by Laura Munson | Mar 15, 2024 | Uncategorized
As seen in Pangyrus
I have always been more than one person. When I was married with young children, I was at least four people. A woman. A wife. A mother. A writer. When I had a party, and that was often, I upped the ante and became many more people: a musician/singer/entertainer/chef/hostess. In other words, I threw parties in overwhelm mode. You just wouldn’t know it. I certainly didn’t.
I didn’t know that I was reverting to my early childhood in which I was asked to perform for the guests. I hated performing for the guests back then, but as an adult, I learned to entertain on my own terms and frankly, I learned that I truly loved pulling out my guitar, getting everyone singing, passing around good cheese, whipping out the good china, serving an impressive spread of lovingly prepared food. It all brought me joy. Or so I thought.
I was locally famous for my parties. I went all out. Full on Martha. I had the house and the stuff and the energy and the friends, and I loved being a hostess to all of it. One time I actually rode my horse five miles down a busy road full of logging trucks to give pony rides at my daughter’s horse-themed seventh birthday party because the horse trailer bottomed out. I wasn’t about to let that get in the way of my promise to a gaggle of little girls, and mostly to my daughter. Our Christmas party had a half mile of candle-lit luminaria (real candles) all the way up our country road in the snow. There were various cooked beasts, stacks of homemade Christmas cookies, garlands everywhere. People said it was like something out of Dickens.
I was proud of what we created in our home and as a family. Parties were a way to not just share it all, but perhaps to prove it all. That’s where the lesson lived. I just wasn’t ready yet to receive it.
It helped that I had a partner in those days. My husband. He liked to throw parties too and he was good at taking direction and he was good at innovation when I didn’t know what directions to give. We were good together in this way. But eventually we were not good together. And then I was no longer married.
Then I was fighting to keep my house and my children and my stuff intact. And the horses had to go. And the china became something perhaps ebay-able. And the parties stopped. I didn’t have the money, but moreover, I didn’t have the energy. And there was this new piece of it: shame. That chapter of our bounteous, glorious creation had come to an end. The only thing that mattered to me was to tend to my children, and fortify our little pack of three. There were ten years of that.
“Mom, you should throw a party,” my young adult children recently implored. “You used to be so much fun! This house used to be so alive!” And I realized that in my years of triage, I’d let go of the fun part of me. That’s the part I’d been longing to recover, and I didn’t realize it until yesterday.
Because yesterday… I had my first dinner party in years. I invited people who I really wanted to pamper for being so kind to me over the years, and a few out-of-towners from my childhood who I, admittedly, wanted to impress. I concocted a menu that would satisfy and maybe even impress Martha, esq. That was the problem: I was trying to impress “Martha,” who quite likely was behind the same voices that asked me to perform at my parents’ parties. And the part of me that had to prove herself in my early years as a hostess. The problem was, nowhere in this equation did I factor in happiness. Hosting that party did not make me happy.
Today, I ask myself: What would it take to make party-giver Laura happy, as the woman you are today? Isn’t that what a party should evoke in a person? Happiness? Joy?
I mean, was I happy going to five different stores to get the ingredients? For four days? Was I happy doing a garden overhaul and pulling all the grass that’s taken over in the years of letting go of the pretty things and holding the essentials together? Was I happy ignoring my back, which was screaming at me to STOP, and instead saying aloud to no one, “I can go for another fifteen minutes without it going out on me.” All day long?
Was I happy baking an apricot torte and two loaves of homemade sourdough bread, which takes three days if I do it correctly? And I did it correctly. Was I happy running to Costco for throw pillows three hours before my guests came, because I chose to make things that I’ve never made before and didn’t account for the extra chopping time (Gazpacho salad. And yes, Martha’s recipe). Was I happy in the eleventh hour chucking new throw pillows that I only sort of liked on my patio furniture to distract from the mildew? Apparently, I was going for some sort of used-to-be-me award that I thought I’d given up on a long time ago.
So I was behind. Waaaay behind. And I started to miss having a partner. Someone who could cover for me. Usher them outside and show them the garden while I composed myself. I mean… for the first time in years, I’d made my home, inside and outside, so fabulous. The silver was polished. The piano was tuned. There were cherry tomatoes and lavender and sunflowers blooming in planters on my deck. I’d made my bed and everything! It’s me that I’d neglected in all of it.
I cut it so close that when my guests arrived, I was still in the clothes I’d gardened in, sweat dripping down my face, my back teetering on giving out. I received their lovely gifts and bottles of wine from their coiffed and fully primped selves, with my mangled, muddy fingers, and limping, said, “Come on in!”
I really wanted to be primped and coiffed and sitting there like my mother when her guests arrived: casually doing needlepoint like, “Oh yeah! I forgot that I was throwing a dinner party for thirteen people! Welcome. I just so happen to have a full bar and a four-course homemade dinner awaiting you. Gimlet?”
Maybe I could get them a quick glass of wine and send them out to the garden while I cleaned up and changed clothes. They all followed me into the kitchen.
Historically, I’ve loved the fact that my kitchen is in the middle of the house. It’s where everyone wants to hang out anyway. But in that moment, I was thinking, Why is the kitchen in the middle of the house? There should be doors. Locked doors. So that I can make the food in privacy, kick the fridge closed, ignite my hot pad holder in flames, swear like a sailor.
They were all so gracious. “What can I do to help?” And I really didn’t know what to do with all that love. I’ve been a solo act for a long time now.
I wanted to say, “Oh, la. Don’t you lift a finger. What can I get you to drink?” But I was visibly rattled. My back was shooting nerve pain down my legs. And I almost snapped. I all but said, “If you could just leave me alone for half an hour, I’ll have my s*** together. But right now, I’m drinking from the firehose. And it’s all my fault. Apparently, I think it’s three decades ago.” I think I said something like: “Here’s a glass of wine. Go have a seat in the garden. Eat cheese. I’ll be out soon.”
Once we were all seated at the dinner table, and the candles were lit, and everything in its right place, one of my guests said, “Oh we need a photo! This is so beautiful!” She snapped a photo of the group and sent it to me. I’m looking at it today, sitting in my pajamas, with a sink of dirty dishes, because I wouldn’t let anyone help clean up, and after they left, my back was so wrecked, I couldn’t deal. They all look so happy in the photo. I… do not.
