retreating for the world (not from it)
Taking these precious weeks to remember that I am for this world and it is for me.
Sometimes I remember I am for this world.
I spend most of my days dragging my feet around from the couch to the water tap to the couch again down to the carpet then to my yoga mat permanently laid out between the dining table and the coffee table then back to the couch and the water tap and the couch again. I am moving in circles.
By the time the sun begins its descent, I look out and consider that a walk would be good for me. 10k steps a day, they say! I check my phone to see how one day last week I walked a total of 92 steps (though certainly I didn’t have my phone on my person the entire day). So I drag myself to my drawer to find a pair of socks and then slide over to the hallway where my shoes are all lined up and lace up my running shoes with that little hole in the toes. I look at the clock. Why did these two things just take me 45 minutes? I am still going in circles, resisting. What am I even going to do on this walk? Eat a popsicle again in the main square? I have nowhere to be, no one to meet, nothing to tend to besides my own thoughts, which are berating me as of late inside the silence of this apartment, which is why I know I need to get out there into that hot, dusty world.
My options are 1. walk along the lake, which is mostly overgrown brush, sand and horse dung, 2. walk the cobblestone street without a consistent side walk, or 3. take the unshaded bike path on the main road, leaving me exposed to mid-day sun, ogling eyes and exhaust fumes. I take #2, pulling my knees up a little higher so that I don’t stumble over the bulbous rock that shoots up like roots breaking up from the ground.
The street goes directly into town, passing small bodegas selling fruit and laundry detergent and broomsticks and sometimes food stuffs written out on a brightly coloured paper sign taped to the wall. Lonches, tamales, galletas, nieves, etc. These are people’s homes with stores built into the front of them. A sandwich for 18 pesos is the source of someone’s livelihood, or a child’s educational fund. Most days, I don’t stop for anything, because I am still uncertain of my place in this community of people, who watch me as I approach, yet pleasantly return my “buenas tardes” with high-pitched satisfaction.
I do pause for the jacaranda in a fit of holy indifference as it offers the day its purple shade. And for the painted saint on the wall praying silently over a list of sweet treats. And for the dog who trots down the street like a man released from prison — deliriously happy, moving towards something.
On this particular day, I have decided to walk as far as the street will take me. Down past the town square, past the place I buy the popsicles near the main church, past the army barracks and the affluent homes with pristine yards, towards the edges of town. There’s a cacao restaurant over there, about an hour from where I am staying on the West side of Ajijic, and committing to a destination keeps me from the belief that everything I am doing is aimless and unnecessary. See — I too can be deliriously happy like the dog with its tongue hanging out. We are both moving forward.
I need the reminder right now that there’s a point to all of this — that every little movement is substantial. I am deliberate in my attempt to understand that leaving the house is an act of productivity, and that just being out in the world is a sacred interaction. Maybe not in the eyes of every person, but in the eyes of a person who needs the reminder that every intentional act to be present is the greatest act there is. I am that second person.
About 40 minutes into my walk, I notice a shift happening, from critical and frustrated and cluttered to light and exuberant and open. At the cafe, a dog greets me like an old friend, jumping up onto my silk skirt. She has burrs and little bits of dry things in her curly fur and I try to pluck them out while petting her head. Nina, the dog is named Nina. A small calico cat sleeps curled on a plastic chair and when I notice her, I let out a little sound of joy. She, too, is happy to see me, but sleepier and less gregarious than the dog. Eventually, she lets me pick her up, and I cradle her like the baby she is, my right arm beneath her as my left hand rests on her stomach. This is how I hold our family cat, Mango — inserting myself into the most soft and tender part of her. The small cat purrs and tries to relax, but I can tell she’s counting down the seconds before she’ll bite me and squirm from my arms. I will gladly take the gentle 20 seconds that precedes her teeth and claws. Luna, the cat is named Luna.
