Naturally, with Rachelle Robinett

Late-June-ish, 2024

I’m thinking about how much perspective this place gives me in terms of what matters and doesn’t, regarding work and projects and making art, which may also just be exercises in filling the void. (Meaning: What once felt so important, when seen from above or beyond, appears to be pointless. I told this to a friend in New York—that I wasn’t sure if I cared about making anything anymore—and she looked horrified. But, I thought at the time, isn’t the point of life to simply live it?)

I do feel like I should just write and write and write. Live and write.

When I wonder about (tbh worry about) the potential of the sheen of this place wearing off I recall that 1. The people who live here all do so by choice, 2. They don’t want to leave, like ever, and 3. They (and I) appreciate living in paradise so much that they live by the phrase pura vida, and others like “too blessed to be stressed” and hashtag-grateful. The effect of this place is so great that it almost forces that mentality. Also, could I ever take any of this for granted after being deprived of it for so long? And: Nature is novel, and this place will always change so … there probably isn’t anything to worry about. I can always move on again should I desire. I keep in-mind the local perspective of not knowing what’s on the next page.

Someone in New York asks me what I want and all I can think is, “I don’t want to come back.” They’re trying to make sense of what I’m doing and I think to myself, I have no idea. But I am so absolutely certain—maybe even more certain than I’ve been about anything in my life—that whatever it is, it’s right.

I’m so curious how …

… this chapter will end. Just under one month remains.

I make myself rest, dozing in the liminal as I so often do in these hot afternoons after surfing and showering. I make love to myself. I look at the date for the first time in some time. I watch sunset—mesmerized by the molten light and lavender blush that my phone camera is incapable of capturing. I visit the tree I’ve planted and see it growing happily. I stay offline. I notice how, for someone with senses like mine, and for those who really pay attention, this place is an endless feast. The pastel mists over the jungle-drenched cliffs—the warm breeze, the severity and delicacy … A butterfly joined me on my last wave today. Intensity and fragility: crushed crabs, washed ashore coral still teeming with bodies, ravenous waves that also whisper into light at another tide. Extremes.

It is so good for me. I can only imagine how much literal and figurative life this single stay has given me.

I feel a swell in my chest as I reflect on all of this: The beauty of this place, the adventures with strangers who’ve become new friends, the surfing, the whole damn thing. Body, mind, spirit … I have crawled into its embrace and allowed myself to be thoroughly enveloped. And so much has transpired. Years in a month. A decade in two. A lifetime in three. I feel full, but not to capacity; I want more. And more I’ll have. Because there is more yet here. And more yet of me to give (away) in order to discover, to undo, to become, to be.

What gratitude.

The next evening: A large storm rolls in and knocks out the power again. I note how comfortable I feel about that now, though I still need to get candles and a good flashlight for my house. I revel in the disconnection, in the darkness. Outside, thunder and lightning overlap each other, shimmering the sky, pouring rain, and whipping the palms. Then, as it clears, the dusk sky just flickers and rumbles. I love being forced to live according to the weather. I simply watch it—peaceful and content—my music playing softly in the background.

I’d ask if this whole thing were about freedom, but I know it’s so much more than that. I’m excited for my naked coffee morning with the hummingbirds tomorrow, and one last day of solitude before my friend arrives. After that, just a bit more time before I return to NYC …

~

Interesting morning, emotionally. My hormones make me heavy, I think, and susceptible. Also, everything out here does. I make it to a new beach for a tree-planting session and it’s so beautiful. Jungle cliffs shrouded in mist over white sand and turquoise water. I plant slowly and more than once, tears well up in me—as well as startlingly strong emotions: a wave of depression, a moment of some unhinged mania, brief and sharp, as if my mind is lost. I think, because I have so thoroughly shattered all of what was, so completely cut the cords of all that I was and existed within so recently that I am … other now, and unformed, malleable and oscillating, not yet reassembled. Maybe I am no one today, or maybe I am someone else, or maybe I am just myself.

Planting trees while covered in dirt and sand and sweat, surrounded by land—by nature and its wild forces—I am on my hands and knees in more ways than one, bowed as if at some altar …

I feel the farthest away from “everything” that I have yet. My waves of sad-ish emotion may also be grief, for having been away from this kind of living for so long, or for what I’m going to give up in order to live into this, or even for some sense that this too is fleeting. I feel permanently changed. Deeply reorganized. Cellularly altered.

I’m unsure in so many ways, but I am not uneasy. And breathless when I look up at the landscape, which catches my heart and causes to me to stare vaguely. I think: This may be the death of me. And if it is, wouldn’t that be an ideal way to go? To die amidst more than I can ever have, more than I can contain, and therefore unfulfilled yes, but in so drastically different a way than the lack of fulfillment they know back “home.” Yes, I think. I do want to die out here. And by that I mean that I want to disappear, which reminds me of the times I’ve wanted to tell someone here to kidnap me. I want to exit so fully that I want to cease to be.

°•*⁀➷

Thank you for subscribing to this publication. My intention is to continue to make this work (herbal health, naturalism, actualized and vibrant living) and myself (as your fellow traveler, explorer, medium) accessible. By being a paid subscriber you allow us to continue to do so!

If you find these newsletters helpful, consider sharing it with a friend or someone in your life that could use a dose of natural-ness. It means the world. XOR

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rachellerobinett.substack.com/subscribe

Thinking, Naturally is a Substack Bestseller! This reader-supported publication is dedicated to empowering your herbal health practices, natural-ness, and most vital lifestyle. For the full experience, consider upgrading your subscription to paid. Your endless support means the world.

Clicking ♥ on this post, sharing and leaving a comment keeps our newsletter alive, thank you for engaging and being here! XOR

•°. *࿐

Welcome to Journals from the Jungle—a series of stories from my recent travels, drawn straight from the pages of my journals. These are reflections on breaking free from a life of structure, convention, and societal expectations, and finding my way back to an embodied, authentic self. Through journeys in nature—and into the nature of self—through adventure, challenge, rest, and the dramatic dismantling of old beliefs, I explore themes of freedom, pleasure, love, and the strength that comes from shedding what no longer serves us. I hope these stories inspire you to embrace change, reclaim your vitality, and live more freely.

I fall asleep every night excited for the day to come. And I wake up realizing that even my lifelong perspective of gratitude—for waking up, for being able to walk, and see, for the simplest things, for being alive—is in-tune with this place, where they too exist in a perpetual state of thankfulness.

I love how making plans, even for the following morning, isn’t really possible as movement depends on the weather, and the waves. I walk around with my hand surfing the breeze, as if I’m listening to music, as if there is some melody in the air, but instead, it’s within me. I don’t know what day of the week it is and I don’t care.

Musings:

Who and how are we when none of the old ways of having to show up as who and how we usually are are present? That is …

Who and how are we when liberated from a lifestyle, from an identity?

Friends back home notice the change in my voice. From one, “Oh my god, Rachelle! You sound so happy, and relaxed, and at peace, and grounded!”

How writing is a way of purging and catharsis, yes, but because it is that, it moves things out of the way, out of the body and mind, which makes way for newness to arise. It’s a continual process of shedding and inviting exploration and release, and also realization, recognition, self-development, and deepening the relationship to both self and the beyond—within, without, to come … the yet immaterial: the unknown.

Nature is novelty.