What would it take for me to be happy as a single hostess? Does it depend on saying yes to help? To letting things be a little rough around the edges, because I am most definitely that. To give up perfection altogether? I mean, why is it so hard to admit our imperfection? Why is there shame in it? And just what was I trying to prove, anyway, by splaying myself supplicant on the altar of that party? That I’m capable of creating magic without any help from a spouse, partner, or guest? That I’ve held down the fort and am thriving solo? Probably. I should know better than to try to prove myself to anybody. So enter: shame. Shame that I’m only one person, after all, not many. Shame that I don’t know how to say yes to help. Shame that I wasn’t able to show my true self. And shame that I set myself up for all of it.
Rolling in shame never helped anyone. Instead, I finally feel ready to receive the lesson I’ve been avoiding: Proving myself as a happy, gracious hostess isn’t at all a useful undertaking. In fact, it’s a myth that needs to die. It’s time to be a proud, and healthy team of one. I learned yesterday that I need to value my energy level, my body, my time, my reality, not what once was. And that means: I need to not over-produce and not overwhelm myself. I need to have the courage to say yes to the “Can I help?” question, rather than consider it a defeat.
Especially when we are a team of one, we need to learn to truly value our happiness and well-being. And that means, we likely need to drop the quest to impress people or prove ourselves. Can’t parties just be an act of generosity, to others and to oneself? So my next dinner party? I’m thinking: potluck. Want to come? Please bring a side dish.
Is Haven Writing Retreats calling you?
If you want to find your heart language in community, consider investing in one of my 2024 Haven Writing Retreats in Montana. You do not have to be a writer to come. Just a seeker. And a human who longs to wander in your words. Learn your craft. Find your voice. Haven truly meets you where you need to be met. I’ve seen it change lives over and over again. Email: laura@lauramunson.com to set up an intro call.
Haven Writing Retreats 2024
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by Laura Munson | Aug 3, 2023 | Musings, Uncategorized
***Still a few rare spots left on my October 24-27 Haven Writing Retreat! To book an intro call, go here.
As seen on Maria Shriver’s Sunday Paper
Montanans like to say, “You won’t know that a mountain lion’s stalking you until you feel its teeth on the back of your neck.”
For years, I felt that stalking— those teeth. The thing is: I rarely felt that way in the woods. Instead, I felt that way in the grocery store, in my office, doing the laundry, lying in bed at 4 a.m. with my eyes wide open. When the stress of life spiked, I could feel this way for weeks at a time. And I knew that it had to stop.
If you are someone who works very hard, whether in a profession or passion or role of any sort, it’s likely that you know what I mean. And it’s likely that you are keeping it all inside. Smiles on the outside buying broccoli, but duking it out in your mind all-the-while. And on top of that: you know better. That’s the worst part: knowing better.
For years, each morning before I got out of bed— before the fangs threatened to set in my neck— I tried to create a calm and steady clean slate for the day. I had (and still have) different methods: prayer, meditation, breathing, reading poems, writing in my journal. These modalities would start to catch, and I’d feel that liminal lifting into a free, calm place that I hoped I could sustain all day. I figured the more I practiced, the more I’d be free of those seemingly ever-present fangs, and live in serenity and balance. It felt like a matter of life or death.
But all too often, sometimes before I’d even finished brushing my teeth, my ears would be ringing, my brain buzzing, my stomach churning. I’d catch myself holding my breath. My shoulders up in my jawline. My teeth clenched. And again, what made it even worse: I knew better. This quieting of the mind and body seemed insurmountable, no matter how hard I tried. And moreover, I couldn’t keep lying to myself about how severely this pressure (that I put on myself, by the way), ran my life.
There’s nothing like a warning from a dear and dying friend who, two weeks before she died, told me: “You feed that mangy wolf. You don’t have to. I know you and you’ll still create what you need to create. But you can do it differently.”
Her memorial service is what began my quest to find that “differently.” There was a lot of talk about the mangy wolf (which is what she called her cancer). And me with my stalking mangy mountain lion. I walked out into the world after that gathering, and with tears in my eyes, I said, “I will not feed you. Not for one more second. I am not going to compartmentalize my freedom any longer.”
So, I started asking the wise, passionate (and yes, busy) women in my life how they managed their wise, passionate, busy lives…
I realized that I’d been spending too much time talking with the ones who were running from the fangs, like me. Instead, I chose the ones with the true smiles buying broccoli— the ones who say they’re fine and mean it.
I started with a friend who is one of the best balancers of stress I know, as well as the busiest. I ranted: “I love my job. I love teaching and leading writing retreats. I love everything about helping people find their voice and their flow and their ease, using the written word. But every single day I look at my Google calendar and I feel like I need to fasten my seatbelt. There’s too much on it and I’m letting it run my life.”
She paused, giving me time to digest my words. “You can change that if you really want to. The question is: do you really want to? Or is being crazy-busy part of your identity? Have you normalized this behavior because it somehow serves you? That’s the question.”
The heavens opened. “It is not serving me.”
It all started unraveling then, as epiphanies tend to do.
What if I stopped running in this race against myself? Would the sky fall? Likely not. I’d likely still get to my destination, just not out of breath, on fumes, in adrenal blowout, feeling like I’m about to be attacked.
Then my friend said, “I’ve heard you speak about your relationship with your muse. That your writing is your free zone and the way you breathe. Once you’re in the act, there’s no inner critic. The stress is gone. And you’re like a child at play in the field of wonder.”
“That’s the truth,” I replied. “The inner critic— she’s the greatest stress spinner of all. But not while I’m writing. I don’t let her anywhere near that. Same with the retreats and all the teaching I do. Sacrosanct, wonderous, ground.”
My friend’s eyes widened and her smile spread. “So why not treat your whole life the same way? Why not just put down that sword you’re carrying around in all your roles. You’ve proven yourself. You can let yourself breathe now. You can work just as hard, and get just as much out of it, but with self-kindness. Curiosity. Wonder. Calm. Balance. Even freedom.”
Sounded possible. But honestly…improbable. Then I remembered that years ago, when I started leading writing retreats, I asked a wise, veteran, retreat leader friend for some advice. I knew I would be fine in the usual departments: leadership, inspiration, craft-instruction, editing, positive energy, and group dynamics. My concern stemmed from a fear that I wouldn’t know how to keep myself from taking on each individual’s emotions and problems. People who want to write are usually working through high-stakes emotions and high-stakes problems.
