Look for the Magic

Written By Stacy Carleton

By the time you’re reading this, I’ll be on an airplane. I might already be in Paris.

It’s my first trip abroad in almost eight years, and my first solo international trip since I lived in Spain, and traveled through the Iberian Peninsula and the UK, in my mid-twenties.

So you could say it’s been a while.

Back in December, my friend Diana, a former colleague and retired English department chair, proposed the idea of visiting her in Bordeaux. I was intrigued, but mostly hesitant.

I told her about this reaction, and she texted back:

Why?

I think I’m just…rusty, I responded.

I considered it some more.


I’ve been in mom mode. Illness mode. Social and political crisis mode. Survival mode. I’m out of practice with this whole travel abroad thing. 


I was raised by a globe-trotting dad and used to chase the high of stepping off a plane into an unknown land, often by myself. 


But I’m not young anymore. It’s so much harder to drop everything for a 10-day trip now. There’s extra childcare and kitty feeding routines to set up, lost work days to reschedule, bill payments to confirm, kid pickups and dropoffs to coordinate, AirBnb hosting and cleaning duties to transfer, prescriptions to fill—not to mention young children’s separation anxiety to manage.

I worried about how my body might respond to long flights, jet lag, and the cognitive and physical load of navigating new places. While I have healed immensely, I still struggle with overstimulation and am very mindful of my capacity.

Do you have compression socks? Diana texted a few minutes later.

You’ll want to wear some on the flight.


I laughed. So this is what middle-aged transatlantic travel looks like.

Yes, I texted back, I already have some.


The irony is that I got the socks on a recommendation from an acupuncturist, who was one of the first people to recognize some of my strange symptoms as dysautonomia and Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS) when I was newly post-Covid three years ago. Compression socks were apparently helping some folks with a high heart rate and low blood pressure like mine, so I tried them. I don’t think they did all that much for me then, and I was ready to put them to a different use.

“You should do it,” my husband said as soon as I told him about Diana’s wild idea.

One of our agreements from the beginning of our 13 years together is that we’d always support each other’s travel dreams. 


I booked my flight.

Then I spent a few weeks fretting over my graying hair and well-loved clothes, caught off guard by my reflexive allegiance to the capitalist lie that I needed to buy my way to some brighter, better version of myself that looked like she deserved to traipse around Paris. I confronted some deeply ableist beliefs about who gets to travel and how they should present themselves while doing it.

Like most families, we’re on a tight budget right now. The cost of a plane ticket, some French restaurant meals, a Paris apartment rental, and a few train rides didn’t leave much left over for any extras. 

What would it look like if I rejected my inherited beliefs and tried something different? 

What would it look like if I wore the clothes I already had (except for a couple of discounted tees and a final-sale belt bag?)

What if I fixed a hole in the pocket of my favorite coat so I could bring it? 

What if I cleaned an old pair of sandals that were perfectly capable of carrying me around the streets of France?

What if I answered this call to adventure just as I was, no upgrades required?

And what if I looked for the magic, the Divine, the Great Mystery (or whatever name you choose to assign it), meeting me over and over to help me explore the world again?

Encouraged by my recovery sponsor, I went back and reflected on the steps that got me here:

✨ First piece of magic:

An older and wiser woman, who had raised a daughter by herself, said to me, I know exactly where you are in life right now. You deserve a break. I have a car and a place for you to stay. Come visit me. You know you want to.

✨ Second piece of magic:

 I dug out the compression socks from the back of my dresser—originally objects of suffering, now being repurposed for joy. 

✨ Third piece of magic: 

My family met up with my husband’s relatives who were in Phoenix for a work convention over Presidents’ Day weekend. This happened to be where Diana was living for part of the year with her grandkids. She and I got to meet in person for the first time in eight years, to hike, laugh together, and talk about France.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ve already booked us an apartment in Montmartre for a few days.”

“Our routine will be: Get up, walk around, have lunch, take a break. Rest when we want. No Eiffel Tower tours. No standing in line for a five-minute glimpse of the Mona Lisa. We’ll wander around the artist neighborhoods. Then you’ll come with me to my place in Bordeaux and we’ll bike around and visit little markets.

“It’ll be easy.”

Reuniting with Diana in Arizona in February

✨ More magic:

My older sister and her husband will be in southern France at the same time for a work trip. We might even be able to meet near Nice a few days before I head back home.

✨ Even more magic:

About a month ago, I was infused with a new surge of energy and inspiration to take on some more freelance work, revise our household budget, and offset my trip expenses. New work opportunities keep coming my way.

✨✨ Extra trickster magic:

My kids came down with the stomach flu a couple weeks ago, and it took some time winding its way through each of them. As I realized it had come for me the following weekend at my daughter’s softball game and went running for the Porta Potty at the opposite end of the park, I thought, Thank you for visiting me here now instead of on the Paris Métro. 

My travel prep had pulled me back into the default trance of hustle culture—rushing around, eating most meals standing up, compulsive multi-tasking—without me even noticing.

Now sick, I was forced to lie down for a few days and take a break. I truly rested.

I caught up on all three seasons of The White Lotus, honing my impression of Parker Posey’s accent, which reminds me of some Southern women from my childhood (and, not coincidentally, sounds an awful lot like a voice in the back of my head that likes to scrutinize my posture and every detail of my outfit.)

And after watching many, many rich people spectacularly unravel at exclusive resorts while wearing gorgeous high-end fashion, I thought about how little I really needed on my trip, how simple I wanted things to be. 

Soft and slow. Take it softly and slowly.

I heard this like a whisper.

The following week, I read Glynnis MacNicol’s travelogue I’m Mostly Here To Enjoy Myself: One Woman’s Pursuit of Pleasure in Paris. She validates my instinct for ease in her observation:

“Paris seems to encourage sitting.” 

Oui, s’il vous plaît.

I could do the entire trip, from packing my suitcase to my flight home, softly and slowly.

And then I thought of a line from Jean Valentine’s poem “The River at Wolf,” which over the last two years has become a kind of gratitude shorthand between me and some close friends:

Blessed are they who remember

that what they now have they once longed for.

To mark a moment of magic in our lives, sometimes we will simply text each other: Blessed are we who remember.

I remember the months I spent lying in bed during seasons of severe illness, staring out the window, longing for the energy to just walk outside. Longing for confirmation that the world was still out there.

Now, it’s my turn to go out and rediscover it.

Where do you find magic, even in the midst of heartache?

What do you have now that you once longed for?

What are you still longing for?

What is possible?

I hope to explore that with you at a community rest and care session later in May after I come back from my trip!

UPCOMING SESSIONS:

As always, please contact me with any questions, suggestions, or ideas.

I hope to connect with you soon!

When we rest together, we heal and we thrive,

Stacy

Stacy Carleton
Next

You Don’t Have to Perform Wellness