The Waters of My Return
On my recent return to Esalen, I found myself not only reconnecting with the land and ocean, but also with my daily ritual of pulling tarot cards—a practice I use to listen inward and guide myself with intuition.
Part I — Initiation (2 of Cups)
The year I lost almost everything in my early 30s—my marriage, my job, my sense of who I was—I found my way to Esalen. Or perhaps, Esalen found me. It was like the 2 of Cups placed into my hands: the meeting of two souls, except this time the other soul was the land itself.
From the moment I arrived, my body was embraced by sound—the constant crash of waves against the cliffs below, the rustling of cypress branches in the salt-heavy wind, and the rushing waterfall of spring water that tumbled down to meet the sea.
The baths were shallow, inviting us not to swim but to sink fully in. The wide, smoothly worn river-rock edge was the perfect size and shape to rest against, facing the vast ocean and crashing waves below. From there, I was reminded of our smallness while opening my perspective as wide as the horizon itself. The showers beside them felt safely daring—set beneath soaring ceilings, the whole space warmed by the mineral waters running beneath the bathhouse. Thick sliding glass doors opened to the damp sea air, with only thin cables standing between me and the endless Pacific. There was something primal in that exposure, as if life was reminding me: you are small, but you are held.
That same spring nourished us with crisp, impossibly clean drinking water and filled the sulphur-scented baths perched precariously at the cliff’s edge. I remember slipping into the mineral water for the first time, feeling my skin soften against its warm embrace, watching the steam curl into the cold night air. Later, I noticed the water had kissed my silver jewelry into shimmering shades of blue, black, and gold—a fleeting patina that eventually faded, leaving me with a tender heartache, a quiet yearning for Esalen that has never left me.
Jack and Tres on the Esalen lawn on their honeymoon in 2004
Tres & Olive walking through the Esalen gardens in 2013
The next dozen or more visits, whether alone in my healing, laughing with girlfriends, hand in hand with a partner, or with my daughter attending a Mother’s Day workshop making skincare from blossoms in the garden, Esalen became a sacred cup I returned to drink from. A teacher in silence, a partner in healing, a friend in the wilderness of my becoming.
Part II — Absence (King of Cups, Reversed)
Years passed. I poured myself into Burning Man, into the fire of building my business, into the long isolation of the pandemic. And just as the reversed King of Cups warns, I held my emotions close, over-managing them, denying myself the waters that would have softened me.
Esalen lived in my memory like a dream—its hills that made every step feel like work worth doing, its gardens bursting with kale, yellow cucumbers, bright radishes, and herbs so fragrant you could steep rosemary and sage into your tea. The red goddess statue in the garden stood in my mind too, arms lifted wide in invitation. I missed her welcome more than I realized.
And then there was the spirit of the land itself—the ancient presence of the Esselen Indians, who first tended and revered this place for thousands of years before suffering enslavement and elimination by the missionaries. They honored the owl as a powerful medicine being, and once, during my first workshop, I had a vision of spiral eyes and an owl’s beak while meditating. A few days later, a photographer brought in photos of ancient rock carvings from the nearby hills—one of an owl etched into stone by the Esselen people long before us. My entire group gasped when they saw it, recognizing the image from my vision. It was a moment that braided time together, proving that magic here is not invention, but remembrance.
Still, as years slipped by, I didn’t return. My attention went elsewhere. My soul grew parched. And yet, Esalen remained, waiting patiently like the King of Cups himself, urging me back when I was ready to loosen my grip.
Part III — Return (10 of Cups)
It was a dear friend who opened the door. “Come with me,” she said, “let’s volunteer in the kitchen.” And so we did. We donned aprons, sharpened knives, and joined the rhythm of chopping and prepping food for hundreds, hands moving with the pulse of harvests carried in from the gardens. Work became meditation, laughter mixing with the scent of squash, zucchini, and herbs cut fresh that morning. Time slipped past in what felt like minutes.
After volunteering in the kitchen for 3 hours, we were free to roam.
I wandered slowly, drinking the place back in like water. At the end of a tiny path, I found a lily pond, pink blossoms floating in the still water, and a quiet bench with a view of the sea. Beyond it, a staircase once led down to the ocean, now closed—beaten back by storms but not destroyed, just as Esalen itself endures.
I made my way to the round meditation house and sat near the waterfall, the roar of water colliding with rock and sea stripping away the noise of my mind. Later, inside on cushions, silence wrapped me gently, the water now a distant hymn. In that stillness, I felt what Esalen had always told me most clearly: REST. Not as a command, but as a gift.
By the time I returned to the baths, their mineral warmth seeped into my skin like homecoming. My body floated, the cliffs and ocean stretching endlessly before me, the rainbow promise of the 10 of Cups shining not in the sky but in my bones. Two soaks, a scenic shower with the ocean wind against my face, three meals of garden greens, squash, carrots, and herbs bright with life—it was more than enough.
