It was weirdly easy to do, an indication, I think, of just how much I needed to get away.

I think the most startling thing for me about being a parent, from the very first day, is how little time and energy I am able to devote to myself. And ten months into the existence of my second child, I’ve been feeling it more than ever. Most days I have time to do the very bare minimum in order to maintain my life. I respond to the emails that absolutely must be responded to, I get the dishes done, the kids fed and clothed and to school or playdates, I pay bills (not always on time) and make sure I’m on top of things when it comes to my work and private practice.

But that’s it. Our bathroom needed to be cleaned like two weeks ago. Half of our houseplants have died in the last six months, we’re out of milk right now, I haven’t posted a blog here in a week, I have four unlistened to voicemails, an absurd amount of email to respond to, and I could really use an update on my toenail polish.

Not to mention needing some time to just sit and be quiet with my thoughts.

So last week, with the aid of my husband who so amazingly agreed to take on the girls so I could do this, I hit the road.

To say it was exhilarating was an understatement.

My destination was the New Camoldi Hermitage, a Catholic monastery on a cliff in Big Sur, about five hours north of here. I first read about this place in Christina Haag’s memoir Come to the Edge, and have fantasized about going there ever since. The monastery offers silent retreats, as in meals taken in your room and a vow of silence while in residence. The thought both intimidated and utterly beguiled me.

I booked two nights, and planned three days of driving, reading, contemplation, and silence. I took with me 5 books of poetry, three boxes of old letters from three different people, two journals, and my Kindle which is filled with hundreds of books. There are some things I’ve been trying to get clear on in my life these days, and these things seemed like they might be helpful.

When I first set out I intended to drive straight up there so I could just get on with being quiet. But the moment that I was driving, windows down, sunroof open, music loud, I felt so wide open and free.

The coast was wild and beautiful and the road stretched out in front of me and I began to stop every thirty minutes or so, pretty much each time I saw a beautiful spot. I would park and get out of the car and I would stand at the edge of the land and breathe in the ocean air and remember what it felt like to just be me.

It had been so, so long since I’d been alone. At least alone with the knowledge that there was more alone time coming. Usually I’m alone with twenty minutes to spare, and a panicky feeling that the seconds are just bleeding out.

But not on Sunday. On Sunday, with two whole days laid out before me, I felt like I could breathe.

I arrived at the monastery in the late afternoon. It was a two mile drive up a mountain and this bench was half way there. Of course, I stopped.

In fact, I made a point of sitting on this bench at least twice a day for all three days. An experience I’ll probably never forget.

My room was plain, and it was perfect.

There was a private garden beyond those windows, that looked at the sea. And there were walls so tall that I had utter privacy, standing there looking out into the distance.

Inside I unpacked all of my things, my books and boxes of letters and journals, and then I stood there, just breathing. I had no cell reception and there was no wifi. I was truly cut off, disconnected from the world I know.

It was both unnerving, and calming.

Over the next two days I spent a lot of time in that room. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote. Journal entries, letters, a new book idea, and more letters.

I read too. I read through all the letters I brought. I read all five of those books of poetry. I read a couple of books on my Kindle. (Man, there are a lot of hours in the day when you’re not tending to children.)

I also went for a lot of walks, all around the monastery. I wish I could tell you how good the air smelled, wish I could send some of that right through this screen and into your world.

I took this photo in the early evening on my first night, on a walk around the grounds. The moon was high up in the sky and I was thinking about my friend Julie, and something she wrote in a letter to me a long time ago.

I took this one the next morning. I had woken to the bells ringing in the chapel and outside the fog kissed the dawn.

I took this one later in the day, the sky a resilient kind of blue. I thought about how Vera would have insisted that it was aqua, and how much she has changed the entire scope of my life.

I went for a drive on my second day and I walked on this beach for a long time. I felt wildly lonely, in a really important way.

The truth is that I could have stayed up there for  a week, maybe even longer. On the third day when I drove down that mountain, stopping at the bench for the last time, I felt like I was only just getting started. My second night there had been hard. I felt alone, and vulnerable, all of my defenses distractions stripped away, the real voices in my head louder than ever.

I could hear myself.

I guess that’s what it was.

I could hear myself.

Some of what I heard was exactly what I expected, some of it surprising. Some of it was heartbreaking and some of it was soothing. But it took a couple of days to even just get there, making me realize how little I hear myself back here in my regular life, my life filled with text messages and Instagram, with a thousand emails a day, with my kids pulling at my pant legs and school drop-offs and pick-ups to be on time to, with not enough sleep, and more than enough of everything else.

I came home knowing that I have to find that space more often. I have to work to create that space more often. We all do, us moms and dads. Parenthood can be blindsiding. It takes over before we even realize what’s happened. But the good thing, is that those voices within, the ones we used to be able to hear more clearly, those voices never really go away.

At least mine didn’t.

And even though my time away wasn’t long enough, it was. At least for these two.

One thing this teacher says often throughout each class is this one line that reverberates throughout my head for the rest of the week. He begins by encouraging us to greet our bodies as they are. He reminds us that it is Sunday morning. And then he says, This is the life I’m actually living.

This is the life I’m actually living.

It’s such a simple statement, but one that never fails to snap me into the present.

This is the life I’m actually living.

See, the thing is that I’m really good at occupying other lives in my head. Lives I think I should be living. Lives I once lived. Lives I intend to live. Lives I’m envious of, or even ones I’d never want to live. So to be reminded that this is the life I’m actually living is quite profound. Hearing this phrase always serves to fold me back into the present moment, to remind me of where I am right now. 

I find it so easy to get caught up in all the things I want my life to be. I daydream all the time about a house, a permanent home for my little family. I muse on future books I’ll write. I fantasize about living in exotic places like Sydney or Goa. I wonder what Veronica will be like when she’s 22 or if my girls will be friends when they’re teenagers. I daydream about being thinner, prettier, having more money, more time, more everything, anything.

Then once a week I find myself in a little yoga studio in Santa Monica and I find myself swimming back to what’s happening right now.

This is the life I’m actually living.

And then for brief moments, longer than I have in years, I inhabit myself. My true self, the one that exists right now. I embrace my life for what it is, for all the things it isn’t, for what it will never be. I step into all the flaws and and all the perfections, and for one tiny moment I stand still and let myself feel grateful.

This is the life I’m actually living.

It’s so hard and hectic to travel sometimes, but everything about being out in the world and everything about returning to the place you live, only serves to enrich life, I think. I tried to explain this to Veronica the other night on the plane when she was exhausted and saying she never wanted to leave California again. I reminded her of how much she loved her seeing her cousins and her grandparents, how fun it was to sled and to watch her uncle Matt build a snowman, how exciting it was to make new friends on airplanes and try new foods and sleep somewhere different. And again yesterday as she marveled over being in her room again, I tried to remind her of how it can feel to come home.

I’m not sure if she entirely understood, but later she said something that made me think it might be sinking in after all. We recently got a new car seat for Vera. It’s a little more grown-up, sits a little lower, and has a cup holder (her favorite part, naturally). On the way to Trader Joe’s yesterday she suddenly exclaimed, “Mama, the same car looks like a different car from a different seat.” I smiled at her in the rearview mirror, my sweet little girl who is growing up so fast. “Exactly,” I said.

And that’s what I mean about travel. Going out in the world, as hard and hectic as it can be, can give you a whole new seat from which to see your world, making the same old thing, appear altogether new.