Continued from The Retreat - Part I
Morning comes, and the retreat starts in earnest.
I find the meditation and self-discovery practices challenging. Or perhaps they challenge the idea of me now.
At times, I can’t breathe. Guilt and rage throttle my diaphragm.
I struggle to give over to what gurgles to the surface. I purge pain unrestrained —something only done in front of people you’ll never likely see again. I weep through guided meditations, which ask me to give myself loving-kindness — the hardest.
I believe events outside myself hold the keys to my unhappiness. I sift through them as I journal and reflect:
My father died of a sudden heart attack just over a year before. We had unfinished business.
Cumulative events in the business had me questioning my future in it.
An ongoing crisis in my life partner’s family threatens to swamp our lives.
Our friend Sheila’s death from cancer a few weeks before the retreat. We were a similar age. I witnessed a desperate race to jam living into the short months she had left. This could be me. I wanted to shout: Why did you wait so long to start?!”
There’s too much misery piling up. I feel sick, toxic…unrecognizable.
Where’s the creative, intuitive person I once was?
I speak little during the four-day retreat. The yoga and meditation practices are a balm. I cry, sleep deeply, eat the nourishing food, and am sober. As I listen to my heart, I feel the oak move.
I know the answer to my question within the first day.
I do not feel rage or fear. Rather, I feel relief and hope.
Now, the mountain of people I will disappoint stands before me: my business partners, family, colleagues, clients, friends and life partner. The weight of saying, “I’m done. I have to leave the business. I don’t know what’s next or where I’m going, but it’s time.” That first conversation would lead to more like it, and my relationship would likely be next.
I must do this.
I see a chasm between me and the life I’d created. I’m certain of my decision.
The early autumn sun greets me as I leave the retreat. Possibility hangs in the air; it energizes me. Returning to the realities of the world I’d left, I break from the safety of silent contemplation.
September brings renewal. A return to familiar rhythms for so much of our lives. We anticipate this season of second chances: new schools, clothes, pencils and friends—a fresh start.
Fear sits as my companion for the first time, and it will not be the last in the months and years ahead.
As I merge onto the highway home, I feel a joy long absent. I cling to my fragile awareness as I’m plunged into the icy waters of the ‘real world.’ Traffic flows around me like salmon running. I silently wish drivers well as they cut me off, tearing ahead. We all need to get home safely. I don’t know what’s happening in their lives. We take exits to our destinies.
I embrace this fast-moving river to my future, deliciously unknown.
“Guilt and rage throttle my diaphragm.” For me, the terrible years of living maladaptively, carelessly, hatefully, locked in so much to shout out or weep or curse about, but I remained mute. Folks would say in meetings that they had become “sick and tired of being sick and tired.” Others described having a “moment of clarity.” Still others described a “burning bush” experience, sounding crazier than I myself felt.
“I do not feel rage or fear. Rather I feel relief and hope.” What a perfect portrayal of the possibilities. I have a sense of a “carrying the message” moment. I experience you as “living the message” as I read your posts.
“Hurrah” the word I chose to offer today. All the best always, Linda.
You’re taking us on an incredible journey that required such courage to embark on, and now courage to write about with such eloquence and beauty. Thank you for sharing.