She said, “Give half of what you want to give, and it will be more than enough.” It took me a while before I really put her wisdom to work. Once I did, it was metamorphic.
So I made a date with her. “I know how to have good boundaries at my retreats. But not in my relationship with the stressors in my life.”
“Try this.” She put her palms out flat, one to the sky, and the other to the ground, and she stretched her arms as far as they would go in each direction. Then she did the same thing to both sides of herself.
“Ah,” I said. “Protection.”
She smiled. “It’s more than that. Protection implies that there’s something to protect yourself from. Think of it like you’re creating space for yourself that’s only yours. Claimed space. At work. At play. Everywhere you go.”
Huh. Space for myself.
I tried her technique but couldn’t quite fully pull it off. The mangy mountain lion still found a way to break through.
I am a word wanderer. Maybe it was a word that I needed, as the anonymous 14th century Christian mystic prescribed in The Cloud of Unknowing.
“Take a little word of just one syllable to help you focus your attention. The shorter the word the better…Choose a word like ‘God’ or ‘love’ or any other word of one syllable that appeals to you and impress it indelibly on your heart so that it is always there…”
I’d read that book decades ago, written about it, used it as a practice, and lost it along the way. One word. One word that would become a hymn that I could never not hear. A word that played itself inside me, ringing through the rafters of my ribs and sending sound ripples throughout my whole body and whole being.
I thought of my friend’s space-creating practice, and I brought in the word space. Space around me. Space that no one could infiltrate. Space that was pressure-less. Stressless.
Each morning I spent time before I opened my eyes, repeating the word space in my mind, and imagining this free space around me. Not my physical being. My unseen one. My soul. It worked, sort of. But space is such a, well, spacious, massive, unending creature. So, I welcomed other words…and then one day, my Word came to me: room.
Room felt better. A place I could occupy. Room in the way of space, but also a room around me that was all mine. No one was allowed in— like my childhood treehouse. I realized that this is exactly how I feel about my writing, my retreats, and everything I teach…where no mangy mountain lion dares to enter.
Virginia Woolf’s “A Room of One’s Own” made new and utter sense to me. A room can be a physical place, and I believe that everyone needs a sacred, impenetrable space for themselves, no matter what they do. Even if it’s very small. But suddenly I looked at a room as an inner holding— one that I could fill with the essence of myself.
Because the essence of myself is not running scared, waiting for life to pounce. The essence of myself is in co-creation with something hungry for something entirely pure, joyful, and free. I think of that Word— room— and say it in my mind, and I am instantly centered in this calm, gentle, playful, wonderous, safe inner-worldly (and inner-wordly) place. May you find your Word, too.
Still a few rare spots left on my October 25-29 Haven Writing Retreat! For more info go here.
To book an introductory call, talk about your writing dreams, and how Haven could be a match for you, email me!
You do not have to be a writer to receive all that Haven is. Just a seeker. A word-wanderer. Come finally find your voice, set your writing on fire, and get the teaching, mentorship, and community you deserve! All in the glory of The Dancing Spirit Ranch in stunning Flathead Valley, Montana.
TESTIMONIALS:
If you have always wanted to share your ideas, thoughts, stories through writing or become a better writing coach/teacher Laura Munson’s Haven Writing Retreats are for you. I can honestly say that in all my years as an educator, and as a learner, I have never had such a loving, giving, and deeply moving learning experience as I did under Laura’s expert instruction. Being a writer is such a complex task, and Laura breaks things down so expertly, creates safe spaces, and ensures that you are given the kind of feedback that lifts you and makes you a much better wordsmith than when you first entered her magical place in the Montana mountains. I highly recommend this experience for anyone, no matter where you are in your writing path. What an experience that I will never forget. Thank you, Laura and your Haven!
—Misty from Maine (Educator, School Principal, Director of Curriculum, Coach for Educators, Writer)
Attending Laura Munson’s Haven Writing Retreat fulfilled a bucket list item for me. The Haven experience gave me a new level of validation and confidence I’ve been needing over the last several years. The connection I was able to make with my Haven group was both healing, enlightening, and inspiring. We wrote and read and ate and laughed and cried together. For the first time in my writing life, at Haven, I heard my own voice clear and distinct because I also heard theirs. I understood how and why the way I choose to communicate is not only unique but also important. Laura’s program and approach also helped me make significant progress in solidifying my next writing project. I have a million ideas daily, which is often overwhelming. Attending Haven set me firmly on my current path; now I’m going forward. I highly recommend Haven not only to writers, but also to anyone who needs to take a true beat, to re-connect with who they are, and where they are going.
—Penelope from PA (Author, Professional Speaker)
My experience at Laura Munson’s Haven Writing Retreat was indeed life changing.
I signed up at a point in my life when I wasn’t quite sure if I was a writer, but I knew I loved it and decided to take a leap of faith. I am so incredibly glad I did! I left the retreat knowing I am indeed a writer and with a newfound commitment to tell my story. Laura is a fearless leader, a visionary, and a brilliant teacher. Each day was intensely focused and I found myself having an “aha” moment nearly every hour as, with her guidance, I figured out who I am as a writer and how best to express my story. The sense of community was immediate, and the opportunity to sit in a room of supportive people was a first for me, as I’m sure it is for many. Laura leads critiques with a fearless and positive tone, carefully considering each person’s individual needs.
I am so incredibly grateful for the beautiful Montana location and for Laura’s grace and open hearted joy in lovingly leading a group of writers to the next page in their journey. No matter where you are as writer, at the very beginning, or published multiple times,
the Haven Writing Retreat will expand your soul and stay in your heart forever.
—Lisbeth from Malibu, California
(Composer, singer, songwriter….and writer!)
Whoever declared “Haven is an MFA in five days!” was bang on. This surprising retreat delivers a wealth of publishing information, writing sessions that inspire, sage guidance on narrative structure, gentle while exacting feedback, and, to boot, ongoing writerly support. The setting is a stunning expanse of land, cared for in a sacred way. And all led by Laura Munson, twice over bestselling author, with her fierce command of how to teach writing (by every eclectic means thinkable). What fun we had! And how hard we worked!
If you want to open up your future, I urge you to jump in (and there’s often financial wizardry for those of us penniless, through the Haven Foundation).After five days retreating, a little solo steeping time is suggested before reentering family and community. But when you emerge, words will come with you—words and words and words!
