… and the loss of brain cells.
Returning from a week in the 110-degree canyon, I find myself oscillating between “Did I return brain dead?” and “Wow, I am so relaxed I ceased caring about the things that bothered me just a few weeks ago.”
The answer is somewhere in between.
I experienced profound peace on the river, sleeping under the dark skies. A surprising experience given that I went with 7 of my family members, notorious for our over-the-top improv musicals and relentless ball-busting.
The release of brain cells seemed to start somewhere over the Grand Canyon National Park, on a propeller plane, while a teenager cried over lost contact with the outside world. When the pilot, a mere 18 inches from my knees, pulled out a paper map to verify the landing strip location (which turned out to be literal gravel covered in tumbleweed), some of the synapses turned off. And somehow, over the middle of the desert, a small green dragonfly entered the cabin and landed on the co-pilot’s epaulet. A sense of ease hit me that I had long forgotten.
A few more neurons died off at the working ranch where we shot skeet and rode horses. And the helicopter lift into the canyon, dropping us onto the Colorado River, cinched the deal. All thinking ceased.
For a week, no one asked me about my job, my degrees, or publications. And certainly no one thought that technology was remotely interesting or important. The most valuable players on the trip were the ones who could find falling dirt (the previously crying teen) and spot the long-horn sheep on the cliffs (the ADHDers definitely excelled here).
On the first camp tear-down, I thought I found my chance to shine. My Tetris obsession makes me particularly skilled at putting things back into bags. But I was wrong. It simply meant that I had to sit on the sand with the velvet ants for slightly longer, awaiting the raft loading, as I was too efficient.
The juxtaposition between the 110-degree air and hot wind and the river itself, a mere 50 degrees, was an unexpected source of joy. Between the rapids, we found ourselves jumping into the Colorado and floating alongside the boats until we shivered, then hopping back onto the yellow rubber, where we baked and dried in minutes. Water cannons and buckets were used liberally to ensure our companions did not overheat. Especially my brother, who was the recipient of 45 years’ worth of well-deserved water gun shots to the face, all in the name of keeping him cool.
Each teen found a groove, one acting as the bard, one a ranch hand, another bringing their bug and scorpion magnetism, and the other ensuring we won’t miss them when they go to college.
Reengaging has been an eddy, slow and swirling. As I unpack and shake the sand from our pockets, I wonder what it means to return. Why is this so different from my past trips? What pieces of the experience I should bring back into my day-to-day? Certainly the disconnection from my phone. Definitely the waterboarding of my relatives. Perhaps the complete detachment from accomplishing. But, will the neurotic neurons come back online? Is that something that can remain in the park? Should I be worried that they haven’t returned yet? (and is that worrying the synapses reengaging ¯\_ (ツ)_/¯ ).
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