I love the (currently) equal balance of being able to disappear here, and also simply step outside in order to be in community.

I only feel alone when I want to.

Therapy today was incredible. Together we realize that my letting go of time, my letting go of understanding, my letting go of premeditation, even my dismissal of attire, it’s all one-in the same: a relinquishing of control (or the illusion of it) that previously gave me a (false) sense of presenting a certain self to the world. And that that is no longer necessary, because I’ve reached a truer self, with no need for these things. One freed of the constraints of those limitations. One that is allowed to simply be.

~

The expansiveness here is so great that it may actually be edgeless—those edges I’ve always sought as a way of pinging, of determining the territory I had to work within, or the ceiling I had to break through. That out here there is only the literal and figurative horizon line.

~

Night: I am feeling moved by the courage I had to follow my instincts on this place. How I could have returned home afterward and simply said, Wow, what a great vacation! and continued on with my life—letting this door close, letting the opportunity pass. Instead, I leapt over the threshold, knowing very little about what was on the other side, but sensing enough, and trusting myself. Almost immediately, my entire life is changing course.

Some day later: I am so happy today! Everything here is fun. The hot, sweaty tree planting. Swimming afterward in our clothes. The tuk tuk to the fish market for fresh catches. The language. The shitty roads. The new friends. The nakedness. All, all, all. I fall asleep smiling.

I dream about a storm—winds and rain but mostly wind, so strong that it threatens to move the whole house from it’s foundation … my childhood home, that is.

I plant trees again and then swim with some girls from the group, laughing and getting to know each other. We talk about how time disappears here, how incredible (and scary and full of teachings) surfing is, and we talk about situationships, which are common here. Do we date women, or men? The one from Bali says both. The one from France says men, definitely only men. I say mostly men, but not always. We have such an easily joyful time that I kiss them both on the cheek when I leave.

I eat lunch alone in the breezy shade of a quiet restaurant and I feel deeply present. I feel in this, in myself, and far from many things in a delicious way. I feel equally invisible and entire—embodied, complete. I finish the simple food with tremendous pleasure.

Sunset is a fiery fuchsia, a true orange I’ve not yet seen. Pelicans are high in the sky and many. I cook fresh tuna for dinner and eat with the crickets. It’s peaceful until suddenly a storm begins so fiercely that it drowns out my music, which I turn off in order to listen. There is nearly no pause between the explosions of light, and their echoes in roiling rumbles of thunder. I think about the trees we planted today and how happy they will be. I laugh at the commotion; I don’t think I’ve heard a louder torrent. (Maybe Honduras?) It’s thrilling and amusing. The sky cracked open above us, soaking us in its power. And then, as quickly as it arrived, it is gone.

~

I’m reflecting on how deprived I’ve been … of nature, of edges, of certain forms of affection—touching, kissing, making love—and how this place is nourishing me deeply, bathing me, actually offering to drown me with all I’ve been without for so long.

And I’m reflecting on domesticity: I mean, is it even natural? In the way that wild animals suffer in containment … If feel feral, not just now, but characteristically.

New York obligations plead for me to return and what rises in me is anger. I think: Let me have this. And if you won’t let me have this, I’m going to take it. I begin to cry with what feels like fury as influences try to extract me from what I am experiencing here. I turn my phone off. I have no tolerance for people who can’t support that I need to do this. I will not be made to behave in a way that goes against my grain. I am an individual with agency, period. I feel ruthlessly protective—of this and of myself. I will not compromise right now. I will have this. I will not let it be stopped. Not until it’s finished with me, or I with it. It is simply too important. This is mine, this is me, and this matters more than anything else right now.

°•*⁀➷

Thank you for subscribing to this publication. My intention is to continue to make this work (herbal health, naturalism, actualized and vibrant living) and myself (as your fellow traveler, explorer, medium) accessible. By being a paid subscriber you allow us to continue to do so!

If you find these newsletters helpful, consider sharing it with a friend or someone in your life that could use a dose of natural-ness. It means the world. XOR

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rachellerobinett.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rachellerobinett.substack.com/subscribe

Thinking, Naturally is a Substack Bestseller! This reader-supported publication is dedicated to empowering your herbal health practices, natural-ness, and most vital lifestyle. For the full experience, consider upgrading your subscription to paid. Your endless support means the world.

Clicking ♥ on this post, sharing and leaving a comment keeps our newsletter alive, thank you for engaging and being here! XOR

•°. *࿐

Welcome to Journals from the Jungle—a series of stories from my recent travels, drawn straight from the pages of my journals. These are reflections on breaking free from a life of structure, convention, and societal expectations, and finding my way back to an embodied, authentic self. Through journeys in nature—and into the nature of self—through adventure, challenge, rest, and the dramatic dismantling of old beliefs, I explore themes of freedom, pleasure, love, and the strength that comes from shedding what no longer serves us. I hope these stories inspire you to embrace change, reclaim your vitality, and live more freely.

I fall asleep every night excited for the day to come. And I wake up realizing that even my lifelong perspective of gratitude—for waking up, for being able to walk, and see, for the simplest things, for being alive—is in-tune with this place, where they too exist in a perpetual state of thankfulness.

I love how making plans, even for the following morning, isn’t really possible as movement depends on the weather, and the waves. I walk around with my hand surfing the breeze, as if I’m listening to music, as if there is some melody in the air, but instead, it’s within me. I don’t know what day of the week it is and I don’t care.

Musings:

Who and how are we when none of the old ways of having to show up as who and how we usually are are present? That is …

Who and how are we when liberated from a lifestyle, from an identity?

Friends back home notice the change in my voice. From one, “Oh my god, Rachelle! You sound so happy, and relaxed, and at peace, and grounded!”

How writing is a way of purging and catharsis, yes, but because it is that, it moves things out of the way, out of the body and mind, which makes way for newness to arise. It’s a continual process of shedding and inviting exploration and release, and also realization, recognition, self-development, and deepening the relationship to both self and the beyond—within, without, to come … the yet immaterial: the unknown.

Nature is novelty.

I love the (currently) equal balance of being able to disappear here, and also simply step outside in order to be in community.

I only feel alone when I want to.

Therapy today was incredible. Together we realize that my letting go of time, my letting go of understanding, my letting go of premeditation, even my dismissal of attire, it’s all one-in the same: a relinquishing of control (or the illusion of it) that previously gave me a (false) sense of presenting a certain self to the world. And that that is no longer necessary, because I’ve reached a truer self, with no need for these things. One freed of the constraints of those limitations. One that is allowed to simply be.

~

The expansiveness here is so great that it may actually be edgeless—those edges I’ve always sought as a way of pinging, of determining the territory I had to work within, or the ceiling I had to break through. That out here there is only the literal and figurative horizon line.

~

Night: I am feeling moved by the courage I had to follow my instincts on this place. How I could have returned home afterward and simply said, Wow, what a great vacation! and continued on with my life—letting this door close, letting the opportunity pass. Instead, I leapt over the threshold, knowing very little about what was on the other side, but sensing enough, and trusting myself. Almost immediately, my entire life is changing course.

Some day later: I am so happy today! Everything here is fun. The hot, sweaty tree planting. Swimming afterward in our clothes. The tuk tuk to the fish market for fresh catches. The language. The shitty roads. The new friends. The nakedness. All, all, all. I fall asleep smiling.

