Into the Light

A recommitment to truth telling.

Dear ones,

This week I had the pleasure of reconnecting with one of the women I met on the only retreat I have ever attended. It was the summer of 2022, with the safety measures of the pandemic just beginning to ease. I’d booked my place for Medicine Woman – a weeklong retreat which would take place in a dormant hotel in the mountains of Southern Spain – on impulse after experiencing a steady stream of synchronicities. Just weeks prior I had fallen pregnant by my ex-husband and made the incredibly difficult decision to have a termination. I suppose some primal part of me knew that being held and witnessed by a group of women was exactly what I needed.

For the ten months beforehand I had been submerged in the solitary work of writing my memoir, as well as contending with the constancy of mothering and home educating my three children. It was a necessarily internal time, one that led me to understand and appreciate myself in entirely new ways. It was also a season that threatened to swallow me whole.

Boarding that plane to Spain was a surreal experience. Not only because the restrictions had only just been lifted, or because it was the first time I’d been abroad in over a decade but because it was a rare opportunity to disentangle from the demands of my daily life in a way that I haven’t managed before or since.

There was an unquestionable irony to it all. I’d spent the better part of a year writing about the magic and mystery of the psychedelic experience only to happen upon it in the most unexpected and unwelcome of moments: waking dreams featuring an apparition of my eldest daughter sat on the sofa as I tossed and turned in sweat soaked sheets, my psyche disturbed by the unfamiliarity of the heat and the height of the Holiday Inn I had chosen to punctuate my time there.

Before leaving England, I had begun to realise that such states are not always induced by the ingestion of any substance, that in fact any situation or stimulus that interrupts our usual ways of thinking, doing or being could quite easily be considered psychedelic.

My abortion, and the well of grief that it allowed me to access, had blown my mind and body wide open. I’m still convinced that the choice I made would have immobilised me if not for those months of privately held psilocybin ceremonies and the psychic and somatic preparation they provided. Instead, it enabled me to embrace each emotion as it arose, to carefully carve out new neural pathways that encouraged me to take a more compassionate and curious view of myself and the compulsive behaviour that had led me to that point.

Looking back now, a couple of years later, I can see that my ex and I were both seeking something that our liaisons could never sustain. For me, it was resolution: I think some part of me hoped that as our bodies intertwined so too would the loose ends that we’d left untied. For him, I’m pretty sure it was redemption: those trysts served as a brief interlude from the guilt he felt for the ways he had treated me, a relief that never lasted more than a few minutes post-orgasm.

Sometimes I envy the woman I was. So full of life, so willing to fuck herself into oblivion despite knowing that an hour or so of pleasure would be followed by weeks, maybe even months, of pain and confusion. I wonder whether I’ll ever be so consumed by lust again. Yes, it was beyond dysfunctional, but I can’t deny that I’ve missed the intensity of the desire I felt – the way it dominated my thoughts like nothing else ever had.

My ex-husband is a passionate man. He is incredibly impulsive, and equally infuriating. He has surprised me in many ways, disappointed me in many more. But after taming his temper, he has matured into a wonderful and loving father. He cares deeply for our children, and I know how fortunate I am to have his support in raising them, financially and otherwise. I know he tries every day to be a better man. He is very hard to hate, and I often wish he wasn’t. I think it would make my life feel far less complicated.

I never would have made it to that retreat if it weren’t for him. In fact, he was the one who suggested – insisted even – that I take that time for myself. I will never forget the alchemy that unfolded over the course of that week. The nude moonlit visits to the river just metres away from our makeshift sleeping quarters. The way we bared not only our skin but our souls. The fears I’d concealed so carefully that were brought to light under the inescapable glare of the Spanish sun. The tears that rolled down my cheeks as I felt the relief of being truly seen. And, of course, the reverence I felt as I witnessed each of those women unfurl into her fullness. Below you’ll find an excerpt from that chapter of the memoir, titled Into the Light. It features some recollections from our very first days together.

Once the ceremony has drawn to a close, we are told that tomorrow morning will begin with a hike in the mountains and that we should remain in silence from now until after we return to the hotel. Feeling exhausted and slightly overwhelmed by the intensity of our first circle I head out onto the balcony with my journal in hand, hoping to catch a glimpse of the full moon. It’s almost midnight but the only hint of her light is an iridescent glow illuminating the trees that fringe the line where land meets sky. Even though I cannot see her, I feel her watching over me.

The next morning, I wake early and head down to the river alone to fill bottles before the hike. The air is cool in the pale hours before the day begins, and the rush of the river soothes my jangled nerves after another night of little sleep. Even though I’m one of the first to wake I still manage to overestimate the amount of time I have but fortunately, after one of the other women and I are almost locked in we are set free just in time to join the rest of the group with the addition of a new face: our facilitators husky who looks eager to leave.

We walk the short distance up the hill spread out in single file. Within minutes I am gazing up at the tall walls of towering rock which surround us. I keep my pace slow, wanting to trace the memory of this place in my mind in as much detail as possible. On the route we walk I spot the pale lilac of periwinkle, and the vibrant pink of hibiscus. I note the delicate leaves of wild olive, curved black carob seed pods hanging from their branches and bright green figs that are still a few weeks from ripening. When we reach the lake, we all stop for a few minutes to watch the only male among us swim. He pants joyfully as he paddles through the water before emerging, shaking out his fur and returning to his companion’s side to lead the way up the next hill.

We circle back on ourselves around the lake and after stepping over the gentle trickle of a stream we are asked to stop and find a space at the base of a particularly high cliff. Here, we are asked to close our eyes and join hands so that we can open the circle for a second time. Held in the arms of mother earth our collective energy feels even more amplified. Once again, we speak three repetitions of the facilitator’s prayer but this time when our voices fall silent a chorus of cicadas rises to replace them.

On Thursday evening, as that remarkable woman and I reflected on that wonderful week we spent together over the most divine Thai food, I felt a dormant part of myself reanimate. We spoke of many things. Of love and loss. Of heartbreak and healing. I told her more about the memoir I’d first mentioned so long ago and there it was: desire. A spark rather than a wildfire, but present, nonetheless.

In the days since, that spark has ignited. The dream that was eclipsed in the process of disentangling from my ex once and for all has been brought back into full focus. As the flame dances I see the shadows it casts more clearly than ever. I’m aware of the responsibility that I must take to share our story fairly, the recommitment I must make to truth telling.

It is my belief that the most compelling memoirs are written by those who are willing to be witnessed in their contradictions. Those who don’t shy away from judgment because they have already interrogated their every action and interaction. Of course, there is talent in the way that words are woven together, genius in a passage of prose that flows like poetry. But, in my opinion, that cannot compare to the depth and resonance that comes from prizing honesty above all else. Right now, as I embark on another round of submissions, I’m conjuring up the courage to do just that.

With Love,

Laura x