It happened this week. The first time since I moved to Ecuador almost a year ago.
I became completely overwhelmed, and the thought flashed across my short-circuiting brain: “I want to go home.” The thought stopped me in my tracks. Ecuador is my home. Not Arkansas. I know that in my heart.
But in that one instant, I broke down in tears. All I really wanted was a “Good ‘Ol Boy” in jeans and a soft t-shirt to wrap me in his arms and say in a deep southern drawl, “Don’t worry. I got this.”
Transformation for Temporary Triumph
I’ve been single for eleven years. I’m tough. I overcame some hard challenges during that time. What was I thinking?
I was so stunned at my reaction that I sat down. I reached for my Spotify, found the “Karen’s Lynyrd Skynyrd” playlist, and cranked it up.
The guitar riffs and piano keys entwined my energy field with that old armor I thought I had shed as I healed my past trauma. But nope. It’s still there. It felt uncomfortable–hard but familiar.
A flood of feelings accompanied it, memories of a life I lived a million years ago. Memories of the kick of a Smith & Wesson .38 Special. The scorching burn of Crown Royal sliding down my throat. The fuzzy numbness of a beer buzz. A seething anger just beneath the surface ready to jump into action at the first sign of a threat. I could even feel my eyes become narrower, focusing like laser beams, looking for danger. I wanted to pull my hair back out of my face–or at least harden it with hairspray–maybe even cut it off again. I instantly became harder. I wore that armor all day. I listened to ZZ Top, the Allman Brothers, more Skynyrd. I got through the day.
Culturally Created Self
As I write, I feel better, but I haven’t discarded the protective sheath yet. I’m not ready to go back to the open vulnerability that I have been able to access here in Ecuador. I have to deal with some things right now, and I can’t if I’m soft and vulnerable. I can’t afford to fall apart.
But this experience has me wondering about this Culturally Created Self we all carry with us. When you work on healing and evolving, you’re going to explore who you are, who you have been, who you want to become. Moving to another country certainly helps you dive straight into your Authentic Self. Confronted with new experiences every day, you observe your honest reactions and question everything you previously thought. You eventually work back to the original person you came into this life as. I have spent the past year expanding and settling into my new life, allowing my inner child to emerge and play, encouraging my Divine Feminine to bloom.
Crisisas Catalyst
I’ve had some health issues these past few months, I became a godmother, I helped some animals that were suffering, and when my friend fell and broke his arm five weeks ago and then discovered that the bone is dying and he needed emergency surgery, something in me cracked. And the old Karen came out of the depths of my being to handle the crisis. I thought she was healed, transformed, and completely gone. But the series of unfortunate events I’ve experienced the last couple of months catapulted her to the forefront of the shitshow that was unfolding before me. She’s still part of me apparently, awaiting a crisis that will summon her to the surface once again.
I’m wondering how many of you find yourself slipping in and out of your old selves? Do you sometimes feel like an interdimensional being traveling back and forth through time to various stages of development in your life? Do you sometimes slide sideways into a completely different version of yourself you’ve never met before? Are we all of these people? Are we none of these people? Do we all resort to our old, familiar selves when security crumbles?
Interestingly, I have learned enough in my life that I don’t want to return to all the old habits. I don’t drink or smoke anymore, for example. But that hard part of me that I created still exists. I find that interesting.
Merely Players?
I’m not sure how long I’ll have to wear this harder version of myself. I don’t really like her, but I know she can get shit done and take care of business. And I’m grateful to her for that.
Maybe Karina Andina can come out and play a little while as my friend visits from the U.S. this week in the middle of the catastrophe. Maybe I can slip in and out of the many roles life requires of me right now. Maybe Shakespeare was right: “All the world’s a stage, / And all the men and women merely players; / They have their exits and their entrances; / And one man in his time plays many parts . . . .” The trick, I think, is just remembering who you truly are beneath all the characters you wear.
Whether you’re an expat or not, I’d love to hear your thoughts on the culturally created self and authentic self. How are you continually evolving and devolving?
I apologize for the disturbing photo above, but it perfectly represents something I’ve always struggled with: accepting the pain in the world. What can I do? How do I set a boundary so that I don’t completely deplete myself emotionally, mentally, physically, and financially? On Yule, the winter solstice, I always choose a word for the upcoming year. I selected Acceptance for 2024. I want to practice accepting things as they are, which is difficult here in Ecuador sometimes.
Just like the rest of the world, Ecuador has its painful circumstances: hunger, domestic abuse, addiction, and mental illness. These dogs in the photo above belong to a family in an indigenous community who cannot afford to feed them, much less sterilize them to stop the cycle. Luckily, a Canadian expat named Brian Sullivan has taken it upon himself to travel the province looking for animals in need and providing food. (You can help support him like I do if you feel called to do so by making a donation to his PayPal account @sullyman48582). He works with a non-profit called Amici Cannis, which I also support to help injured and sick animals as well help families with their pets through a sterilization program.
As I sit here writing listening to Van Morrison’s “Into the Mystic,” I still wonder if I’m doing enough to make a difference in the world. I feel so powerless sometimes. However, like Brian, I choose to do the best I can. We can’t give up. We have to find a balance between doing what we can and accepting that we can’t change everything.
I am helping two families with their animals. I prefer just to donate to Brian and Amici Cannis, but the first family I met distributing food on Christmas, and the other family had this little puppy (pictured below) that was sick. The indigenous grandmother didn’t want me to take it to the vet, but my friend persuaded her in Kichwa that I would return it when it was better. (I wanted to let Amici Cannis find it a home, but she wouldn’t let me take it without the promise to return it–and a promise is a promise.) It tested negative for parvo and distemper but positive for coronavirus. Cats can’t catch it, so he lived in my bathroom until he was better. That was a hard one for me to accept–that I had to take him back to his home in the dirt with eight other dogs. Luckily, the grandmother agreed to let Amici Cannis help vaccinate and sterilize the other dogs, too. I can buy food for the dogs, and I can check on them, but I can’t take the dogs to a new home. I have to accept that.
It’s not just the dogs and cats that need help. I meet several people begging on the streets every day.
