On Memorial Day, May 26th, I slipped on wet grass while playing with my grandchildren and broke my ankle. Three days later, I drove to Sedona for a week of grief therapy. I shouldn’t have, as it was my right ankle, but I did it anyway. I was treated at a nearby urgent care, and when the nurse practitioner told me my ankle was broken and I’d need a boot, I told her I was driving to Sedona in three days. She looked up at me with raised brows, and before she could say anything, I added, “For therapy. My daughter recently died.” She held her gaze, shook her head slowly, and said, “I’m so sorry. I hope you’ll find what you need in Sedona. Take the boot off when you’re driving.” Before leaving the room, she stopped, looked at me again and in a gentle voice said, “I really am sorry. Take care.” I heard that as permission because it was what I needed to hear. I knew if I cancelled, it would be a long time before the therapists, chosen specifically for me, would have availability.
I left urgent care in a boot that felt too big and wasn’t supportive, but having never worn a boot before, I assumed that’s just how it was.
I knew that driving to Sedona would not be great for my ankle, but I also knew that flying would be just as bad, possibly worse, given all the walking in the ill-fitting boot. I also knew that in that moment, I needed to put my mental health ahead of my physical health. Two days later, I got in my car and made the two-day trip to Sedona with my boot riding shotgun, until I made a stop, then I’d put it on. Once at the hotel, I took off my boot and replaced it with ice and elevation, making that my hotel routine. I thought I was doing the right thing. I wasn’t.
I had ten sessions in five days and was given my schedule and the addresses of the practitioners upon arrival. I was alone in my therapy, not in a group, and the ten sessions were all different — talk therapy, therapy while seated on a large rock next to a river, breath work, equine therapy, massage therapy, and energy work. Most days, I had two sessions, one in the morning and one in the afternoon, with a break in between for lunch, except for equine therapy, which was a thirty-minute drive to the stables and a three-hour session. All the therapists had been notified about my injury, and Belle, the horse trainer/therapist, had a chair waiting for me when I arrived. The horses, Penny, Mimi, and Salsa, stood close together with their noses pressed against the wall. I asked Belle what they were doing. I’m not a horse person and didn’t grow up around horses, but their positioning looked odd to me. She said they were working. She had told them about me, and they were waiting. I was struck by the two mares, Mimi and Penny, because I often called Emery Mimi, and one of her favorite dolls was named Penny.
I told Belle about Emery and shared stories, most of them through tears. The horses would react by stomping their feet or moving their heads up and down. Belle told me they were responding to my stories and were feeling both my emotional pain and the physical pain of my ankle. Horses read energy and vibrations, and Belle told me they heard me and could understand me in the same way a person who is deaf hears music. I felt very comforted in their presence. I don’t understand horses or their ability to co-regulate their nervous system to a person in pain, but by the time I left, my ankle no longer hurt, and I felt a deep sense of calm. When the session was over, I approached Penny and stroked her neck in thanks. In those few hours, I may have become a horse person, or at least the start of one.
Thanking Penny.
Digging into the essence of who you are, without edits, is exhausting work. I ate as early as I could, mostly to get it over with so I could go to bed. At that hour, I ate dinner in almost empty restaurants with people I used to say were old, but now I’m their age. I sat at the bar as I’ve always found interesting conversation there, but on this trip, I was an observer, not a contributor, and mostly of my thoughts.
On the recommendation of one of my therapists, I went to the Airport Mesa Grill. The restaurant is situated on a vortex, a concentration of the Earth’s energy that many believe promotes spiritual growth and healing. Sedona has become famous for its seven vortexes in the area, the Airport Mesa Grill being one of them. The restaurant’s appeal to me was less about the vortex, although I was curious, and more about being able to sit at the bar and watch small planes taxi across the tarmac. That, to me, was an energy center I could feel because of my history with small airplanes. It became my restaurant of choice, and I returned two more times during my week in Sedona, and sat in the same spot at the bar, the one closest to the window. I didn’t talk, but became an observer instead, while I watched the planes, the people at the bar, and my thoughts.