I dream about a storm—winds and rain but mostly wind, so strong that it threatens to move the whole house from it’s foundation … my childhood home, that is.

I plant trees again and then swim with some girls from the group, laughing and getting to know each other. We talk about how time disappears here, how incredible (and scary and full of teachings) surfing is, and we talk about situationships, which are common here. Do we date women, or men? The one from Bali says both. The one from France says men, definitely only men. I say mostly men, but not always. We have such an easily joyful time that I kiss them both on the cheek when I leave.

I eat lunch alone in the breezy shade of a quiet restaurant and I feel deeply present. I feel in this, in myself, and far from many things in a delicious way. I feel equally invisible and entire—embodied, complete. I finish the simple food with tremendous pleasure.

Sunset is a fiery fuchsia, a true orange I’ve not yet seen. Pelicans are high in the sky and many. I cook fresh tuna for dinner and eat with the crickets. It’s peaceful until suddenly a storm begins so fiercely that it drowns out my music, which I turn off in order to listen. There is nearly no pause between the explosions of light, and their echoes in roiling rumbles of thunder. I think about the trees we planted today and how happy they will be. I laugh at the commotion; I don’t think I’ve heard a louder torrent. (Maybe Honduras?) It’s thrilling and amusing. The sky cracked open above us, soaking us in its power. And then, as quickly as it arrived, it is gone.

~

I’m reflecting on how deprived I’ve been … of nature, of edges, of certain forms of affection—touching, kissing, making love—and how this place is nourishing me deeply, bathing me, actually offering to drown me with all I’ve been without for so long.

And I’m reflecting on domesticity: I mean, is it even natural? In the way that wild animals suffer in containment … If feel feral, not just now, but characteristically.

New York obligations plead for me to return and what rises in me is anger. I think: Let me have this. And if you won’t let me have this, I’m going to take it. I begin to cry with what feels like fury as influences try to extract me from what I am experiencing here. I turn my phone off. I have no tolerance for people who can’t support that I need to do this. I will not be made to behave in a way that goes against my grain. I am an individual with agency, period. I feel ruthlessly protective—of this and of myself. I will not compromise right now. I will have this. I will not let it be stopped. Not until it’s finished with me, or I with it. It is simply too important. This is mine, this is me, and this matters more than anything else right now.

°•*⁀➷

Thank you for subscribing to this publication. My intention is to continue to make this work (herbal health, naturalism, actualized and vibrant living) and myself (as your fellow traveler, explorer, medium) accessible. By being a paid subscriber you allow us to continue to do so!

If you find these newsletters helpful, consider sharing it with a friend or someone in your life that could use a dose of natural-ness. It means the world. XOR

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rachellerobinett.substack.com/subscribe

Thinking, Naturally is a Substack Bestseller! This reader-supported publication is dedicated to empowering your herbal health practices, natural-ness, and most vital lifestyle. For the full experience, consider upgrading your subscription to paid. Your endless support means the world.

Clicking ♥ on this post, sharing and leaving a comment keeps our newsletter alive, thank you for engaging and being here! XOR

•°. *࿐

Welcome to Journals from the Jungle—a series of stories from my recent travels, drawn straight from the pages of my journals. These are reflections on breaking free from a life of structure, convention, and societal expectations, and finding my way back to an embodied, authentic self. Through journeys in nature—and into the nature of self—through adventure, challenge, rest, and the dramatic dismantling of old beliefs, I explore themes of freedom, pleasure, love, and the strength that comes from shedding what no longer serves us. I hope these stories inspire you to embrace change, reclaim your vitality, and live more freely.

He asks me a lot of questions and as I answer them, I hear future truths. I don’t even hesitate anymore, and that surprises me. What is the part of me that knows these things? He says he is “libre como el viento” (free like the wind), and I repeat the line.

I begin untying myself from my past, letting the threads slip through my fingers. I don’t know all of why exactly, but it feels right.

I surf alone in a torrential downpour. The rain smacks on my bare ass and thighs—into my eyes—as I lose sight of the beach in the haze of a water-filled sky.

Night: A little state of the union of my half-way point here …

I cooked local chicken tonight, and vegetables from the farmer’s market. I ate with the doors open, listening to the rain and searching for the sources of odd sounds—learning that sometimes a silver fox or armadillo sneaks into the yard. My DMs are full of locals who are quickly learning I’m here. One asks me out for coffee or a milkshake. Another to surf. Another for a walk through the jungle at sunset.

I listen to the rain, and ice my ant bites, which are vicious. I am as happy as I can be.

I try to remember my state when I first arrived here, and I can’t, really. I recall acclimating to the solitude. And a lot of information reaching me over the days and weeks of waking up in this perfect place. I remember being naked all of the time, of commuting—either barefoot or en tuk tuk—both of which I still do daily, and still adore. Now, I don’t notice the solitude, and I have so many friends and things to do that, when I let my mind travel out into the night, I see their faces rather than an expanse of darkness thick with creatures. Now, I feel like one of them—all of us, creatures here.

I have hardly read. My Spanish is coming back. My body is impressively strong and I’m exhausted less by the long days. There were more sunsets before the rain began, but this season brings softness and more quiet. There are less people and so those of us who are still here see each other more often, are reminded of who is where when the rain sends us scurrying back to our respective shelters. I sense a connectedness that feels very alive, as if I’ve become part of an ecosystem here—all of us enmeshed now, nestled together in this tiny beating heart in the wild.

I feel my indecision about how long to stay and, god, I really can’t think about leaving. I’ve fully settled in. I want to stay. I love this life.

When I go back, I’ll figure out what to do about this. As I say that, I pull up the calendar to see if I might extend my stay longer yet.

So … the state of the union? I guess I’m moving here.

~

Four months ago I saw this house for the first time. Three months later I was here. One month after that I have a new name and I’m moving in. That’s how fast it can happen.

The next day: I wake up excited for the day. The power is out, which is very relaxing; it’s especially quiet. I consider leaving my phone behind for the day, still interested in further immersing. I count my remaining supplements, which indicate how much longer I have. 28 days. I have been trying not to count …

I surf, the sun returns, I get a tattoo, I dance. I talk to an old friend about how I hardly recognize myself and yet feel more myself than ever before. How I feel gone. Dead in some way, and more alive than ever. How happy I am. Free, and home.

My friend says: You saved yourself.

I think I have finally reached the point at which I know “what happens when I stay in places like this longer than for just a vacation,” a question I’d asked myself on every jungle-beach trip, when I found myself blissed out, relaxed enough to be drunk, and weak with pleasure while wondering if it was the effect of vacation, or a state that might persist were I able to simply stay. What happens is: They strip me to an essence that is most purely me. And, one that resembles them, molding me into one of the environment’s creatures before absorbing me into its teeming tangle of life.

I realize that I have now completely flipped my work-life-balance. Life first; work second (or like, fifth). What an accomplishment. What a process of unlearning.

Some days later: It’s my curiosity that drives me deeper in and down and farther out to see what happens if … It’s this exploration, adventurousness, edge seeking that permeates who I am, and that is what drives me in this continual sort of search—not necessarily for something other than to find out what’s around the next bend. Into the unknown over and over again.

I chat with a stranger who replies to my mention of not having seen the horizon once in New York that the need to is, “in your blood.” I see how similar all of us are here. Seemingly an odd mix of different types from all over the world, but actually, very much alike. We know something, collectively. We relate in ways that precede articulation.

