Traveling to Africa, she discovered the real jungle was her plugged-in life in Fresno

When my husband and I attended a Make-A-Wish fundraiser last summer, our intention was to support a great cause and enjoy an evening out with friends. We had no idea we’d bid on a live auction package taking us on safari in South Africa. And zero inkling of the real prize awaiting us out in the bush.

I remember at first feeling a million miles away from home until the internal stirrings began – awakening senses so strong we silenced our phones without hesitation and decided against unpacking iPads altogether. Instead, we opted to watch shooting stars under a dazzling night sky – noting the glorious silence punctuated by birds chirping, lions roaring, and mother elephants trumpeting, rumbling, grunting while teaching their babies a secret language only they could decipher. A dialect of resilience and survival. And there we were, maybe six or seven or eight feet away from these gentle giants – quietly breathing in the wonder of it all.

“My heart beats differently here,” I told my husband on night two of our stay, the rhythm of Africa palpable and already pulsating beneath my skin. So much so, I hesitated unpacking pouches of medication taking up half of my overstuffed carry-on bag, the exact one I lugged through three airports, security, and customs checkpoints. Beta-blockers. Anti-anxiety pills. Blood pressure meds. All of them kept my heart from skipping beats and racing under the rigors of normal, everyday life circumstances. But we were far away from normal. For now, I told my husband, “This pharmacy is closed.”

“Mother Nature’s medicinal elixir – a soothing balm,” I wrote in the travel journal resting next to my bed. For a moment, maybe two, I channeled Meryl Streep in “Out of Africa,” inhaling the night as if this might be a dream, a movie.

Our new habitat, albeit her distinct foreignness, felt more home, more joyous, more human, more everything minus the disruption of noise, clutter, and chaos. Here, we were absent the 5 o’clock traffic, breaking news alerts, Amazon trucks, Trump tweets – the “too-muchness” of life. In its place, a vast expanse of stillness. Serenity.

Determined to freeze-frame the now of it all, by nightfall we hungered to digest every nutrient of this new adventure, quite certain we had discovered Nirvana. Uncharacteristic of our at-home lifestyle, we dined by candlelight, took showers under the moon, went to bed early and by 5 o’clock a.m. were wide awake and dressed in safari gear, ready for an early morning game drive as the bright yellow-orange sun hoisted herself up through a not-so-distant horizon to greet us.

Jotting another journal entry, I wrote the obvious: “Hakuna Matata.”

No worries for the rest of your days.

For the next three weeks, it was the two of us accompanied by Mother Nature, a fleet of olive green Land Rovers, guides like Luke and his sidekick Jack, a world-class tracker at one of our favorite spots, Tanda Tula Safari Camp. The name means, “to love the quiet.” Yes, yes, a thousand times yes (another journal entry).

Despite a series of new rituals including generously sprayed daily doses of mosquito repellent, lizard sightings (on floors, in bathtubs, sinks and slippers), audacious monkeys invading tents before inviting themselves to dinner, an overarching peace and sense of well-being nevertheless lured us to sleep night after night – the kind of hypnotic lullaby difficult to translate into words here.

Hemingway explained it well. “I never knew of a morning in Africa when I woke up that I was not happy.”

“It’s a jungle out there,” friends warned.

Only it wasn’t.

The jungle resided at home.

South Africa rebooted our souls. Revived our spirits. Rejuvenated our aliveness.

How was it, we wondered, that we had misplaced boundaries? Ramped up the volume so high we could no longer hear our own voices? Forgotten how to press the pause button to assess collateral damage of our own making?

With no television or Internet access in our tent, we talked. With mosquito nets carefully draped, we were wildly aware of the dramatic change of place. And pace. Troubles secretly accumulated and stowed during life’s precarious journey evaporated. We were learning a lot about animals. But even more about life.

Here, we were not obsessed with constantly doing.

Instead, we were being.

Not just alive.

More alive.

On our last day an awkward realization hit. Re-entry. Dread of the 25-hour flight home. Was it sufficient time for life lessons to sink in? Was reinvention remotely possible? Could we pack a piece of Africa and take her home with us as a newfound trusted reminder?

Time will tell. Whether we agree to eat more meals outdoors, dial down the tempo of life – spend more time stargazing and appreciating Mother Nature, talk less – listen more, practice the art of stillness and power down electronic devices, one thing is for certain. Running away from home turned out to be – for us – the best way to find our way home.

Just in time for the holidays.

This story was originally published November 29, 2019 at 6:00 AM.