I sat there at my wooden desk last Friday morning, long slow drawl of summer slightly audible in mid-July, as if it too was asking me in, inviting my body to slow down.
Roses with their thin peach heads starting to bow. As if they too were responding to the heat, not resisting their own way of marking time.
I sat there the day before, after making my Esalen plans, a plane ticket booked each way, the shuttle reservation looming in the air, that way of letting myself fly on 1 plane, a purchased seat by the window, the willingness to let someone else drive this time after my 3 hour solitary trip down the coast last year, now, able to take in the view, a surrender into being able to lean, something I realized I’ve been wanting all along to do.
I sat Thursday on my green woolen patch of the forest floor, in a tall city apartment, skin softening as my body breathed deeper into 5 more layers of the earth. A low resounding echo saying “thank you,” the pieces of me still petrified and contracted from our trip out there the last time now continuing to thaw, that way autonomy and managing too much is a wisdom gained balance, after not factoring in the possible pit-falls of a driven 3 hour long solo trip, and a hotel that is actually 1 long winding hour away from the workshop though they said it was no more than 20 minutes, and the mechanic it took me 3 days to find at the hotel in order for him to tell me why my check engine light was on after driving on curving ocean cliff roads without cell phone service.
I travelled that week last year between a longing to release down into the grass, earth, sky words and ocean of Esalen, allow myself to fully arrive for my spoken word workshop, and surrender into the softness of her land’s mossy mountains. I had booked the trip so last minute that there was no room for me to stay on the grounds and the imagined comfort of the lodge further up in the valley, became a loneliness and sterility instead that very first night I drove away. Afraid to let go into everything that was continuing to rise.
The outrage of being led astray by that hotel telling me the drive would only be 20 minutes, and they could help get me there, had morphed into my own self-questioning and self-judgment by way of their shifting, unsteady stance, and I realized as I heard myself last Wednesday recounting the trip to someone while inside a white wall candle flicker, beside a branch of pink rose, solidity of the heavy wooden door making a refuge cave that created an objectivity around the overwhelm, the seeming Godlessness of the events, that my sense of aloneness in managing it all had made me turn the failure into my own. From within that massage room 5 floors below ground, the false belief continuing to release.
And when I opened my eyes yesterday while seated on that green woolen patch of the forest floor after making these new workshop plans, it was to movement in the air, sudden rain outside the window, foggy 90 degree heat of an overcast morning swirling into some thunderous relief.