I lay in the yard naked and welcome the void, which I realize is invited by space and disconnection, which is, I see then, what I mean when I say I want to go deeper.

At sunset, I wander out into the tide pools, tiptoeing toward the sky, all the while I beg the land to keep me. I whisper into the waves, Keep me, keep me, steal me away, don’t let me leave, kidnap me.

I think: What if I just don’t go back?

°•*⁀➷

Thank you for subscribing to this publication. My intention is to continue to make this work (herbal health, naturalism, actualized and vibrant living) and myself (as your fellow traveler, explorer, medium) accessible. By being a paid subscriber you allow us to continue to do so!

If you find these newsletters helpful, consider sharing it with a friend or someone in your life that could use a dose of natural-ness. It means the world. XOR

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rachellerobinett.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rachellerobinett.substack.com/subscribe

Thinking, Naturally is a Substack Bestseller! This reader-supported publication is dedicated to empowering your herbal health practices, natural-ness, and most vital lifestyle. For the full experience, consider upgrading your subscription to paid. Your endless support means the world.

Clicking ♥ on this post, sharing and leaving a comment keeps our newsletter alive, thank you for engaging and being here! XOR

•°. *࿐

Welcome to Journals from the Jungle—a series of stories from my recent travels, drawn straight from the pages of my journals. These are reflections on breaking free from a life of structure, convention, and societal expectations, and finding my way back to an embodied, authentic self. Through journeys in nature—and into the nature of self—through adventure, challenge, rest, and the dramatic dismantling of old beliefs, I explore themes of freedom, pleasure, love, and the strength that comes from shedding what no longer serves us. I hope these stories inspire you to embrace change, reclaim your vitality, and live more freely.

He asks me a lot of questions and as I answer them, I hear future truths. I don’t even hesitate anymore, and that surprises me. What is the part of me that knows these things? He says he is “libre como el viento” (free like the wind), and I repeat the line.

I begin untying myself from my past, letting the threads slip through my fingers. I don’t know all of why exactly, but it feels right.

I surf alone in a torrential downpour. The rain smacks on my bare ass and thighs—into my eyes—as I lose sight of the beach in the haze of a water-filled sky.

Night: A little state of the union of my half-way point here …

I cooked local chicken tonight, and vegetables from the farmer’s market. I ate with the doors open, listening to the rain and searching for the sources of odd sounds—learning that sometimes a silver fox or armadillo sneaks into the yard. My DMs are full of locals who are quickly learning I’m here. One asks me out for coffee or a milkshake. Another to surf. Another for a walk through the jungle at sunset.

I listen to the rain, and ice my ant bites, which are vicious. I am as happy as I can be.

I try to remember my state when I first arrived here, and I can’t, really. I recall acclimating to the solitude. And a lot of information reaching me over the days and weeks of waking up in this perfect place. I remember being naked all of the time, of commuting—either barefoot or en tuk tuk—both of which I still do daily, and still adore. Now, I don’t notice the solitude, and I have so many friends and things to do that, when I let my mind travel out into the night, I see their faces rather than an expanse of darkness thick with creatures. Now, I feel like one of them—all of us, creatures here.

I have hardly read. My Spanish is coming back. My body is impressively strong and I’m exhausted less by the long days. There were more sunsets before the rain began, but this season brings softness and more quiet. There are less people and so those of us who are still here see each other more often, are reminded of who is where when the rain sends us scurrying back to our respective shelters. I sense a connectedness that feels very alive, as if I’ve become part of an ecosystem here—all of us enmeshed now, nestled together in this tiny beating heart in the wild.

I feel my indecision about how long to stay and, god, I really can’t think about leaving. I’ve fully settled in. I want to stay. I love this life.

When I go back, I’ll figure out what to do about this. As I say that, I pull up the calendar to see if I might extend my stay longer yet.

So … the state of the union? I guess I’m moving here.

~

Four months ago I saw this house for the first time. Three months later I was here. One month after that I have a new name and I’m moving in. That’s how fast it can happen.

The next day: I wake up excited for the day. The power is out, which is very relaxing; it’s especially quiet. I consider leaving my phone behind for the day, still interested in further immersing. I count my remaining supplements, which indicate how much longer I have. 28 days. I have been trying not to count …

I surf, the sun returns, I get a tattoo, I dance. I talk to an old friend about how I hardly recognize myself and yet feel more myself than ever before. How I feel gone. Dead in some way, and more alive than ever. How happy I am. Free, and home.

My friend says: You saved yourself.

I think I have finally reached the point at which I know “what happens when I stay in places like this longer than for just a vacation,” a question I’d asked myself on every jungle-beach trip, when I found myself blissed out, relaxed enough to be drunk, and weak with pleasure while wondering if it was the effect of vacation, or a state that might persist were I able to simply stay. What happens is: They strip me to an essence that is most purely me. And, one that resembles them, molding me into one of the environment’s creatures before absorbing me into its teeming tangle of life.

I realize that I have now completely flipped my work-life-balance. Life first; work second (or like, fifth). What an accomplishment. What a process of unlearning.

Some days later: It’s my curiosity that drives me deeper in and down and farther out to see what happens if … It’s this exploration, adventurousness, edge seeking that permeates who I am, and that is what drives me in this continual sort of search—not necessarily for something other than to find out what’s around the next bend. Into the unknown over and over again.

I chat with a stranger who replies to my mention of not having seen the horizon once in New York that the need to is, “in your blood.” I see how similar all of us are here. Seemingly an odd mix of different types from all over the world, but actually, very much alike. We know something, collectively. We relate in ways that precede articulation.

I lay in the yard naked and welcome the void, which I realize is invited by space and disconnection, which is, I see then, what I mean when I say I want to go deeper.

At sunset, I wander out into the tide pools, tiptoeing toward the sky, all the while I beg the land to keep me. I whisper into the waves, Keep me, keep me, steal me away, don’t let me leave, kidnap me.

I think: What if I just don’t go back?

°•*⁀➷

Thank you for subscribing to this publication. My intention is to continue to make this work (herbal health, naturalism, actualized and vibrant living) and myself (as your fellow traveler, explorer, medium) accessible. By being a paid subscriber you allow us to continue to do so!

If you find these newsletters helpful, consider sharing it with a friend or someone in your life that could use a dose of natural-ness. It means the world. XOR

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rachellerobinett.substack.com/subscribe

Thinking, Naturally is a Substack Bestseller! This reader-supported publication is dedicated to empowering your herbal health practices, natural-ness, and most vital lifestyle. For the full experience, consider upgrading your subscription to paid. Your endless support means the world.

Clicking ♥ on this post, sharing and leaving a comment keeps our newsletter alive, thank you for engaging and being here! XOR

•°. *࿐

Welcome to Journals from the Jungle—a series of stories from my recent travels, drawn straight from the pages of my journals. These are reflections on breaking free from a life of structure, convention, and societal expectations, and finding my way back to an embodied, authentic self. Through journeys in nature—and into the nature of self—through adventure, challenge, rest, and the dramatic dismantling of old beliefs, I explore themes of freedom, pleasure, love, and the strength that comes from shedding what no longer serves us. I hope these stories inspire you to embrace change, reclaim your vitality, and live more freely.

