The Retreat

I get dropped off, so there is no chance of driving to the shops for dark chocolate in a moment of weakness. Two and a half decades of marriage demand a few nights of togetherness before I am left all alone.

Time flows up and down the river in both directions. Dark, deep, seemingly endless. Time. Lots and lots of it. Three weeks solo retreat. To write, process, reset, do rituals, eat organic veg straight out the permaculture garden. The yoga mat is out of retirement together with the juicer and a brand new blender. Bags of fruit. It sounded like a great idea.

I wander around the decking, staring at the broad meander of water below. It's breath takingly beautiful. Soft hills on the other side dotted with a canopy of trees. Beneath me, a sea of aloes, delicate orange cones in the centre, undulate. I take a walk. I do the tree pose. Bring out the yoga mat, do stretches from years gone by, followed by tai chi horse position. My thighs remind me I haven't done this in about a decade. Take another walk. Go to the river. Give up the idea of swimming and settle for applying the Wim Hof method only up to my feet and shins. Surely that counts for something?

I become aware of how much time there is in a day. Of how we fill it in, like a children's colouring book, killing it, deleting it, shrinking it, using it up with eating, drinking, cups of tea and coffee, activity, activity, activity. The quest to keep fit, mentally, physically, emotionally, spiritually, with coaches, trainers, classes, courses, apps to count it all, to justify productivity and beingness. The search for constant improvement and upgrade to match that of cars, possessions, homes.

Never before have people been so very busy. Never before have they needed so much input and assistance to help them get through each day. Complication. Layers and layers of it. So much distraction to avoid just being.

Now here in this place in the middle of nowhere, with nothing but nature all around, all of that is gone, and there is only time. Time and space. And me.

Time smiles and lies back on the deck lounger, sipping a cocktail. We have all day long it says, with absolutely nothing to do. I lie down next to it, taking in the sun, watching the river flow.

The darkness comes fast and early and is absolute. It seeps into the beautiful peach sunset trails in the sky, and pours itself over the trees. It is after all mid winter. I give up the idea of visioning down the inky black in a canoe by the light of the New Moon. Wuss, says my inner hero. There aren't even any bears or leopard around. Imagine you were on a real vision quest in the actual wild with a piece of tarpaulin and no fire, the hero continues. I have nothing to say to that.

As my wood cabin settles down for bed, the silence dances with the dark, creating something almost akin to a sensory deprivation chamber. My ears reach out in every direction searching for signs of life, hoping and dreading to find them. But there is nothing. Silent midnight darkness. But it's not yet seven. Dinner? I remember I am on some sort of semi fast. Maybe. And I ate my last meal at four. Besides I am not hungry.

I can see nothing out the windows and french doors now, and the candle I have lit suggests drawing the curtains and blinds. I go out first to check whether there is total blackout on these curtains and blinds. There is. I lock the door and remove the key. I ensure the two blinds on each window overlap slightly in the middle and that the curtains over the french doors are tucked into the back of the curtain holdbacks. No peeping. Security done and dusted.

The silence continues to weigh in, bouncing from leg to leg like a massive sumo wrestler. It presses down from all sides, compressing the air into a thick thudding muffle, dulling all sound save my heartbeat.

I decide to face the darkness head on and step out onto the decking. The sky stares back inscrutably, its stars and moon hidden behind a cetacean velvet curtain drawn across the horizon, draped over both the hillside and the river.

The aloes have turned black, captured and frozen in flight, their sharp skeletal fingers reaching into space. The trees hulk moodily, silently shielding secret scratching sounds. A horse neighs. A bird rustles in a nearby tree, a bat whooshes past, a dog barks far away, but the silence swallows them whole. Emptiness stretches out in every direction. I am alone. I am all alone. The back of my neck prickles and I return inside, trying to appear unhurried. Who am I trying to impress, I wonder?

The candle welcomes me back into its warmth, tells me all is safe and well. I decide to read. I have brought twenty six books with me, after all. I counted. That's what time does for you. I pull them all out, look through them, and put them back again.

I add logs to the wood burner and jump into bed. I watch a movie, one ear on guard, circling the cottage from the outside. The fire dies down. I blow out the candle. Black silence floods in, rubs out everything. I can barely see my hand. The darkness reminds me that I am all alone in a cottage in the middle of nowhere. There are no bars on the doors or windows, no fence or gate. There is no one to call, no one around for miles to hear me scream, and I am still in South Africa.

I lie very, very still, holding my breath. There is a scuffle on the rooftop. I get up and peep through the curtains, and then the blinds. Total nothingness. I take my long black umbrella and place it in the corner next to my bed at arm's length. Even though it has no button to unleash a secret knife from its foot, it still makes a formidable weapon. I remind the darkness that I have lots of martial arts training, that I have survived dangerous situations in the past. It sniggers and asks if I'm bullet proof.

I set up energetic protection, call on angels and guides, set my spirit animals on guard, I chant some mantras, I say a prayer. I decide to leave the candle burning through the night, make another fire. I settle into a guarded semi sleep, one eye on the candle – I am after all in a wooden cabin. Two ears continue to patrol the cottage on the outside.

When the early hours have thinned the air and spread icyness and fog over the river, the dogs in the far distance begin to bark. Loud, insistent, continuous, frantic, the barks conjure charcoal sketched intruders creeping along walls, stepping sideways over windowsills, unseen. I watch the invisible picture show mesmerised, cold, unable to move. The fire and the candle are out. I hold my breath and try to peer into the darkness.

Lie still and pretend no one is here, or rush out and face them with my umbrella? My inner hero gives me no choice in the matter, and I find myself on the decking, trying to pull back the veils of grey. There is nothing to be seen, and it is freezing. I tiptoe around the cottage, reminding myself that snakes are probably asleep too. Wuss, says my inner hero when I rush back inside.

The barking eventually stops, and the cold puts me to sleep.

The first cock's crow paints the darkness an ethereal silver. Mist skates across the river, hiding it from view. I make a fire and sit in bed waiting for dawn to reveal itself, blinds open. I sip lemon water. It seems the fast is on after all. I watch the sun slowly float the mist away, scattering silver sparkles over the water, spreading apricot and tangerine across the sky. It laughs the night away, exuberantly blazing across the cottage, turning its wooden coat a shiny russet. The horses nearby snicker and the cocks declare the darkness gone.

I stand on the decking in the warmth and begin a tai chi routine, swinging my arms around from side to side. The silence and emptiness stretch all around me, the aloes undulate down towards the river, which flows out in both directions, dark, fathomless. I am alone. Totally alone. I put on some music and I begin to dance.

Photo & Writing : Kiki Theo - 100% human - zero AI always!