I regularly give a dollar or whatever change I have to two Kichwa grandmothers I’ve come to recognize on the streets of my town. I don’t have pictures of them because I don’t know how to ask their permission to take their picture, and it would be disrespectful just to take one. They are probably in their 80s, and they speak only Kichwa, so they beg for money by placing their prayer hands in front of their wise old hearts and try to make steady eye contact with people. When I greet them in Kichwa, their faces light up, and I press a dollar coin into their soft, wrinkled palms with a smile. At first it was awkward because I couldn’t even ask, “How are you?” but we can say a lot with our eyes. That’s how women communicate best anyway. I want to ask if they need anything specific or question if they have family to go home to, someone to love them and whom they can love. But I haven’t gotten that far in my Kichwa studies yet. Is giving them a dollar every time I see them enough? No. But it’s all I can do at this point. And I have to accept that.
Another person I try to help is Jose Luis. He’s only a year older than I am, but he lost a leg in an accident when he was 15. He’s a Venezuelan refugee who has no children. He lives in the neighboring town of Otavalo with his sister who is in her 70s. He’s usually outside the Tia grocery store, and we talk while I wait for my taxi driver. He always asks me, “Did you call Ruben?” If I can’t get Ruben or his cousin Jaime on the phone, Jose Luis helps me flag down a taxi by yelling, “Ay, taxi!” He asks about my cats and my son, and he tells me about his sister and her grandchildren. I give him change and buy him an orange juice. Sometimes, I give him money for eye drops. He disappeared for five months, and no one knew where he went. I was so worried about him because I knew he had cataracts and couldn’t see well–not to mention that he walks with crutches. But what could I do? Nothing. That was hard to accept. Then, when I returned from the states after the holidays, there he sat on the ground leaning against the brick wall of the store. He had had cataract surgery. He doesn’t have all his teeth, and with his Venezuelan accent and fast speech, sometimes I don’t understand all he says, so I’m not sure how he was able to get the surgery, but he did, and he’s getting the other eye done in February. I’m learning to accept that I can’t fix all the problems someone has, but I can be kind and give what I can. Sometimes, as I see people walk by him without a glance toward his outstretched hand, I think the hugs and the conversation are the best I can give.
Speaking of hugs, Maria is the precious indigenous woman who sells strawberries on the street. From the first time I was introduced to her, she has always hugged me tightly around the waist. As an empath, I can sense a sadness in her, and I know she needs those hugs just as much as I do. (Sometimes that’s the only human touch I receive that day, and touch is my first love language.) I wish I could do more for her than just buy strawberries and cherries and give her a hug. I wanted to send her this picture, but she doesn’t have a phone (luckily, I’ve been here long enough to check my white privilege and not assume things, so I asked her first if she had a phone). I posted the picture on my Facebook page with a story about how much I love her. The next time I saw her, I showed her the post and told her what it said and showed her how many people responded. Her smile made my day. But what I really wanted to do was add her to my phone plan and buy her a phone. I have to accept that I don’t have that much money. What I do have–what we all have–is the capacity to open our hearts and eyes and see people. I think that’s all I really want in life: to be really seen. That’s what we all want. We want to matter to someone.
When I’m haunted by something horrible in the world, the Serenity Prayer helps: “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” I give myself lots of Reiki every day, and I send Reiki to situations in the world that need healing. When I feel that existential sting that accompanies every tragedy or sadness I witness and I want to scream, “This isn’t right,” what has helped me the most is turning my critical eye on myself instead of outward. I have certainly been able to change more things about myself than I can change others or change some tragic situations. And I accept that.
Bouncing along the street with no name on my way home, I almost wished I were walking. My taxi driver dodged cows, dogs, pigs, and chickens as well as the huge pot holes lurking like little lakes of dust between the cobblestones. My indigenous neighbors seemed impervious to the clouds of dirt we left in our wake. We smiled and waved at each other, and I began to think how strange it was that I was happy. My thoughts drifted back to all the roads in my life: where they’ve taken me, where I’m going still, how they seem to circle around and revisit old places from my life, forgotten spaces in my heart.
Of course, the road as metaphor has been explored over and over, from the Yellow Brick Road to AC/DC’s Highway to Hell. But it’s worth exploring where the lanes of our lives take us–and how we get where we are.
Roads take us into new territory. All of us are born explorers. Even the less adventurous of us come into this world with the proclivity to get up and walk. We start with our little crawl paths through the house and expand from there. My mother said when I was three years old in Oregon, I disappeared from the yard, and my parents feared that I had fallen off the bluff into the river. Luckily, they found me down the road eating apples with an elderly neighbor.
I have always wanted to see what’s around the bend. I remember flying down I-20 in Texas with all my worldly possessions crammed into my gray Toyota Corolla on my way to SMU in Dallas to begin my life in my first apartment. I was simultaneously terrified and exhilarated.
We moved a lot as I grew up, and I learned to put down roots and pull them back up when it was time to go. I understood that change is life and that not moving is death. I mastered the art of adaptation, like a cloud gives way to the wind and shifts and disappears.
At the age of 45 as a single mother, I found a way to travel with my son by chaperoning student trips. We traveled many trails all over the world. I even learned to drive on the other side of the road in Ireland and the UK. Travel into new territory has been the best gift I have given my son.
Whether it’s a tiny country road winding through farmland or an 8-lane freeway speeding us toward the complex underbelly of a convoluted city, we all long to investigate what lies beyond. Hunting is part of being human–whether we’re hunting the truth, the best route through traffic, or a new deal on Amazon. It doesn’t matter if it’s a foray onto a new path through the forest or an interlude onto an interesting exit from the interstate, we need to take it. At particular points in life, we all answer the call of that unknown yearning to discover more.
Roads take us back. This week, I’m flying back to Arkansas to spend some time with my family and friends for the holidays. Oddly, I’m dreading it a little. I don’t want to leave my new home. And I wonder if it’s the return to the old, familiar that I don’t want or if it’s just the memories that lie in wait for me there. The stretches of I-40 I traveled with my sick father on the way to the VA hospital. Those dirt roads where my ex-boyfriend lives. The curvy black-top roads outside of Morrilton that led to my little house where I struggled to raise my son. What arises in my mind are memories of pain.
Some times in our lives are for living and not reliving. And I guess most of my life has been for living and learning. I don’t want to go back to Arkansas, and I blew up the bridge back to Texas a long time ago. I’m sure all of us have roads we never want to traverse again. We walked those streets and learned their lessons. We move on to the next adventure.