6/10/24

Wow, I woke up feeling a way. Protective, determined, almost angry. Defensive of this place and no longer keen to share it because sharing it threatens it. People in New York (and my family) ask if I’m coming back, when I’m coming back—home. And I think, I am home. This is my life, and this is my place. I will not live according to others’ expectations.

I feel sharp and focused on every minute here now.

On the walk home from surfing, I’m enveloped in silence. I see trickles of streams through the jungle, I emerge onto my home beach and something strikes me: something vague but urgently desiring to be known. A sense of the perfection of this place for me. Not for everyone; for me. A sense of conviction, and certainty. A bristling at outside influence attempting to nudge, or shove, me elsewhere. A sense of fiery resistance. I will go my way; it has always been …

… that way.

~

The next day (I don’t even want to write down the date anymore): I sleep so well, dreaming of dreams. I work in the tree nursery today as the weather and waves are less ideal for surfing this time of year. I ride in a muddy pickup truck to the tree-planting site and recall how full my childhood was of muddy pickup truck rides—and all-day physical labor, dirt, exhaustion, nature.

The rain slips through the sky lightly all day, making me sleepy. I swim to wash the earth off of my skin and then fall asleep for a heavy nap. I realize that something I’m doing here is reclaiming my time, and myself—from others, from work, from the audience, from external influence.

Sunset: The ceaselessness of the sea is again hard to comprehend. The enormity of it, the actually, truly, endlessness of the waves that come, forever, one after another. It does something to a mind, to a brain. Yes, bathes it in some expansive peace, but also disintegrates its ability to, well, understand. Because, it’s infinity. It’s eternity. It’s facing forever. It’s staring out at all of time. It’s a reminder of everything, of nothingness, of the force of nature, of its continuation despite us, of pure existence. It’s a crashing, erosive power that obliterates our concepts of time, self, meaning even.

Night: I don’t even want to fall asleep, I’m so thoroughly enjoying these evenings in the thick, echoing jungle.

~

The next day: I have butterflies in my belly today, about this place, about time, both the time I let slip, and the time I cling to. I’ve stopped posting photos on Instagram as another sort of step toward separation from there, those, them.

I am so in love. So very much in love.

Is this the best decision I’ve ever made? It’s the best decision I could have made right now, that’s for sure. How incredible. I recall the rush of it, the giddy, nervous elation of considering this possibility. How surely and swiftly I knew, though only that it was right and nothing more. I felt it, and I followed it. This may even be more significant—more of a life-changer—than my book. What wildness, to have one dream of a lifetime overtaken by another nearly immediately.

Night: My cheeks hurt from smiling and laughing. And yet the energy of these people is so calm, so steady and easy. We simply sit, and talk, slowly, meandering. One says to me that I’m courageous—brave for following what I felt in order to end up here. I’m surprised, we’ve just met, but it’s not the first time I’ve heard this from a new acquaintance (or old friends, for that matter).

I fall asleep with a happy heart, and slight smile. I love how I feel.

~

Another day: I surf, hungrily now, and alone. I pick up a bit of plastic from the beach as I walk home because I feel such a care for this place already. And then I stop walking, for some reason. I stop and then I realize that maybe that was February’s intensity: This has been some grand stopping. That, and an arrival.

When people ask me how I am, I say “happy” and wonder when before, if ever, I’ve responded that way. I feel wonderful: Peaceful, exercised, sunned, alive.

One month left.

(No dates): I DON’T FEEL LIKE MYSELF, in the best way. Or, do I? No idea, to be honest. My therapist would say that I’m trying this on. I feel so far away from the way things so recently were. I feel deliriously joyful. And dizzy from the effort of planting trees all day. I feel no longer capable of thinking. I have so fully exited something that I am now beyond all bounds—elsewhere, floating freely in some different time and place, some alternate dimension, a new reality, or un-reality where new—no, where no rules apply. Out out in weightless expansive space.

This season, instead of the sun and the sea, it’s the dirt and the rain. We’re all covered in earth together. We eat lunch barefoot, with hair dripping wet.

I dream that I’m in the ocean, swimming in the biggest waves I’ve ever seen. Sky-scraping sets, the top of each taller than the one before, barrel toward us. I think, we’re going to die. I say, “What do we do?” They say, “It will be okay. Hold your breath and dive deep below.” Everything goes black. Then, I surface and see that the sea is perfectly flat—not a single wave on the horizon. I look around to thank them but find myself completely alone.

As I’m sitting on the beach today, a local comes and sits beside me, making conversation. He’s fourth generation here, one of the original families he says. He wants to tell me about pura vida and draws the page of a book in the sand. Life is like un libro, he says. Every day is one page. The story starts when you wake up. And then, maybe at nine in the morning, you meet someone new—like us now—and the story changes. By the end of the day, the story is complete and you have no idea what the next day will bring. You simply start over again as you turn the page.

I tell him that my life now is like a whole new book.

°•*⁀➷

Thank you for subscribing to this publication. My intention is to continue to make this work (herbal health, naturalism, actualized and vibrant living) and myself (as your fellow traveler, explorer, medium) accessible. By being a paid subscriber you allow us to continue to do so!

If you find these newsletters helpful, consider sharing it with a friend or someone in your life that could use a dose of natural-ness. It means the world. XOR

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rachellerobinett.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rachellerobinett.substack.com/subscribe

Thinking, Naturally is a Substack Bestseller! This reader-supported publication is dedicated to empowering your herbal health practices, natural-ness, and most vital lifestyle. For the full experience, consider upgrading your subscription to paid. Your endless support means the world.

Clicking ♥ on this post, sharing and leaving a comment keeps our newsletter alive, thank you for engaging and being here! XOR

•°. *࿐

Welcome to Journals from the Jungle—a series of stories from my recent travels, drawn straight from the pages of my journals. These are reflections on breaking free from a life of structure, convention, and societal expectations, and finding my way back to an embodied, authentic self. Through journeys in nature—and into the nature of self—through adventure, challenge, rest, and the dramatic dismantling of old beliefs, I explore themes of freedom, pleasure, love, and the strength that comes from shedding what no longer serves us. I hope these stories inspire you to embrace change, reclaim your vitality, and live more freely.

6/10/24

Wow, I woke up feeling a way. Protective, determined, almost angry. Defensive of this place and no longer keen to share it because sharing it threatens it. People in New York (and my family) ask if I’m coming back, when I’m coming back—home. And I think, I am home. This is my life, and this is my place. I will not live according to others’ expectations.

I feel sharp and focused on every minute here now.

On the walk home from surfing, I’m enveloped in silence. I see trickles of streams through the jungle, I emerge onto my home beach and something strikes me: something vague but urgently desiring to be known. A sense of the perfection of this place for me. Not for everyone; for me. A sense of conviction, and certainty. A bristling at outside influence attempting to nudge, or shove, me elsewhere. A sense of fiery resistance. I will go my way; it has always been …

… that way.

~

The next day (I don’t even want to write down the date anymore): I sleep so well, dreaming of dreams. I work in the tree nursery today as the weather and waves are less ideal for surfing this time of year. I ride in a muddy pickup truck to the tree-planting site and recall how full my childhood was of muddy pickup truck rides—and all-day physical labor, dirt, exhaustion, nature.

The rain slips through the sky lightly all day, making me sleepy. I swim to wash the earth off of my skin and then fall asleep for a heavy nap. I realize that something I’m doing here is reclaiming my time, and myself—from others, from work, from the audience, from external influence.