—Kathleen Meyer, author of How to Shit in the Woods, Victor, MT
by Laura Munson | Jul 15, 2023 | Uncategorized
On this summer weekend day, I awoke early, and with a little girl’s butterflies.
A whole day of solitude ahead of me, to write, read, walk in the woods with my dogs, sit on my favorite stump and watch the forest theater. It occurred to me that I hadn’t written in my journal for a while, even though it’s one of the most sacred places I know to go. It’s where I check in with my soul, and have all my life. To that end, I was shocked to see that I’d neglected my journal all through COVID. The last entry was just before my book tour for Willa’s Grove in March of 2020! You’d think I would have needed my journal more than ever in those years. But, like so many of us, I was re-inventing my work life, keeping things afloat in my personal life, processing this massive global plot-twist. I wasn’t thinking about making space for my soul-language. I was on over-drive, just trying to make ends meet. But no journal-writing? What was I thinking? Had I replaced my soul-life with my work-life? Was that even possible?
So it’s no surprise that words cascaded out of me. Twenty-four pages in two hours, hardly able to keep up with my pen. It was like I’d had a waterfall on pause for a few years, and I finally had the courage to push “play” again. My soul wanted to talk. And as I allowed room for its language, I felt myself rooting in the essence of my being. My whole being. Not in the compartmentalized facets of my different roles in life. Compartments I love. But still fractured from the whole. It was like re-meeting my whole self for the first time in far too long.
It got me thinking about soul-neglect. How we drop our lifelines, often when we need them most. It should be the other way around. I knew I needed to take a serious look at my relationship with soul. Can you really part ways with soul? Can you really lose its language? Can you really forget to listen? What happens when you fail to create sacred space for it? And to that end, just what is the soul, anyway?
So I went through my shelves, looking for a book I read when I was a new writer in 1992. Thomas Moore’s Care of the Soul. In it he writes: “Soul is not a thing but a quality or dimension of experiencing life and ourselves. It has to do with depth, value, relatedness, heart and personal substance.” I took heart in the fact that Moore believes that the soul cannot be separated from body, family, work, love, or power. So maybe my soul finally said Enough is enough. Go to your deepest lifeline: your journal. I’ll meet you there so that you can see me. Remember me. Love me. Trust me. Align with me in everything that you are passionate about. Personal. Work. All of it. Let’s become whole again.
I wanted more, so I reached for Meister Eckhart, because even though he was writing in the 14th century, the truth that I find in his words is always timeless, love being what it is. I read these words:
“When the soul wants to experience something, she throws out an image in front of her and then steps into it.”
And I realized that this is what I did in 2012 when I broadened my world and added new roles to my life, outside of my writing and motherhood. Suddenly I was a writing teacher, editor, retreat facilitator, and on-line writing community leader which includes doing live workshops, and interviewing experts…all new terrain. Without knowing it, I was stepping into a future my soul already saw. I can see it now so clearly. And while helping other people write is one of the greatest gifts of my life, sometimes the energy and time it takes to run the business around all of these passions of mine…overwhelms my vision of the whole.
Writing in my journal this morning, for my eyes only and for no other cause but my own, to my soul, woke something in me that I’d let go dangerously dormant.
And as life so often behaves, just when I gave myself the time to care for my soul, I received four back-to-back surprise gifts: notes from recent retreaters, thanking me for their Haven experience, and with generous testimonials. Not expected, but very much appreciated. Because it was as if they were really notes from my soul, reminding me that when we create space for writing in a journal, we remind ourselves who we really are, and contact the essence of our being. I don’t teach journal-writing. I’m so committed to teaching craft, voice, and how to structure writing projects and writing practices. But maybe I ought to bring a journal-writing practice into the way I teach. Either way, I know that I can’t lose this personal soul-practice ever again.
Whatever it is that you do for work, I hope you know that it’s touching people. Somehow. In some way. Big or little. And often, just when you’re least aware of it. But don’t neglect your soul along the way. If you have a dusty journal sitting around, please consider blowing the dust off of it and inviting your pen, and your soul, to meet. We all need something outside our work that is ours only. Sometimes we lose track of the difference between our work and ourselves. But trust that your soul is never separate. You just need to honor her. She might be throwing out an image in front of her so that you, and others, can step into it.
Thank you to those who offered me these soulful words:
If you have always wanted to share your ideas, thoughts, stories through writing or become a better writing coach/teacher Laura Munson’s Haven Writing Retreats are for you. I can honestly say that in all my years as an educator, and as a learner, I have never had such a loving, giving, and deeply moving learning experience as I did under Laura’s expert instruction. Being a writer is such a complex task, and Laura breaks things down so expertly, creates safe spaces, and ensures that you are given the kind of feedback that lifts you and makes you a much better wordsmith than when you first entered her magical place in the Montana mountains. I highly recommend this experience for anyone, no matter where you are in your writing path. What an experience that I will never forget. Thank you, Laura and your Haven!
—Misty from Maine (Educator, School Principal, Director of Curriculum, Coach for Educators, Writer)
Attending Laura Munson’s Haven Writing Retreat fulfilled a bucket list item for me. The Haven experience gave me a new level of validation and confidence I’ve been needing over the last several years. The connection I was able to make with my Haven group was both healing, enlightening, and inspiring. We wrote and read and ate and laughed and cried together. For the first time in my writing life, at Haven, I heard my own voice clear and distinct because I also heard theirs. I understood how and why the way I choose to communicate is not only unique but also important. Laura’s program and approach also helped me make significant progress in solidifying my next writing project. I have a million ideas daily, which is often overwhelming. Attending Haven set me firmly on my current path; now I’m going forward. I highly recommend Haven not only to writers, but also to anyone who needs to take a true beat, to re-connect with who they are, and where they are going.
—Penelope from PA (Author, Professional Speaker)
My experience at Laura Munson’s Haven Writing Retreat was indeed life changing. I signed up at a point in my life when I wasn’t quite sure if I was a writer, but I knew I loved it and decided to take a leap of faith. I am so incredibly glad I did! I left the retreat knowing I am indeed a writer and with a newfound commitment to tell my story. Laura is a fearless leader, a visionary, and a brilliant teacher. Each day was intensely focused and I found myself having an “aha” moment nearly every hour as, with her guidance, I figured out who I am as a writer and how best to express my story. The sense of community was immediate, and the opportunity to sit in a room of supportive people was a first for me, as I’m sure it is for many. Laura leads critiques with a fearless and positive tone, carefully considering each person’s individual needs.
