Saturday, February 11, 2017

Restorative Shiva Powers: Expat Retreat

“Sometimes,' she said, 'it takes a woman to bring out the best in a man.” 
― Christopher McDougallBorn to Run: A Hidden Tribe, Superathletes, and the Greatest Race the World Has Never Seen (

Lately, I have been feeling the need to run away. I needed to discover a voice to assure me that running away was not a metaphor for fear but a testament to strength when faced with adversity. From the first page- I was hooked; this idea of being lost in pursuit of a mystic, an aberration and legend drew me in. At different points in my life, I too became lost in big beautiful spaces. Caballo Blanco's character, an ultrarunner of Copper Canyon drew me in and reminded me of that yearning to let go of time, place, and politics to focus on one pure thing.  When the opportunity arose to join a yoga retreat on a mountain top in el Limon, the Dominican Republic, in a Shiva cave, how could I resist the signs?

Every day here is sort of an ultra marathon; I'm up against my own ineptitude at language, my own impatience and my own atonement for always being so certain in my core values without truly testing them.  A women's yoga retreat in the mountains of Las Terrenas couldn't have been more apropos. The inauguration of a president and congress so divorced from my realities and my efforts to inact real change made me morose.  A cleanse was in tall demand.

The bus transported us to a nameless dirt road and a hill climb too steep for cars. We walked and turned off our text messaging. This man machete hacked coconuts to quench our thirst and whacked them again in order to scoop out the meat. Our sustenance for the next few hours of our first session in the yoga cave.

"We run when we're scared, we run when we're ecstatic, we run away from our problems and run around for a good time." McDougall, Born to Run.

90 steps down a staircase affixed to rock ledge overhanging the Shiva cave. I stepped away from reality. For 2 hours I opened my muscles and mind without distraction. I sweated (yo sudo) and breathed deliberately. We climbed from the cave up to the host's terrace for our meal and then retired once more to the cave for meditation.  

And I tasted a single raisin. 

Actually, I almost missed the metaphor. Feeling full from the meal I emphatically and carelessly rejected the offer of a raisin. Noting the awkward silence, I grabbed it and popped it quickly into my mouth. Again, a polite silence led me to concur I was still missing the point. The cave was lit against the darkness and all that which hurries and busies itself; I needed to slow down.  In a haste to control or correct or check things off a list, we can miss the sweetness of things. A moment spent with a single raisin, placed between the teeth and rolled on the tongue before consumption is added to those I do not rue. Small moments add up. 

It was dark when we awoke, shuffling out of mosquito netting, migrating to the kitchen for coffee. We held our cups without conversation until the caffeine found its course. Aching from the previous session we warmed up with the sunrise to the notion of the morning challenge. I sat on this wide open veranda thinking about caves and metaphors I was accustomed to. Plato's cave taught me to fear shadows on a wall (ie- Trump election drama on social media). But this Shiva cave was different, open to elements: rainbows and rain and the colors, sounds, and wildlife of  Caribean farmland. Hummingbirds and lizards flitted in and out. Turkey vultures rode lazy air currents.  I became distracted not from the practice but from myself. And I found my yoga pose, the headstand that hadn't been there in years. And in this moment lay my rogue hope for a better tomorrow.  I'm not running away or chasing shadows. I am in this world as I was meant to be.

There were may reflective moments shared and in quiet isolation during the weekend at Monte Placido. I read, I took time for some pampering with pedicures and massage. I hitched a ride to town and then ran non-stop past the beaches and coaxing sounds of Dominican pop. I set an intention to run all the way to our hilltop villa without pause despite mi corazon pounding through my chest.                                                                                    Unlike Caballo Blanco- I can not retreat for long.  My daughter had specifically asked me to return with intentions to do my part as a woman and a citizen.  Only 12 years old and she worries about the state of the current US government. The Million Women march in Washington was taking place so we gathered to send a video prayer and shout out to those activists. Claiming back my right to social media I thought about what could follow. The stamina, perseverance and patience, taught me to love power not to hate it.The cave has taught me to face all elements; this transpired into an idea- what if, a million women marched in August or October of 2020? Why not bring people together before an election instead of after it is too late?  We walked out on the same road we came in on. Mary, one of the leaders and organizers has no idea how much this experience has done for me and how I'm already thinking of the future.  I have a heart full of intentions on an island with some pretty awesome chicas by my side. I think you are going to see quite a bit of us in action in the months to come.  

