My first two years in Ecuador are broken up by occasional trips to the United States, sometimes for work but mostly to visit friends and family. I’ve changed since my move, and those closest to me notice during my visits. Darkness has entered me, keeping me at arm’s length from them.
I grow quiet or withdraw. Sometimes I simply show them what they want to see. But they know me well enough to see through these performances and worry that something is wrong. They know it before I know it.
My relationship with Napo suffers ups and downs. I attribute them to adjusting to a new culture and the stress of building the retreat centre from the ground up. I feel myself changing, but I’m unaware of the undercurrent of those changes. I’m growing psychologically and spiritually, but I’m slowly losing myself in other ways.
Before moving to Ecuador, I never swore—not because of some moral imperative but simply because those words had no place in my life. That changes once I move to Ecuador, where I eat struggle for breakfast. Every morning, I arm myself for battle. Some days, it’s a battle with Napo. Some days, it’s a battle with the workers. On my worst days, I battle myself.
“Shit” and “fuck” become my mantras.
The fucking pipe buried under the bathroom floor, which can only be changed by excavation and destruction, dares me to stay calm as water seeps onto the new pool tile.
The tarantula that jumps out from a pile of rocks to scare the shit out of me—FUCK!
The shitty man that pushes me verbally and physically, gaslighting me into feeling small and insignificant—Fuck you!
Fuck. Fuck. Shit. Fuck.
It feels so good to swear. Like a giant dam with a small crack that breaks open because it can no longer hold back the weight of the water, the words gush from my mouth, so fluid, so naturally.
I wonder why I was holding back before. At first, swearing feels dangerous, like the time in high school when I smoked my first marijuana joint in the woods with the bad boy of Newton, pretending to be cool but trying not to vomit.
Almost overnight, I become best friends with foul language. It isn’t that I turn into a foul-mouthed delinquent. Swearing simply happens at the most appropriate moments, when I detach from caring about a situation because I care too much. There are plenty of those moments.
The irony is that many of my clients and followers view me as a deeply spiritual person who has it all together. We believe that spiritual people are unflappable, can see beyond distressing situations, and rise above them through a higher level of consciousness.
In my work, I represent the calm in the storm for my clients. Some even say I’m wise and spiritual. Yet there are days when I feel like an imposter putting on my imaginary white robes, doing my work, then returning to the forever-sweaty person whose deepest wish isn’t spiritual. I simply want to be clean for 24 hours.
Spirituality can be tough
Why do we believe spiritual people are unflappable? Why do we think spiritual people spend their days in peaceful bliss, meditating, doing Yoga and feeling compassion for all beings 24/7?
This kind of spirituality is sold in magazines, through gurus and at retreats with promises of everlasting forgiveness, personal transformation and transcendence in a gourd of ayahuasca. But I’m not buying it. Spirituality is tough. It’s dirty, and it’s struggle. If not for that, we’d be content to sit on our asses all day, drinking kombucha and chanting in enlightened voices.
In Ecuador, something breaks open. It unleashes the swear words and my passion for living life fully—with a touch of recklessness that had never been there before. I no longer care about being liked. I speak forcefully when required. The “nice girl” begins to disappear.
The sun rises each morning, its rays coming through the window and slapping me awake, daring me to engage another day full-out by receiving everything it offers, whether it’s the workers showing up drunk or my neighbour gifting us a juicy papaya.
I learn to be fluid with everything. Impermanence becomes a way of life, not simply a concept. Non-attachment is a survival mechanism, not a Buddhist philosophy.
I also interact with my environment differently than I have in the past, and I pay more attention. I’m acutely aware of life’s tiniest details. I walk the property noticing that buds have turned into small limes, and what I thought was a few twigs has become home to local finches. From our hill, I watch the ocean tides, waves smashing against rocks, and local fishing boats coming in and going out.
Everything has its natural rhythm, unencumbered by alarm clocks, agendas and meetings. I now feel when I’m hungry, sleepy or need to move my body. I discover that I, too, have a rhythm. It feels so good allowing it to dictate my time and how I use my energy.
Surrendering power
As I gain strength in the external world, I defer to Napo for approval of my spiritual journey. I still believe he is the one who will show me the way through a maze of shamanism to recover the soul that I lost at birth, the one seeking unity and communion with the divine.
