Good Medicine

Photo by Nicolas Messifet on Unsplash

I went on a cyber detox this past weekend: a solo retreat to a back country, off-grid cabin. This place was legit, though not as isolated as I at first hoped and then eventually feared. It was tucked an hour (though only 22 miles which tells you a bit about the road to get there) into the mountains, on a meadow sparsely populated with rentals/getaways—also off-grid cabins or yurts, most of which were not occupied while I was there. 

A gorgeous creek paced the windy, single-lane road through the mountainous wilderness. The cabin’s owner had sent pictures of cars driven off the edge and warned that there’d been several fatalities this spring of drivers who’d ended up in the creek when encountering and attempting to make room for oncoming traffic. The road was legit too. 

The owner had also been clear that this rental was maintained by the guests. No one cleans in between visits, or restocks supplies on a regular basis. It’s up to guests to notify the owners if, say, firewood is running low (and they encourage bringing your own–which I did.) They ask that guests please leave the place in better shape than when they arrived. 

It was also BYOB (bring your own bedding) and had no running water; however potable water was available at the well, by way of a hand pump. The outhouse was clean and contained a bucket of wood shavings to cover your business–not only does this manage the smell, but it also is how to begin composting human waste. 

Why? Why would I seek out something like this, you may be asking. To be honest, things have been a bit slow. I wasn’t terribly concerned at first. In the past, when there’s a lull, something tends to happen that leads more moms for whom my message resonates to find me, and my coaching slots fill up again. I had some ideas, but when I’d go to execute them, there was no flow. I was feeling pretty blocked. I’ve discovered this usually happens for a reason, and that patience is my friend.

Yet, it started to feel like the future of the SMP was on the line. Not that it would end or fail or anything, but the time to iterate had clearly arrived and I didn’t know what the new form should take. I needed wisdom. And I’ve learned this comes most often for me in stillness. I have lots of opportunity in my life for quiet moments, and let me tell you, I allow them. This is usually where I find answers–in the quiet. Yet, it didn’t seem to be working this time. Even my dreams seemed to be fainter, more difficult to hold onto (yet recently in them, there’s always someone who wants to help me.)

So I decided to see just how quiet I could get and I sought out rustic accommodations for rent.

It had been raining here when I left last Friday morning. A drive that I’ve done many times looked completely different to me on this day. It’s always been a beautiful drive (I live in such a beautiful part of the world) but this morning it was exceptionally breathtaking with clouds resting on the mountains, the trees in stark relief. I would be taking an exit I’d never taken before, to hit that 22-mile stretch “into the wild.” 

Once I started pacing the gorgeous creek, it was difficult to focus on the road–but necessary to stay safe. The endless mudfilled potholes made for a bumpy ride, and I was both grateful and nervous about the lack of traffic. I was on the outside edge and had no where to go but down into the water if I needed to share the single lane. Luckily the rare vehicle I encountered seemed to always find a wide spot to skootch over into while I slowly inched passed them.

I was tracking my miles carefully as that was how I would know when to turn off the “main” road, and I thought for a bit that I’d passed the road onto the meadow, and wondered how much further I would need to drive before I found a viable place to turn around. Then I came to another road onto the meadow and it was immediately clear this was the correct way for me to enter; I recognized the cabin in the distance. 

I desperately needed to pee after the very long 22 miles that had violently jostled my bladder for the last hour. The first thing I did was find the outhouse, but in my urgency, I could not figure out how to open the door. (I figured it out later. It was just an enormous bolt that needed to be moved sideways and would stick unless you pushed the door in while you yanked it over. Maybe to keep wildlife out?) 

I knew there was no bathroom inside the cabin, but I wanted to make certain I was at the right place and punched the code I’d been provided into the pad on the front door. Yep, that did the trick, and there was the wood stove where I could burn my toilet paper because I cannot not wipe. I grabbed a napkin from my vehicle, and not knowing which distant houses were occupied and might potentially have a view of me squatting, I went around to the back of the cabin to relieve myself and brought the t.p. back in and disposed of it in the wood stove. 

