A Geographic Cure
“Silence was the cure, if only temporarily, silence and geography. But of what was I being cured? I do not know, have never known. I only know the cure. Silence, and no connections except to landscape.”
~Mary Cantwell
Maui was my cure. For a time.
A failed marriage of thirty years, three grown children who used their wings to fly far away from me, and lots of loose ends dangling behind. I flew away too.
I spent my time and resources on Maui building a life, a career, a community away from everyone and everything I knew.
My dis-ease disappeared in the ocean salt water, on the trails, and in swimming holes hidden in the jungle foliage.
Nature was my spiritual practice. Camping on the beach at the Hawaiian Land Trust, hiking Thirteen Crossings, snorkeling on a monthly reef clean up mission, guarding the hawksbill turtle nests on Big Beach. Oh, and dancing away Sunday mornings on Secret Beach.
Plenty of landscapes and seascapes to connect with nature at its finest. I spent countless nights in silence, drinking a glass of wine on the beach, alone, at sunset.
The Pacific Ocean makes one hell of a boundary.
Thomas Wolfe wrote an autobiographical novel called You Can’t Go Home Again. I think he might be right. Maui has changed. And so have I.
Poor Maui. First a pandemic, then an avalanche of tourists. Maui is bursting with people and vehicles. There are shortages, and now the expense of being there is beyond whatever inflated prices were considered normal. The locals are angry at the over crowded roads and amenities. They weren’t crazy about the haole invasion before the pandemic. I doubt they have much Aloha to spare.
“Call it paradise and kiss it goodbye,” according to the Eagles.
The mayor of Maui County, Michael Victorino, asked airlines for a “pause.” Yeah, like that would ever happen!
The energy on Maui is hectic. My favorite spots over run with visitors. I haven’t been back for two years because I don’t want to be part of the problem.
Maui water restrictions lead to debate about tourism in Hawaii — The Washington Post
So, this summer I decided to go to Albuquerque instead of Maui. Yes, Albuquerque, New Mexico.
My daughter and her husband left town and invited me to stay in their house. While the kids are away …
A hike in the Sandia Mountains nearly killed me. I’m not accustomed to the altitude or humidity. Yes, humidity … compared to Tucson. The change in elevation was gradual yet significant. I found myself counting steps as I struggled to catch my breath and calm my pounding heart. The silence and scenery soothed whatever anxious thoughts I had brought with me. “Out there” was not part of the present moment. I was surrounded by Ponderosa Pine. I hugged a few.
After the hike I recovered my strength with a beer and a bacon, Hatch chili, cheeseburger at Indigo Crow. Nothing like a gourmet cheeseburger in a new location to set a vacation vibe.
While in ALBQ I took three NIA classes. In person, face to face.
NIA is a combination of dance, martial arts, and yoga. It is a practice of body awareness, coordination, and just plain fun.
What a relief to be able to dance in community without the political dissention of who is vaccinated or not. The instructor asked for my vaccine card, which I had with me. She proceeded to lead a rock and roll dance class with music from the 60’s that kicked my ass and raised my spirits.
Unvaccinated people were required to wear a mask. Period. No discussion, arguments, or bullying from antivaxxers. How refreshing!
The NIA community in Tucson has dissolved into Zoomland. Their new normal. Not mine.
The Indian Pueblo Cultural Center was a highlight. A friend and I walked in the door and a stranger handed us free tickets. He had bought extra for family members who bailed. A nice gift, out of the blue.
The narrator talked about how American Indians were portrayed in the old westerns.
“There’re smoke signals! What’d they say?” the cowboy asks his Indian sidekick.
“Looks like our casino is on fire.” The Native guy replies.
The joke isn’t funny in the context of what American Indians have endured. Their traditional legacy wrapped up in casinos.
World class dancers had traveled internationally before the pandemic, and they put on an excellent performance of an authentic deer dance.
The Center is dedicated to preservation of the 19 Indian Pueblos of New Mexico. The displays are a well designed journey through the past, present, and future of the indigenous cultures of the area.
Footnote: When I was a mom, I took my three young children to a Pow Wow in Laramie, Wyoming. I’m drawn to American Indian culture and I could watch the native dancers for hours. My children could not. They lasted about twenty minutes. I’m glad they grew up and flew away. Hell, I’m glad I grew up and flew away.
For two weeks, I pretended to be a resident of Albuquerque. I went to local restaurants such as Tia B’s Waffleria, and The Sawmill. Lots of eateries and quaint coffee shops to chose from. Los Poblanos is a boutique hotel and restaurant on a property with a lavender farm, which was my favorite for ambiance and photos. And, an infused cocktail. Code for expensive.
While being a local, I walked to Whole Foods for groceries, visited a dog park located on the University golf course at dusk. Everywhere I went people were chatty and cordial.
Hanselmann’s pottery shop in Corrales was a place of interest because I’ve spent a small fortune on mail order gifts for my daughters.
The Sandia Peak Tram transports passengers above the hustle of the city. Below the tramway many nooks and crannies, water and trees, canyons and various rock formations are visible. Once off the tram, there are trails and hikes for every ability level. The view is breathtaking at 10,378 feet above sea level.
Madrid was an awesome day trip. A gorgeous drive about an hour from ALBQ. A quirky town of galleries, shops, and restaurants that reminded me of Paia, Hawaii. I sat on the Mine Shaft patio and listened to live music while drinking beer. A corner table of older people were obviously locals. They brought their own flyswatters. Next time, I’ll bring mine with me and sit with them.
In Alcoholics Anonymous, the twelve-steppers are warned of the “geographical cure.” The AA’s say, “When you move, your problems will follow you.” In other words, you take yourself with you.
My mother told me I have always had ants in my pants. “Ouch!”
On several occasions my grandmother informed me that the grass is not greener “over there.” (I have lived in fourteen states. Two of them three times.)
What is my dis-ease? I don’t know the exact diagnosis.
I’m not an alcoholic. I swear!
I do know there isn’t a long term cure, only remission.
The trip to Albuquerque cured my “itchy feet.” For a time.
“Shhhh!”