Sunday, November 13, 2016

Ex Pat Retreat

Santo Domingo in October. The mangos are gone but the bananas and lechosa still overflow the bicycle vendor's cart. From watching the custodians at school meticulously carve lechosa into crushed ice and evaporated milk blended into a mid morning treat, I too have something to look forward to in my own morning ritual. My morning has changed slightly. No longer does the drive to awake at 4:30 for a run in the park beckon me.  Instead in a Proust moment, the smell of hay gathered from mowed grasses in the Mirador Sur draw me in for the late afternoon. Kata has soccer now so I have an hour alone. The hay is reminiscent of Vermont but new to me is the sound of baseball. the mowed meadows are swarmed by parents and coaches and young men in uniform, cracking their bats and calling plays. It has a rthym? or maybe not but I need to keep listening, watching because I have this need to put that acoustic in my memory.  I have yet to go to a game but it will happen.

October weather is still in the 80 temps (F). And it is still an impressive humidity. A river of sweat is now only 2 single trains trickling down my front and my back, pooling in my underwear like a overnight diaper. Advice to savvy travelers is to wear none.

We've been overseas for 3 months now. Our school leadership realized long ago, that this is when begin to lose faith, dwell on homesickness, develop aches and pains. We are counting our pesos- we are trudging through the end of a quarter of the school year. Some of us are feeling lonely, while other expats are feeling crowded.
A trip was planned for heading to the mountains of Jarabacoa to a ranch- Baiguate. The school chartered a bus and made all arrangements. It was a 2 hour bus trip/ party With a 1/2 way at a lovely brasserie for quipe and coffee and then the slow climb into the mountains. We were at least 3 or 4 degrees cooler at around 520 meters- not enough for a sweater but definitely a long sleeve shirt.
Kata had visited here with her class a few weeks earlier. She delighted in leading friends ahead of everyone to their sleeping cabins and walking us through the garden to the mess hall. It was dark when we arrived. And the lights of the bar- the sounds of kids running around screaming- it was all inviting. The buffet of fresh vegetables, salad, stew and yucca was heavenly. Weeks of chicken, beans and rice have built a craving in me for endless greens. Kata disappeared into the green space- I realize now that this is what I missed, her running out a door without a guard or chaperone. To be able to come and go, to visit friends whenever and to run freely, I had taken this for granted. 

It rained. So we huddled around the bar and the Cubs game. And these are the sounds that helped me drift off to sleep. Sleep without AC- with cabin windows wide open. 

I awoke, left Kata asleep with a smile and a blanket and orchestrated an early morning run up to the town of Jarabacoa with a group. We tiptoed passed each cabin. Parents had shut their kids out on their decks for extra snatches of sleep. In this 79? degree temp- the kids were contentedly coloring or reading or swinging in hammocks. Some inadvertently undid their parent's intentions by yelling loudly "good morning Whitney!"  

We ran, gasping up a large hill, the first in my three months here. We proceeded pas watercress farms, flower farms, plots devoted to the pungent licorice smells of basil and the sweet smells of sage or mint. My inclinations to buy these greens at the grocery store are affirmed. I can't get enough of this.

Jarabacoa is known for its guided canyoning expedition.We squeezed into neoprene wet suits that were missing knees and buttocks- much to our dismay and our giggles. Marc's flesh colored shorts did give us reason to laugh. The diesel took us straight up dirt roads high into the mountains. I was hanging on to me and to Kata and leaning forward to compensate for the steepness of the road. A momentary stall and recovery gave me such panic as I looked over the edge.

And then we were walking down a mountain stream. The guide with huge arms ripped an orange in half and squeezed it into the stream. We continued and the scent of naranja followed through the canopy, hopefully chasing away  mosquitos. Whether it was true or not, it made the trip enchanting. A few moments later the same guide with ripped abdominals picked up a ripe avocado, broke it deftly in half and gave us each a piece to eat. It was sweet and creamy. I made a sardonic remark- how convenient it was that he so easily found all of these things to impress us with when I looked up. This was an aguacate grove. And these experiences are just to be expected. I stopped talking. Our group became divided with three of us, walking swiftly ahead with our outrageously fit instructor. One teacher is also a true horticulturalist. naming off many flora and fauna, fruts and scents that I have only seen in exotic plant stores. but were here hanging like tents along the river banks and canyon walls. I know I'd pick her for a teammate on a survivor adventure or a Hunger Game. 

The silent but powerful guide gave us a team name, plucking palm fans for our helmets to wear, Kata as our leader. We rappelled down a 10' section of rock into a river. The instructions were simple. One hand behind, guiding with the other. Kata is an impeccable rule follower but not a dare devil. I went first. Then my friend, Amy. Marc went and we hoped Kata would follow? She went albeit slowly, and it was the last time I have seen her move slowly with fear. She was soon ahead of me jumping into water pools and second in line at every adventure to follow. 

