"You can just let it happen"
Finding self-kindness in a kayak
Have you ever heard of the banshee? The word derives from the Irish “bean sí,” with bean meaning woman and sí meaning fairy; the banshee is a spirit woman from Irish folklore whose cry, or keening, was said to be an omen of death for anyone who heard her. She can be depicted as a young woman or an old hag, but is not always seen. Anyone who hears her wailing is either going to die or will soon lose a loved one.
I’ve heard it said that realists or “non-believers” explain away the legend of the banshee as the call of an owl, or some other animal who cries at night. I prefer the idea that our myths and our folklore grew out of our relationship with the natural world, and served to guide our survival as a species in community with other living things. Why force ourselves into the dichotomy of belief or non-belief, when we could take the lesson?
Recently, I was minding my business in a kayak, floating on an Irish lake in the dark of night (as one does) when I heard the screech of a barn owl off in the distance. It was so quiet, the owl could have been miles away, but somehow I could tell she wasn’t coming any closer.
My friend Jim recalled the story of the banshee as we sat there, grateful for the opportunity to be together, sharing this experience in this heavenly place. The banshee’s call didn’t make me think of death so much as it conjured images of various women who had given me grief as I’ve worked to develop my business these past few years. Unsolicited, unmerited, and if I’m being kind, perhaps somewhat unintentional–but grief just the same.
What if the banshee’s call was meant to wake me up, rather than kill me? What if the death that the banshee foretold was not a literal death or a human one, but metaphorical? What if, rather than being frightened or intimidated or threatened, I heeded her call. What would it look like to listen, to give in?
When I am leading a tour, I am a therapist, a soothsayer, a confidante, and a fixer. I’m a personal assistant, an encyclopedia, a professor, and a meteorologist. I’m a human GPS, a mind reader, a marriage counselor, and a sommelier. I am ready for whatever you bring me, and in any given situation, I am always your best friend.
As the owner of a travel company, I am a consummate professional. I leave my problems at home, with my husband and our children (ha!). My experience has taught me that I need to be ready for yours, though. Whether it’s the size of your bed, the orientation of your door, or the fact that you cannot bear to sit near your husband, I have learned to face any issue that arises as though it is in fact the end of the world until both of us are able to sigh and move on to whatever comes next.
A lifetime working in hospitality should have prepared me for this, right? Not to mention my almost ten years (eek!) as a parent. And yet, even when programmed to expect the unexpected, I am always surprised at the challenges that arise.
However slight or funny guests’ comments may seem in the re-telling, they don’t feel that way to me in the moment. One would think–particularly when a guest makes a wholly unreasonable request or feigns disappointment upon realizing that I can’t control the uncontrollable–that their discontent would simply wash over me. I’m not primed for holding onto others’ negativity, especially not while I’m in Ireland. In fact I’m never more open, both physically and emotionally, when I am there.
I’ve had some of my most fulfilling moments curating and leading experiences for Bog & Thunder. Last year, during breakfast on the final morning of our Writing the Next World retreat, the writers went around the room sharing their gratitude for the time we spent together sharing, grieving, writing, and building worlds. One woman said she felt like she had gone through a transformation of ten years each day of the retreat.
Max and I created a space where a famous actress felt safe, and was able to be herself and not the fictional character whose name she gets called by strangers every day on the street. Together with Autumn and adrienne, we created a space where people were able to experience joy and community and hope in a time of genocide. Ready to grow together and co-create and reorient themselves over and over again in response to each new day, as we collectively work towards the future we want for ourselves and our children.
And for probably the first time (at least publicly, and not by the person to whom I am married, tysm Max), my contribution as the retreat visionary, curator, and organizer was recognized and honored by our group. It was deeply humbling and fulfilling to hear what impact these six days had had on everyone present. In that one moment, my heart was filled and I truly felt what it is like to be living my purpose.
Less than a year later, under different circumstances, I found myself struggling under the weight of an almost crippling anxiety, borne out of a handful of frivolous criticisms directed my way. Criticisms that I knew in the moment spoke volumes about the person making them and nothing against me or anything I had done. I didn’t know how to respond to the guest who felt our Relais & Chateaux hotel, surrounded as it was by acres of gardens, felt to her like being in The Shining. Would an MBA help me to know best how to calm a person’s fear that a deranged Jack Nicholson might come for them that night?
I suppose on some level it sounds so absurd as to be funny now. But the weight of these unmet expectations was anything but, particularly when they manifested in the feeling that a large man was sitting on my chest. I texted Max that evening and told him I might now make it. It was day four. (Now who’s the drama queen?)
We arrived at the lake for kayaking by moonlight, down from fourteen to just five. The others had slowly dropped out during the day, due as much to the late start as to fears about the weather. I almost didn’t want to go myself, so worn out as I was by the constant complaining. I didn’t have a choice, of course, as the host. I knew it would be good for me.
As the guides started to go through their opening routine, I spotted Jim, one of the owners of the company, sitting on a wall across the street. I ran over to say hello. I don’t quite remember what I said, but it’s highly likely it was something to the effect of “I think I’m losing my mind!” Either way, I’m sure Jim could feel the tension emanating off of me, could see it in my eyes.
“I’ll tell you what,” he suggested. “Why don’t I take you and your friend out on your own for a side paddle. We can circle back to the rest of the group towards the end. They won’t even know you’re not there.”
It was exactly what I needed at exactly the right time. A gift, sent to help me just before I reached the tipping point. Does it matter if I split off from the group if we have multiple guides? Is this a responsible thing to do? I said yes straightaway.
Two minutes later, when one of the guests yelled at me in front of twenty people because she mistakenly thought she was going to have to share a kayak with her husband, I knew I’d made the right choice. This was me being responsible. This was me taking care of myself so that I could continue to take care of everyone else, regardless of how able they were to receive that care.
Our excursion began after sunset, so it was already dark enough that we couldn’t see the other kayaks when we slipped into the salty lake. Though it was a cloudy night and we couldn’t see any stars, there was a gentle fog blanketing the lake like a shroud. It felt more comforting than foreboding. Earlier in the day, I had been hoping for clear skies, but this–this was perfect.
We began with a short paddle to a small island that housed the remains of a Bronze Age settlement and graveyard. We were only a few minutes in but I could already feel myself breathing deeply again. Here, we stopped for a short time. Jim asked us to take our paddles out of the water, to close our eyes and just sit.
My friend, who was behind me in the kayak, was fidgeting a bit, trying to get settled.
“It’s alright. You can just let it happen,” Jim said quietly.
And then it just clicked. I can just let it happen.
We sat in the darkness with our eyes closed while Jim led us in a short mediation.
Why don’t I just let it happen?
There’s anticipating guests’ needs and there’s being set up for failure, and those are two different things. Laundry services, bathtubs, king-sized beds, and ample bathrooms for Ozempic takers on food tours. What if the challenge is not how I can expect the unexpected and meet the unreasonable requests of guests who aren’t even seeking satisfaction, but how well I am able to just let it happen? What if the lesson for adaptation is changing my perspective on these so-called challenges, rather than tying myself into knots trying to ameliorate them?
Jim is right. He was, of course, speaking to my friend at the time–but I was really the one who needed to hear it. Being in the moment sometimes means to let it pass through you, without holding on. Why is it that something so simple can feel so complicated in the moment?
I can just let it happen. The question I have to ask myself is, will I remember this next time?