As the seasons pass, I surrender my power to him. He becomes a taskmaster even as he deals with his own demons. Daily, he takes out his frustration on me. We have each other as mirrors; the other reflects what we don’t want to see in ourselves.
In Napo, I see a distortion of the masculine as his machismo culture surfaces in our daily lives. In me, he sees his repressed feminine aspect being whipped into submission. We dance a terrible dance together when before we’d danced in harmony, sharing our energy instead of fighting.
Gradually, I lose myself in his world. There are days when I simply cry myself to sleep, afraid that I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life. Yet there are other moments when the simple act of harvesting the fruit from our land opens me to a deep connection to all of life that I can only define as transcendent.
I’m caught in two worlds, never knowing which one will appear. I continue dancing between light and shadow, the physical and metaphysical worlds, and my inner and outer experiences.
Seduced by the night and the ocean
In the morning, the birds wake me with their joyous songs, their tweets vibrating the energy of a new possibility. As much as I revel in these morning hours, I love the quiet just before night arrives even more. The birds sing a different melodious tune, as if they’re attuned to the inevitable darkness. The light shines unobtrusively at twilight, complementing their lullabies. I love the glow that portends the dark blanket holding the stars as they twinkle reverently in the universe.
I often wake up in the middle of the night and walk outside to allow the full moon or the glow of constellations to illuminate my soul. I feel safe in this twilight, surrounded by a cosmic energy that seems like home. The night becomes my refuge during the intense years after I settle in Ecuador. At first, everything begins to change. Then, as if an earthquake were shaking the ground, I feel the tremors of my life collapsing into itself.
Napo and I argue more and more. With each argument, he gets more aggressive and hurtful. He claims he does it to disturb my ego and couches the discussion as part of my apprenticeship. I rebel against his perception, calling out the machismo aspect of trying to control me.
I feel an irresistible pull towards the water as I approach the beach. I intuitively know that my healing is in the sea.
After one especially heated argument, I leave the property and walk 20 minutes to the ocean. I feel an irresistible pull towards the water as I approach the beach. I intuitively know that my healing is in the sea. Leaving my towel and clothes on the beach, I run into the waves and allow them to embrace me as I dive down.
Wave after wave, I go deeper, until my feet barely touch the bottom. One more dive, and I stay under the water. I crouch down, holding on to the sand and listening to the sound of a muffled roar overhead. I don’t want to surface. I feel safe here, calm and loved.
I have the sensation of disintegrating and feel myself breaking apart in these waters. Years before, I’d felt the same pull towards the ocean, a compelling invitation to silence and peace when I thought I’d lost everything I loved.
Although death didn’t win that night in Maine, in 2009, I was branded with a memory of the seduction, which rises in the night’s silence, calling to me in the most challenging times. In these moments, I feel the breakdown is upon me; I want to flee and throw myself into the ocean, engulfed by waves that will bring the promise of peace and silence to fruition. But I choose life over and over again.
As I crouch under the ocean waves on a shore far from Maine, I wonder if some part of me has taken that final step into the dark waters. I wonder whether time and space are playing a trick on me. Perhaps I feel the relief and calm I sought years ago.
My lungs plead for air. Seizing the tranquillity the ocean has gifted me, I rise above the waves and swim for shore, fully choosing to continue the path placed before me.
Choosing life over death
I wonder about the difference between breaking down and breaking open. There is a kind of dying that isn’t physical but is real nevertheless. Does death follow us from the day we’re born, nudging us to fulfill our life’s potential, daring us to be more as the sand in our hourglass slowly runs out?
Can an intimacy with death make him an ally instead of a specter, galvanizing the human fear of the unknown? Should we look over our shoulders as we walk hand in hand with life, afraid that this shadowy figure might reach us before we feel complete and whole?
I don’t know the answers to these questions, but I’ve learned that there is a price to pay for choosing life. By the time death arrives to collect his due, I’ll be ready, knowing that I resolved to face life with open arms, received what came towards me and used it to be the creative force in my life.
Alicia M. Rodriguez is a Latina writer, storyteller and published author who has lived in six countries and travelled extensively. As an executive coach, Alicia has more than 20 years’ experience assisting thousands of people around the globe to connect to their heart, spirit and intelligence, enabling them to forge powerful futures.
Excerpted from The Shaman’s Wife A Mystical Journey of Surrender and Self-Discovery (She Writes Press; September 2024).
images: Depositphotos