My Sedona therapy week was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, except deciding to file for divorce. When people asked when I returned to Boulder if the therapy had helped or if I felt better, all valid questions, I had to answer no, but I felt different, and for now, different felt like enough.
My therapists were the ones holding the magnifying glass and the flashlight to my grief while I worked my way through the depths of my soul, digging through the many layers that had been buried by life. They were my guides, but I was the one on the journey, and in the end, after excavating parts of myself I didn’t know existed, with apprehension and a pickaxe, I now know where the diamonds are. I haven’t uncovered one yet, but I know where they are buried. It is in the grief of losing my daughter that I have found a quiet that I’ve never felt before. It’s raw and honest and speaks the truth in a voice that shakes and is barely audible, but I can hear it. The pain is excruciating, yet pure and strangely comforting in its own way. One of the therapists told me that he was impressed with my bravery and my willingness to step into the fire and spend time with my grief. His words surprised me. I told him I lived in the fire because it is in the pain where I’ve found the deepest love, and I will crawl through sprays of brambles of sorrow to reach it, if I have to.
I wanted to be able to come home and, when asked if my work in Sedona helped with my grief and loss, say yes, and I feel so much better, but that’s not what happened. I dug deep into my soul at the edge of a river, next to three horses in a stall, on a cushion in a studio where I did breath work, in therapists’ homes, in a clearing in the woods, and Emery was right there with me. She came to me in my dreams and told me to lean into the strength I had forgotten about but she hadn’t. I felt her presence, her guidance, and her strength.
Before I left Sedona, I went into one of the many aura photo studios in town. Emery had a photo of her aura taken at a fundraiser — her face surrounded by violets and blue that faded to white. The therapists I showed the picture to responded with amazement at its beauty, commenting that she was a very old soul. I know little to nothing about auras, but decided I wanted to see what mine was. Would it be the beautiful violets and blues like Emery’s? Would being the one who gave birth to her ensure I would have some of those pretty colors in my aura? I was escorted to a back room by a woman who got me situated with the equipment and after the photo was taken, a doorbell rang. I asked the woman if she needed to answer the door. She looked confused and told me they didn’t have a doorbell, and she had no idea where the sound came from. I couldn’t help but think of Emery, but I didn’t say anything. My aura colors are not violet or blue, and they are not remotely pretty. My aura is orange—my least favorite color, but also the color that indicates creativity. Without giving it much thought, I drove to a second studio, hoping for a different result. My second aura picture was also orange, which confirmed the legitimacy of the first one. My daughter-in-law, Brooke, later reminded me that it wasn’t a situation where you get to keep trying until you get the color you want. I wanted to text both photos to Emery, who would likely laugh and echo Brooke’s words.
My time in Sedona gave me the tools to a layer of my soul I didn’t know existed. It also reminded me that I was the one holding the map, and always had been. The girl who had lived in Kansas for most of her life was reminded that she held the power all along. It wasn’t as simple as tapping my ruby red slippers together three times to take me home, but it was an understanding of the journey I’m on and will continue to be on for the rest of my life. I’m the one holding the map and sometimes, the pickaxe.
Conclusion:
I returned to Boulder, met with an orthopedic surgeon who told me my X-rays were worse than they were three weeks ago. I wasn’t surprised. He asked me if I had been wearing the boot, without exception, except to sleep, and if I was still not driving. I told him no, I didn’t wear the boot non-stop as it was uncomfortable, and I had driven… “to Sedona, Arizona and home.” I could have told him why my drive to Sedona was so important, but I didn’t. He said the boot was the wrong height and didn’t fit. I suspected as much. He put me in the taller boot with strict instructions NOT to drive for the next three weeks, at which time he would see me again. Not even to Arizona, he added. I followed his instructions.
I had ignored my ankle and listened to my heart instead as it was the louder voice. I have no regrets. My now bootless ankle is almost healed, and I won’t need surgery. My heart, on the other hand, is not almost healed, nor will it ever be, but I know where the diamonds are and I’m not afraid of the pickaxe.