The rains had muddied the waters- making the water shoots and plunges into pools that much more exciting. Each confidence chased a new challenge.  We zip lined and swam and eventually made our way to the last rappel. A waterfall, 60'- we took all of our skills from that last hour and put them into one death defying drop. I went second with Kata following. I felt heavy and sloppy and it took half of the rappel before I could be relaxed enough to let go. to just trust.  When I saw Kata without fear inching her way like a spider down that rock, I was so proud. I felt this release in me, like the waterfall and I let go of my angst, my sorrows, my frustrations that I carried all this past year. I let go of the bouquet that my handsome guide gave me and ran to Marc through the muddy water to plant a wet kiss on the lips like I meant it.

We returned ravenous and content to Baiguate. I had time to read and relax. Kata was off on her own running and playing. Once in awhile she stopped to bring me to a star fruit tree and to munch on plucked fruit. We pulled flowers from the Ylang Ylang tree to rub all over and breathe in that Chanel perfume. She came back having gathered macadamia nuts that she and other kids pounded with rocks and then gave to me as an offering. We carved pineapples into pumpkin style - Jack O lanterns to guide students on an organized trick or treat loop that took kids from cabin to cabin. The vats of piƱa pulp disappeared into a blender that magically appeared from a wizened camper. Ice and rum were blended into this lovely mess that also kept my glass magically full. A metaphor- glass half full of pina colada- never thought of that before now.

A storm was brewing and a steady rain followed. It did not impede the Halloween story hour or the viewing of the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown. I took over Kata's toasted marshmallow and campfire costume, she wanted to continue her pace as a fast moving supergirl. We followed behind in a train of kids in costumes, trick or treating at every cabin. Meeting once more for more World Series, chatter, food and drink. Kids running in and out of rain that slowly tugged and melted the costumes. I once again trudged off to sleep with a smile on my face. 

Sunday came with more walks in gardens along a river and a run back up to the mountains. more time was spent wandering and resting in hammocks, reading novels for pleasure or reading just to procure a nap.

It was difficult to leave this mountain escape. Knowing it is here gives me such relief. We napped all the way home on the bus. And we were bored with our apartment, bored with the view of the sea. The mountains keep calling. But I'm also following that calling of this community here in Santo Domingo. People take care of people. Having new friends who so easily include me in these adventures and willingly set aside their own time to share family and fun and talent... How lucky am I? 

Sunday, November 6, 2016

Ex Pat October

No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main...                                   (John Donne)

Celebrating our third month abroad today and it feels as if a lifetime has passed. We have a new appreciation for the geography of Santo Domingo, protected by its cliffs, its bay and its height above water since the visit with Hurricane Matthew (September 28).  Living abroad reminds me daily of how insignificant I am, and a hurricane speeds up that feeling like the double fast foward button on a remote. Days before it struck, we were partying on the Malacon and planning Marc's trip for a conference in Guadalajara, Mexico.  At the time, I embraced the independence but that week brought me closer to my reliance on the communities of Santo Domingo. 

I reacted like everyone else and stocked up on groceries. Here in Santo Domingo there are many supermercados but if you are traveling by bike, the best fresh fruits and vegetable variety is at Bravo. Organic produce is truly organic and inexpensive; the farm region where they grow basil, watercress, cilantro is hours from here in Jarabacoa. 

Of course I overload my totes. And of course my keys sit on a hook at home as I stare at my locked yellow bike in front of the store. Walking the mile back without taking a shopping cart is not an option. I didn't even consider that it could be interpreted as stealing. Pretending its a workout I jog pushing it down side streets and the main road, avoiding the city sidewalk that are as gnarly as a class 4 dirt road. I'm running alongside motobikes and cars and cut thru a passage between two buildings carrying the shopping cart over piles of debris. Only then did I look over my shoulder to check for muggers. Only then did I see two men following me. I heaved that grocery cart and began striding deliberately up the stairs to the main road. I hoisted over the median and booked it to my street afforded a second look. It was just one man now. In a pink shirt. In a uniform from Bravo. 