But sometimes we have to do a U-turn and navigate through old territory once again. The people I love live on those old roads, and I will return with a different perspective. Sometimes we have to go back after we have grown and changed. After finally escaping the cocoon we wrap ourselves in to heal, we can flutter higher and see those old paths from a higher perspective. We no longer have to crawl along the same old branches of our previous life. We can revisit those parts we love from a different viewpoint and love those old roads for the lessons they brought us.
Wherever the road takes you this holiday season, may you find healing and love. Whether you spend some time walking alone along your own path to peace in quiet reflection or travel familiar highways back home to embrace family and friends. May you kiss the Earth with your feet no matter where you go and embrace your journey with hope.
As I pulled my right leg from the juicy mud to lift it over the fallen tree in front of me, the pain shot once again through my pelvis and coiled around my back like an unrelenting serpent. I cursed under my breath and felt tears rise in my eyes. My guide, Juan Carlos, sensing my pain, stopped and waited for me, gently steering me by my left elbow back onto the nearly invisible path. I instinctively knew where to go. I was connected to this jungle, to Juan Carlos, to my friends, to every insect, tree, mushroom, plant, and flower. In the vastness of interconnected life here, my pain faded into the clouds overhead, promising a deluge that would soon engulf me.
It’s been two weeks since my awakening in the Amazon jungle, but I still haven’t completely processed it. Writing about deep epiphanies sometimes brings truths into focus, so I’ll try to articulate what I learned this month in hopes that it will inspire some of you.
I didn’t really want to go to Amazonia. I hate heat and humidity. I’m a mountain girl. That’s why I moved to the Andes. But my friend, Karen Harrison, lit up when I mentioned that another friend had visited the rainforest here. “Can we go? I’ve always wanted to experience the Amazon rainforest!” She has been my Reiki teacher and mentor for ten years now. How could I say no? Once again, I decided to answer the call to adventure and begin another hero’s journey. In Human Design, I’m a Projector, and to live my design, I need to wait for invitations and then listen to my intuition about whether or not to accept. I listened and got a distinct, “Go!” So I picked her up in Quito and headed out with our guide, Diego Jaramillo of Go Diego Tours. Sometimes the biggest and best shifts in life come from listening to and following your intuition. Your soul knows what you need. In this short trip, I received three gifts that continue to transform me.
My first gift from the jungle was an awakening of the Divine Feminine. The Kichwa of the Amazon understand the connection of women to Pachamama, the intelligent force that guides all of Earth. For example, in a demonstration of how to make chicha, a fermented drink made of yucca, a lovely young woman knelt with both knees on the ground, to establish the connection with Pachamama. Only women can pound the yucca into the mash to make the drink. It was refreshing to be in a culture that values the creative power of feminine energy. And I could feel the power of the women in the way they held their bodies and how they moved with bare feet around the communal stove or dancing in a circle, inviting us to join them as they held the handmade pottery bowls, a symbol of their receptivity and capacity to hold life. Their steady, gentle gaze from their dark, mysterious eyes penetrated into my green, curious eyes and communicated to me that I held that power as well. I had forgotten. As I sat and listened to a lecture about the village, the housing, the food–an older woman, maybe in her fifties, sat next to me radiating an energy so deeply rooted that she may as well have been an ancient wise tree. She smiled at me once, and I felt seen on a level I have seldom experienced in my life. She communicated to me in that instance that all women have her power. We use it to see others and empower them. We receive what Life gives us, and we transform it into something new. And when one of us is overwhelmed with too much, women have the power to share the burden.
The second gift from the jungle was a surrendering to The Whole. I have always struggled with the pain and struggle of life–not my personal struggles but just the process of living (killing of plants/animals to eat, loss in general). As the Buddhists rightly acknowledge, all life is suffering. But in the jungle, I bore witness to such an abundance of life and death. I was overcome by the understanding that life and death are truly just flip sides of the same process, ever evolving, spiraling from one state to another ad infinitum. I made the decision to open to Life. I even ate a culona, a giant roasted ant. I couldn’t bring myself to eat the palm grubs that I gave Reiki to and connected with, but our guide ate one alive, and I didn’t cry or hit him. I accepted it in a way I’ve never been able to before. I think my grandparents lived more closely to Earth and understood the cycles of nature more deeply.; however, I grew up disconnected from my food, from extended family, from nature. Being in the Amazon rainforest immersed me in the smell of decaying leaves, fresh rain, sounds of birds and insects I could never isolate or identify without living there for years. I felt so small in comparison to the giant ceiba tree near the village we visited. Losing myself in the jungle brought me home to my own essence, my own contribution to this planet, my own unique frequency. We all bring a special vibration to this symphony of Earth.
The third gift from the jungle was the cracking open of my culturally created chrysalis to reveal my Wild, Authentic Self. It was as if the humidity precipitated the softening of the sheath that protected my vulnerable inner child. I noticed it first in my hair. Without a dryer to subdue its shape with a brush as I usually did, it took on a wavy, spiraling Medusa quality. I let it be free. Each hair was like an antennae receiving energy from the life pulsing all around me. I let go and relaxed into green, sticky energy. As I unwound into my surroundings, my grip on my hip pain loosened, and the grinding, bone-on-bone arthritis agony screamed throughout my body. I began releasing years of trauma I had held captive there–letting it seep out through sighs, f-bombs, and tears. It is still releasing. I’m crying as I write these sentences right now, which tells me that this emotional pain runs deep. When we hold pain inside, it just grows denser, eventually manifesting as a physical problem. I will have my hip replaced because it is physically beyond energetic healing, but I still have to do the emotional healing. I felt the dammed up emotions release at the end of the jungle walk. The clouds had been gathering throughout the walk, and as we neared the spot where we would exit the labyrinth to meet the boat on the river bank, the sky opened up and poured a wall of water down upon us. My pain had broken free of the cage where I had imprisoned it, and I openly cried as I hobbled through the mud. My two friends stopped to put on their ponchos, but Juan Carlos took my arm and led me down the treacherous incline toward the river. He had a death grip on my arm. His fingers left bruises, but I knew he would not let me fall. I cursed and cried and slipped down the embankment, finally landing on the sandy river beach among rivulets of water. The pain had become a part of me now. I accepted it. No one could see my tears. They blended with the water cascading down my forehead. Juan Carlos smiled at me, and I laughed/cried/smiled back at him. He threw his arms out and looked upward, shouting, “Gracias, Pachamama!” I did the same. My friends slid down behind us, equally drenched. We climbed into the boat and headed back to the lodge. I knew that whatever had been unleashed as I struggled down that muddy bank would not be caged again. Two weeks later, I am still releasing and relaxing into my Truth. I have brought the fearless, wild energy of the rainforest with me back to the mountains.
