My Marriage Sabbatical: A Memoir of Solo Travel and Lasting Love by Leah Fisher: Excerpt
A vibrant, honest, and unique travel memoir for readers who think they’re too old to “eat, pray, love,” My Marriage Sabbatical captures marital therapist Leah Fisher’s journey to maintain her marriage without forfeiting her own independence.
She wants to travel the world; he wants to keep working. At sixty, Leah Fisher is ready to Love, Honor, and Negotiate. The result is a long-married couple’s decision to commence an unconventional experiment.
Fisher takes readers on two journeys: an intriguing global journey—her year of solo travel—and the relational journey she and her husband embark upon as they skillfully negotiate their different priorities and preferences. We accompany them through a series of reunions and poignant farewells as they stay connected and gradually grow comfortable being together and apart. After the marriage sabbatical is over, both spouses are surprised by the outcome of their daring experiment.
With gray divorce on the rise, Leah Fisher’s memoir demonstrates a creative way to fulfill individual needs without having to make the painful choice between forfeiting heartfelt dreams or leaving one’s marriage to achieve them. A riveting travel story that offers wise guidance on maintaining marital friendship, My Marriage Sabbatical is proof that couples can keep growing as individuals and partners all through their lives.
EXCERPT
“Let me know where you’d like me to meet you,” Charley proposed before my departure. He has cleared two weeks in 33is schedule, leaving me to choose the destination for our travels. I am pleased by his confidence that I will plan a good adventure.
I call Charley one hot, humid evening from Samara’s single pay phone. Over the static, I tell him, “Charley, I’d like to go with you to Colombia.”
Charley is surprised. “Why Colombia?”
“Well, there are two reasons. I’ve been meeting European travelers who rave about Colombia. Many say it is their favorite country in Latin America.”
“That’s kind of surprising,” Charley responds. “So, what is your other reason?”
“Well,” I confess, “I’m nervous about traveling alone in Colombia. There are still occasional abductions. And if I get abducted, I know you’ll feel obliged to pay my ransom. But if we’re together, we’re less likely to be kidnapped. And if we are, I know exactly what to say.”
“What’s that?”
“¡Si pueden obtener dinero de nuestros hijos, lo más poder a ustedes!” I think that means “If you can get money from our kids, the more power to you!”
Joking aside, I feel considerably safer exploring Colom- bia with Charley. I like the idea of our having a new adventure together, being a little braver as a couple than either of us would be on our own.
The sound of vibrant drumming lures us into a plaza on our first evening in the historic colonial city of Cartagena. A troupe of Afro-Caribbean dancers are performing. We join the crowd of people clustered around the performers. I need to stand on tiptoe to see the shirtless men and the women in colorful muu- muu-like dresses. The barefoot young dancers are moving their bodies at a furious pace. Shoulder-shimmies, pelvic thrusts, and circling hips, all at a tempo faster than my eyes can track. I have never seen anything like this. My excitement must be apparent because a man standing near us leans over to explain the dance is called cumbia. Between dances, the women change costumes right there in front of everyone, removing their long dresses to reveal short, frilly skirts over black dance shorts. I can scarcely fathom the amount of energy these dancers expend during their forty-five-minute performance. Later in the evening, we will find them in another plaza repeating their incredible exertion.
The following morning, we explore the old city with leisurely curiosity. The graceful colonial architecture throughout this part of Cartagena is a reminder of Colombia’s historical ties with Spain. I am charmed to see Colombianos of every skin color gathered in the plazas; but my pleasure is tempered when I realize the slave trade played a large role in this beautiful array of flesh tones.
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Riding toward the hot springs, I feel burdened by the mari- juana cigarette pressing against the underside of my left breast. I have little desire to smoke marijuana, but especially not in Colombia. “I wonder if I should just slip some money into the other cup for a bribe,” I whisper to Charley in jest.