Sunset: The ceaselessness of the sea is again hard to comprehend. The enormity of it, the actually, truly, endlessness of the waves that come, forever, one after another. It does something to a mind, to a brain. Yes, bathes it in some expansive peace, but also disintegrates its ability to, well, understand. Because, it’s infinity. It’s eternity. It’s facing forever. It’s staring out at all of time. It’s a reminder of everything, of nothingness, of the force of nature, of its continuation despite us, of pure existence. It’s a crashing, erosive power that obliterates our concepts of time, self, meaning even.

Night: I don’t even want to fall asleep, I’m so thoroughly enjoying these evenings in the thick, echoing jungle.

~

The next day: I have butterflies in my belly today, about this place, about time, both the time I let slip, and the time I cling to. I’ve stopped posting photos on Instagram as another sort of step toward separation from there, those, them.

I am so in love. So very much in love.

Is this the best decision I’ve ever made? It’s the best decision I could have made right now, that’s for sure. How incredible. I recall the rush of it, the giddy, nervous elation of considering this possibility. How surely and swiftly I knew, though only that it was right and nothing more. I felt it, and I followed it. This may even be more significant—more of a life-changer—than my book. What wildness, to have one dream of a lifetime overtaken by another nearly immediately.

Night: My cheeks hurt from smiling and laughing. And yet the energy of these people is so calm, so steady and easy. We simply sit, and talk, slowly, meandering. One says to me that I’m courageous—brave for following what I felt in order to end up here. I’m surprised, we’ve just met, but it’s not the first time I’ve heard this from a new acquaintance (or old friends, for that matter).

I fall asleep with a happy heart, and slight smile. I love how I feel.

~

Another day: I surf, hungrily now, and alone. I pick up a bit of plastic from the beach as I walk home because I feel such a care for this place already. And then I stop walking, for some reason. I stop and then I realize that maybe that was February’s intensity: This has been some grand stopping. That, and an arrival.

When people ask me how I am, I say “happy” and wonder when before, if ever, I’ve responded that way. I feel wonderful: Peaceful, exercised, sunned, alive.

One month left.

(No dates): I DON’T FEEL LIKE MYSELF, in the best way. Or, do I? No idea, to be honest. My therapist would say that I’m trying this on. I feel so far away from the way things so recently were. I feel deliriously joyful. And dizzy from the effort of planting trees all day. I feel no longer capable of thinking. I have so fully exited something that I am now beyond all bounds—elsewhere, floating freely in some different time and place, some alternate dimension, a new reality, or un-reality where new—no, where no rules apply. Out out in weightless expansive space.

This season, instead of the sun and the sea, it’s the dirt and the rain. We’re all covered in earth together. We eat lunch barefoot, with hair dripping wet.

I dream that I’m in the ocean, swimming in the biggest waves I’ve ever seen. Sky-scraping sets, the top of each taller than the one before, barrel toward us. I think, we’re going to die. I say, “What do we do?” They say, “It will be okay. Hold your breath and dive deep below.” Everything goes black. Then, I surface and see that the sea is perfectly flat—not a single wave on the horizon. I look around to thank them but find myself completely alone.

As I’m sitting on the beach today, a local comes and sits beside me, making conversation. He’s fourth generation here, one of the original families he says. He wants to tell me about pura vida and draws the page of a book in the sand. Life is like un libro, he says. Every day is one page. The story starts when you wake up. And then, maybe at nine in the morning, you meet someone new—like us now—and the story changes. By the end of the day, the story is complete and you have no idea what the next day will bring. You simply start over again as you turn the page.

I tell him that my life now is like a whole new book.

°•*⁀➷

Thank you for subscribing to this publication. My intention is to continue to make this work (herbal health, naturalism, actualized and vibrant living) and myself (as your fellow traveler, explorer, medium) accessible. By being a paid subscriber you allow us to continue to do so!

If you find these newsletters helpful, consider sharing it with a friend or someone in your life that could use a dose of natural-ness. It means the world. XOR

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rachellerobinett.substack.com/subscribe

Welcome to Journals from the Jungle—a series of stories from my recent travels, drawn straight from the pages of my journals. These are reflections on breaking free from a life of structure, convention, and societal expectations, and finding my way back to an embodied, authentic self. Through journeys in nature—and into the nature of self—through adventure, challenge, rest, and the dramatic dismantling of old beliefs, I explore themes of freedom, pleasure, love, and the strength that comes from shedding what no longer serves us. I hope these stories inspire you to embrace change, reclaim your vitality, and live more freely.

•°. *࿐

My morning routine: Naked outside with coffee and the hummingbird, my journal, in this perfect air and bright blue sky above beyond the green. Why would I leave?

Post-surf: A nice whitewater session. I’m getting better, stronger, riding a little cooler, feeling a sort of style emerge, when possible. It’s more subdued today, having stayed inside the break, and therefore easier. The walk home more calm too. I’ll focus on the book now.

~

A request to reserve my house arrives for July, signaling a certain end date for me now. It’s more than a month away and yet I feel very uneasy. I have to look at the calendar in order to situate myself in time.

I lay down and contemplate the way it feels to leave these sensations behind—letting, or being forced to endure the experience of the intensity fading. And that fact—that details wash away, filtering into some other realm where they become the past, where they become memory, which is imaginary—is almost so overwhelming that I wonder if I can go on living in pursuit of such things. To gain only to lose again. It’s so …

painful.

I’ve worked so hard to get here. Now I am in some limbo … with some release, relief, and yet some strife still too. I’m still pushing into this place, into some maybe when/where it’s all here and there is no more counting down of days.

Sunset tonight: I touch the sand with the back of my hand, brushing it gently—a caress—tracing slowly back and forth across it like I would on a lover’s chest, laying beside me. I realize the preciousness of simply being able to touch the earth and how rare that is in New York. I lay on it now full of love, and also of grief for all the years we’ve been separated. The other way, that other life, it doesn’t feel humane.

The land is warm and alive, like a body. I love it as if it is.

And I cry, because this place has taken me. I feel like I could sleep here, on this beach, with the incessant sound of the sea, watching the crashing break on the misty cliffs in the distance. I feel home. I feel saved. I feel desperate to stay. I feel that I would give up “my life” for this place. “My life” suddenly pales in comparison to this.

I also realize that I’ve done what I’d hoped to: I’m living both lives—sampling the two, trying before I buy. I’d thought that doing so would be impossible.

~

Does it mean anything that I’m more preoccupied with this place than my book? Is it that one is newer? (Competing dreams coming true! Life can be incredible.) Or does it signify something deeper?

~

I realize that figuring out how to live this way is like the next level of figuring out how to leave the corporate world to work for myself. The progressive exiting of the matrix of convention that never suited me anyway.

I think about this new way of being where I question less why, and maybe even what I want and just do it, take it, have it, go into it. Is that different from how I’ve lived in the past? It feels different.

~

6/2/24

I go for a little walk. It’s a perfect day. Mariposas and beach dogs. A sapphire sky, smiles.

I feel like I’m in the promised land and that this is what I get for what I did—for what I’ve put myself through, for my choices. It feels so, so, so worth it. As if my whole life has lead up to today. And, how many times have I said that here?

9:45am: Pacing, dancing, energy energy excited excited … !

