Journals from the Jungle VII: The Best Feeling in the World
As soon as it's over, is it real anymore?
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Welcome to Journals from the Jungle—a series of stories from my recent travels, drawn straight from the pages of my journals. These are reflections on breaking free from a life of structure, convention, and societal expectations, and finding my way back to an embodied, authentic self. Through journeys in nature—and into the nature of self—through adventure, challenge, rest, and the dramatic dismantling of old beliefs, I explore themes of freedom, pleasure, love, and the strength that comes from shedding what no longer serves us. I hope these stories inspire you to embrace change, reclaim your vitality, and live more freely.
February 2024
How can it be so high, so intense, and gentle at the same time? And do things actually happen though? Really? Like, as soon as they’re over are they real anymore? The present, if it’s all that is, then what are these experiences I’ve had—these things I’ve done—if not dreams or memories?
In the airport, it’s the first time in my life that I see the sign for New York and rather than pride and excitement, my heart sinks. Like that last night on the beach when someone said, “You like New York?” and I … hesitated. I will never forget that brief, pregnant pause. My life in less than a second, changing. That’s the crack, that’s the thread, and I know by now how these things go (in the direction of growth). This is not something I’m in control of, not aware of until it happens, and it’s happening.
I am so different already as a result of just these two weeks. I can hear my voice, the lowness and slowness of it—the fluidity, the current between my mind and mouth like a channel, a stream, clear and smooth and open. I wonder who and how I would be after months there, or a year. Perhaps after finishing this book I will find out.
Places inside of me hurt and I’m so glad. I will miss these bruises—the physical sensations reminding me of the moments; reminding me that it really happened.
I do do this. I do this to myself. I make my life this way, by inviting.
I think: I’m a writer and an explorer and a mind and a body. I should quit business in as many was as possible and just be / do / live this.
I think I’m frightened by how quickly it happened. The hesitation, the snap and break of realizing I want out, and then the reality of it presenting itself. I feel like I’m still dreaming.
I turn the music up and dance. I start to feel the weight lift. I am integrating. I start to feel my power—no, I have been feeling it. I am, to use the cliche, so in my power right now. This whole year has been about that. I feel my courage, and I feel proud. I live boldly and I trust myself. I know myself. I have convictions. I believe.
What a trip. Life surges when it does. I’m going back to Costa Rica in two weeks. My friend has a free room for me. It’s too good to be true. And yet, it is.
One month later
Just … smiling! Walking laps in the airport in a smiley daze. Amused by my essentially entirely unbothered affect. How different from a few weeks ago when I was so miserable on this travel leg that it took two full days to recover. Now, granted I’m not through customs yet, it feels like it couldn’t be any easier.
Wheels-up in NYC makes me grin and I’m momentarily confused about where I am (okay, that’s a theme lately) because typically I’m sad to leave NYC and happy to return, not the other way around.
Night: It’s a long travel day but so mellow. I doze and gaze out the dark windows at the rushing jungle, imagining what it feels like to call this place home. What a gift, what a dream. I can’t believe I’m back, and in the same room! Bizarre, amazing, and my brain has definitely given up on orientation. It felt like it’d been a month rather than a year when I returned in February.
As I step a first foot out on the road to the beach, my heart leaps and I think: Home. Suddenly I realize that I might call it that. Straight to the beach to walk the length of it. The waves are huge—large and loud—maybe the biggest I’ve seen out here yet. And the current is so strong that I feel a bit iffy even swimming in the whitewater, but I do for a bit and then sit on one of the familiar pieces of driftwood and watch the sea. It’s incredible how soft the sand is—(is everything here soft?)—soft sea, soft breeze, soft the bond between us now that we are related, kin, partnered?
I wander to the north to explore what may become my neighborhood. I run into Neils and his girlfriend Francesca. Neils! For the first time in nearly 10 years! Time evaporates when we hug hello; none has passed. It feels especially significant to see them here because Peru, where I saw him first and last, led me here. It feels as if all the characters and lessons in my life are spiraling into this place, converging …
Sunset: Again, colors I haven’t seen before in this life. Something between green and yellow. Godly, glistening, hazy. It reaches across the sea to my skin, to this page. Everyone becomes a silhouette—a shadow of themselves. I realize that I adore all of this because it makes me feel. I live to feel. Feeling is and always has been my material. It all started from the intensity of my feelings. (Have I never realized this before? Or like so many things, have I realized it, written it, and forgotten it only to re-realize it when it’s time to truly know it?) Dad lived with a ferocity that I’ve inherited. And I can see where it leads which is … all the way.
And, just as I’m wondering if it’s too soon to retire from my career, and would my brain stop working down here, I see that it would simply work in different ways. Is it possible to make art that feels like this? Or need art come out of feelings like this? Is this not the best feeling in the world? I think it is. H A P P I N E S S.
Now the air is its familiar pastel, leaving light on the earth, mirrored pink sky below my bare feet. I see the green flash again and grin. Surfing tomorrow.
Morning: All adrenaline and whatever other endogenous drugs result from this pavlovian salivation for the thrill of surfing. I talk to a stranger at breakfast to distract myself and Dad comes up in conversation again, which is two-for-two on these trips. The stranger says that if I haven’t yet found the relationship to replace Dad’s role in my life, and if I carry it within me, it will materialize. I wonder: Is that what this phase is about? Is this me looking for Dad? I am certainly finding him here, over and over again.
I meet my coach on the beach to borrow a board and head into the waves. It’s rough but I love it and am already so much better than earlier this year—taking off left and right, paddling long, even a couple of little dances toward the nose. I feel my mind quiet and my body begin to hum. I surf until the heat and glare become too much and then sit in the shade of the beachside jungle and hydrate. It’s nearly time for me to visit the property I returned to see so I strip off my rash-guard, swim briefly to cool down, and then trot back to my room …
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