My vision is blurred from sweat and from steam and of course I don't have my phone for translation. I open my gate and he follows me. In rapid Spanish he begins talking to me and the doorman. I'm trying to say that I'm sorry, I did not steal and that the cart will be returned. And I have not a clue as to what he is saying. Una momento- I race up to the apartment to drop the groceries, grab the bike key, my passport, my phone. I try to translate an apology or explanation as he begins to pull the cart from me and out the door. He is talking at me so rapidly, I can not keep up- I thought he mentioned his manager? I'm thinking I'll be pulled into an office for questioning, possibly the police. Will Marc forgive me for being arrested a day after his departure? Will Kata be ok staying with the neighbors a bit longer? I try to explain that I will push the cart back. And that I will prove that I left my bike locked. I will unlock it and I'm sorry, lo siento, so sorry. 
Mr. Bravo won't share the pushing of the shopping cart. For awhile we walk and sort of fight over who gets to push it. Even as I contemplate my crime I can't put up with his machismo. Finally, giving up and walk ahead, and then something in me just says run. So I did. I ran all the way back to Bravo, unlock my bike and take off on a different side road. I decided to leave the scene of my perceived crime. Sure- I had guilt and regrets but I couldn't bear the thought of Marc having to intervene with police on my behalf or being banned from the best grocery store in the city.

It turns out, the mercados hire men to push grocery carts home for people for a few pesos.  I hadn't stolen a cart, I had stolen a job and avoided a tip. Mr. Bravo wasn't lecturing me, he was telling me to let him do his job. I have sheepishly returned to shopping at Bravo but I improved my Spanish  and my listening. And I tip the grocery baggers, thank the cashiers and I wear my bike lock key as a necklace. 

If a clod be washed away by the sea  
Europe is the less.... (Donne)

I am a clod. Seriously, I spend many days evaluating my day in which I'm a big chunk of dirt that coulda, woulda shoulda done things differently. When Matthew hit the apartment and shook all the windows, the rain poured in through light fixtures and cracks in the doors, I was humbled yet it really was nothing compared to what others experience. Still, I felt the weight of karma and the need to be a better person. We had clear sky, bright sun for a day. Was this the eye of hurricane?  Intense heat propelled me to bike with Kata to the pool and find other kids. We were there only 20 minutes when rain poured down in heavy sheets. It ended so we hurried home only to find our pathway underwater. I sped ahead of Kata, down the hill and rode waist high through the water to the other side of the road. It was thrilling to spin in waters over the top tube but nerve wracking when I realized that Kata was standing forlornly still on the other side. My options- ride back with her on an unknown route or power thru and get home quickly. I left my bike and waded back towards Kata. The water, as quick as it came, was subsiding. It was no longer thigh high but knee deep. And the Dominicans in cars, notoriously known for driving dangerously, braked to let me gather her onto my back as I pushed her bike back through the street to safety.  We rode the rest of the way home unimpeded. When I pause to consider the street garbage that accumulates daily, along with the sickly animals and carcasses, and the various feces, the plastics and molded foods, I no longer find pleasure in adventure. We retreated to our home, rinsed with bleach and showered forever. The winds and rains Of Matthew were once again upon us with an accumulated force. Kata and I snuggled all night in the hopeful safety of our concrete walls and marveled at the forces of nature. The three days without school, the need to restock water or find friends brought us to the streets and the colmada. I had to interact in Spanish, I waded through more waters. I discovered what it feels like to sweat in the rain. 

As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thy friend's
Or of thine own were:
Any man's death diminishes me,

Because I am involved in mankind.... (Donne)

Santo Domingo sits high on a promontory and my flooding was nothing compared to the buckled roads and swamped houses that the city workers contend with. Our cook was able to convey that her home flooded and that she needed to build a flood wall for future protection. She is a single mom and was unable to travel to us for a few days. Through out the storm, Kata and I gave sandwiches to our guards and began saving pesos for our cook. Our school is amazing at rallying for organizations and non profits. One of the new teachers is married to a UN emergency response nurse. She was on a plane within the week and headed to Haiti. Her husband worked with student clubs to organize fundraising efforts and the response was extremely positive. For a moment, it seemed that all was well in the world I know. But back in Vermont, families of the Mad River Valley were thrust into grief. In a single moment, a single senseless car chase by a man in a stolen vehicle, cost the lives  of 5 teens. Anyone could've been hit by that reckless man who stole a police car, drove backwards on the interstate smashing into oncoming vehicles. His penance, should be a constant repentance. How fragile life is. How quickly my hubris is gone. I'm now more worried than wondering,  looking with more worry and awareness of loss. I guard Kata closer. We are wearing helmets once more. Tragedy pulls at my heart longing for home. 

The rains and the sea slowly wash away sorrow. I found hope and redemption in a volunteer day with my school club Es Posibla Una Sonrisa helping children coping with poverty, AIDS and just being a kid. Sincerity rushes back in me like a wave and I am finding my place- involved in mankind.

And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; 
It tolls for thee....      (Donne)