Prior to embarking on a Moroccan yoga retreat, I completed the LOST 118, a 118-mile race around the picturesque Lake Okeechobee Scenic Trail in Florida, while pushing a baby stroller full of supplies in the new Runner Propelled Cart (RPC) division. About 42.5 hours later, I slept for 3 hours, ventured back home, changed my clothes and began working at my day job. Showing up, I’ve learned, is the beginning, middle and end of most stories. So, a few days later, sleep-deprived and immersed in work, when it was time to pack up and head to the airport for my flights to Marrakech, I opted to show up.
I was supposed to go to Morocco in March of 2020, until I came down with the flu and the world shut down days later due to the COVID-19 outbreak. I am a big believer that timing is everything when it comes to our lives unfolding, and turns out March 2024 was when I really needed this adventure.
I met my yoga kula, or tribe, upon arriving at Marrakech airport. While I had been on other yoga retreats to faraway locations, I hadn’t thought much about the fact that I was going to be spending a week with a bunch of strangers until I had gone through customs and found my way to our meet-up spot. If I’ve learned anything from my corporate career and running ultramarathons, it’s that adaptability is everything. Within 5 minutes of meeting the group, I was laughing with the ladies, an inspiring group of professionals.
Our first night in Marrakech set the stage for the rest of the week. After we were escorted to our rooms, we practiced yoga on the roof top, got henna tattoos and shared a delicious communal meal of savory tangine and couscous under the stars as cool winds swept in. As our first evening winded down, I felt the excitement that comes when I know that I’m about to embark on a new adventure that I hadn’t prepared for.
Morocco Culture
Morocco is a North African country of dichotomies. There’s the frosty morning chill and the intense afternoon heat. The medina is a maze of dazzling narrow alleyways, and the countryside is an expansive dusty desert landscape. There’s hectic roads and highways, and peaceful mountain passes with camels moving intentionally across the sand. There are cats sauntering about the city, and dogs roaming the desert.
Morocco is stimulating and sensual with its array of vibrant landscapes and dazzling night skies, brimming with a multitude of stars. The spices, ceramics, leathers and shoes that fill the souks create a visual feast that’s in contrast to the bare and rustic Berber villages in the Atlas mountains.
There is a warmth to certain cultures that pervades and reminds you of the good in people, and that place sometimes changes us for the better.
The Yoga Retreat
Embarking on my yoga mat each day, like starting a run, is an act of faith. Yoga and running have taught me about stillness in motion, which only occurs when I am tapped into my innermost self.
In Morocco, I unraveled, slowly, then all at once. First came exhaustion, then grief. At home, I had been pushing hard to accomplish the checklists in my life—work and responsibilities tied to my dad’s passing. Regardless of how much I evolve, pushing all the time is a wave I keep getting pulled into, a repetitious riptide that keeps me spinning and distant from my feelings. Yoga practice brings me back. It reminds me to slow down and breathe. During practice one morning, I remembered what I knew: that sometimes, the world must wait. Perpetual movement, while critical in an ultramarathon, is not the rhythm of life. We need to ebb and flow. The pauses are what enable us to reflect, renew and spring forward.
As I slowed down, my awareness revived. It’s the same as falling into the flow of an ultramarathon. When you lose the movement and cast aside your resistance, you begin to remember about one foot in front of the other, forward motion and that our purpose often unfolds when we lose all the things we are supposed to be and become ourselves.
Our third day in Marrakech, we set out for Imlil, a Berber village in the Atlas mountains, over 1.5 hours away, and as we approached the barren, hilly landscape at close to 6,000 feet, it suddenly felt like I was being transported to the start of an ultra. Our sherpa led us on a rocky, uphill 5-mile hike near Toubkal. At roughly 14,000 feet, it is the highest peak in Northern Africa. He noted it would take two days with camping overnight to ascend and descend Toubkal, and I made a mental note for my next visit.
Max the Dog
When we arrived in the desert, I was in awe of the rustic beauty: sand dunes and shadows and space all around. After days in the bustling medina, the serenity of the desert was welcome. I thought of my dad being here, and now being somewhere else. “Vanishing into thin air” was the phrase that kept coming to me as the winds whipped the dust through the air, like ghosts somersaulting across the landscape.
I couldn’t wait to go for a run and have some solitary time. The men at the Agafay camp site advised I run along the make-shift road a few miles out and back. In the distance, I saw camels being led by guides and buggies cruising along the sandy road.
A mile into my run, a sturdy white dog with magnetic blue eyes was beside me. Cautious, I kept some distance from him, but he kept circling me with figure-eight movements and staying in close by my side. I opted to turn around and head back to the camp—I wasn’t sure if the creature beside me belonged to someone or if he was going to attack. At the very least, I would be able to refill my water bottle at the camp because I had underestimated the heat and desert dryness. Back at camp, the men informed me that Max was their dog, and that he had watched me head out before he decided to join me. They assured me I was safe with him and that he wouldn’t leave my side.
I was on my way once again, with Max hanging behind until he dashed alongside and then ahead of me. I had become comfortable and started to talk to him, which made his ears perk up as he sauntered closer to me. About 3 miles in, I heard the barks and howls of the wild dogs all at once, and then the pack surrounded us. My adrenaline raced in my throat. I stopped running. I tried not to look at the dogs. In the middle of the desert in Morocco, a strange but loving dog at my side, I didn’t have a plan. I took a deep breath and began to walk back slowly in the direction I had come, the pack of dogs surrounding me on all sides, following us. Max went up to each of them, and then returned to my side, his snout never far from my wrist. When he slowed down, I did too. When he sped up, I took his lead. We went on this way for over 2 miles, the pack of dogs close by. They would grow silent for a moment or two, then start back up again, their barks and yelps piercing.
When we turned a corner that climbed up towards camp, the pack of dogs stopped, and turning to them, Max stood still. When he turned to face me, he took off running and I followed, picking up my pace to keep up with him, until a mile off, we re-entered camp. I stopped by the men who had assured me over an hour earlier that Max would keep me safe, and told them what happened, half expecting them to assure me that the wild dogs wouldn’t harm me, only they shared the opposite. They were clear the wild dogs were dangerous, but with Max at my side, they wouldn’t hurt me.
Max followed me to the pool area where my friends were, and when I rushed to meet them, he sat nearby, watching over me. The next few days, Max was my companion, sitting near me at meals and greeting me first thing in the morning. The men at the camp shared that Max was half husky, half wild dog, and been living at the camp since he was a puppy.
Max reminded me of a lesson that monks I had spent time with years ago ingrained in me: unseen forces are always supporting us. If he hadn’t been by my side that day, I’m not sure what would have happened. Our yoga instructor had asked us to think about where love shows up in our lives. When I met Max, I felt clear that love shows up when you are doing the things that enliven your soul, like running in the desert.
In Morocco, I laughed more than I have in years. On the plane ride home, I thought about the ingredients of the freedom and laughter we experienced in Morocco. How, I wondered, do I replicate that reckless abandon and joy in my daily life?