With 5 Words, My Marriage Ended. Then A Chance Encounter Across The World Gave Me New Life.

Her undulating tongue moved wet and slippery against my hand as her trunk pressed the unpeeled bananas into her mouth. I wore a blue canvas bag, laden with sugarcane and bananas, and I was surrounded by elephants. It was my last day in Thailand after making the painful decision to abort my trip 10 days early. I was homesick and missing my 15-year-old daughter, Sophie, who was in Bangladesh with my soon-to-be ex-husband. It was our first summer holiday apart since the January night six months prior when he’d informed me that our 20-year marriage was over. “My soul is deeply unhappy.”He’d told me over a dinner of Costco salad.“I want a divorce.” Losing my marriage was difficult, his admitted infidelity was worse, and the summer away from my daughter was the hardest of all. My husband and I had been fighting with an explosive vengeance as we unravelled our marriage, screaming things that couldn’t be taken back during late-night phone calls and hastily-typed texts featuring f-bombs and accusations. After every fight, I’d felt ashamed of the horrible things I’d said in response to the horrible things he’d said — loop after loop after loop. Six months earlier, he’d been my best friend, and I couldn’t reconcile how quickly we’d become enemies. That morning, before visiting the elephants, my face had looked older than its 49 years. In makeup consisting of shadows and tear trails, I wore a mask of crepey, dehydrated skin. My hangover had nothing to do with beer and everything to do with a desolate night of crying myself dry in a cheap hotel room. Emotional pain this deep was corporeal. The fight had been a doozy that left me literally bruised, as I’d pounded my thighs with my fists at 2 a.m. after hanging up the phone for the last time. I needed help. I shouldn’t be hitting myself, nor starving myself, though it was difficult to eat with the phantom golf ball that had lodged in my throat for the past six months. I’d lost 30 lbs. When I returned to New Jersey, I’d look for a therapist, I promised myself. Today, though – my last in Chiang Mai – elephants. I’d chosen Elephant Nature Park because of its mission as a sanctuary and rehabilitation centre. There was no riding, no circus tricks, no prodding with hooks. Elephants were brought to ENP to live their best pachyderm lives, tromping through the verdant jungle and rolling in thick mud by the river. I’d done my research and felt confident these rescued elephants were well-cared-for and that I would not be contributing to the problem. I hoped I could put last night’s fight behind me and be present. A minivan pulled up to the meeting place where I stood alone. Its door opened wide enough for me to feel the air conditioning drift out into the humid Southeast Asian summer air. “VanderVeen?” The middle-aged man at the wheel asked, looking down his bifocals at the folded scrap of paper in his hand. He wore a white polo shirt with the ENP logo on his left breast. “Yep,” I said, my voice sounding as scratchy as it felt. A fierce, purple bruise, my souvenir from the previous night, seeped across my thigh as it scraped the fabric of the loose-fitting pants I’d bought for $1.50 at the Chiang Mai Night Market. I limped and winced as I made my way up the van’s stairs to an empty seat. A head popped up from the row in front of me, and a friendly voice said, “Hi! We’re Kate!”Her companion laughed and said, “She’s Kate. I’m Carol.” I smiled without meaning it and returned the greeting. Behind me, a blisteringly adorable young couple held hands adorned with shiny new wedding rings. Outside the window, Northern Thailand was lush mountains, dirt roads lined with villages, children, dogs and chickens. The bus lurched as it ascended the steep mountain on what, though only one lane, was a two-way road. When cars approached us, the van pulled over into yards and gullies, making the bumpy ride bumpier. Arriving at camp, we washed our hands to protect the elephants and set off to find them. The sandy path was flanked on both sides by jungle. My heavy bag of fruit banged against my bruised thigh, and I was angry — at myself, at him, at this unwanted divorce. I felt the prickle of emerging tears when suddenly, the elephants appeared with their mahouts. They knew why we’d come and ambled jauntily toward us like horses returning to the stable at the end of the day. The author at the Elephant Nature Park in Chiang Mai, Thailand.“Feed them the bananas first, then sugarcane,” the mahouts instructed protectively. “They think the sugarcane is dessert.” A leathery, muscular trunk ventured toward me, startling me with its languid athleticism. The elephant regarded me kindly through a curtain of long gray lashes as if asking permission, then came closer, in a nonthreatening way that put me at ease. Stout, whisker-like hairs anchored the dirt crown atop her head. She nudged my bag, and I gave her a banana.I offered one at a time, but she collected them until she was holding six in the crook of her trunk, then used its pointy tip to guide them into her triangular mouth. Her huge, wet tongue didn’t protrude but, rather, swirled like a washing machine within her mouth, masticating the fruit. I cautiously reached out my hand, touching a jowl. It felt like it looked: loose yet muscular, creviced flesh soft and mighty. The two elephants I was feeding were mother and daughter. Mama’s leg had been broken while dragging logs through the jungle. It was misshapen, and she walked with a limp. The logging industry, irresponsible breeding practices, landmines and reckless tourism had decimated the elephant population in Thailand. Lek, the founder of Elephant Nature Park, had made admirable strides in saving these gentle creatures. I wondered how I would walk through the world with my own daughter, now that I, too, had a limp. Kate stepped up beside me. Her face, with striking light blue eyes framed by a mass of tawny ringlets, was open and warm. “This is my second time this week,” she confessed. “I turned 50 this year, and my birthday wish was to come to Thailand and spend as much time as possible with the elephants.” “I’m turning 50 this year, too,” I told her with a grimace. “I love 50!” She said enthusiastically, then asked, “Where are you from?”