Nonfiction

You Will Be Alone with the Gods and Ride Life Straight to Perfect Laughter.

Surrender, creation, connection.

“If you’re going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It’s the only good fight there is.”

— Charles Bukowski, “Roll the Dice”

A turning point came one evening in my basement studio. Body not working, a new injury with every step, no answers, I collapsed in sobs on the linoleum floor. Surrendering, finally, to the brokenness of body and spirit. Surrendering, finally, to one clear choice: live or die.

I don’t know how long I stayed there, on those checkerboard squares demarcating “kitchen” in the windowless box I called home. When at last no tears remained, I rose, walked over to my laptop, and bought tickets to Mongolia.

The next flight left Washington National in a week. I had never been, knew next to nothing about it, and told no one where I was going.

At age 29, the cost was exorbitant, draining my account. I didn’t care. I also didn’t know why Mongolia was calling me. Though I’d lived and travelled in far-off lands, that was not one of them and all I really knew was it was vast, spacious, and relatively empty of tourists.

I sought the expanse of land and sky. The feeling of hurtling myself into space without a safety net. The feeling of hurtling myself back to life.

Although I was already working remotely, there was no internet where I was headed, far from cities and always-on infrastructure. That was perfect and necessary.

While grateful for the digital nomad existence my patchwork of translation, editing, and research gigs afforded me, I was uninspired. Spending the majority of each day, every day doing work I found meaningless was extinguishing — to my light, my gifts, my spirit.

Even with no plan other than escaping to open skies, I knew this must change. I knew it was all connected. It was one reason I was sick.

Before leaving for Mongolia and going off-line, I emailed my supervisor at the large research institution that was my main source of livelihood.

Betsy was slightly older than me and real. Though I didn’t know her well, I trusted her. I told her I was going away and couldn’t say where, needed two weeks off, and was sorry.

I also said, without explanation, I have to do this. There is no choice, even if it costs me the primary job I’m using to support myself. She said Absolutely. Do it. We’ll pick up when you return.

This is the only time I’ve made such an ask. Still today, my heart fills with gratitude at the faith and grace Betsy offered in return. Without hesitation or prying or needing details, she said Yes. Go. You have to.

She is one of so many women who have held me on this path. Who have anchored me and kept me from sinking under. Some of them know me intimately; others not even my name. Some exist on this timeline; others came long before.

In later years, Betsy reached out to me for support, asking how I did it. She too felt trapped and out of alignment. She too upended her life and followed her soul.

I love this. Lifting each other up. Being each other’s Medicine.

Arriving in Mongolia sleep-deprived after long flights and blurry layovers, I had no idea what I would find. I’d booked a cheap room through email correspondence. They sent someone to fetch me from the airport.

Near midnight under a full moon and the brightest Big Dipper I’ve ever seen, we drove through Ulaanbaatar to my resting place. Though I’d been promised single lodgings, the small, pitch-black room had several beds and at least one other occupant.

Feeling my way in the dark towards an empty pillow, I realized I’d “booked a room” in someone’s home. No one spoke English. I was safe. I collapsed into blessed sleep.

I didn’t plan on staying in the capital more than a night or two. All cement buildings and grey, this was not the Mongolia I was seeking. My destination was north, across a road rough and unpaved. I set out for it in the back of a rusted Soviet van a day later.

Crossing the final, most jarring stretch to Khövsgöl Lake, its ancient waters covering 2,620 square kilometres, my already injured body slammed repeatedly against the vehicle’s interior.

I prayed I hadn’t made a mistake. I prayed I wasn’t making myself more broken.

No one I met spoke English. My travel guide Mongolian brought blank stares. There was no cell service or internet. This was before the age of smartphones and internet cafes, but even dial-up and flip-phones were non-options. Electricity was generator powered and variable in these parts.

And, of course, no one knew I was on this side of the planet.

I let all this in. For an instant, I let fear and logic wash over heart and knowing. Then I let go. I surrendered.

Whatever arises, arises. Here I am. Here this life will unfold.

From there, the journey got easier. From there, I stopped adding suffering atop suffering. Time passed, the ride ended, we arrived. I was worlds removed from all I knew. I was held by landscape, water, and sky.

Note One: Scott-Ryan Abt, since you asked:), a glimpse from my meanderings.

Note Two: I’m in the process of rewriting material as part of a larger work on Inheritance, Medicine, Madness, and Prophecy.

The above excerpt is part of a chapter pulling surrender into sharp relief…exploring acceptance of brokenness, leaping into the abyss, and finding solace in Nature and ancestral connection. Similar reads, right this way:

Thank you for reading. I’m a doctor of Chinese Medicine and write about sobriety and soulful living. Find all my links here: