I write to you now from a delightfully fall-ish Washington DC where my windows are open and a delicious breeze is blowing through my attic apartment. The incessant humidity and accompanying mosquitos may be gone but what remains is that I’m still in the thick of the saddest time of my life and there are so many unanswered questions and so much pain. So, let’s take those things and move along with the tale of when I recently rent to a yoga retreat in Far West Texas (a true geographical term) which is basically Mexico. In summer!
After the stint in Marfa, which was fairly nice, but also consider I’m an emotional wreck on this trip, we drove three hours into the desert to a stylish eco lodge called The Perch in a town called Terlingua, close to the base of Big Bend National Park. When we arrived and stepped out of the Jeep, my first reaction was indeed awe because there we were in the wide-open, scrubby, vast, foreboding desert. Although the desert makes me feel an unease I’d describe as the opposite of claustrophobia, I do appreciate its majesty. I bow down to it but I don’t want much to do with it. Also, it was god awful hot. Hana and I were slated to stay in the yurt on the compound, which registered at 115 degrees when we arrived. It was expressed (by us) that we’d not be staying in the yurt and the two yoga teachers were quietly unappointed from their assigned bed.
Mostly I was feeling raw and exposed and my big question upon arrival was: In this small house with all these West Coast strangers, tell me, please tell me, where in the world will I go to cry?
I’d discover the answer later that night. I’d cry beneath the half-mooned Texas sky until 2:30am. A word on the Texas sky: You’ve heard it described as wide-open, but in addition to stretching from end to end, in a way I haven’t even seen when camping in the Sahara Desert in Africa, it’s domed, so the stars slope down so far on the edges that they appear to touch the ground. It’s like an IMAX theater was modeled off the Texas sky, that’s how it envelopes you, overhead and side to side. One that first night in the middle of the desert, I couldn’t sleep and so I went and sat on the deck under that sky and soon I was sobbing. First, out came one of the yoga teachers, a woman who doesn’t fit your view of what a yoga teacher should be. She’s heavily tattooed, vapes, drinks, and was in the Navy for many years, drives a big ass Jeep, whose doors she promptly removed so she could kick up dirt in the desert. But during this moonlight heart-to-heart, and a lot of other times during the week, she revealed herself to be big-hearted, inquisitive, super smart, insightful and also just lots of fun (and a good yoga teacher to boot). Not the first time I’d prejudged someone or something on a yoga retreat. After she went inside, the woman who’d planned the whole retreat, a friend of Hana’s, also came out, comforted me for a time, and deftly navigated the awkwardness of dealing with a sobbing person whom she doesn’t know at a retreat she’d planned. I did have some guilt about what vibe I was bringing in to the whole situation, which was a retreat almost entirely of yoga folks from a studio outside of Seattle.
The following day, we went on a hike in Big Bend, and it had stunning views. Later, I put to use the gorgeous outdoor shower (aka a Cowboy shower) and that was a treat. There was a really beautiful dinner in there too (all the food on this trip was excellent, but my appetite these past few months is a sliver of what it was and thus my enjoyment of food just really is not there).
That night, the air conditioning went kaput at 9pm. The guy who built the whole solar-powered structure (the spouse of the woman leading the entire retreat) was with us and was monitoring the battery charge and all, but The Perch hadn’t yet been home to 10 people who were showering, washing dishes, flushing the toilet, running AC nonstop so it’s got some kinks to work out. It became so hot inside that nearly everyone ended up abandoning the beds and trying to get a slumber spot on the deck. Nighttime temperature: 103 degrees.
After what you can imagine was a wretched night of sleep, we did some sunrise yoga and then packed everything up and moved into a nearby hotel/Airbnb property which included a large but essentially one-room concrete “house” which had a pool, and a separate bubble. Hana and I went in the bubble, and the AC in there worked great.
That day also included another hike, this one in a canyon, which was mercifully a few degrees cooler and at least out of the relentless sun.
Hana left the retreat a two days before I did. Normally I’d have no problem bonding with a group a strangers in a setting like this, but I just couldn’t pull out that energetic and engaged Emily, at least not all the time, on this trip. I showed up as a sad and introspective Emily. One thing I struggled with is I have so many stories that I’d usually tell in such a setting but they’re mostly about adventures that Adam and I had together. I felt I didn’t want to say “This one time my husband and I were hiking in the West Bank when…” Or “In Tanzania, my husband and I…” or “Once, when camping in the Sahara Desert, we…” But as I wrote right after this happened, all those experiences did happen and they were spectacular. Just because a thing no longer exists (ie our marriage) doesn’t mean it didn’t exist. Still, hard for me to enthusiastically share tales when I’m so sad.
One day, there was a whole group discussion about the “yamas” or guiding principles of yoga and one of the yoga teachers talked about the yama of “satya” or truthfulness. How often do you find yourself being truthful, she asked? Feels I’m only capable of truth these days. I tell everyone my husband left me and how I’m doing with that, I write in my journal daily, I blog about it, I photograph things, even the painful parts. The other day, I took some selfies in Rock Creek Park, attempting to make my face reflect the exact mix of anxiety/relief/self-compassion that I was feeling at the moment and my face just didn’t appear truthful enough. Seeking the truth seems paramount although I’m starting to realize that existing in the murky zone of unanswered questions will probably be where I’ll dwell maybe for years.
During that yamas session I felt a great desire to just be alone. It was so hot that I wasn’t getting my daily steps in, so I just took off down a road for a walk. Thirty minutes in, I realized how reckless this was. Even with a hat and covered in sunblock, you don’t walk in 110 degree afternoon sun in Texas. Later that evening, the group of us went to the center of town, to “The Porch” which refers to the long porch that connects a general store and a restaurant, where travelers and locals meet for a beer and for the telling of stories.
Finally, after the Marfa portion and the desert yoga portion, it was a Saturday and we were all en route to the airport for our flights home. Them, to Seattle and me to LA where I’d spend a week. On the drive, about an hour out from the El Paso airport, one gal mentioned “Oh, Mexico is like a block away.” We had some time, and we had our passports, so we crossed into Mexico via the same border crossing that Morgan Freeman’s character in The Shawshank Redemption crossed at the end of the movie. Had a very quick breakfast in Cuidad Juarez. Crossed back over and made it with time to spare. Next time: I want to share what going to LaLaLand was like after this rather rugged experience.
Every adventure like this gives you some epiphanies and mine were: I love my friend so much for taking me on this trip. I still can have adventures and fun vacations, married or not – that part of my life isn’t over, not by far. The “Texas Sky” is a thing for a reason. Also: Don’t go to Far West Texas in the summer. It’s just too hot.
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