On the Road Again, I Can Wait, the Arrival

As her friend below sang, applauded, danced on the spot, and ululated her companion’s arrival, we stood there behind her, transfixed, travel weary, like extras from some miraculous scene in the Bible

Aug 16, 2024

…While she ascended, her arms straight out, wide-eyed and singing…” ~ David Whyte

Dear Friend,

May you be nourished by my stories. Savor what you like and leave the rest. Thank you for reading and being here. Comment if you like. I enjoy hearing from you.

The Life I Love is Making Medicine with My Friends — How I Can Wait to Get on the Road Again. I'm Ready to Stay — Not Leave — Arrive.

I had a mountain of reasons for leaving. I lived an imbalanced life in an unbalanced world. It wasn’t that I was subject to a man’s demands, desires, and whims like many women I worked with who have no voice, no power to decide their destinies or those of their children, no education or adequate healthcare, and no income; they can’t even decide who they marry. For me there were other demands, many, from many places, equally as inescapable without relentless ingenuity.

I decided not to marry the man who gave me his sperm which produced three precious girls. Commitment scared me. Dependency even more. It was as horrifying to me in childhood as it was then, twenty-nine years ago. That’s why by the time I became a single mother without any adults in the house, I did—I had to get up night after night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needed to be done to feed the children. I would do my best to build a nest even though too many branches were broken. I would pray to stay, to grow roots—to NOT walk away as he did.

I don’t need to reinvent the protagonist of my book, that strong and determined woman, because I am her. The self-made empowered feminist hijacked by a helicopter to one of the most prestigious medical complexes without my toddler, my midwife, or my abalone earrings—alone, subject to ‘power over’ of industrial protocols—mandates—victim to an unimaginable trajectory.

We escaped death, suffered terrible traumas, and retained life-long injuries. A crucible that stripped me of my well-earned accomplishments, including my partner; we were out of our depth, but our children survived against all odds.

I am proud of them. They have dignity and uncaged courage. They go forth with an incredible capacity for a love that lights up every room they walk or roll into. Their laughter is contagious yet the societal pressure for people who appear different is sad and injects an IV drip of inhibition and self-consciousness.

When we see someone different, rather than turn away or let our children stare, we can say ‘hello,’ and be curious about who this person is.

My memoir Edge of Grace was published in 2014 to surprising responses from readers. I read through letters and emails from strangers who were touched—broken open and healed by our story. They identified with my tears because everyone experiences loss and pain. I received numerous invitations for interviews, one was from Renate McNay at Conscious TV in London.

I was stunned, as I secretly obsessed with doorways to leave my half-lived life.

I drooled like a Saint Bernard before a steak bone. My oldest daughter was twenty and away at Reed College, and my twins were eighteen, conserved, and still required constant care.

I couldn’t remember an uninterrupted adult conversation with a friend or colleague. In defense of motherhood, it is a full-time + job—you are the executive producer of all things visible and invisible—to feed, clothe, shelter, love, and sustain the children—find missing socks, sew stuffed rabbits, wake to read bedtime stories, schedule and remember appointments, train and pay helpers or tutors because you can’t possibly do it alone, advocate, therapies, follow-up; sprint to the market for juice boxes or gummy bears, heave yourself to yoga and meditation sessions to keep social services at bay.

Writing that part was exhausting. Ah, remember the adventures in nature with the adorable Suki Boy—when he braved the river and learned to play fetch.

Woodzie will fetch but not retrieve. I couldn’t find a photo of Suki, who eventually did retrieve and swim. Maybe Woodzie will too—they are from the same family tree. They both know how to ‘STAY.’

I wasn’t sure I could converse with another adult and not sound needy, pleady, cranky, or like a cracked nut. I might have forgotten to want for myself—to desire pleasure. But I felt an ache beneath the rubble of our life that whispered to be seen.

Before I answered Renate, I tossed and turned in the dark—worried about things

How do I schedule a flight to the United Kingdom from the States when I can barely make it to the market from my house?
Who would cover the night shifts for the twins?
Would I be able to complete a coherent sentence?
Would I blush, sweat, rock impulsively, forget my underwear, or exhibit other cringe-worthy quirks that haunt me since the 1996 incident—like shouting out “Nobody Move!” My version of Stop—Drop—Roll—equally annoying and humorous to my kids when things got weird? And they did—sure as Fuckernuckles Weird.
We were crawling out of the ashes—endangered.
What would I wear that isn’t torn, stained, out-worn, out-stretched?

I shook myself, recalling the first time I drifted down the Amazon River, an involuntary, moving ascension into who knows what. I knew, even through tiredness, trekking in knee-deep mud, monkeys chattering, and black-billed Cuckoos cooing in the distance that I would raise a cup of Ayahuasca to my mouth despite a low breathy scream of surprise and delighted terror upon arrival.