Post surf: It’s hard to paddle out and at first I can’t make it. We relocate and try again, this time I succeed and quickly catch a wave. I hurry back out, watching the time. As we’re bobbing in the quiet deep, far from shore, all alone in the blue, the clock strikes 11am. I tell coach to give me a high-five, and that I’ll tell him why later. He does, and it is done.

That moment, forever memorialized, when the manuscript for my first book was delivered—while I was out at sea.

~

I surf, and then walk home—or float, in a blissful daze.

Afternoon: My whole body is weak from the effort, in the best way. All I can do is eat, and fall asleep. I love it.

6/3/24

In the loosened semi-conscious coming-to before I awake fully I feel the truth of my powerlessness against the force of this place. It is simple and clear: I have to be here.

Night: I’m drained from surf and the day, so much so that I’m a little worried I’ll fall asleep or get lost at sunset, but then am so glad I went. I get sucked into it—drawn toward it as if by gravity, as it becomes more unbelievable by the minute. When I’m able to back away, I turn around to see it blushing the entire sky and I have to sit down in awe. I simply gape as it turns the world pink, and then an eerie, surreal orange. It’s enormous and silent, some phenomenon that is simply occurring—nature just … doing what it does—displaying this magnificence. And we can either witness it, or not. It’s frightening almost, and in that way sublime. It’s a beauty difficult to comprehend. I keep blinking and squinting, trying to see … reality. But this is it. So thoroughly distorted that it’s disorienting.

(Addition: Beauty that is difficult or perhaps even impossible to comprehend is exactly how this land claimed me: It overpowered comprehension, it disregarded rationality, it pierced straight through sense-making and flooded my body, overtook my spirit. Incomprehensible beauty is love. Incomprehensible beauty is transcendence. Incomprehensible beauty is enough to live for.)

Dark thunderclouds sweep in from behind, backlit by some godly light I don’t understand the source of. None of it looks real. As I’m walking home through the darkening glow of orange air, the jungle begins scurrying with life—in front of my every step, and then behind, and then all around me. Is it lizards? Rainbow crabs? I can’t see a single creature. The sound fills the air—crackling, frantic, invisible. Thunder and lightning break overhead and I’m surrounded in total strangeness. Every sight, every sound, twisted and unusual.

I think: This is why I never miss a sunset here.

°•*⁀➷

Thank you for subscribing to this publication. My intention is to continue to make this work (herbal health, naturalism, actualized and vibrant living) and myself (as your fellow traveler, explorer, medium) accessible. By being a paid subscriber you allow us to continue to do so!

If you find these newsletters helpful, consider sharing it with a friend or someone in your life that could use a dose of natural-ness. It means the world. XOR

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rachellerobinett.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rachellerobinett.substack.com/subscribe

Welcome to Journals from the Jungle—a series of stories from my recent travels, drawn straight from the pages of my journals. These are reflections on breaking free from a life of structure, convention, and societal expectations, and finding my way back to an embodied, authentic self. Through journeys in nature—and into the nature of self—through adventure, challenge, rest, and the dramatic dismantling of old beliefs, I explore themes of freedom, pleasure, love, and the strength that comes from shedding what no longer serves us. I hope these stories inspire you to embrace change, reclaim your vitality, and live more freely.

•°. *࿐

My morning routine: Naked outside with coffee and the hummingbird, my journal, in this perfect air and bright blue sky above beyond the green. Why would I leave?

Post-surf: A nice whitewater session. I’m getting better, stronger, riding a little cooler, feeling a sort of style emerge, when possible. It’s more subdued today, having stayed inside the break, and therefore easier. The walk home more calm too. I’ll focus on the book now.

~

A request to reserve my house arrives for July, signaling a certain end date for me now. It’s more than a month away and yet I feel very uneasy. I have to look at the calendar in order to situate myself in time.

I lay down and contemplate the way it feels to leave these sensations behind—letting, or being forced to endure the experience of the intensity fading. And that fact—that details wash away, filtering into some other realm where they become the past, where they become memory, which is imaginary—is almost so overwhelming that I wonder if I can go on living in pursuit of such things. To gain only to lose again. It’s so …

painful.

I’ve worked so hard to get here. Now I am in some limbo … with some release, relief, and yet some strife still too. I’m still pushing into this place, into some maybe when/where it’s all here and there is no more counting down of days.

Sunset tonight: I touch the sand with the back of my hand, brushing it gently—a caress—tracing slowly back and forth across it like I would on a lover’s chest, laying beside me. I realize the preciousness of simply being able to touch the earth and how rare that is in New York. I lay on it now full of love, and also of grief for all the years we’ve been separated. The other way, that other life, it doesn’t feel humane.

The land is warm and alive, like a body. I love it as if it is.

And I cry, because this place has taken me. I feel like I could sleep here, on this beach, with the incessant sound of the sea, watching the crashing break on the misty cliffs in the distance. I feel home. I feel saved. I feel desperate to stay. I feel that I would give up “my life” for this place. “My life” suddenly pales in comparison to this.

I also realize that I’ve done what I’d hoped to: I’m living both lives—sampling the two, trying before I buy. I’d thought that doing so would be impossible.

~

Does it mean anything that I’m more preoccupied with this place than my book? Is it that one is newer? (Competing dreams coming true! Life can be incredible.) Or does it signify something deeper?

~

I realize that figuring out how to live this way is like the next level of figuring out how to leave the corporate world to work for myself. The progressive exiting of the matrix of convention that never suited me anyway.

I think about this new way of being where I question less why, and maybe even what I want and just do it, take it, have it, go into it. Is that different from how I’ve lived in the past? It feels different.

~

6/2/24

I go for a little walk. It’s a perfect day. Mariposas and beach dogs. A sapphire sky, smiles.

I feel like I’m in the promised land and that this is what I get for what I did—for what I’ve put myself through, for my choices. It feels so, so, so worth it. As if my whole life has lead up to today. And, how many times have I said that here?

9:45am: Pacing, dancing, energy energy excited excited … !

Post surf: It’s hard to paddle out and at first I can’t make it. We relocate and try again, this time I succeed and quickly catch a wave. I hurry back out, watching the time. As we’re bobbing in the quiet deep, far from shore, all alone in the blue, the clock strikes 11am. I tell coach to give me a high-five, and that I’ll tell him why later. He does, and it is done.

That moment, forever memorialized, when the manuscript for my first book was delivered—while I was out at sea.

~

I surf, and then walk home—or float, in a blissful daze.

Afternoon: My whole body is weak from the effort, in the best way. All I can do is eat, and fall asleep. I love it.

6/3/24

In the loosened semi-conscious coming-to before I awake fully I feel the truth of my powerlessness against the force of this place. It is simple and clear: I have to be here.

Night: I’m drained from surf and the day, so much so that I’m a little worried I’ll fall asleep or get lost at sunset, but then am so glad I went. I get sucked into it—drawn toward it as if by gravity, as it becomes more unbelievable by the minute. When I’m able to back away, I turn around to see it blushing the entire sky and I have to sit down in awe. I simply gape as it turns the world pink, and then an eerie, surreal orange. It’s enormous and silent, some phenomenon that is simply occurring—nature just … doing what it does—displaying this magnificence. And we can either witness it, or not. It’s frightening almost, and in that way sublime. It’s a beauty difficult to comprehend. I keep blinking and squinting, trying to see … reality. But this is it. So thoroughly distorted that it’s disorienting.

