6. Willow
SIX
Willow
T he shuttle bus pulls onto a gravel driveway and Jaxson says, “This is our home to the right," pointing out what looks to be a renovated barn, red and glorious. It wasn't in the pictures for the retreat, as their personal home wouldn't be, I guess. My heart melts as I spot a pasture filled with cows grazing. There's plenty of room for them, grass long and lit by sunlight. The fence is like I've seen in pictures of other ranches, wood forked by more wood. It's low and I wonder instantly if there are wild animals here, but he assuages my city-girl fears by announcing, “Our cows go into their barn at night. It’s there on the left.”
I just crumble as two horses come into view from around the back of that same structure. "Oh look!" I exclaim, admiring them and their graceful gates, one slightly larger than the other, brown where the taller is raven black .
"That's Aragorn and Arwen. He’s the larger of the two. You'll be meeting them soon."
Dax asks our host, “Do the cows have names?"
With a smile in his voice as he steers us along the bumpy gravel, Jaxson answers, “Every one of them. They’re my girls. That’s Sunflower up ahead.”
All nine of us are staring at where we will call home for the next 10 days. It's an antique-yellow, two-story home that I read on the website is a Victorian farmhouse. The backside is facing their home so I cannot see the entrance from where we are. My gaze returns to the horses elegantly strolling among their cow friends. Funny how animals have a way of relaxing me. Watching them simply exist is enough. They remind me that's all I have to do. Simply exist.
I so want to pull my camera out of my bag! But it's packed, and with the other suitcases in metal storage racks above our heads. Finding it too tempting, I stand up, pull mine out and flop it onto the floor, unzip it quickly. I can feel the others watching me but so what? Pulling out my Canon 7D camera body, I fasten the 70-300mm lens onto it, remove its cap and hurry to the back of the shuttle bus where there’s space to squeeze in and take pictures through the large window. “Look at you beauties,” I whisper, pressing the shutter for a few clicks.
“Can I see?” Laura asks, and I take my camera to where she sits. “How’d you get so close to them?”
“I had the lens extended to 300 millimeter. ”
Steven argues, “I can do that with my phone. You just zoom in.”
“My phone doesn't have the same feeling. And I'm all about feelings for this trip. Plus, look.” I walk over to show him my favorite of the three images, where Aragorn shook his head, raven-mane caught mid-flight like a bent feather reaching for the Sun. “See?”
“Wow!” Steven’s brown eyes go huge. “That’s a great shot!”
“Thank you!”
“Lucky.”
His comment irks me a little, but I shove pride under insecurity’s blanket. Just a lucky shot, I tell myself, and sit back down, eyes on the screen until Jaxson draws everyone’s attention toward our destination.
“Here we are, folks. Sunflower!”
Honoring its name, sway countless sunflowers in front of the porch, without rhyme or reason to the way they were planted — some tall, others new to the world, zero rows. Just hundreds of flower upon flower of green and yellow, some orange, all spindly and bright.
I love them.
The website didn’t do them justice!
On the porch is a beautiful woman with sandy-brown hair, waving at us, in a yellow blouse over blue jeans and cowboy boots.
“That’s Rachel,” Jaxson tells us, “The love of my life,” standing up and starting for Maggie’s suitcase .
Pete says, “I’ll get that.”
Jaxson nods, reaching for the next one.
Pete says, “That’s mine.”
A grin flashes on Jaxson as he pretends to go for it, which makes Pete laugh. Jaxson reaches instead for the next one and pulls down what turns out to be Sienna’s, who doesn’t object in the slightest.
Soon we’re all out of the shuttle bus, luggage in tow, greeted by Rachel Cocker, “Welcome to Sunflower,” her smile bright as the name.
Out walks another woman who looks to be around the same age — sixties, maybe? — in a white, floor-length cotton wrap dress, with dark skin and a warm smile. “Any trouble?”
Jaxson says easily, “Nope. Everyone, this is Sylvia. She runs Sunflower with us.”
“I’m Rachel,” his wife smiles.
“Oh, I already introduced you , Gorgeous.”
Is she blushing?
I whisper to Laura, “Wow.”
Laura whispers back, “Where can I get me what they have?”
“Let’s give them a second. Maybe it’s not all it seems.”
She eyes me and I smirk, because it’s kinda hard to fake the love we see.
Rachel and Sylvia take us into the house and, before guiding us to our rooms, they explain, finishing each other’s sentences, that they’ll be the ones guiding our meditations and classes. Meals are to be in the morning after the first yoga session. Between 8 and 9 AM. Lunch will be at 1 o'clock, and the evening meal will be at 6:30 PM every night.
“It’s better for your body not to eat right before bed,” Rachel says.
Sylvia adds, “You heal more quickly when your body isn’t expending energy on digesting food.”
Nothing about the days will be the same otherwise.
The main room is an open floor plan, with a round dining table that can fit us all. We learn that its shape was chosen with purpose. Long tables tend to make it hard for everyone to communicate. This way no one is left out of a conversation over a meal. There is no chance of loneliness.
But the space does afford alone time. In various sections of the main room are seating areas of one, two, three and four armchairs with either loveseats or sofas strategically placed beside side and coffee tables. Each and every one has a warmth and visible comfort that beckons one to sit there. On the walls are phrases in artwork, affirmations such as the one that catches my eye first, Life is all about enjoying the little moments.
Sienna and Michelle are taken to the first room. Maggie and Pete to the next. Steven and Marco to the third room. Laura to the fourth, a private. My hopes dashed. And that leaves Dax and I as roommates.
In this day and age I know that gender doesn't matter so I am not bothered by the fact that I have no clue what gender Dax is. That's why I keep referring to them as they, in my mind. But the quiet, loner vibe isn't what I was hoping for. Is there going to be a lot of drinking? I'm sober.
Rachel and Sylvia leave us to get settled in exactly the type of bedroom I’d expect a Victorian farmhouse to have — pale rose paint framing antique furniture, patchwork quilts on the two double beds, both with reclaimed-wood headboards, white Shabby Chic nightstands. There are two desks for whatever we might need them for. I motion to the bed closest to our window, that bears a painting overhead which reads, Live and Let Live, and ask, “Do you care?"
Dax says, “Don't want the sunlight shining on me in the morning,” and pulls out a flask from the top of their suitcase, takes a long drag off it. Exhales.
And there it is.
Unpacking, I mouth, “Okay then,” and then remember they’re an artist. Looking over my shoulder I see Dax pulling out more blank canvases than clothing, propping them against a wall. Paints come out next, placed with care on their nightstand.
“Hey Dax, would you take a look at my horse photo?”
Smoky-eyeliner locks reluctantly onto me, “Sure.”
I carry over my Canon, press the display button and hold out my image, noticing my hand is shaking.
Dax changes my life with one word, “Brilliant.”
“Really? ”
Dax nods, staring at it. “Brilliant.”
And sometimes that’s all it takes.
One. Encouraging. Word.