We stood there on the beach. A mingling of warm, jungle air and cooler, ocean air, entwining us. Other than the waves, the distant laughter of children running into the surf, the only other sound.

On my left, the sunset reflected on the relaxed freckled face of my wife. I held her hand. To my right, my son stood. My arm up and around his sandy, tan waist. My daughter sat cross-legged in the sand, a few paces away. Drawing the sunset on her iPad.

Today was the last day of an amazing five-day adventure. Mindfulness, new friends, a slower pace, even plant-based foods everyone liked. And, the icing on the vacation cake: activities that helped us build a stronger family bond. Yeah, it was more than expensive. But worth every penny.

Reality is sweaty

“Sweetheart, where are we going?” declared my wife, now covered in sweat.

I wake up from my daydream right in time to not walk into a few of the other thousand people on the sidewalk around us.

“What? Oh. Um, a few more blocks.” I reply and point up to a sign on the top of a multi-story building. It reads Assembly Food Hall in rainbow letters. To me, it is the sign of my salvation.

Downtown Nashville. Midday. The heat of summer. Even with a hat and sunglasses on, the sun pounds on my head like the seven dwarves have set up shop between my eyes. Every ten feet or so, we pass a new bar with a higher volume of noise.

At the end of the block, we stop at a street corner with about a hundred other people. All white, all sweaty, some drunk. I look up and wince as Sweet Caroline yells out of an entire four-story open-air bar. My wife looks at me with a mixture of exasperation and concern.

“Sweetheart, we could have stopped in that first place and got you iced tea,” she shouts and points backward. I shake my head side to side.

I now feel my hands shaking to go with the pounding head. Super. If I don’t get an Arnold Palmer in me soon, things are gonna get bad. Like, migraine bad.
The crosswalk light turns on, and I race-walk ahead. Only two more blocks to go.

Let me back up: We’ve only been in downtown Nashville for an hour. Between the heat, the souvenir shops, and the noise, oh, sorry, I mean music, I’m melting faster than the wicked witch.

Why? I’m a Highly Sensitive Person. Which, on the bright side, means I have the patience and empathy of Mother Theresa. But, I also have a dark side. Too long in hot, noisy, or stressful environments where I can’t rest, I close up and die as quickly as a flower. Then my migraines let me know my time is up.

And when I get close to migraine status, I need a non-carbonated beverage. With about half the amount of regular sugar. Thus, the Arnold Palmer.

Now, you might ask, what about that beautiful vacation? Why didn’t we go on that one? All that ocean time and rest and connectivity? Was it all a pipe dream?

Let me explain: Think pre-Covid. My wife and I are at home, on our nightly after-dinner dog walk. I explained to her my idea for this family retreat one of my meditation teachers hosts every year. Yep, my daydream. It’s a real thing.

And it’s in Costa Rica. Cool, right? Other than it being about five times the normal amount of our annual vacation, it sounds perfect to me.

She listened to my words. She stopped walking, took my hand in both of hers, looked straight into my eyes, and said,

“Sweetheart, even if we had the money, no one in this family wants to go on that vacation, but you.”

I have to agree. But a momma can dream, right?

Back to Nashville

After another block in the heat, we turn off the main strip and pass into the blessing of shade. We are in the shadow of the giant Assembly Food Hall. The street inclines like San Francisco. I am not deterred – I can see the entrance. Escalators. Oh yeah.

And Oh no.

Something else is brewing inside. A frequent companion to headache and shakiness I was hoping wouldn’t show up today: nausea.

I slump onto the escalator and close my eyes. I envision the beach again. The cool post-sunset sand soothing between my toes. I take a couple of deep breaths and pretend it’s ocean air.

“Mom!” my son shouts. I open my eyes and hop off the escalator right in time.

The Taste of Salvation

Like a hungry hyena, I stalk into the food hall. Smells of teriyaki chicken, pizza, and bratwurst meet me and my queasiness. Large, black industrial ceilings echo the chatter like a million bouncy balls. Probably because there are two bars right in the middle. Leave it to Nashville to make their food courts also event venues.

My stomach sinks and I look in desperation around the perimeter. Next to the soda fountain, the most splendid sight meets my eyes. A tall stainless steel canister shines in glory. Which means – you guessed it – iced tea.

Two minutes and ten dollars later, my son, daughter, and I have heavenly full cups. We are like kings and queens of the food court! We sink in a booth that’s half chairs, half booth. I locate an Aleve from my purse, and down it with a drink.

Let me tell you. The cool iced tea slides down my dry throat like a desert riverbed after the first rain. I close my eyes and proceed to down most of the rest of my cup

Now I wait. To see if I’m going to run to the bathroom. You know, the nausea?

While the seven dwarves are still hammering away, all seems quiet on the, um, southern front.

I go get a refill and come back.

My son switches from a chair and lays down on the booth next to me, his head in my lap. I lay my free hand on his chest. I rest my head on my wife’s shoulder and close my eyes again.

I notice the food court is playing Oasis’ Wonderwall. Well, at least the music of my teenage years isn’t in elevators yet. A small smile pulls at my lips.

“Mom, you feeling any better?” my daughter whispers as a baby bird.

“Yea, sweetie, thanks. Who knows? I might even be good for hot chicken in a bit.” I reply.

I look around at my family, our faces glowing red from the bathroom sign above us. And my heart swells.

Well, it’s not a sunset, but maybe we’re on a perfect family vacation, after all.

POEM: A Case of the Greenies

But that one
is better.
No fair, theirs is
bigger.
Why can’t I get
a new one?

If it felt like
this.
If I just had
those.
If they only said
that.

Be careful
how
intertwined
you
grow up
with your vines
of 
Envy. 

You start,
an unconscious
commentator.

You learn,
everything
else is better, 
worse.

You feel
like crap inside,
mostly.

Then, refusing 
every last drop
of gratitude
to your vines,

you wake up,
dehydrated
to death. 

The SoulJourner QUESTion:

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