You don’t have to go to the Amazon rainforest to connect with your Sacred Self. Your truth, your authentic self may be lying dormant inside of you, just waiting for you to step outside of your comfort zone. It’s the painful times in your life that call you to your hero’s journey. Your adventure awaits you–sometimes after a divorce, after your parents die, after your kids leave the nest. Any time you find yourself alone with nothing but pain, move through it. Focus on the mundane details of your life as you trudge forward. Notice how the universe conspires to help you–sometimes with just a smile from a stranger in the grocery store. Be present in the jungle of your life. Be grateful for all Pachamama brings you–the life, the death, the joy, and the pain. Go inside and find the fearful child within and bring her/him out to play in the rain of life. Let the fear wash away into the river as you step into the next part of your adventure a little more healed, a little more whole.
As a gardener, I can’t help but compare my move abroad to transplanting a plant. And even if you aren’t planning a move abroad, certain times in your life require you to uproot yourself and move into new ground–at least metaphorically. Consider where you are at this moment in your life. Are you feeling restricted? Lonely? Bored? Empty? Maybe it’s time for some new digs–literally or figuratively. But how do you shift? How do you get from one point in your life to a completely different place?
Step 1: Assess Your Current Condition
Before I repot a plant or move it in the garden, I look at its health and ask myself (and the plant, too) if it’s happy where it is. Is it getting enough sun? Too much sun? Is it rootbound? Does it need more space to spread out? How is the soil–old and tired with no nutrients?
Before I moved to Ecuador, I did a similar evaluation of my life. I finally admitted that the hot, humid South was not a good environment for my health. Increasing inflation was taking a toll on my finances and, consequently, on my stress levels and mental health. I had one close friend in my neighborhood, and a few more a couple of hours away, but my son’s life was increasingly busy, and I lived two-three hours from my other family. I was feeling lonely and trapped. Luckily, my business had transitioned completely online during Covid and was doing well, and I realized I could work from anywhere with high-speed internet. I knew my life could be more. But not if I didn’t make some changes.
Now I’m not saying you have to move to another continent or even another house or apartment. Sometimes the assessment of your life is completely internal, and you realize that you are living too small. You need to expand mentally, emotionally, or spiritually. Coming to the epiphany that you have completed one role in your life gives you the confidence to say, “What’s next?” and start loosening those roots that have held you in place for too long. Maybe you figuratively need more space, more air, more light. You know you’re ready for something different. Just recognize that longing in your belly or in your heart (wherever you feel the truth in your body). That’s the first step toward change.
Step 2: Find Your New Place
When a plant needs a new home, I do some research and/or follow my instincts on where it may want to grow and bloom best in the garden, or I search for just the right pot to serve as a new home. I choose the soil carefully and amend it as needed. I make sure the plant will have enough room and won’t crowd its neighbors. I use the companion planting books Carrots Love Tomatoes and Roses Love Garlic to see where the new plant can benefit its neighbors and where its nearby residents can benefit it most.
I did similar research before making my transition from the U.S. to Ecuador. People ask me all the time why I chose Ecuador and how I knew it was the right place and the right time, and I’ve written some about how I learned to follow my own spiritual guidance to live with intention. We all answer our individual calls to adventure in unique ways. But after I assessed where I was in my life and was honest with myself about what I wanted next, it wasn’t too difficult to start moving in that direction. In fact, before Ecuador was a serious possibility and before the housing market in Northwest Arkansas was going crazy, I had already started shifting my business and working with a professional organizer to clear my house of unwanted stuff.
You may have been toying with the idea of making a huge leap in your life already. Perhaps reading this blog is just the final push you need to encourage you to start creating a new life. Write down as specifically as you can exactly what you want your life to look like right now. What does it look like five years from now? That’s enough. Then, set the intention. Ask God, the Universe, your Guides, your Higher Self–whatever you relate to–to help you, give you signs that you’re on the right track. Hire a life coach to help you. Then, just start loosening your hold on the life you’ve been growing in and prepare to put down roots in a new place, a new job, a new relationship, a new way of being in the world.
Step 3: Minimize Risk and Trauma
When I transplant a plant in the garden, I try to gauge how far out from the plants the roots go so that I don’t cut through them with the shovel. Maybe I’m weird, but I’ve read The Secret Life of Plants, and I know they are conscious beings, so I tell the plant what my intentions are. I dig down and gently lift the plant from its place with as much dirt as possible in place. If I’m transplanting a potted plant, I talk to the plant and explain what I’m doing, especially if it’s rootbound and I have to tug (or cut) the pot off. I gently loosen the roots so they can spread out in their new home.
Transitions are naturally traumatizing. And life is full of them: marriages, divorces, births, deaths. I had traveled quite a bit as an adult and moved a lot as a child, but I had never lived abroad. As with the plants, I talked to myself a lot. Reiki helped me get rid of the negative self-talk over the years, but I’ve found that I also need encouraging words (Words of Affirmation is one of my love languages). I look at myself in the mirror and smile at myself. Seriously. And sometimes I add things like, “You are so smart. You can do this,” or “I’m so proud of you!” Luckily, I live alone, and my cats don’t judge me. I also talked with my loved ones and let them express their concerns so we could address them together. Of course, I was sad to move far away by myself, but during the rough times, I kept remembering their words. My Uncle Tommy told me, “Karen Renee, I’m not worried about you at all. You never could have done the things you have done in your life if you weren’t smart as a whip.” My son told me, “Mom. It’s your time. Go!” My brother said, “You’ve always made friends easily, and you always land on your feet. And if you don’t like it, fuck it. Come back.” I love my family.
Maybe you have some good support, too. If not, borrow some of mine. Tell yourself some of these positive statements. Honestly, I think deep down we know that we are capable human beings. Life just beats us up sometimes. Try to remember a teacher or a friend who encouraged you in the past. You simply need at least one other person who at any point in your life helped you see how smart and strong you really are. Make a list of all the difficult challenges you have already overcome in your life. Give yourself some credit. Be gentle with yourself. Give yourself permission to spread those roots out a little.