(Addition: Beauty that is difficult or perhaps even impossible to comprehend is exactly how this land claimed me: It overpowered comprehension, it disregarded rationality, it pierced straight through sense-making and flooded my body, overtook my spirit. Incomprehensible beauty is love. Incomprehensible beauty is transcendence. Incomprehensible beauty is enough to live for.)

Dark thunderclouds sweep in from behind, backlit by some godly light I don’t understand the source of. None of it looks real. As I’m walking home through the darkening glow of orange air, the jungle begins scurrying with life—in front of my every step, and then behind, and then all around me. Is it lizards? Rainbow crabs? I can’t see a single creature. The sound fills the air—crackling, frantic, invisible. Thunder and lightning break overhead and I’m surrounded in total strangeness. Every sight, every sound, twisted and unusual.

I think: This is why I never miss a sunset here.

°•*⁀➷

Thank you for subscribing to this publication. My intention is to continue to make this work (herbal health, naturalism, actualized and vibrant living) and myself (as your fellow traveler, explorer, medium) accessible. By being a paid subscriber you allow us to continue to do so!

If you find these newsletters helpful, consider sharing it with a friend or someone in your life that could use a dose of natural-ness. It means the world. XOR

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rachellerobinett.substack.com/subscribe

Welcome to Journals from the Jungle—a series of stories from my recent travels, drawn straight from the pages of my journals. These are reflections on breaking free from a life of structure, convention, and societal expectations, and finding my way back to an embodied, authentic self. Through journeys in nature—and into the nature of self—through adventure, challenge, rest, and the dramatic dismantling of old beliefs, I explore themes of freedom, pleasure, love, and the strength that comes from shedding what no longer serves us. I hope these stories inspire you to embrace change, reclaim your vitality, and live more freely.

•°. *࿐

5/28/24

It’s time to surf. Conditions look excellent and ideally challenging but doable for me. Let’s see if all those push-ups I did in NYC did any good …

~

That was so fun!! I did it. Straight into that long paddle out, turtle-rolling better, stronger, and without fear. Taking some on the head, also without fear. Chasing waves, missing some, making some, riding, and digging my way through the break, over and over again. When coach offered a break, I declined it, saying I wanted more. We move away from the other surfers and are all alone in the morning sunlight atop the gentle sea behind the impact zone. He says, “I like that we are here. It’s better away from all the people.” I said, “In general.” We laugh and then …

… I catch a joyous right, riding it all the way in. It feels amazing and I laugh to myself, waiting for him to ride one in too. He does, playing by sitting on his knees, then on the board, then standing up. I hop on the wave too and we ride into the beach on our bellies, grinning. He’s so happy with my session, and so am I. And it’s so beautiful out there—no one on the beach and the glittering mirror behind us. I feel stronger, for sure, and without the jitters of the earlier days, which feels a little bittersweet—already that fear, should I want it, will have to be sought again.

Coach sits us down to teach me about the tides, drawing in the sand, which is unnecessary (they all do it) and makes me smirk. “Pay attention,” he says, “this is important for you to know because you live here now.”

~

Post-surf: Before, it came out of me in weeping, but now it’s grins and laughs and little squeals as I float home full of endorphins. I don’t want to leave the beach. The site of the happening—of this happening to me, being done to me. I just sit there, laughing and giddy and trembling, and then my laugh turns into a gentle cry of joy. This afterglow … I want to protect it. Prolong it, to bathe. I want to do nothing else in order to allow it to persist, to ripple through me. What a drug, what a high. It’s like being made love to.

I can hear the silence now, on the jungle walk home. I feel reverent. I feel the air on my skin, the breeze on my cheeks. All of my favorite things are here. What a gift to feel new feelings at this age. I mean, isn’t this what it’s all about? Damn.

Dinner: By the light of my phone as the power is out. Computer is dead too, and I have no candles. It’s pitch dark now and I don’t want my phone to run out of battery too. The house is pleasant though. Not hot despite no AC and so quiet. I open the doors to listen to the sounds of the jungle.

5/29/24

It takes me this long to realize that: this is one of the most meaningful times of your entire life. Don’t worry about figuring anything out right now. Just enjoy it!

~

Another beautiful surf session. Paddling out, I feel my lack of urgency, my strength and calm, efficiency and patience. When we reach the outside, we sit and rest as the sun rises into a clear blue sky above us—yesterday’s rains having created a crystalline morning today. I feel especially happy and try to look often at all of it, to take in the full scene, to soak it in—all all all. I catch waves and ride well. My leash disconnects from the board once, but we’re able to reattach it and continue the session. I’m working much more on my own now, than dependent on the coach’s calls of instruction. I go until I can’t anymore and debate trying for one more, but see him riding in on a wave, high in the sky.

We sit on the beach and chat. He tells me I can buy shrimp and lobster at the fish market and he explains how to cook the lobster with garlic and butter, which his mom taught him. All of the Ticos cook—men and women—many of the boys especially having left home very early and learned to fish and forage and grow and cook and earn and care for themselves.

I tell him what I realized about this special time for me. “Yes, is important to enjoy these things,” he says. “Memories go so quick,” I say. “Yeah. I wish we could be forever.”

~

I go to the fish market and buy catches of the day. I cook dorado. I look at the calendar for the first time in sometime, trying to sense if there’s a date in the future that seems to imply when I should return to NYC. Doing so makes me want to head in the other direction, though: deeper in, here. Less phone, less looking out or ahead, less accessible, more immersed. I carve fresh papaya, and notice how tan my skin is now. I feel strength in new places, and the constant joy. I wonder what I’m going to do with this next phase of life, and care not to consider it further than that for now.

5/30/24

Lightly raining this morning. I sleep hard and fast, up early without an alarm. Happy, though sad that my coach is leaving for many weeks to teach in the south of the country. It’s hard to imagine surfing with someone else after all he’s taught me. I think about how the magic and beauty of falling in love with this place will only happen one time and so, I ought not to rush it. And I wonder how many times I’ve looked around here in awe of this life—of the unbelievability of the beauty of it—of what I’ve taken, made, and been given. What all. That overtakes me today.

No surfing today and I wonder how I should spend the time. Perhaps, finishing my manuscript, and turning it in …

Instead I set out on a long walk, nearly three hours, to town and back. The power goes out again and I become nearly euphoric with relief as I’m cut off from all communication. I feel free. Is that why I like being alone so much, is that why Dad did too? Is it not about aloneness, but rather about freedom?

Happy dinner in silence.

5/31/24

Post-surf alone: A bit of a banger in the sense that I got a bit beat up, but don’t mind—got what I needed from the session. Walked an hour home while avoiding my phone. I take a delicious nap and then meet a new friend at a local shop before coming home to prepare the manuscript for delivery. Also: considering book titles, speaking of surreal experiences …

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Thank you for subscribing to this publication. My intention is to continue to make this work (herbal health, naturalism, actualized and vibrant living) and myself (as your fellow traveler, explorer, medium) accessible. By being a paid subscriber you allow us to continue to do so!

If you find these newsletters helpful, consider sharing it with a friend or someone in your life that could use a dose of natural-ness. It means the world. XOR

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rachellerobinett.substack.com/subscribe

This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit rachellerobinett.substack.com/subscribe