All by Andrea Campbell

When Was The Last Time?

Andrea Campbell
Life Lessons, Personal essay, Solo Travel, Transformational Travel

by Andrea Campbell

When was the last time you took 3 slow, deep breaths? The stress of daily life keeps my breaths shallow, and my stomach tight. Although I'm semi –retired, I still lead a busy  21 st century westerner’s life. I drive in traffic, surf the net, fight to get to the checkout in Trader Joe’s, pay bills, pump my own gasoline, yech! This summer things just weren’t working in my life. I had a disappointing love affair, my friends were unable to keep social plans, I was lonely, stuck with a property I couldn't sell, two-and-a-half years into a self -imposed five year austerity program. When I became aware of how tight my stomach was, I decided to enroll in a 10 day silent meditation retreat at Vallecitos Mountain Ranch in New Mexico to avoid a future diagnosis of acid reflux.

 

When an old master artist like Di Vinci decided to paint over a part of his initial composition, it was called pentimento, which means to change your mind. Life is just like that; sometimes we paint a composition and then change our minds. Thus, we alter our lives. I went to meditate on order to look deeply into my life composition and alter what needed to be altered. 

Set in a pristine mountain forest 9,500 feet above sea level, Vallecitos has nine ponds, flowered valleys, an old restored hunting lodge and private cabins for participants. I joined about 37 like-minded people from various parts of the U.S. and two teachers to explore 10 days of being with my own thoughts, feelings and sensations.  Here are some of the awareness’ I garnered.

Family Lost, Family Found

Andrea Campbell
Family Travel, Personal essay

by Andrea Campbell

By traveling to find my father's family, I became a bridge between the Soviet Union and the United States. But first, allow me to back up and tell you my story. 

I had been an orphan and spent seven abysmal years in foster homes. When my mother died of cancer, I was only ten. She was 45. It was the worst thing that ever could happen to me, I thought. Unresolved grief walled my heart.  For comfort, I turned to my big sister who was as devastated as I.  And I looked to my distant, hard working, passionate Ukranian immigrant father for a sense of security. Though he tried to fill my loneliness, he suffered from depression.

Two years after my mother died, my father died. I was twelve and alone. Because my sister was separated and planning to divorce, the courts decreed that her’s was a broken home and not a good environment for me.   Thus, I was sent to the first foster home. I lost my mother, my father, my home, most of my belongings and close contact with my sister.  I was isolated and abandoned.  

Somehow, I gathered family photos. As I matured, through hard work (dealing with my own suffering), years of schooling and post-school training, I chose a career in mental health. I found happiness and deep satisfaction as a mother to my daughter.

When my father left Russia in 1915, he was 15 years old.  He never saw his family again.  I was told he kept a goat in a lot on Prince St., Newark, New Jersey.  A noted School of Medicine and Dentistry now stands on that spot.  A letter from his mother in 1939 contained a photo of his nephew, and a request to cease communication.  At that time, having American family was potentially politically dangerous.  The last he heard about them was that they were starving during WWII.  When my father died in 1956, he thought they had starved to death or were killed by Nazis.