I hold life like I hold her, like I hold the wooden bowl of cacao that arrives full of frothy liquid, dark and bitter: with two hands gently cupped around it, raised to my body with eyes closed while I feel its reverberation. Cardamom, vanilla, cat hair, sweat, and cacao in my nose and on my tongue. I am tasting what it means to be part of it all. To be part of this collision of connections and embraces and love.
When I am back in the apartment, alone with my shuttered mind, the only movement is the ceiling fan pushing the same air around and around. I know (but seem to forget that it has a practical resonance) that life requires inward and outward flow at all times. To be circular without any outlet is to be stagnant. It’s only when I am mingling with the living present that I embody that physical truth of being in expansion and growth. I suppose that’s intentional by design. We are members of the world, after all, more than just participants and contributors. We are seeds and rain, wings and wind, hills and fire. We are only separate the way fish and the ocean are. Separate yet inseparable, dependent, reliant, in tandem.
We are in the rhythm of existence with everything else around us. We are meant to exist in communities, knowingly greeting our neighbours, offering food to a passing stray, and receiving the bowl of love, lifting up the offering to our lips and bowing in gratitude before taking a sip. Each day is waiting to be picked up and held. And the wonderful thing about holding is if you pay attention, you can feel that everything you hold is holding you, too.
Whenever I finally muster up the energy to go out from this small apartment, to walk even when there’s nowhere to go, I remember I cannot be held by the surprising tenderness of being in the world when I am cloistered inside of myself. I cannot notice when eyes are happy to see me if I will not allow myself to be seen. I cannot love a place if I refuse to be loved by it. I cannot feel the deep wisdom of connection when I believe I am separate and alone.
It’s easy to want to be separate right now — oh, this I know very, very well. I want to be separate from the noise online, from the deluge of content on every app I open, from the news laced with various anxieties, from the people who just don’t seem to get it, from everything that triggers my nervous system and produces a feeling of wanting to hide, flee, scream, bury myself, pull back, retreat. But I am reminded of a quote I read some time ago about contemplation and healing, and that is we don’t retreat from the world, but for the world. The purpose of solitude is to go within and renew a connection to ourselves, so that we can remember our connection to everything else.
I spend much of my time alone, because retreating is a wonderful practice to cleanse the mind and body of the gunk of stress. I retreat so that I may return anew, with clear eyes and an open heart. Because I want to engage more meaningfully, sometimes I need to disengage. It’s funny, you know, how long it takes to figure this out. Beyond years of leaving and returning, retreating and running back into the arms of my life, I am experiencing this now again in Mexico. My first three weeks in Ajijic were mainly spent alone at the house. I needed the isolation, the quiet, the space, the solitude after being in the US for a few months and sharing spaces with a new partner. Now, every time I leave for a long walk into town, it feels like I am micro-dosing a “return to society” so that when I finally leave Ajijic and I am reunited with my responsibilities, I might feel ready to engage in a more meaningful, empowered, grateful way.
The greatest gift in life and in all of this — in going from the quiet circles of solitude to the long path of connection — is remembering that no matter what is going on, I am not separate from anything. I am part of everything, I am holding it, and it is holding me in return. And that somehow, in that mysterious magic of synchronized existence, I can choose how and what that means. Instead of fear, I can choose to be held by acceptance. Instead of judgement, I can choose to be held in the breath of curiosity. Instead of looking at the garbage on the shoreline left there by yesterday’s campers, I can choose to see the resilient beauty of nature. Instead of anger towards the people who have hurt me, I can be held in the gratitude that they have all formed me into a person who is kinder.
While I continue in my little Ajijic retreat, I give thanks to the silence and to the long walks and to the solitude for reminding me that my true place is not in here, but out there. I am remembering, slowly but surely, that I am for this world and it is for me.
P.S. I’d love to know:
How are you feeling right now?
Are you online a lot? Reading the news? Taking a break?
How do you protect your energy and emotions?
What practices help you clear your mind?
Are you experiencing joy and gratitude?
What is holding you?