Step 4: Water Well
In the garden, my mother taught me to do the “gardener’s stomp” around a newly transplanted plant. The purpose of this strange dance is to remove any air pockets around the roots of the plants. You don’t just throw the plant into a hole and pile some dirt on top. You add a little dirt and then a little water, which will help the dirt settle into those little tiny spaces around the roots. They need to be surrounded by that nourishing soil and some moisture in order to thrive and grow. You press that dirt into place and add a little more, repeating the process until the hole is completely filled. The last pressing is done with the feet gently “stomping” around the plant, almost like a welcoming ritual dance: “Here is your new home.” With a potted plant, the process is the same, only done with the fingers and hands.
I suppose my actual move was metaphorically similar. I found a place to move and brought my lifeline roots with me: my cats, some clothes, my most important art and sentimental knick-knacks that could fit in my suitcase, my medications and C-PAP machine. I taught my technologically challenged friend how to use WhatsApp so we could talk once a week. My condo came furnished, but I needed my metaphorical water to help me settle in and “take hold” in my new location. The first purchases were two paintings and eight big house plants. Leafy beings and art nourish me. They comfort me–almost as much as cats. As I settled in, I became comfortable in my new surroundings, welcoming some new friends. I’ve been here six months now, and I feel snug and cozy, ready to thrive.
You will need to be watered well in your new place of being, too. Make a plan about how you will nourish yourself as you transition to your new life. What will help you settle in and feel at home? Of course, physical objects and living beings help if we can take them with us. But what else nourishes you? For example, I knew I would go out and participate in something new that I love once I arrived. That has turned out to be Zumba classes for me. What feeds your spirit? Do that.
Step 5: Grow
The last step in transplanting is simply growing. Plants seem to do that so easily. They simply draw what they need from the soil and water and reach toward the light. They continually shed what no longer serves them. They can use some help removing spent flowers, and sometimes they need some support to help them as they climb. But life is about change and growth. Plants just continue the cycle.
I plan to do the same. I’m spreading my roots out, exploring the hidden chambers of rock and dirt and water, reaching deeper into this life. I’m seeking the Light. I’m grounded. I’m breathing in what I need from the fresh air. And I intend that all I exhale in return be of service to other beings with whom I share this planet. I’m noticing that growing doesn’t have to be a struggle. Not when you’re transplanted into the right place.
Whether your new place is a new home, a new job, a new relationship, or a new role as mentor or grandparent–I send you blessings. As each of us pursues our path and finds our own happiness, the world can transform into the garden it dreams of becoming once again.
Expat life cuts away the superfluous distractions of familiarity and leaves you naked and vulnerable. This stripping away of my previous life was my central reason for embarking on this adventure. You don’t stretch and grow as a soul by doing the same things over and over, but change is never easy. In this blog, I’d like to explore an existential problem of being human: how we fit into this world, especially as we adjust to a new part of the world as our home.
Belonging to a Country
As a former U.S. resident, I am more accustomed to diversity than I realized. In Northern Ecuador, with my pale skin and light hair, I stand out. And my customs and life experiences contrast with Ecuadorians’ even more than my complexion. I feel like an overripe peach in a barrel of beautiful walnuts. I want so desperately to belong to this country, to this culture, to this land.
I am connected to the mountains, volcanoes, rivers, trees, sun, and wind. The people have taken me in graciously. And this month I finally received my cedula (national ID) and temporary resident visa.
But I don’t feel that I truly belong here yet.
My friend Muniqui Muhammad, co-owner of Healing Land Reiki, is a black man from Phoenix who has lived in Japan for 20 years. He called to check on me and my expat life and told me, “Karen, you’re never going to fit in completely. You’ll never truly belong. Get that out of your head.” I know he’s right. If you’re white and blonde in a sea of Latinx or tall and black among short Asians, you’re going to stand out. So I’m going to embrace that.
Come to think of it, I never felt at home in the United States either. Or anywhere in the world for that matter (except maybe Ireland or Scotland). I was always “too sensitive,” “too liberal,” “too hot-natured,” or “too smart,” or “too stupid.” I’m sure I’m not alone. So many of us have struggled with “fitting in.”
But being different can be a blessing. As an expat, I can offer a different perspective to my Ecuadorian friends. I can see the beauty that they take for granted every day: clean air, close-knit communities, fresh food, simpler lives, colorful clothing, lively music, and interesting customs.
Belonging to a Family
Margaret Mead wrote, “One of the oldest human needs is having someone to wonder where you are when you don’t come home at night.” When I first read that sentence, I choked up. I don’t have someone to wonder where I am–except my cats. And I’m so grateful for them. They truly make my condo a home and give me such comfort. They wonder where I am and wait for me to come home. It’s not the same as a spouse or child, but for now it’s enough.
Maybe part of my longing to belong has to do with family. I’m far from my brother, son, and stepfather. But even when I lived within a three-hour drive from them, I hardly saw or talked at length with them. Ironically, I talk with them more now through video chat. In the U.S., we’re consumed with consumerism and work, leaving little time for catching up with family.
Family in Ecuador is different. As I mentioned in my first blog, this culture is one of the most communal in the world whereas the U.S. is one of the most individualistic. So many of my Ecuadorian friends find it incredible that I live here alone.
Actually, the longer I live here, I understand how strange American individualism seems for most of the world. I’m beginning to question it myself. As an empath, highly sensitive person, and Projector in the Human Design system, I’m beginning to understand how important it is to have my time alone to decompress and clear my energy. But that doesn’t mean that I have to live alone all the rest of my life. I’m open to belonging to a new family eventually, perhaps in a new way.
Belonging to the Human Race
In spite of our urge to connect, it’s okay not to belong anywhere. In this untethered state, we may find it easier to belong everywhere. By detaching from my own culture and not seeking to belong wholly to another, I can find freedom to belong to something bigger, something higher. Maybe we all need a broader perspective.
Being an expat forces you to look for commonalities. You have to seek what you share with other humans. The language is different. We don’t come from the same places of privilege. Our foods and customs are different. But do we get lonely? Do we feel pain? Do we love our children? Do we laugh? Do we cry? At this point in human history, we must learn to see that all beings (not just humans) have the common goal of living a fulfilling life.