I am so incredibly grateful for the beautiful Montana location and for Laura’s grace and open hearted joy in lovingly leading a group of writers to the next page in their journey.
No matter where you are as writer, at the very beginning, or published multiple times,
the Haven Writing Retreat will expand your soul and stay in your heart forever.
—Lisbeth from Malibu, California (Composer, singer, songwriter….and writer!)
Whoever declared “Haven is an MFA in five days!” was bang on. This surprising retreat delivers a wealth of publishing information, writing sessions that inspire, sage guidance on narrative structure, gentle while exacting feedback, and, to boot, ongoing writerly support. The setting is a stunning expanse of land, cared for in a sacred way. And all led by Laura Munson, twice over bestselling author, with her fierce command of how to teach writing (by every eclectic means thinkable). What fun we had! And how hard we worked!
If you want to open up your future, I urge you to jump in (and there’s often financial wizardry for those of us penniless, through the Haven Foundation).
After five days retreating, a little solo steeping time is suggested before reentering family and community. But when you emerge, words will come with you—words and words and words!
—Kathleen Meyer, author of How to Shit in the Woods, Victor, MT
***To learn more about Haven Writing Retreats and to book a one-hour introductory call with Laura, click here.
2023 Haven Writing Retreats:
Sept. 13-17 (full)
Sept. 27-Oct. 1 (two spots left)
Oct. 25-29 (still room)
Now Booking 2024 Haven Writing Retreats:
March 20-24
May 1-5
May 28- June 2
June 5- 9
September 18-22
September 25-September 29
October 23-27 |
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by Laura Munson | Dec 11, 2022 | Uncategorized
As seen on Maria Shriver’s Sunday Paper
My twenty-something children called a family meeting.
I readied myself. These are always emotionally-loaded, especially in the way of surrender.
“Let’s have an experience for Christmas this year,” said my daughter. “We need new traditions.”
My son added, “We have enough stuff. Let’s go somewhere.”
Don’t talk. Just listen. A good mantra if you want your twenty-somethings to actually hang out with you.
“We’re not married yet. No kids. Let’s take advantage of it!” said my daughter. “Your writing retreat season is over. And you’re still young enough to go to cool places with us.”
“Gee. Thanks?” But they were right on all accounts. Still, I wondered: what about our tree? Our party? Our time-honored feasts? Did tradition mean nothing to them? I knew sentimentalism was not viable. So I upped my cool game. “I’ve wanted to go to Costa Rica since college. If my last protagonist can follow a hummingbird migration from Montana to Costa Rica, so can I!”
My kids’ eyes glazed over: their reaction to most books, mine or otherwise. I flashed then on a book we loved in the way of holiday, comfort, family, love: A Christmas Memory by Truman Capote. We read it every year around the Thanksgiving table like a hymn. Were they asking me to surrender all our traditions? Did everything have to be new? I couldn’t imagine the holidays without reading that book among the sparkling china-crystal-silver legacies of family tradition. My children growing year-by-year into the ones who sat before me now. Wander-lustful.
I’d been a wander-lustful mother, creating joy and inspiration in our own back yard.
Sure, we’d travelled, but home was where the hearth was in those years. I pictured their innocent eyes dancing as they listened to the story about a boy and his aunt collecting the ingredients for their holiday fruitcake, replete with bootlegger’s hooch. So simple and profound, the little customs that hold people’s big hearts together. If my children balked, I’d say, “You’ll cherish this one day.” It was non-negotiable.
And sure enough, I’d catch them tearing up over the always-gutting line: “When you’re grown up, will we still be friends?” We knew that the special brand of “friendship” between an elder and a child was so often fleeting, especially that of a mother and child. But I’d made it clear: whatever the future brought, I would be there as mother, friend, or any iteration of both. Non-negotiable.
As they spun the proverbial globe to find a new holiday hearth, I considered my perhaps over-attachment to tradition. And it occurred to me that traditions have greater stakes in the wake of divorce. We’d proven to be a unified front in that wake, we three. Even when it felt like more of a mother-performed CPR effort than a Dickens-inspired dream, we’d forged on with the tree, the cedar garlands, the Christmas party with “kids from one to ninety-two.” Our house remained full of life. Our hearth stayed warm. Everyone still said, “This is the coziest house ever.” In those years, my kids had begged to read A Christmas Memory. It somehow promised us: Everything’s going to be okay.
Had we landed in okay? Was that the cause for this holiday re-set?
And was that okay defined by whether or not our “friendship” had morphed into seasoned, adult friendship?
“What about Ireland?” my daughter said. “It’s cozy. Like home. But new.”
“We can leave Santa a Guinness on Christmas Eve,” my son said, winking.
That was last Christmas. We drove all over Ireland. Laughed until we cried. Ate like gluttons. Sipped hot whiskey after days of whipping winds. Sang sea shanties in pubs. Like friends…who know that the real gifts cannot be bought.
Here’s what secured it:
Over High Tea in Dublin, my daughter gasped. “We forgot to read the book!”
I smiled. “Actually…I thought it would be nice to read it here. The old with the new.”
Both their faces lit up. “You brought it?!”
“You’ve taught me: the heart, and hearth, travel. Thank you.”
And that night, tears in our eyes, we read our copy of A Christmas Memory in this new way. And it was clear that our “friendship” had made it to the other side. I would always be their mother, but we were friends now, too.
This year: Costa Rica. A book will find its way to the jungle, and with hummingbirds around us, we’ll see who we are to each other when those old, beloved words take another twirl through our hearts.
Now booking Haven Writing Retreats 2023. To set up an introductory call, please email Laura: laura@lauramunson.com
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by Laura Munson | Nov 9, 2022 | Uncategorized
You know that thing you want so badly but you’ve told yourself you just can’t have? For decades? That thing which you know would change your health, your happiness, your creativity, your general outlook on life, your hope in yourself and in your future? That thing?
I’m not talking about something that you think would be good for someone else. Although I’m sure you would be very good at helping that someone else say yes to that good thing that you’re so crystal-clear-sure would change everything for them. That thing they’ve been hinting at but have not yet fully claimed. I’m sure you’d have a whole Atticus Finch persuasive argument about why their lives might even depend on them saying yes to it. I’m sure that you’d be willing to take billable hours out of your workday to persuade them to say yes.