Not ten minutes later, we hear a siren and are pulled over at a police roadblock. A machine-gun-armed military policeman peers into the driver’s window. Here I am, with illegal drugs in my bra. Now I know what “cold sweat” means. I remain out- wardly calm. The policeman keeps talking with the driver and never looks at us. Apparently, the policeman stopped us to chas- tise our driver for crossing a double yellow line while passing a truck on the curvy road. There follows a lengthy, mutually polite debate about whether it really was a double yellow line. Even- tually, the military policeman settles for a warning; the driver responds with several “muy amables” (you’re very kind), and we are on our way again. It feels good to breathe!
The ride through the mountainous terrain is psychedelic without any need for hallucinogens. The grassy slopes are so vividly green they appear to be vibrating. In the distance, grazing black-and-white cattle offer a startling contrast to the astonishing green. The sky is perfectly clear; the air is fresh. As we approach the hot springs, we see soldiers with submachine guns protecting the entrance. Even this sobering touch cannot diminish our excitement. Charley and I adore hot springs.
Some of the most romantic and relaxing moments in our marriage have been spent soaking in hot springs. However, for sheer natural beauty, abundance of soaking options, and moments of lyrical intimacy, Termales San Vicente, high in the mountains of Colombia, surpasses them all.
After we stash our clothes—and the dreaded marijuana cigarette—in a locker, Charley and I spend the rest of the day moving from pool to pool. We start by swimming leisurely laps in the warm water of a large cement swimming pool. After that, we follow a path downhill where a pipe, protruding from the pool above, delivers a cascade of warm water from a height of fifteen feet. There is a single white plastic chair under the flow of water. Charley and I take turns sitting under the warm, pounding waterfall. The feel of that warm water forcefully massaging my head is a sensation my body has memorized and will not forget. Next, paralleling a cool stream, we find a series of deep and spa- cious hot pools right in the ground, each circular pool made attractive and comfortable by the addition of sand on the bottom and a perimeter of natural rock. We soak and talk quietly with groups of friendly Colombians and English-speaking Europeans.
It’s easy to forget about the guards with machine guns as we move slowly from one natural pool to the next. At the end of a beautiful afternoon spent soaking in every pool but one, we follow our little printed map across a wooden bridge and into the woods in search of Heart’s Desire—San Vicente’s most remote and unstructured pool. As we hike, I feel incredibly close to Charley. I am proud and happy that we are exploring Colombia together, especially at a time when it’s still a little risky to do so. Following a trail, we find the pool nestled among the trees.
It turns out that Heart’s Desire is small and extremely shallow. I lower myself into the tepid and slightly muddy water; it barely covers my shoulders. My first reaction is disappointment: “Heart’s desire?” But by now I am utterly relaxed, and my own heart is wide open. I see the humor in the situation. I think about my painful response to Melvin’s suggestion that living with Charley sounded boring. I contrast that experience with this joyful day soaking in Colombian hot springs with my husband.
Yes, it is perfectly perfect that this lukewarm, murky pool should be called “Heart’s Desire.” It reminds me I’m not the only spouse who is well matched in some respects while sadly mismatched in others. I am not alone in having essential needs that are met within my marriage and other equally essential ones that go unmet. Yes, I am married to a man who wouldn’t accompany me on my enticing, scary sabbatical. Given how many of his ventures I’ve supported, I have good reason to be resentful. However, I am also married to a man who will tolerate long absences while I pursue a compelling dream on my own. I’m married to a man who is proud of me and eager to visit, and who is partnering me right now in growing gutsier.
Come to think of it, I love that this muddy pool is called “Heart’s Desire.”
PREORDER HERE
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Leah Fisher worked for thirty-five years as a psychotherapist, marital counselor, and corporate work/family consultant. During this time, she brought her expertise to television programs including The Oprah Winfrey Show and 60 Minutes, and to media outlets, including Newsweek and The Wall Street Journal. Fisher is a self-proclaimed “wild and crazy grandma” to four young grandchildren. She lives with her husband in the Bay Area. Find her online at Mymarriagesabbatical.com
Category: Contemporary Women Writers, On Writing
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