“New Jersey,” I said. “No way! Me too!” I was shocked. I’d been in Southeast Asia for four and a half weeks and had barely met any Americans, let alone one from my home state. Last winter, days after my husband left, I’d wept beside Gail and Andi, two of my best friends. “What do you want your future to look like?” they’d asked. “No idea. I don’t even know what kind of music I like,” I’d said.I’d lost myself in being a wife and a mother, and now that he was gone and Sophie was in high school and needed me less, I didn’t recognise my life. “The only thing I know I want to do is travel,” I’d said, resolutely. So here I was, alone in Thailand. “How long are you here?” Kate asked, reaching out to caress the flank of the elephant who had joined our conversation. I exhaled.“That’s a complicated story. I was supposed to go to Laos from here, but I’m going home tomorrow,” I told her, sharing the bones of the past few months. “Oof, that’s a lot,” she replied.“I’m a therapist. I specialise in helping women transition through divorce, and in my ‘professional opinion,’ that sounds like a lot,” she said, forming air quotes with her fingers. “I don’t know if you know this, but elephants hold a lot of symbolism,” she said. “They’re so big, they clear obstacles, creating a path for those behind them to follow. Some cultures believe they represent new beginnings. Maybe you’re here to start your new thing.” I was shocked. I’d been in Southeast Asia for four and a half weeks and had barely met any Americans, let alone one from my home state. We arrived at the end of the jungle path, and the elephants continued to the river while we had lunch on a wooden platform overlooking the water. Spring rolls, vegetable stir fry, fruit and coconut mousse filled our table. After lunch, we mixed mango, banana and rice into balls for the elephants’ dinner. My hands were soothed by the familiar, tactile exercise, which reminded me of making meatballs at home. They were Sophie’s comfort food, and I’d made them for her since she was a little girl. I wondered with a clenched stomach how she was doing in Bangladesh. Dinner made, we walked to the river. The elephants liked to have a bath, then roll in mud to cool down and give themselves comfort from the sun. I’d looked forward to getting in the river with them, but I was scared by the potential for muck. I don’t like muck, nor the leeches it harbours. Kate looked over at me, seemingly sensing my apprehension.“They’ll clear the obstacles,” she winked, nodding at the elephants who’d already walked into the river. The brown water eddied around them, but the bottom wasn’t muck. It was sandy, and it invited me in. We tossed water on the elephants with plastic buckets, bathing them and ourselves in the river. Our final activity of the day was rafting back downriver to basecamp. Kate’s friend Carol was not a fan of rafting, so she chose to return by van. This left Kate and me alone on a raft, with a boatsman rowing and steering us back. The prior night’s fight and my lack of sleep had caught up to me. It was 4 p.m. and I was spent. As we made our way downriver, the tears came. I’d restrained them all day, but they were out now, and there was no stuffing them back in. For a moment, I was embarrassed to share my grief so openly with a stranger, even one who happened to be a therapist. But in that moment, my heart was stripped naked. I apologised, wiping my eyes. Kate looked at me with compassion and empathy.“Don’t apologise. I’m glad we met today and I could be here for you,” she said. Six months passed, and I was back in New Jersey. My divorce was final, and the bruise on my leg had healed. It had evolved through a kaleidoscope of colours from indigo to green to jaundice, painting my thigh for months. My despair over our divorce was beginning to subside, too, though I had a long way to go. Eventually, I felt ready to print photos from my trip and put them in an album. I found a photo on my phone that had been taken by Carol. It was my favourite photo of the whole month-long trip. In the dichotomous hell and magic of the day, she’d captured my joyful smile as the elephant behind me in the river sprayed a halo of water from its trunk. Looking back, it feels like a baptism – the beginning of a new life. The author in the river with an elephant.Two years later, I googled Kate. She’s been my therapist for five years now. It took me that long to recognise the gift I wasn’t ready to receive back then. I could have skipped Elephant Nature Park and stayed back in my hotel, sleeping off the fight and marinating in my pain. Instead, I summoned the energy to get out the door, fulfilling my long-held dream of meeting elephants up close. More importantly, the day handed me a roadmap to healing, kicking me in the pants to seek therapy.I’ve created a new life for myself – one more rewarding than I had in my marriage. I’ve become a solo traveller and writer, made new friends and forged a successful career as a school administrator. Try as we might, we can’t control life’s twists and turns. But, if you get out there and keep going, the universe might hand you just what you need. Lisa VanderVeen is an award-winning travel writer whose recent work has been published in The Saturday Evening Post, Business Insider, New Jersey Monthly, and River Teeth Journal, among others. You can find her at www.lisavanderveenwrites.com.Related...The 1 Talk Divorced Parents Need To Have Before The Summer HolidaysYou Ask, Experts Answer: 'I Want To Divorce My Husband 2 Weeks Into Our Marriage'I Divorced When My Kids Were 3. Now, I’m Awaiting A Decision That Will Change Everything.

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