Dame and L’Institut de France to the east, Musée d’Orsay and Grand Palais to the west.  

 

 

 

The proportional perfection of the Parisian edifices, bridges, squares, avenues and quais is indisputable.  Even the egotistical excesses of presidents past that cause(d) controversy (Centre Pompidou, Tour Montparnasse, L’Arche de la Défense) have their advantages and supporters. 

Of course I am by far not the first to have a love affair with Paris but as in all matters of the heart, one’s own experience is singular.  Though the bloom may be somewhat off after my tedious excursion to Versailles, I am still reveling in the romance of popping down to the boulangerie for brioche and baguette in the morning; lingering over coffee at the sidewalk café – which one today?; reading, people-watching, musing in the gardens; and biking down the boulevards. 

And I am delighted to report that, to a large extent, the reputation of the French as haughty and rude appears to be outdated.  I have encountered almost only friendliness and helpfulness, and most of them even humor me by switching less and less often to English.  Et le francais -- quelle belle langue!  Used with such finesse and politesse that it has engendered a new respect for those linguistic sticklers fighting against the encroachment of Franglais; I even get why the French insist on “ordinateur” when the rest of the world says a variation of “computer”….

Lest the reader consider me trop naïve, let me assure you that I recognize plenty of contrasts and dark shadows in the City of Light:  a romantic stroll along the Seine tainted by the stench of piss; the view of a world-famous landmark marred by the sight of beggars and homeless;  

for every perfectly prepared stalk of asperges blanches, there’s a plate of overcooked haricots verts; for each delectable oyster tasting of sea and salt, there’s an equally flavorless omelette; for each drop of precious, unique grand cru, there is a generic, sulfite-laden, le vin en carafe. 

Mais c’est la vie, n’est-ce pas?