I hosted my first Writing and Wellness Retreat over the weekend. How to explain the writer’s retreat? In a word…I can’t do it. Life-changing? That’s two words. A dream come true? That’s a phrase, overused and too saccharine. Teachable moments? There were many. Exhausting? Emotionally draining? Challenging? Hard work? That just sounds like I’m complaining about an experience that was truly incredible, but in truth, all of those words are true to the experience.
Perhaps a word won’t do the writer’s retreat justice, but I can capture the retreat in the moments that stood out for me; in the moments that are mine to share.
So much of what happened is not mine to share because the stories are simply not mine. When you are the host, or the teacher, you are there to give of yourself and to take in and try and improve what others have to offer. I was there as a guide, not primarily as a creator. So that will be my story.
The themes we touched on were heavy, I can tell you that much: cancer, loss, abuse, grief, violence, trauma, love. I have read memoir of unspeakable things: children dying, rape, gruesome murder, tragic deaths, devastating disease and deformities and yet I didn’t know the authors. They weren’t standing facing me, looking me in the eye. I didn’t care about the authors whose books I read the way I cared about the participants at my retreat. Their stories will haunt me always, but not in a way that I want to forget, but in a way I will hold with me and want to remember.
There were tears. Of course there were tears. I cried when I wrote my memoir, but I hadn’t anticipated the tears would be mine this time; that I would be blubbering. In the seemingly most unlikely scenario, a writer took me by surprise, she sideswiped me and I was carried away by a sea of tears. I don’t think she would mind me sharing that it was motherhood that did me in. I held it together through the abuse and the trauma and the unspeakable violence, but tell me about the chair you nursed your babes in, the cheap one from Sears with the stains on it; the one you stuffed granola bars into the side pockets for the late night feedings when you got the munchies (nice detail, I might add). Then tell me that nine years after you purchased that rocking chair, the time has come to let it go, and I will come undone. The flood gates will open and I won’t be able to stop my tears. The tears find their way back even now, thinking about it again. It’s the mundane everyday things, a rocking chair, that can really get ya. My friend believed her piece wouldn’t have the same emotional punch as some of the darker subjects, but it’s all in how you tell the story and man, she knocked me right out.
She shared her story, as we all did, during the Saturday night Writer’s Circle I organized. This evening event, which proceeded our Chef-created dinner and scrumptious dessert, was one of my favourite times of the whole weekend. Everyone shared a piece of writing, one to two pages, and then we discussed it. As my friend read her piece about the rocking chair, she hit a nerve – I realized I will be in the exact same position as her next year, sending my last baby off to school. I was sitting next to her, and as she read her piece aloud, at one point she needed a comforting gesture, a hand on her shoulder to help her get through it, but instead of leaning in, I threw my hands in the air, sobbing, “Don’t look at me. I can’t help you!” Some facilitator I am. Whatever happened that night, I know I’m not the only one who felt the energy in the room, it was magic. There was talent, raw talent, and though sadness and loss and grief and pain and tragedy wove their way through many of the pieces shared, there was also so much hope sitting in that room. Love, hope, acceptance and peace. Resilience. Perhaps, in allowing ourselves to connect with others, we open ourselves up to moving forward in our grief and in letting the good flow into and out of our hearts.
While the writer’s retreat was never specifically geared to narrative non-fiction, primarily that is what participants wrote and therefore the weekend shifted to a more personal focus. I therefore played the dual role of writing coach/ therapist.
Creating this weekend, for me, was about bringing writers together, feeling inspired by each other, but also to see if I wanted to teach creative writing. I begin my Master in Fine Arts for creative writing, narrative nonfiction, this spring and at its completion I will be officially qualified to teach writing at the college level – did that even interest me? As it turns out, it does! I was privileged to spend some one-on-one time conferencing with two of the participants and to work through their stories with them, and – as hard as that was, emotionally – I loved it!
I am so grateful to the six women who took a chance on me and for putting themselves out there. Grateful to myself for putting away my fears of who do you think you are? and just going for it. Grateful to my husband, as always, for his support and care of our children. Grateful to our wonderful Chef, Sheila Ward from LOCA foods, and yoga instructor, Erica Forbes, and to the cottage owner and my friend Randi with all the connections and to the universe for conspiring to bring it all together. And, I am especially grateful for the opportunity to do it all again in May, and for the writers whose names are already on the waiting list.