We are all diverse human beings in the ecosystem of Earth. To be an expat, I need to consider myself not an invasive species from another continent, but a slightly different variation of human who has come to live and evolve among her slightly different cousins. I am one of Darwin’s finches. I am here to adapt and survive, which is a type of belonging. I am not here to force my culture on Ecuadorians. I am here to learn from this land and these people, to acclimate and conform as best as I can. In the process, I am discovering new aspects of myself: a curious, brave woman embracing her vulnerability and letting Life carry her for a change.
Belonging to Myself
For the first time in my life, I’m learning to be comfortable simply being with myself. So many of us fill that gaping void of loneliness with bad relationships, food, alcohol, drugs, work–anything to distract us from the raw pain that keeps us company as the negative voices in our heads berate us.
Perhaps my reward for living sixty years on this planet is finally allowing myself to slip comfortably into my own skin, claiming my Authentic Self, and surrounding myself with the love of my own heart. I can feel my self-love expanding like the clouds embracing the mountains.
I belong here. I belong everywhere–wherever love remains in my heart.
On my first visit to Mexico as an adult, I ordered a quesadilla without soap instead of without ham (sin jabón instead of sin jamón). Then, to express my mortification, I told the waiter I was so pregnant instead of so embarrassed (estoy tan embarazada instead of estoy tan avergonzada). Learning another language requires frequent self-humiliation.
You would think my Spanish would be better after thirty years. Sadly, it’s not. Since I’ve been in Ecuador, I have continued to perplex the locals with my linguistic blunders. Not long after moving here, I excitedly exclaimed to my taxi driver that I had just received a wonderful mensaje (message) instead of a wonderful masaje (massage). He thought I was receiving messages from God like a saint or something. After getting a haircut and color, I pointed to my head and asked the same poor taxi driver, “How do you like my horse (caballo)?” instead of hair (cabello). I told another taxi driver that I was fine sitting in the back seat because I have short rocks (piedras) instead of legs (piernas). And those are just the incorrect interchanges I’m aware of. Who knows what other gaffes I’ve made without noticing. I try to smile a lot to offset anything incredibly offensive I may have said. So people just think I’m simple-minded but friendly.
Is Spanish Necessary for an Expat?
Some of my friends from the U.S. have asked me if they need to speak Spanish if they move to Ecuador. I say they should. Granted, I went to my first “gringo event” in Cotacachi yesterday, and I heard very little Spanish. I spoke in Spanish with a man from Colombia while I was waiting in line for the bathroom, but mostly I heard various accents of English mingling among the aromas from the chili cookoff while American Rock-n-Roll played in the background. Depending on where you choose to live, you can find pockets of expats speaking enough English that you could get by with just some phrases of Spanish. Cuenca, for example, has a huge expat community and lots of English, but I think it’s important to speak the local language, and that’s not just Spanish.
I live in an area with many indigenous people. The older generations speak mainly Kichwa. Children in the local schools learn Kichwa along with Spanish. Sadly, they are reluctant to speak it because some of the mestizo children ridicule their Kichwa accents and culture. But it’s a beautiful language, and I’m trying to learn it, too. Luckily, a woman from New York who lived among the indigenous for many years has written the only book in English to teach Kichwa: Gringos Learn Kichwa. She also has a wonderful Facebook group with videos to help you learn. Actually, Ecuadorians speak a total of 24 languages throughout the tiny country, but I’m going to start with just the two major ones spoken in my area, Spanish and Kichwa.
Why Is Learning the Local Language Important?
First of all, learning the language of the people with whom you interact every single day shows respect. People from the U.S. notoriously demand that others speak English to them–even when they are visiting a country that doesn’t speak English. Many also demand that those living in the U.S. speak English in public, sometimes bullying strangers to speak English because they fear they may be the subject of a conversation they can’t understand. And I agree that immigrants in the U.S. should learn English. But as a former English professor, I frequently remind my pompous co-patriots that most people living in the United States speak terrible English with incorrect grammar. It’s a difficult language to learn. I recently saw a t-shirt that said, “Do you know what a foreign accent is? A sign of bravery.” So learning the local language expresses that you want to belong so badly that you are willing to try–even risking making a fool of yourself–to fit into your new culture. It doesn’t mean you will lose your mother tongue. Your first language reflects your culture, part of who you are.
And that leads me to the second reason to learn the local language. You will never fully understand the people with whom you live if you don’t learn their language. The Spanish I am learning in northern Ecuador is not the Castilian Spanish I studied as a minor in my undergraduate degree. Nor is it the Mexican Spanish I learned working in a Mexican restaurant in Dallas while finishing my bachelor’s degree. I’m learning to pronounce the ll in words like silla, pollo, llama with the zj sound of Kichwa words, for example, and not the y sound I learned in Castilian and Mexican Spanish. People have told me that I speak like a Mexican, which is lovely, but I want to sound like an Ecuadorian. Locals use different words, too, like frutilla for strawberry instead of fresa.
It’s difficult to describe, but speaking Spanish like an Ecuadorian changes how I feel. It’s transformative. I feel surprisingly even more tranquila than a Mexican. I feel softer, lighter. Perhaps it’s something like listening to a New Yorker talk as opposed to someone from Georgia. It’s a completely different vibe. One is “tougher” than the other. They both carry different attitudes. If you can do accents, try saying, “How yoo doin’?” like a New Yorker, and then try, “How y’all been gettin’ on?” Your entire demeanor and attitude will transform. That’s what I’m talking about. Learning the local language connects you to the people in a way that you will understand on a deep level. You become an integral part of the whole, not the fly in the ointment, so to speak.
And being part of the whole is important here, much more than in the U.S. A recent study showed that Ecuador is one of the most collectivistic cultures in the world, scoring an 8 compared to the U.S. score of 91, which makes the U.S. one of the most individualistic cultures in the world. This deep understanding of the value of community fuels my desire to keep trying to learn the language of the people I meet here, work with here, and love as fellow human beings. It’s my passion for their way of life that is the real communication. They feel it as respect. And they help me. And I will learn and grow as a Spanish/Kichwa speaker and as a soul.
