Weekend Journaling Prompt

The meaning of retreat

This week, I’ve been hosting a retreat at the beautiful Erth Barton in Cornwall.

The meadow at the back of the house at Erth Barton.

If you’ve been reading this newsletter lately, it will not surprise you to know that I’ve been watching the date nervously for a while - there were weeks when I couldn’t imagine how I was going to make it work. Originally, I’d planned for H and Bert to come with me; then I was just going to bring Bert and someone to keep him company. In the end, they both decided to stay home because H didn’t feel well enough and Bert didn’t want to leave him. I drove down on my own, feeling a little like I’d failed my family, and wondering if I could really serve my guests.

But then, that’s the defining experience of arriving at a retreat. Everyone feels the same. Should I really be here? What on earth is this for? Do I deserve this? Will it be weird? Will my family cope without me? Will I get on with all the other people? It’s no bad thing that I ask those questions too, because I never have any interest in pretending to be a person who has reached a perfect state of relaxation and peace. I’m here to get down into the weeds with other people who are craving a true break.

I don’t take photos of guests at my retreats, so they can rest their faces as well as their psyches. Here, my assistant Rebecca is getting involved in one of the activities.

I believe in retreating. I’ve been running retreats - on and off - for about 20 years now, and I know that they work. There’s no magic to it, but it feels magical. Sometimes, we just need a break from the sheer pace of everyday life, a space to think. It would be nice if we got that kind of space regularly, but mostly we do not. Stepping out of our routine - and having someone else take care of us - can help us see clearly.

Even the five-hour drive opened up that space for me. I began to see my world differently, to perceive some of my blocks and concerns. But being with other people in gentle company helped me even more. After months and years of just keeping going, it is so powerful to stop. And by powerful, I mean unsettling, joyful, sad, scary, hilarious and messy. All the good, releasing things.

I’m very aware that my residential retreats are not accessible to most people - mine are small, fancy, and only happen every two years or so*. Someone this week described them as a ‘bucket list or fuck-it list item’, which I really liked. But there are lots of alternatives, some very low-cost. Don’t necessarily be put off by the ones run by religious organisations - most are happy to welcome anyone, and come with no obligations. There’s a good directory of UK retreat centres here, or breaks for carers here. But you could also check out Arvon for writing retreats, or Common Ground for very fun literary pilgrimages. Maybe you can recommend somewhere you know in the comments?

Inside the 12th-century chapel at Erth Barton.

I also love Pico Iyer’s Learning from Silence / Aflame (same book, different title in the UK and US), which explores the experience of silent retreat.

* One of my revelations on retreat, a couple of years ago, was that I don’t have to personally provide for everyone. I offer a lot of low-cost and free things, and retreats aren’t one of them. Instead, I make a donation to the Respite Association for every retreat I run. That strikes a much better balance for me.

This week’s journaling prompt explores our need for rest and retreat.