Retreat

Getting a little lost--and finding myself again, in the process.

I had the incredible good fortune to spend the last two weeks of April at Hedgebrook, a writing retreat for women located near Seattle, Washington, on Whidbey Island. I expected my time there to be both restorative and productive (which it was), but I learned some things about myself at Hedgebrook that surprised me.

For instance: I’ve done writing residencies before, so I was prepared to face off with a tsunami of regret during my first couple of days. What was I thinking? Why did I do this? I can’t possibly just write for two whole weeks. But that didn’t happen this time, and at first I was a little alarmed. I wondered if that meant I’d become more depressed than I realized—if I’d turned into a person who just didn’t feel things anymore.

Then I realized that, first of all, my children are independent adults now. That was not the case during my prior residencies. Secondly, they’re also capable and trustworthy people, so I knew Mike was absolutely safe in their care. All of this led me to conclude that I wasn’t feeling regretful because I didn’t regret anything. I wasn’t sorry I’d taken this time for myself. And I didn’t feel even a little bit guilty about giving my full attention to the work of writing from Owl Cottage.

On one of my first days at Hedgebrook, I was taking a long, meditative walk through the woods (on one of the many paths designed for just for that purpose) when I started to feel a little lost and nervous. I had a photo of the Hedgebrook trail map on my phone, and I knew all the trails connected to each other, so there’s really no way to get lost—that’s a design feature of the land. But it wasn’t until I rounded a bend and saw something familiar up ahead that I relaxed a bit and thought Okay, I’m all right.

And that’s the moment when I also had a little epiphany.

In college, I often retreated to the arboretum at the University of Idaho when I was feeling stressed out about life in general; losing myself among the trees for a while helped me to remember that there are places where petty human dramas don’t matter all that much. (The trees do not much care about your regrettable weekend behavior.) In those days, the arboretum wasn’t as fancy as it is now. It certainly wasn’t the botanical garden that’s been added to its name. The old arboretum was more like the sort of overgrown vacant lot you might find in a wooded neighborhood, although it did include a few cleared trails and the occasional picnic table.

But I’d walk around in the arboretum until all was well with my soul again, until I thought Okay, I’m all right. I had forgotten all about that until I found myself in a similar moment at Hedgebrook—and then I remembered that I had a whole life before I became a wife and mother and dementia caregiver. There was a time when it was just me and the trees. And although the human drama I’m dealing with now is anything but petty, it’s still something I can manage by returning to myself. The world won’t stop if I step away and focus on getting what I need. Moments of peace aren’t completely lost to me.

I spent a lot of time thinking while I stared into the trees from this window seat. I spent a lot of time writing, too—that was the whole point of my retreat—and I have a complete draft of my memoir manuscript in place. It’s in the hands of a few trusted readers now, and once I have their feedback I’ll be trying to find a home for it with a publisher.

It’s possible this would have happened even without my time at Hedgebrook—writing can happen anywhere, after all. But I know I wouldn’t feel the same way about that manuscript. What had been a story about my frenetic struggle to deal with my husband’s early-onset dementia turned out to be the story of how I’ve learned to make peace with where I am now. With who I am now.

Not lost. Maybe wandering a bit. But, in the end, I’m going to be all right.