Almost there – reflections on a continuing journey

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A year and a half since I opened my eyes

Learning to breathe and re-learning to see

I got a second chance

But how to use it?

Reassessed, re-aware…

At almost fifty I was finally learning

The importance of love, the treasure of friends

The luck in knowing someone was there…

To hold my hand

I had to extend it

Had to admit this man is NOT an island

In time the water eventually recedes

And connects us to the main

With my new eyes and engine

I could discern – what was vital and what was nonsense

Watching all the chasing

The inebriation of ambition

Each new dawn, every additional mountain climbed

That was my high

The crutches were gone

But the nervousness wasn’t

Learning to breathe again steadied me

The power of NO saved me

It was time to be selfish

Accepting that unhappy me could not bring joy to others

Reading in the park

Watching the kids become adults

Switching off the devices

All that got me to here

And soon a new chapter opens

Time to leave the sounds

Reroute them to the periphery

Accept my new opportunities and seize them

I will be fine … the tests say so

So now I will move on

Embrace each day as a gift

No tomorrow is guaranteed

But as I advance on this journey

I know how to fill each day

And who will hold my hand along the way

Breathe.

The Secret of (Lac) Leman

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I spent my Christmas again this year in the Vaud region of Switzerland, running away from the noise of my work and the fears of my new reality after a life-changing medical experience. Returning to Saint Sulpice, I found that in addition to the care, love and attention of good friends, the nearby lake too has restorative properties. Lake Geneva, referred to locally as Lac Leman, is a vast expanse of water. It makes up part of the Rhône River, for which I’m particularly grateful, because those waters pass into France and quench the thirst of the thirsty hills in southern France (where some of my favorite wines are grown) before it (the Rhône) rolls into the Mediterranean.

But getting back to the Lake. It is a work of natural art, an expresser of moods and a giver of visual games depending on your vantage point. For me though, this year, it represented therapy; a respite from the worries of the (home) office and global concerns about whether 2022 would finally be the year the world moves past Covid life. I love the Lake especially because each morning the weather above it provides a different view: would we see France and its Alps, or would they be blanketed in lake-generated clouds and fog? Or would the sun dazzle us with how it reflected off the purple-gray mountains and their snow-crested peaks, offering incredible combinations of cerulean, azure, bronze or amethyst with its shadows and reflections. The morning view of the Lake tends to set your mood for the day.

And then there is Leman’s healing force. No wonder so many über fit Swiss folk choose the lakeside as the route for their daily runs or regular walks with their canine companions. Cozy footpaths intermingle with asphalt pavements to offer endless opportunities for the locals to see the Lake’s beauty from manifold angles. This of course gives my friends, once I’m armed with my smartphone camera and ambling along the Lake, cause for dread of my afternoon Instagram/FB posts, where I share for maybe the 9,000th time a slightly different shot of Leman: both its mood and robing for the day.

It was these daily photo sessions, my late morning promenades Ouchy-way or my walks with Jean, Izzi and Poppy that helped me feel a bit safer in my post-surgery world. And more confident in my ability to recuperate and to move forward with life. Each courteous bonjour and each playful chastising of Izzi when speaking to her in Czech made me slightly more certain that I was getting better and reminded me to be thankful for the health I had regained. It was all these faces and moods of Lac Leman that showed me each day would be different: some sunny, some overcast, some full of bluster, but all of them survivable. 

So I took to the Lake with gusto; usually a bit wobbly at first, wondering if my goals of 10K steps were perhaps a bit too ambitious. But as the waters set the tempo and empty benches along the shores invited me for a bit of rest, I learned to trust myself and work to the rhythm of Leman. The Lake is a constant. She is in no rush. She takes contentment in knowing she nourishes the lives of so many towns and villages on her shores and provides both travel routes and entertainment for the people who cross or play in her; from tourists and locals looking to make their way over to Évian-les-Bains (home of the well known spring water) or for the local ferry captains, fishermen, paddle boarders and/or windsurfers to whom the Lake offers both work and play.