Finally, learning another language helps your brain. Studies show it can help people focus, boost creativity, and even increase their brain size. Other studies indicate that learning a second language may postpone dementia and Alzheimer’s. While it may appear that learning to speak Ecuadorian Spanish and Kichwa actually muddles my brain, I am noticing an increase in creativity. Sometimes I don’t know the word for something, so I begin explaining the term in words I do know, emphasizing with hand gestures, vocal inflections, and facial expressions (I do have a background in theatre, after all). I have to think differently and frame thoughts from various perspectives. But I don’t think I’m exercising just my gray matter brain. We have three brains, and learning another language helps all of them: the cephalic (head) and enteric (gut) brains as well as the cardiac (heart) brain. When I can’t logically remember the word or verb tense I need, I rely on my other brain, my heart. As a Reiki Master Teacher, I understand energy quite well. I can communicate feelings through the electromagnetic field of my heart. I can perceive what people mean from their hearts even when I don’t understand the words they are saying. I can understand in my gut when someone means to harm me. I’m grateful that I have to shift into this mode of understanding more. I think we all need to embrace these forms of deeper communication, especially in these times of misinformation when words seem to mean nothing–or when words simply serve to inflame and divide.
Forcing myself into these strange conversations employing my head, heart, and gut has been the most challenging–and therefore, the best–part of becoming Karina Andina. No matter what stage of life you’re in, you have to push yourself outside of your comfort zone. For younger people, like my son who is only 24 years old, life requires stretching into some dark, unexplored area of adulthood every day. But for those of us who have already passed most of the trials of a career, overcome some of the losses of life, and managed to raise families and survive our parents’ failures–we can submit to the siren call of an easy retirement and hard-earned rest. The problem is that ease and rest suffocate your continued unfolding. You need some challenges in life to keep growing. Your challenge may not be moving to another country and learning another language, but there’s probably something that you would like to do–something a little bit scary, something that requires you to learn something new, something that demands that you transform some part of your being. I invite you to start your journey and engage in your own eccentric discourse.
I opened the curtains in the living room, allowing the Andean sun to stream into my apartment. The rays of light shot across the tile floor like a spotlight featuring my aloneness.
I had dropped my son at the Quito airport the night before, thanking him for helping me with my move to another continent. I put on a brave face, but I cried silently in the backseat of the taxi, second-guessing myself and my decision. The stark morning light of my first day alone in Cotacachi filled me with both apprehension and elation simultaneously. I got dressed and put on red lipstick (as my Mama taught me to do whenever I needed a power boost). And that’s how my adventure began three and a half months ago.
Why would a middle-aged, single woman with two cats want to move to a third-world country where she has no friends or family? What is so special about Ecuador, this little gem about the size of Colorado, tucked between Colombia and Peru?
I moved here from Arkansas, a state where many people couldn’t even identify Ecuador on a map. Over and over, people have looked me in the eye incredulously and asked, “But why there?”
The only honest answer I can give is “It’s difficult to explain.” So I think my first blog post should attempt to answer this question by focusing on three specific reasons I sold almost all my possessions and moved to another continent. I hope this blog will inspire my readers to follow their own dreams–wherever they may lead.
Spiritual Reasons
I first read about Cotacachi, Ecuador, in International Living magazine in the 1990s. I was in my second unhappy marriage, and I thought, “That sounds magical. I’m going to go there someday.” From that moment, the Cotacachi seed was planted in my consciousness and lay there dormant for nearly thirty years. In 2017, I brought a group of college students to the Galapagos Islands, which belongs to Ecuador. I told our tour guide, “I’m going to move to Cotacachi one day.” He grinned at me as if to say, “Sure you are.” But he said, “Let me know when you come back.” He was the only person I knew in the entire country when I came back to visit Cotacachi five months before I moved here. But I knew in the core of my being that I belonged here.
Mountains, Rivers, Ruins, and Clouds
When I did come with a friend to Cotacachi last November, I cried as we drove down into the valley that holds the pueblo between two volcanoes, Father Imbabura and Mama Cotacachi. Crossing the narrow bridge across the river encircling the town, I knew I was home. This is the part I can’t explain adequately enough to satisfy my former academic self. It’s not logical. In spite of the ethereal quality of living among the clouds, I am connected to this land in a profound way that I can’t articulate.
My friend and I stumbled onto a pre-Incan site on our way to Peguche Waterfall in nearby Otavalo. No signs explain its purpose or who built it, but the energy of the place is palpable. I told my friend who accompanied me on my exploratory trip to stand in the center for a picture. When he began to say something to me after the photo, he stopped abruptly with his eyes stretched wide. “Come here, ” he said. “Stand in the center and say something.” When I did, the sound of my voice echoed back to me, creating a vortex of vibration that I could feel in my bones. I received my Reiki Master attunement in the center of Stonehenge, but this experience at Peguche was more powerful. It brought tears to my eyes. I felt like a planet in orbit around a sun, finally finding my groove in the universe. It felt like falling into place, like moss settling between stones in an ancient forest.
Geographic and Metaphysical Harmony
I have found balance here. Ecuador is named for the equator, the imaginary line that brings together the northern and southern hemispheres. I just learned on the summer solstice as I stood at the geographic marker for the equatorial line outside of Cayambe, Ecuador, that the Andes mountains here provided the necessary fixed high points for geographers from France to measure and mark the equator. The rest of the equatorial line lies in the jungle or water. So I live in a unique place–a place of equilibrium. I live high in the mountains on the center of Earth. All I can say is I experience stability here and–ironically–I feel lighter here. And it’s not just from lack of oxygen. It could be that I’m on the farthest point from the center of Earth’s magnetic pull because of the way Earth bulges in the center. Whatever it is, I feel calm, centered, and balanced for the first time in my life.
Kichwa Culture
Part of the tranquility I experience here comes from the culture. The people live closer to nature here and move in a slower rhythm with more purpose. I particularly love the indigenous Kichwa people I have met. They smile, laugh, and radiate a vibrant life energy. I watched a video on the Facebook page of a Kichwa friend that illustrates their joy. It was grown men playing musical chairs. And it wasn’t a drinking game. It was a large gathering of people (I assume extended family) in a courtyard, celebrating a birthday. They circled the chairs in relaxed strides, and when the music stopped, I laughed out loud as their beautiful braids swung around their backs when they leapt into the chairs leaving one man out. The whole birthday congregation giggled, and they continued after removing yet another chair. I’m beginning to understand that I’m here to learn from them: how to slow down, connect with life, and live with purpose.