And you’d be smart about it. You’d wait until their birthday. When they’d have to say yes. You’d take them to their favorite restaurant. You’d order them their favorite thing on earth that they’d never order on their own: oysters on the half shell and a glass of prosecco. You’d wait until the first one slid down their throat, followed by a savored sip of bubbly, and then in the blush of their first, sated sigh— something that you haven’t heard from them in months…then and only then…you’d look at them lovingly, but direly, and say:
“It’s time. You know you have to do this big, beautiful thing for yourself. You’ve been hinting at it forever. If I’m getting sick of it, you must really be sick of it. What would happen if you said yes on this next trip around the sun? Would the sky fall? I’m here to promise you: the sky isn’t going to fall. Not because you finally gave yourself permission to say yes to this thing that you want so deeply but can’t even form full sentences about. Just…groans.”
And their faces would flicker with the possibility of finally granting themselves this thing they’ve wanted for years. They’d look like a child for that flicker of a moment. You’d know what their face looked like when they found a penny and put it into a gumball machine and out came a glistening pink orb. So much possibility!
But then their faces would fade into old stories that they have no idea how to rewrite. And they’d utter any number of renditions of the following:
We don’t spend money on ourselves in our family.
It’s selfish.
We suffer and silently feel proud of living in lack. With smiles on our faces, and a lot of ‘I’m fine, how are you?’
We’ve been that way for generations.
Who am I to break the chain just because of something that I want?
So badly. That I can taste it.
Then they’d cross their arms over their chest and look in every direction but into your eyes, and they’d say, “You really shouldn’t have ordered those oysters. It’s so decadent. I should get back to work. You can have them. I know how much you love oysters.” Quick peck on the cheek and even quicker exit.
Now what are you going to do? Find someone else to push, in the way of dreams? Because here’s what you don’t want to think about in any way shape or form: what would happen if you stopped putting all your energy into other people’s “problems” and held the mirror up to yourself? What do you want that you’re not giving yourself? What are your dreams? I bet you suddenly want to run out the door because this is uncharted territory, or at least it has been for a long time now. Since post-divorce reinvention, the fledge of two kids, and a global pandemic…you’ve been in survival mode. Saving mode. Hoarding mode, even. The only thing is: you’re the only one who believes that you need to be in survival mode anymore. Everyone else wants to take you for lunch on your birthday, order you oysters and prosecco, and implore you to thrive again.
Damn.
All of this…recently happened to me, only in its own unique way. It was a bitter but bright reminder of the world of lack I’d let script my life. And it led to a yes I hadn’t known was so pressing. A dream I didn’t know I’d stopped dreaming. That yes stopped years of nos in their lack-living tracks…and welcomed a future of abundance. It was time. And as with many of these pivotal moments, it happened thanks to a dear friend.
A bit of backstory to help you say your own yes:
For twelve years I’ve been helping people say yes to their creative self-expression through the most powerful tool I know: the written word. I haven’t taken them out for lunch on their birthday and ordered them oysters. I haven’t pushed or prodded about their personal life. I’m in no way a therapist and I don’t pretend to be one. But I’ve spent at least an hour with thousands of people on the phone to see if they’re a match for my Haven Writing Retreats and vice the verse. I’ve listened to their writing dreams and what’s in the way of those dreams. Some beginners. Some published. And everything in-between.
What I’m listening for most of all is a longing in their voices. I know that my writing programs will feed that longing. And I can speak to it so confidently because it’s not about me. It’s about the program. I built the program because I’ve walked the walk as a writer, editor, teacher, retreat-leader, and author’s advocate in different iterations, for decades, but mostly for the last ten years and over a thousand clients from all over the world. And it’s the program which holds my clients. I hold the program. The people who staff the Dancing Spirit Ranch retreat center hold me. It’s a very healthy symbiosis. But that doesn’t mean that I know how to be an advocate for my own dreams. Sure, I can give myself permission to take a trip to explore new parts of the world. But what about my oldest adult dream, right in my own backyard? A room of my own. A writing studio. My personal haven. An almost thirty-year old dream that I’d blocked out, and even given away.
Here is the moment when it all changed:
It was after the seventh of my 2021 Haven Writing Retreats last fall. I’d said goodbye to my last group of eight brave souls, with that full heart, yet pit in my stomach. I’m not good at goodbyes, especially after Haven. Haven changes lives, and all of it changes mine. It’s a lot to process and it requires some time to honor it before I get in my truck and drive back to my regular life. Usually I sit at the edge of the lake and look into the peaks of Glacier National Park, thinking about each of the attendees, their breakthroughs, their voices, their stories, sending them all love as they travel home. This time, I chose to sit by the fire. Hearth felt necessary, especially at the end of the retreat season. One of the ranch staffers joined me, relaxing around the fire, reflecting on the magic of it all.
She said, “What are you going to do for you now, Laura? What’s your writing dream?”
“My writing dream? Uh…”
She added, “You were talking at the end of last season about finally finishing off the space over your garage for your writing studio. Did you end up doing it?”
It was an innocent question, but I took it as a naked assessment of my personal BS. These people are the most present humans I have ever met. They are made of intuition. Having the mirror turned on me is not my comfort zone. I wanted to send back my proverbial oysters. But they were so lovingly given.
Instead, I fell into an old personal “hymn” of sorts: “Oh, I’m a flexible writer. I can write wherever. The studio would cost too much. Plus it’s home to any number of pack rats. I wouldn’t want to send them out into the world with their little hobo sticks. I’m fine writing…wherever.” The words tumbled out, rote, but in my mind, I smelled a lot more than pack rats. And I’m pretty sure she did too.
I knew this “wherever” well— I’d designated it as my writing “space” for years. I told myself that this liminal creative space was a moveable feast. I’d memorized a whole mantra around this “wherever”: create it and the sacred will follow. But sitting there with such a pure human, so post-retreat open, I thought: How about it, Virginia Woolf? How about that room of one’s own? Did I have some sort of strange relationship with lack, in this regard? I’d prided myself on the fact that I’d written in eaves under staircases, in closets, in cock-roach-infested rentals, guest bedrooms, in my car between baseball and soccer games, in my bed (too often), at my kitchen table, in cafes, hotels, airplanes…countless forms of wherever for years. Wherever was part of my writer’s identity. But why?
So I looked to this brilliant being for answers to a question I’d forgotten how to ask. “Can you remind me what I said about the studio space last year? I’ve totally blocked that dream out of my mind for some reason.”
