QUIET, please

In 2023, my husband and I traveled to a teeny town in Maine for a self-guided mental health and wellness retreat. It’s become an annual tradition (or necessity, depending on the year). We wrapped up last year’s road trip retreat at a B-n-B on a horse farm in Wisconsin and there, I made an equine friend. She renewed my enthusiasm for an idea I’d had during the emotional aftermath of blowing my ACL in a mountain biking wreck back in 2012: equine-assisted therapy. Over a decade later, I still hadn’t figured out how to manifest the idea, but the grounding effect of my thrice daily interactions with my Wisconsin friend were inspiring.

I mentioned horse therapy to my husband, who did a little research before suggesting possibilities for me to track on Instagram. In the meantime, I made a list of ideal features for where we might restore our psyches this year: a place under female leadership; with little or no gun violence; with a humane level of peace and quiet. Did such a place exist?

Within two months, a post for a riding retreat popped up from Icelandic Horseworld, an hour east of Reykjavik. It included a three-night stay with room and board plus private lessons and a trail ride, and a lagoon and waterfall visit because, Iceland. My research confirmed that Iceland’s prime minister and president are both women. Its police patrol doesn’t carry guns. Even in Reykjavik, to a degree, peace and quiet is a given when it’s not “The Season” (of tourists). The expanse of the countryside otherwise invites the mind and body to harmonize. Yes, please.

I was first in Iceland in 2019 for the annual Iceland Writers Retreat. Iceland and the Retreat both left a lasting impression; I knew I would return. My husband and I slept on the horseback riding retreat deal and put down a deposit the next day. Impulsive, sure. But it felt fated. We crossed our fingers that the world would be aligned enough for us to attend… ten months in the future.

As our departure date approached, the American government shut down, unpaid TSA workers became less likely to show for work, Delta quit flying its seasonal nonstop route, and flight cancellations were forthcoming, but our two-week trip went off without a hitch. Sort of. (Does anything significant go off without a hitch?) Our adventure began after five minute’s sleep—literally—on an overnight flight. I played Tash Sultana’s Notion EP on repeat to drown out the chatty person behind us, but it didn’t work. Miraculously, we stayed awake for the scenic drive to our first overnight stop in Borgarnes.

That night, I purged the chaos and uncertainty of the year. Or maybe I ate something funky. Either way, I woke feeling funny. I had a similar sensation back when I figured out that I can’t digest beef. (I grew up vegetarian.) It’s the sense that everything inside your body is about to be outside it and you’re not sure which is the business end. (Luckily, I guessed right.) I went back to bed and woke up an hour later with the same feeling. The third round hit so fast, I puked into my hands on the way to the bathroom sink (the toilet was three steps further). I thought I might pass out and intended to lay my head on the floor, but apparently hit my head instead, because my forehead was tender for the next few days. I woke a final time and after that, I was good to go.

I wouldn’t call it a hitch, but I also had no inclination to write. My original intention was—at the very least—to write one line a day in a notebook. Iceland is, after all, a country of prolific writers. When I admitted to my husband how I was failing, he suggested, “Just write anything. Write ‘barf barf barf’ if that’s all you got.”

Following my husband’s suggestion, I wrote this:

Puking

at night

in Iceland.

Barf barf barf.

Blackbird greeting.

Fuzzy horse posing.

Kesha woke up feeling like P Diddy.

Before you judge, know that I haven’t taken time to revise. The blackbird landed across from my husband and I as we relaxed in a geothermal hot tub on that first day. She watched us and chatted, complementing my mismatched swimsuit top and bottom. The fuzzy ombré horse and her herd watched tourists drive by on the highway that led to our second overnight stop, in Arnarstapi. The Kesha line was added two days later, after her song played at breakfast. (FYI: P Diddy, aka Sean Combs, recently served a stint in jail for being a scumbag.) After that, I settled for buying books—the second-best thing I could do as a writer.

Those horses, though. Have you ever wondered what it would feel like to be a puppy in the middle of a group of teenage girls eager to cuddle and smother you with kisses? We visited a herd of mares and foals. Not trained for riding, their impression of people isn’t formed by that. Instead, they’re “curious.” We strolled up the road toward them and they sauntered toward us. As we came together, the horses surrounded us and pressed in, smelling, lipping, and nuzzling. A mare we nicknamed “Stalker” followed close enough to maintain contact as we walked to greet other horses. A foal followed me and nudged for attention. Her mom chased off the other mares, but allowed my proximity. It was pure, therapeutic bliss, not to mention the other activities of the riding retreat, each restorative in their way. When had I last felt so carefree?

We were treated to the northern lights, twice. We hiked in fresh snow, pulled ocean air into our lungs from the edge of a black sand beach, drove a wintry, ethereal mountain pass, and basked in a transporting Icelandic music performance. We made friends along the way—Icelandic, Polish, Greek—and none asked about U.S. politics. We caught up with a founder of the Iceland Writers Retreat and author of Secrets of the Sprakkar and Death of a Diplomat, Eliza Reid. I won’t claim I’m inspired to return to writing yet, but this post is, at least, a start.

That state of carefree slips away if I don’t nurture it. It’s also contagious. For the sake of global mental health and wellness, I hope we all feel moments of carefree in this and the New Year.