So I moved to Ecuador first and foremost to fulfill a spiritual mission–to discover who I am at this point in my life. My only child is grown, my parents are dead (even though I still have a healthy step-father living in Arkansas), and I am happily single. I turn sixty this month. I don’t feel that my life is over; on the contrary, I feel that it is just now finally beginning. My life. I know many others have reached this point, too, and I hope this blog can address these spiritual issues and help others as we make this journey together.
Financial Reasons
I taught college English for thirty years. As a single mother without child support, I struggled financially. We had plenty to eat, a place to live, and we even traveled the world (my trips were free because I organized them and acted as chaperone). But as I slowly crept toward retirement age, I realized that I did not have enough money to retire–ever.
Before Ecuador
Years of stress had taken a toll on my health, and I needed a change. I quit teaching English and opened my own Reiki school when my son started college. Through the pandemic, I struggled but survived. When my son graduated from the University of Arkansas and began working, I got a jolting message from the universe.
My landlord sent me a letter. He wanted to sell my condo. Northwest Arkansas is one of the fastest growing areas of the United States. People are moving there for a lower cost of living, beautiful nature, and good jobs. The housing market rose astronomically. I had two months to find a new home and move.
Miraculously, I found another condo nearby, but the rent for nearly the exact same floorplan was $400 more per month. I made the leap and asked for guidance. I received very clear signs that I was supposed to make the move to Ecuador. I did lots of research, and I realized that I could continue teaching Reiki online and live for about a third of what I was spending in the U.S. I followed Amelia & JP on YouTube and bought their program to help me make the move.
Finances in Ecuador
Ecuador uses the U.S. dollar, so it’s easy to compare. My rent on a fully furnished, two-bedroom, two-bath condo costs me $450 a month. That includes gardening and the water. My electric bill is under $30 every month because I don’t need heat or air conditioning. Gas for cooking and water heating costs me $8.00 a month. My high speed internet (faster than I had in Arkansas) costs me $54 per month, but adequate speeds are available for $30 a month. I don’t have a car, but I get a taxi into town for $2.50. The bus costs .35, but I haven’t taken it because the taxi is so cheap. I can get a ride to the airport in Quito, an hour and a half away for $65. I eat lunch in town–a complete meal with soup, main dish of meat/rice/potatoes/salad, a dessert, and a glass of juice for $3.00. Fresh fruits and vegetables are locally grown and cheap (think five avocadoes for $1.00). I have a great cell phone plan for $20 a month.
I live comfortably here for $1,100 a month. I feel as if I can take a deep breath for the first time in my life.
Health Reasons
I have heart disease and asthma. I want to live in a place that helps improve my health as much as possible.
Ecuador’s Climate
I can no longer tolerate the heat and humidity of the South in the U.S. And with climate change, I’m not sure the entire country won’t be heating up more. Places in the U.S. with good climates like the one in Ecuador come with high costs of living.
The beautiful spring weather in the Andes allows me to go out and walk more in my community and through town. Even though I’m at an altitude of almost 8,000 feet, I can breathe better. Maybe it’s the eucalyptus and pine forests surrounding my home. I take care to put on plenty of sunscreen before going out because the UV index can go over 11, but at least I get my vitamin D every day.
We joke that we have all four seasons in one day, especially during rainy season from October to May. It’s a chilly mid-forties in the morning, slowly climbing to the high sixties or lower seventies in the afternoon (with a rain shower in the afternoon during rainy season). In the direct Andean sun, it doesn’t take long to break a sweat.
Healthy Lifestyle
The fresh air and good climate contribute to the ability to grow beautiful organic fruits and vegetables. I have yet to sample all the new fruits. I’m still learning what they are and how best to eat them. I’ve lost ten pounds in the first three months of living here without even trying. I was eating a low-carb diet in the U.S. and struggling to lose weight. Here, I’m eating lots of carbs (rice, potatoes, corn, fruits), but the weight is disappearing anyway. I suppose the biggest difference between the U.S. and Ecuador is the availability of processed foods. If I can find them in Ecuador, they cost so much (almost four dollars for a can of Campbell’s soup, for instance) that I choose to eat something else.
Ecuador’s Healthcare System
Finally, Ecuador’s healthcare system boasts several advantages over the U.S. healthcare system, making it a good choice for someone like me. Bloomberg ranks Ecuador 20th in the world as compared to the United States’ ranking at 46th. Why does the Ecuadorian healthcare system rank so much higher than the U.S.’s system? Ecuador’s healthcare system, with its emphasis on universal access, preventive care, and cost regulation, presents a more inclusive and sustainable approach compared to the complex and often expensive nature of the U.S. healthcare system.
My Health Care
The price of healthcare in Ecuador is roughly one third of the cost in the U.S. I haven’t used my private health insurance yet, but it was rather inexpensive. I purchased a high deductible ($5,000) policy for $50 per month, and I have to purchase my prescription meds for pre-existing conditions for the first two years. They cost less than $70 per month, and I simply buy them at the pharmacy over the counter. The hospital where I live is too small and doesn’t offer much, but a decent hospital is a thirty-minute ride by taxi, and world-class healthcare in Quito is two hours away from where I live. The expats I have met tell me they have received excellent care here for all kinds of ailments, including my neighbor who had a knee replacement. Doctors here even make house calls. It’s no wonder so many Canadians and Americans decide to retire here.
Conclusion
From better health to a lower cost of living to achieving spiritual balance, I’m happy I chose to move to northern Ecuador. Of course, I’m too young to retire. I may never retire. I love teaching Reiki and helping people heal. But I suspect there’s more in store for my life. I’ve learned that you don’t have to have the final destination pinpointed on the map in order to start the journey.
Many of us have reached (or are approaching) this point where we begin to dream of a better life. Or maybe we’re just reaching the point where we can return to the Authentic Self, the people we were before we slipped into the roles of daughters and sons, wives and husbands, mothers and fathers, professionals and caregivers.
I hope you will accompany me on this adventure–be my tribe of seekers rediscovering who we truly are and what we want as we write the final act of this life’s glorious tragicomedy. Let my Andean odyssey serve as a metaphor for your own sojourn into your soul.
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