This was different. I would raise a microphone to my mouth in full view of an unknown audience who would watch the interview for years. I would not be in a dark Maloka or my Tambo, withdrawn from public view, in solitude, with bare feet, tangled hair, undressing my sorrows, nursing my wounds, uncaring and oblivious to the world.

My hands shook when I typed as if Renate stood over me like a suspicious social worker tracking my parenting habits.

Yes, I’m happy to come to London. I stuttered to the keyboard.

A cocktail of excitement and anxiety brewed in the days that followed. A fan of my book who worked for BBC insisted on booking my flights, hotel, additional meetings, essentially a book tour with the accompanying nibbles.

Our exceptional team covered the care of my twins. I flew out of San Francisco, California without a glitch to London Heathrow. My luggage missed the flight but would catch up with me in a few days. I didn’t think to pack any extra clothes in my carry-on bag.

I arrived at the interview the next day in the clothes I flew in on, blue jeans, a black t-shirt and boots, a ski jacket, and a colorful woven scarf. After a dizzying scurry on the streets of London, I didn’t find shoes that would fit my collapsed feet or anything that wouldn’t require less than a complete makeover. I made do with my hairbrush, sable eye shadow, and berry lip gloss.

Aww sweetie, let’s drape this brilliant scarf over your T-shirt. You look nice.

This is what the cameraman said after he repositioned his jaw. We both blushed as he blushed my already hot pink cheeks.

That interview opened a door that would accelerate leaving the life I had—to reconstruct an adult version of myself, away from my home life, away from dependency, away from the power structures that burned in my brain—the sharp edges in my body—the consequences of being hijacked against my will.

I would travel extensively to Peru, train with two Indigenous healthcare traditions, and subsequently guide groups to my Maetro(a)s to heal and learn from master plant teachers.

Like a mad scientist, I would covet my apprenticeship—an alchemist curating plant medicine to facilitate life-changing retreats. This would become my sustenance for living an unexpected life—for others to do the same.

Maestra Sulmira, Prajna, a friend, Maestro Jorge in my favorite place — the Jungle.

I NEVER thought I would say this. I CAN WAIT to get on the road again.

It would be marvelous if I never saw an airport again, or at least for a while. This chapter is not closed but revising itself.

The thing is when you are the one leaving home, you’re not staying. You’re not really giving life a chance to show you who you have become and the home you have created.

In the same way, an unexamined life may not be worth living, an overly examined life or a life left may never grow roots and ripen.

I’ve been fortunate to travel to Ireland, Germany, Wales, Holland, Isle of Mann, and mostly Peru, Spain, and England, not for the beauty of the landscape—but for the exquisite pleasure of curating medicine with remarkable people. The trust I’ve been given to witness countless stories of struggle, pain, and loss—and be strengthened by their bravery and vulnerability in uncovering the dark, hard, messy stuff and applauding their walking to the other side.

I’ve been endeared by women and men who never cried or only cried and their tears found fresh intimate love—self-love. They’ve given birth to themselves to live deep rich wild lives. I have witnessed silenced women find their voice, heal from trauma, step into their power, and claim their feminine wisdom. I’ve cried, laughed, danced, and cheered together with others in ways I never knew possible. I am honored to be a friend. Not an expert who fixes or makes things better but a mirror that reflects permission to be.

Spain Retreat in the Earth Temple — Celebrating why we are here — why we leave so we can stay — the Arrival.

Many have come to visit our home—always a treat for us. To witness one person ascend from the shambles of victimhood is a miraculous Arrival—one to be applauded—not forgotten.

Tomorrow I leave for Europe. I don’t have another trip scheduled. Getting my house in order for my precious ones to be cared for in my absence is never easy. This time has been extra challenging. I’m in the aftermath of the story I wrote about in Gutted.

For the past three days little Libby has woken many times through the night. She doesn’t have words to tell me exactly what is going on. We have a unique way of communicating, a call-and-response singing sound. She knows I am leaving. She also knows I will return.

In my house is Libby with two rotating nurses, Abby with three part-time assistants, one live-in friend, a few friends to fill in the gaps, my oldest daughter who works outside full-time, and Woodzie, Abby’s service dog. They will be fine. All I need to do is pack. ;)

There are as many ways to stay as there are to leave.

I want to hear from you in the comments, anything you want to share or words that flow from this prompt:

The hardest thing to stay with is:

The easiest thing to leave is:

What have both given to you?
Where is the sweet spot—the middle way?
Is there permission to be so kind to have both?
Write it. Share it.

The Salty Crone ✨ Prajna O'Hara

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