Her eyes danced at the opportunity to recall such a lush dream.
“You said that you needed a space that’s just yours. That’s new to you. That doesn’t hold any old energy or memories. A place that hasn’t belonged to anyone else. A place where you can stretch out and do yoga and listen to whatever kind of music you want as loudly as you want. A place where you can move around instead of being so strapped to your computer. Dance. Sing. Play your guitar when no one’s listening. Make your tea on a new stove with a new kettle. A new clean slate.” She was giving Atticus a run for his money. And maybe it was because I was so retreat-open and raw that I listened. Really listened. The teacher needs to be a student.
“I said all that?”
She offered a wide-eyed, loving blink. “Yeah.”
This woman knows me in a way that only a very few do. I can’t pretend that my life is working any better than it actually is around her. She sees through veils and lives in wisdom. So I fought every bit of discomfort. My arms wanted to cross themselves over my chest. My feet wanted to walk me out of the room. My mind wanted to make up excuses for why I needed to get back home.
But this person saw my fear and stayed with it. “Why don’t you do it? I bet the guys might have some time this winter.”
By “guys” she meant the people who built the glorious ranch where I hold my retreats. Every inch of this place is put together with such love, care, intention, craft. I’ve never found a place, in fact I can’t imagine a place, that is so congruent with how I lead all things Haven. I wouldn’t have it any other way and either would they.
She smiled in that knowing way of hers. Only not attached. Just a conduit of truth. And maybe it was because of her knowing smile that something shifted in me. Something heavy and old and even mean.
I thanked her for all of her loving care of my retreaters, and of me, and when I went outside, lo…there were the “guys.” It was odd to see them there in that moment. They’re rarely around during a retreat. They know it’s just our group vibe and they respect it.
“Hey, guys. I’m just wondering…” My heart quickened in that before-and after way. When a fog lifts and you finally give yourself permission to say yes to a big dream. “Any chance you guys have the time, or interest, to fix up over my garage? Make a writing space for me? Nothing too fancy. But special. Sacred. You know. I know you know. Just look at this place! It would be such an honor to have your craftsmanship on my new writing space.” And then the idea branched and leafed as do all essential ideas if you allow them to give themselves to you. “And also…a writer in residence space. For alums of my different Haven writing programs.”
I was sure they’d smile kindly, and say that they were full to the brim with jobs, as all the trades people are in the valley these days. Instead, they looked at each other and said, “We might be able to swing it. Why don’t we stop by and check it out.”
That’s when it got real. When you finally put words and intention to something…I’ve found that things start happening.
It’s been a year since that conversation. Since then, the “guys” have created the most beautiful version of that space that I could ever imagine. It’s like a cathedral. Or an overturned boat. Truly sacred space. We felt our way through all of it— by walls, by floors, by tiles, by cabinets, by counters, by closets, by bathroom, banister, stairway, doorknobs, cabinet pulls, fixtures, the way light hits the space and how to honor it. And so much more. They hung art for me. They suggested where to buy locally and conscientiously. I knew it was a perfect match when one of them said, upon first glance, the place still full of pack rat nests and old, great grand somebody’s great grand broken chairs: “I like the way it feels in here.”
They could feel and see it when I still couldn’t. However are we to dream our futures alive when we are still bowing at the altar of the past?
And I realized that this space over my garage had become a vestibule for holding on to the past. Nobody remembered the original plan— the floorplan my four-year old and I had drawn with crayons on butcher block paper all those years ago. Nobody remembered, not anyone who was living anyway, that this was going to be “Mama’s writing room.” Instead, life happened, and the space become the graveyard for the bones of old dreams, broken by divorce, the dollhouse my parents had built for my siblings and me and that I’d re-decorated after a brutal late term miscarriage, a doll house they’d once loved but which had eventually lost its luster. A holding tank for old stories told by generations in the land of lack. Poverty spirit. We don’t give ourselves such grandiose and indulgent gifts. We do without. You can write ‘wherever.’ ‘Wherever’ is where you belong.
And standing there with these illuminated humans…it became clear: was this lack-land all a lie I’d memorized as truth? I mean…what if I took out a loan? What if saying yes to the writing studio wasn’t as impossible as I thought?
Two weeks later, it was all systems go. I was in a daze.
My adult kids were ecstatic. They couldn’t wait to get it all, finally, out of there. Out with the old. Those weren’t their stories. They never met great grand someone. They were never told to live in lack. A writing studio for Mom? A writer in residence for her Haven Writing Retreat alums? Bring it! I didn’t realize how my burden had become theirs. I needed to let go, if just for them.
“But what about the dollhouse?” I said, bursting into I’m sure ugly, clingy, tears. They had no idea about what it represented for me historically.
“We’ll build our own kids’ dollhouses. Pack rats have been living in that thing!”
That thing? It was as good as saying, We want the future. Not the past. Please let go so that we can too. It’s time.
I agreed. But meekly.
There was nothing meek about what happened next.
My adult children brought in the twenty-year old troops. They parked their pick-up trucks under the studio window. And I waited inside the house, huddled on the couch in blankets, while they heaved and ho-ed all of it out the window, replete with Lord of the Flies tribal chanting…and hauled it away to salvage. I felt legless. Storyless. It wasn’t good or bad. It was just…new. Which was apparently what I’d wanted in the way of a writing space. Brand new. No memories. A clean slate. I wondered if I’d be able to feel good about this huge decision or if I would instead berate myself for it. Punish myself, even. The old echoes: don’t be selfish… I shook those words away. This new studio had things to teach me. I had to remain open to it, even if it was so counter-intuitive.
Every evening for a year, after the “guys” left, I went up to the studio to see the progress and digest it. Like Michelangelo who believed the sculpture was in the stone, I ran my hands over every surface, feeling it, thinking about what it might become. What it wanted to be. I walked the thirty-six steps from my house to the end of the breezeway. And I opened the door to the stairway and wondered: what will it take to claim this passage as my way into my muse instead of scattering her in the ‘wherever?’ What will she be like in this spate of space? This newness? This new story of us? How do I honor us in this new way? How do I create the right welcome? The right…permission.
And then one night, instead of walking up the stairway, I stopped short of them. It actually felt like the stairway was stopping me. Like it was reminding me of everything I knew but had forgotten in the way of sacred writing space.