From mid-December to mid-January, I had the good fortune to stay with great friends living near the Lake and take advantage of their overly-generous hospitality, and I downed all the medicine that Leman had to offer. I would soak in her sunshine, let her wind whip my hair and chill my face, listen to her stories told in the waves lapping on the shore, and watch her moods change as the clouds and light came and went. I am grateful for the Lake and knowing she is always there for me should I need to abuse her of the curative powers of her ample calm and spiritual nourishment.

Would this be my last trip?

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I’ve been silent for a few months. But that’s because I had some travelling to do. Plans began in March when the bookings agent called me up in the form of weird pains in my arms and a tingling in the back of my head. I was pretty sure it wasn’t Mr. Infarct ringing, nor Ms. Stroke. But as I sat in my Prague 2 flat by myself wondering what to do, I wasn’t sure what to make of things. The Michelin Guide that is Google MD gave me some solace as I tested possible signs of what could be a heart attack or anything stroke-adjacent. Ultimately, the forecast just showed signs of high blood pressure and a call for a visit to my GP and many specialists. 

Flash-forward to mid-July and the trip that took months of planning had begun. I lay there in a skimpy grey gown, fearing my derriere (or lack thereof) was exposed to the world and I had no idea where my trip would end … would I get to my destination? All my “travel agents” were the epitome of professionalism and kindness, making me laugh as they helped plan my “flight” …

This trip has changed me more than any other. In planning the journey, I found out that I had a bicuspid valve or something similar thereto in my aorta. That’s why I had to make this trip and fly immediately. I was born with a congenital defect and my aortic valves (what my doctors referred to as the Mercedes symbol) had been deformed all my life. As you can imagine, for someone who’s been travelling in the same “aircraft” for nearly 50 years, this was a shock: how had I run track in middle school, how had I danced like an insane dervish for hours on end in multiple European clubs, how had I managed 150km-a-day bike rides or climbed so many mountains? How had I not known?

I didn’t see any signs along any of my earlier flightpaths. I had just felt I was tired or slightly more winded than usual when climbing new peaks during the most recent months of my travels. One thing was certain though, it was time to go on an adventure with the country’s, if not the region’s, best pilot. And that is what I did on that mild July morning. I don’t remember much about the flight. I just recall waking up in my destination; I even arrived speaking the local language in lieu of my native English. I was glad for that because I had been studying Czech (the language of the country I woke up in) for over two decades.

I am still processing my recent travels. Indeed, I am still on my journey. My life will never be the same and I will have to use special fuel since my plane had to have its “engine” partially replaced. Maintenance also looks to be a challenge: no more fueling up with cheap petrol products; no more low-quality motor oil or used parts. My newly refurbished aircraft will require a lot of care. That said, I have everything in the world to be grateful for and happy about. I had dozens of friends who came to visit me while I was away and so many more rallied to greet me at the airport upon my return. I am elated my plane’s engine is working at close to full speed once again. 

I’ve been blessed to have had so many opportunities to see the world in my previous aircraft. I’ve climbed the peaks of northern Armenia, I’ve watched the sun set from the coast of Portugal and even fell asleep to the lapping waves on the beaches of St. Croix in the US Virgin Islands. I tortured and tested myself on climbs in the Šumava mountains or on long bike treks over the Brdy highlands between Prague and Plzeň. And with my new plane, I have so much more I wish to do: from visits to Samarkand and Buchara, to walking the dunes of the Moroccan deserts to wading in the waters off the coast of Mauritius. I am eternally grateful to all the aerospace technicians and mechanics at Na Homolce who repaired me; to their support teams who assisted in the process; to all the fellow passengers (among them my closest friends) who cheered me on. I don’t know how many more miles I have on my current vessel, but you can be certain that I see each and every one of them as a blessing. To any and all readers: get your “planes” checked and serviced regularly and travel safely as you continue your journeys through life.