Lisbon Day 16: The End of my Solo Retreat
I wish I could tell you that I did something epic on the last day of my solo retreat in Portugal.
But I didn’t.
I went in search of black pants with a drawstring.
I wear the pair I brought with me everyday. The band on it sits nicely above the 5 cuts on my stomach, post-surgery.
Matt sends me cartoon renditions of lawyer Jerry Nadler, who comically wears his pants just south of his chest too.
At this point, the pants might stand on their own, given the wear. I went on a search for an additional pair on my last day in Lisbon.
The buttons on a denim number at Levi’s hurt my stomach.
Oysho (a brand I knew from Paris) featured “skinny minnie” workout pants, a dark reminder of a life I left behind.
I even darkened the doors of Mango. No drawstring pants. Just fancy linen pants for the heat of summer. And more buttons in areas I can’t do.
Pre-surgery, I woke up every morning at 5:55am to work out, no matter what the country. Weight train. Hot yoga. Barry’s bootcamp. Kettle bell workouts. I was proud of the mid section I had built in my 50’s.
I grew tearful as I stood in the fitting room at 351+. In the fitting room light, I saw my stomach —- lumpy and bumpy. Rife with scars. Confronted with a sight I had been avoiding this whole time.
“12 weeks til you feel slightly normal. 14 weeks till you resume working out,” said my cousin in Bangalore, a avid weight lifter and swimmer. who had the same surgery.
“No bag needed,” I said to the sales clerk, as I hastily stuffed the pants into my backpack.
The rain in Lisbon has been unrelenting, so the awning at Casa no Chiado offered refuge as I scuttled to an outdoor table next door.
“Pick whatever table you want!” said the waiter.
The place was empty. I was the lone customer
The 100 year old tree jutting out out from the cobblestone offered proximity to nature.
The simple shrimp curry with rice offered comfort.
Today, I wouldn’t rush back to start my New York City day at 1pm Lisbon time.
“A transition, good or bad, needs to be honored.” Coach Jennifer in 2010 shared with me. She offered the example of brides on their wedding day. Why are they sometimes sad?
“ Because a transition—-good or bad—- is a transition all the same. It deserves to be honored. Observed. Felt.”
So I sat under the tree and the awning at Cafe no Chiado over lunch. Honoring this transition. Observing it. Feeling it.
Tomorrow, Matt and everyone from New York arrives in Portugal.
Don’t get me wrong. I miss my friends and him. I’m excited to see them.
But here and now, my solo retreat comes to an end.
The end of a transition.
Gene Hackman stars in the movie “Runaway Jury.” As he bullies the defense lawyer played by Dustin Hoffman, he says: “You just ensure that [she] goes…..in a better car, and that the heel that she snaps on the way….belongs to a $1,200 shoe.”
Maybe I return to Lisbon someday, in a better car, to better quarters, and in better shoes.
But for now, I settle for drawstring pants. And space.
To grieve a body I no longer recognize.
To sit in the in-between, neither who I was nor quite yet who I’ll become.
This solo retreat wasn’t about sightseeing or epiphanies.
It was about witnessing myself—gently, honestly—post-surgery, mid-recovery, pre-whatever-comes-next.
Lisbon held me in the rain.
And for now, that was enough.
Beautiful, raw, authentic, absolutely honorable!