I used the hand sani at the kitchen sink, then set about getting unloaded and settled in–which I knew was going to be a process. Because I miscalculated how long the drive would take, I was also quite hungry. Once I got the food I’d brought with me put away, I sat down with an apple (that I’d picked myself a few weeks back) and peanut butter to read through the “user’s manual” offered by the cabin hosts. 

I’ll lighten up on the details here and summarize what the rest of my retreat looked like once I turned off my phone and escaped from conventional time into the profound stillness of nature– where hours and minutes aren’t tracked. Time still passes of course, but it slows waaaaaaay down. Almost like magic…

Over the next few days I walked countless loops around the meadow, sometimes remembering to bring bear spray; installed my camp hammock where I spent time in that altered state that only occurs for me during “naps”; ate most of my meals on the porch swing, appreciating the mountain jutting up straight ahead and not so far away; took several walks each day to the creek, sometimes with my camp chair and art supplies or a book; hand knitted a chunky blanket for my son’s girlfriend’s upcoming birthday; did chores like chopping kindling, fetching water, emptying mouse traps, doing dishes in a way that requires a new level of effort when you don’t have running water; read Buffalo Woman Comes Singing (that I procured from a free library on a recent walk around my neighborhood); discovered that numerous wasps liked to visit the cabin (how the heck were they getting in?!) on warm afternoons and that if I left them alone, they’d disappear again (how the heck were they getting out?!) as the cool evening descended onto the meadow; built fires as the days ended, either in the woodstove or the outside fire ring; cursed the mice that woke me at night with their scurrying and noisy nibbling, and then thanked them when I relieved myself outside for ensuring I took in the starfilled sky I so rarely get to see anymore. 

I spent very little time in the cabin except to cook meals and clean-up, or to grab something I needed for my next adventure. I allowed natural rhythms to guide me to my next activity, tracked the sun through the sky and tuned into my body to decide when to feed it, when to move it and when to rest it, when to warm or cool it, when to stretch it. 

It was very quiet. I seem to be a bit of a junkie for the stillness these days. I basked in the slowing of time, and reminded myself often how temporary this experience would be and to be grateful that I could even have these precious few days of this level of solitude. 

Did I receive visions that would guide me to solve all my problems? No, I sure didn’t. I’d planned some dream incubation, but it really didn’t turn up anything–my dreams quickly slipping away in the morning leaving little to interpret, no wisdom to glean from my subconscious.  

I did LOVE it though. And I was reminded of how my values have evolved, and my long term dream now is to one day have my own cabin where my husband and I live full time. Where we can plant a food forest, raise chickens and maybe keep bees, nurturing a little corner of the world that is filled with Life. I renewed my commitment to not strive for more but rather to keep working to create the conditions where I need less. 

I also renewed my pledge to myself to always remain true to my values; to be the change I think the world needs rather than attempting to force my values on others. To take responsibility for my experience and to cherish Life in all its richness, modeling both the joy and the capacity for heartache that this miraculous Life will provide all who will allow it in. To look for the humanity in others and recognize that everyone is doing the best they can with their current skills and understanding of the world. To delight in the people I encounter: my husband, my children, my clients and neighbors, strangers and store clerks. To not expect perfection but rather to maintain a sense of humor about my flaws and fumbles–and those of others. To be grateful for all that I have, and not complain about what I don’t. To allow awe and wonder to flood my being when I’m gifted a beautiful sunset–or the sound of a rushing creek so close to my temporary home during a weekend getaway. To try never to take for granted the precious moment I’m in–it will be gone so quickly.

So what about those problems that nudged me into this retreat? They’ve not gone away but it seems the block has dissolved, and I was inspired to invite others to share ideas and offer their talents. Things are flowing again, and I’m excited to see how the vision will evolve and what offerings will emerge. You know I’ll keep you posted! 

And last night, I dreamt about a family reunion happening at my cabin. (Is my psyche teasing me or what?) Everyone was pitching in and creating imperfect experiences for us all to enjoy together. At one point, I found myself in town, picking up supplies to take back to the cabin; I was in a large vehicle that was requiring some pretty crazy maneuvering to get it on the road that led back to the gathering. Up ahead the road narrowed to almost nothing but I knew that if I just kept going, the path would open up for me and I’d eventually reach my destination.