In that moment, I flashed on the staircase at Shakespeare and Co. bookstore in Paris, one of my personal meccas. The first time I went to this bookstore, I was nineteen. Hemingway had gotten his mail there. Sylvia Plath had napped there with cats in her lap. The staircase was painted with words that ran from bottom stair to top. It had taken my breath away because it was the exact thing I had needed to read at that moment of my life, still mired in those childhood myths.
I wish
I could show you
When you are
Lonely or
In darkness
The astonishing
Light
Of your own
Being
That’s what I would do with my studio staircase. That’s the call that I wanted to answer in this new space every time I ascended those stairs.
I ran it by my son and daughter the next day. They want this to be sacred space for me. I trust them in this. Plus, I’d taken them to Shakespeare & Co. in Paris not long ago. I’d shown them the staircase and they’d marveled in it too.
They both said, “That’s perfect for your writing studio, Mom.”
So tomorrow, they’re coming over and we’re going to create our version of this staircase. When we get it done, I’ll share it on social media.
For now, I hope you’ll ask yourself this question and not wait until your knowing, loving friend puts your feet to the fire in her own loving way:
What would it take to finally get over your old stories in the land of lack and no…and bring yourself into an abundant yes? A loving friend who knows your truth? People who can see your vision when you can’t? Just a shift in perspective? Whatever it is for you, I wish it for you. Mostly, I hope you will allow it when it comes.
I hope that you will read these words and know the “astonishing light of your own being.”
by Laura Munson | Jan 23, 2021 | Uncategorized
Here is some brilliance about not just writing, but self expression, from my friend the author, author advocate, teacher, podcaster, magazine editor, and a whole lot more…Bill Kenower. Read and learn!
If you’ve ever written and actually enjoyed the experience, if you’ve ever allowed yourself to become lost in the dream of the story you are telling so much that you temporarily forget what time it is, then you have written fearlessly. In fact, writing doesn’t really begin until we forget to be afraid. So the question isn’t whether you can write fearlessly, but whether you can do it on purpose. Here are the three best tools I know for writing fearlessly every day.
The only questions you should ever ask are: “What do I most want to say?” and “Have I said it?”
I ask these questions because I can actually answer them. I will never know anything better than I know what I am most interested in. I will never be able to pay attention to something for longer than that about which I am most curious. My curiosity is the engine that drives my creative vehicle. It is the source of all my excitement, my intelligence, and my surprise. It is also entirely unique to me. There is no one on earth who knows what I most want to say other than me.
And once I know what I want to say, once I know which story I want to tell, or which scene I want to write, only I can know if I have translated it accurately into words on the page. Whatever I most want to say exists in a realm knowable only to me. There isn’t one editor or teacher or critique group member who can tell me if I have accurately translated what I wanted to share because only I know what that is; these other people, however well-intentioned, can only tell me if they like or understand what I’ve written. That is all they actually know.
If I am ever asking some question other than these two, I am not really writing. I am trying to read other people’s minds. If I am asking, “Is it any good?” I am really asking, “Will anyone else like it?” Or if I’m asking, “Is there market for it?” I am really asking, “Will anyone else like it?” And if I am asking, “Is it too literary? Is it not literary enough?” I am really just asking, “Will anyone else like it?”
What anyone else thinks of what I’m writing is none of my business – at least not while I’m writing. While I’m writing, what I think of what I’m writing is my business. I am always afraid when I believe I must answer questions that are unanswerable. And I am always fearless the moment I return to my curiosity to see where it is headed next.
Have Faith
I am defining “faith” as believing in something for which there is no evidence. This shouldn’t be so hard for a writer, really. Every day we sit at our desks and believe in something no one but us can see. In fact, while we’re writing, we believe more in the story we are telling than the chair in which we are sitting. We have to. We have to believe that our hero wants to save the world even though our hero doesn’t exist anywhere but in our imagination. We must believe a daughter yearns for her father’s attention even though neither the father nor the daughter is any more real than Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. That’s our job – to believe in what only we can see.
The problem is that we would also like to share these stories with other people, and we have absolutely no evidence that this story – which only we can see – will be of interest to anyone. No one knows how many copies of a book will be sold or if it will win any awards. No one knows which reviewers will like it and which will not. It is a mystery to be answered within the sovereign imaginations of our readers.
The only evidence a writer has that his story is worth telling is that he’s interested in telling it. That’s it. That’s all Shakespeare got and that’s all Hemingway got and that’s all Amy Tan and Stephen King get. Your evidence that your story is worth your attention and worth sharing with others is that you think it’s cool, or funny, or scary, or profound. If that’s reason enough for you to write, if that’s reason enough to commit an hour or two a day to the same story for six months or a year or six years, then you have found the simple secret to all faith – that feeling good is evidence enough that something is worth doing and that life is worth living.
Contrast Is Your Friend
From a pure craft standpoint, contrast is invaluable. Just as a flashlight’s beam is distinct in a dark room and nearly invisible in a brightly lit room, so too is whatever we are trying to share with our readers most perceptible against its opposite. So if you want to write about peace, you must show war; if you want to show forgiveness, you must show judgment; if you want to show acceptance, you must show rejection.
Likewise, often the best way to know what we like is when we encounter something we don’t like. If you read a novel and you hate the ending, instead of griping to your husband or writing group about what poor choices the author made, think about how you would have ended it. Your frustration is pointing you toward something you wish to explore, but which has remained unexplored. That discomfort will only grow until it is released on the page.
Finally, the guidance system upon which you so depend to write from day to day speaks entirely in the contrast between the effortlessness of the right word, and the effort of the almost-right word. It speaks in the contrast between the fearlessness of asking yourself what you are most interested in, and the discomfort we have named “fear” that always comes when we wonder what other people will think of what we write. We must have both experiences for our guidance system to work. Without what we call fear, we would have nothing to guide us back to what we love.
You can learn more about William at williamkenower.com.
Bill Kenower: Expert Writing Teacher, Author, Magazine Editor, Podcaster
William Kenower is the author of Fearless Writing: How to Create Boldly and Write With Confidence, Write Within Yourself: An Author’s Companion, the forthcoming Everyone Has What It Takes: A Writer’s Guide to the End of Self-Doubt, and the Editor-in-Chief of Author magazine. In addition to his books he’s been published in The New York Times, Writer’s Digest, Edible Seattle, Parent Map, and has been a featured blogger for the Huffington Post. He also hosts the popular podcast Author2Author. williamkenower.com
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