How a writing retreat taught me more than how to write

Last week, I stopped. Jumped off. Unplugged.

And then, I dived. Head first into a word-infested lake haunted by legends. Not knowing if it was one of those shallow bodies of water with jagged rocks just below the surface, which I can’t see. Would I crack my head open and die like that tragic love story I watched on some flight?

No. This lake was deep, and she welcomed me into her waters like a warm embrace. Not like the temporary warmth created by some unaware 8-year-old boy in the community pool that slowly dissipates from the chlorine. This was all-encompassing warmth wrapped around me like my grandma’s old woven blanket that I tuck around my legs when I read on the couch.

But, let’s be honest, I was terrified of this declaration.

Woman in tech, leader, mentor, coach, manager, wife, mother. No problem. I can write and present on open source and digital leadership all day long and not break a sweat. But this? This was personal. This crawled into my very soul. My reason for being. This was the bird I caged and lost the key, or so I thought.

“The moon put her hand
over my mouth and told me
to shut up and watch.” *

With trepidation, I watched. As each of the six women entered the room. Fawn eyes searching and fearful just like mine, testing out our new-born legs on the dew-covered grass nestled in the Montana mountains.

The community of women joining me on this journey

Seven strangers, our homes and identities left behind. Hoping to spark, rediscover, or fan our writing flames. All of us lugging our heavy baggage into the bunk room, with dreams of leaving with a lighter load. But unsure of what lay ahead.

But, wait. I know these women. I recognize them. Soul sisters on this journey.

For five days, we laughed, cried, walked, nourished, talked. Of course, we also wrote. Oh, did we write. Like we were possessed by some inner Steven King on a deadline to publish our two hundredth novel.

Yet somehow, it was easy. No, not easy. It was at times very hard. But, each word, each exercise, each painful reading out loud of our work released something. Until our words swirled in the Montana air like a Cottonwood tornado.

I can’t believe this. Even in my beautiful memory of this writing retreat, it’s there. In the back of my mind. That fucking “Let it Go” song from Frozen. Connie rolling her eyes when I sing it unknowingly for the millionth time. However, to be fair, it is the perfect depiction of what we did.

We let it go.

Words leaping from our hearts and our pens, as the now dog-eared notebooks struggle to keep up.

Each piece, an awakening. A celebration.

Learning from an author and master

All under the guidance of our teacher, mentor, and editor. At times, disciplinarian.

Yes, those of you who know me will not be surprised that I spoke out of turn. I challenged her. I celebrated someone when I wasn’t supposed to. We giggled like 8-year-old school girls as we waited for class to begin, knowing we were supposed to be in meditative silence.

But, I followed. I put down my staff and let someone else lead us up the mountain for a change. She earned it. This New York Times best selling author. She bears the scars of publisher rejections, editor notes in the margins, and standing in book stores waiting for others to treasure her book and maybe even say hello. 

All this she gives us. And more. With an open heart and open hands, holding us safe while we write past the fear of exposure.

Rediscovering my love of writing

I came to this Haven writing retreat to work on my book. It’s a teaching memoir I’ve kept at bay for several years, even as I spoke to hundreds of people worldwide about its hypothesis, stories, and dreams. The premise: empowering everyone to discover and shine their own true light. Being true to who we are; the beautiful, unique creatures we were born to be.

Yes, the irony is not lost on me. I coach people on learning to shine their light on themselves and others, struggling every day to be true to who I am and shine my light.

I realized at this retreat that the core of my light and who I am is writing. However, writing has taken a back seat in this Fastback life of mine for many years.

Over this week, I remembered how I used to love writing as a child. For example, I wrote poem books for Christmas presents. Each poem crafted and then illustrated with simplistic drawings on colored construction paper, stapled together and wrapped in Santa paper.

I wrote songs and then created simple chord progressions on my guitar to accompany the words. Like this one, I still remember, even though I wrote it when I was in the third or fourth grade.

“I was once just like you, with nothing in the world to do.

And then I learned what life was about and sang a song.

Sing a song, a million times or one. Sing a song, oh come along.

Sing a song, it will do you good. Sing a song, I wish you really would.”

Maybe my wisdom peaked at nine years old. Such a simple, childish song. Yet, so wise. I knew then life was all about singing your own song. Whatever the song is.

Giving thanks for this writing retreat

Thank you, Haven.

Thank you, soul sisters. You amazing creatures.

I can’t wait to celebrate your words and your lives.

I also hope you enjoy one of Laura’s favorite poems, which she shared as part of the ritual of Haven:

WILD GEESE
By Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile, the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

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