It’s been two years since I’ve led my Haven Writing Retreats live in Montana and this month I led two back-to-back.

I was deliriously happy. I sort of expected that happiness, but not to be so totally stunned by how hungry I was to gather again and in this profound way. To be with true word wanderers again. Seekers who long for their self-expression, especially after so much isolation and physical distance. Mask wearing isn’t Montana law right now, so it was at each attendee’s discretion, and we did our best to be Covid correct in our protocol. All that said, what I saw were eight people who were truly and deeply grateful for everything. Haven attracts kind people who are emotionally responsible adults, who tend to run on the grateful side of things. But there was a new sort of gratitude that I felt from these groups. Gratitude for things like the angle of light coming through a window. Fresh air flowing through the classroom. The way the stones are stacked around the fire pit. The way the geese were practicing their migration patterns on the lake. Yes, they were grateful for the writing lessons and workshopping, the nutritious food made with so much love, the cozy nooks and expansive walking paths— all of the usual wonder of the Dancing Spirit Ranch and all that is the Haven Writing Retreat. But there was a core connection to receiving what was given to them by everything around them…and they said yes and thank you with such ease and open hearts. It was a true wonder to behold. In the spirit of that wonder, and that courage, I want to share with you the letter that I read to each group on the first night after dinner and before we retire. May it inspire your own wonder, gratitude, and courage to open your heart to your own dreams, whatever they may be.

Yours,

Laura

I woke up early this morning, thinking about the eight brave people who are boarding airplanes, trains, cars from all over the country and beyond, with a story.

Some of them might tell it to the airline agent while they’re getting their boarding passes.  Some of them might tell it to the person in line next to them getting coffee.  Some might save it for the moment they’re gliding over the snowcapped Rockies, so far from home and so suddenly full of wonder and adventure…turn to the person they’ve been sitting next to for the last 1,000 miles, and say, “I’m going on a writing retreat.”  Some might not say it at all.  They might wait until they are standing in front of the airport, looking around for another person standing with that same wonder.  Identifying it in them, a little scared, a little excited, a little like they’re free-falling and they really hope there’s going to be a net at the bottom in this place called Haven.

I woke this morning with that same excitement and that same wonder.  I am doing this again.  I am doing this again.  Eight new people.  Eight new gifts in the world of self-expression.  Eight new people who value the written word and who long to sit in the circle of kindreds who understand just…that.  We’re all the same in that circle, no matter where our writing journeys have taken us.  We are all just people willing to put our hearts in our hands, step outside of our comfort zones, be vulnerable, and give and receive support.  Somehow, we know that.  Otherwise, we wouldn’t gather in that circle, all the way in the woods of Montana.  With strangers.  But we’re not really strangers.

Every single time I lead this retreat I have the experience of, “Oh…it’s you.  I’ve missed you.  Where have you been?  I’ve needed you.

Other people don’t get this like you do.  Welcome, sister, brother, kindred.”  Every single time I lead this retreat, I come apart a bit, and braid myself back together again, but not alone.  I am a writer.  Which means that most of the time, I am so very alone.  And sometimes I forget that my stories matter.  And that I have the voice to tell them.  And that voice matters.  I think that is really what I’m doing leading Haven and why I created it in the first place.  We don’t have to do it alone.  And yes, someone does care.  And yes, someone can help.  Help with what?  To make sure you know that your stories matter.  Your voice matters.  And that no one can write like you.  NO ONE.  It’s not possible.  That’s why you’re here in these woods.  And that’s why I’m here too.

Every person in this room has a unique voice.  Every one of you has stories.  Many of us don’t feel that our stories are that interesting, or if they are, we don’t feel that we have the authority to tell them.  And even if we did, we tell ourselves that other people have a better way of telling their stories.  Ours don’t matter.  And we gag order ourselves from saying what we really want to say, and adjust ourselves to say what we think people want to hear.  That is a travesty.  That is self-violence.  That is not helping humanity evolve.

I want to help you find your voice and I want to help you use it to tell your stories.

Sometimes our stories are best told in fiction.  Distilled reality.  But in writing fiction, we are still mining our lives in some way.  Mining the collective human experience of which we are a part.  Sometimes our stories are best told in memoir.  The world according to how it’s played out for me.  And that is another kind of mining reality.  But it’s still subjective to your perception of the collective human experience—the collective We.  So then, writing isn’t really a solitary act.  It might be done alone in a room somewhere, but it is born out of this collective human experience.  So it helps to be around humans who are seekers, just like you.  It helps to come on a pilgrimage to find those seekers.  It helps to be in the woods of Montana where it is quiet, and the wilderness holds the wilderness of your unique mind and heart.  That’s what we’re trying to access here:  heart language.  Whether it’s fiction or non-fiction, poetry, screenplay, plays, essays, blog posts, tweets, journal entries…whatever you write is only as powerful as your ability to access your heart language.  To find the charge behind it.  The flickering of energy in your intention for finding your words in the first place.  And then…what’s in-between the words, and then…what’s left in their wake.

Maybe there are blocks in your creative flow.  Maybe you aren’t hungry to tell your stories.  Maybe you can’t remember the child you were who couldn’t wait to tell your parents what you just saw in the back yard, or what you dreamed about last night, or report to the teacher and the class what you did over summer vacation.  Maybe you’ve forgotten that you had a voice in the first place.

So I’ll remind you:  When we tell our stories, either in person or on the page, whether true or made up…something happens.

We access something that is powerful for us in re-visiting that story—good or bad.  Or we get a feeling of fondness, of connection to the past.  Or we feel an identification with that story and how it gives us cover from the world, or identifies us as part of a point in history, or a social group, or a personal affiliation.  Or maybe in telling it, we can see it as something that is separate from us, so that it is no longer occupying space inside our minds and hearts, and thereby no longer running us.  We can tell the story and wave it goodbye.  Sometimes when we tell a story, we can see that it isn’t really true.  Maybe it once was true, but not anymore.  And we can exile it.  Sometimes we can see that it was never true, and that gives us insights into how we process life and what we might now be holding as truth in our lives that really isn’t truth and really isn’t serving us at all.

And…when we tell our stories, and someone bears witness to them…whether they’re made up or real, there is an opening.  A possibility.  A portal into change—I hope change for the better.  Self-expression is what moves energy through us.  The energy takes form into thought, and then into words…and then something magical happens:  the words hold their own energy that is no longer ours.  It is of us.  But it is not us.  That frees us to tap back into our energy, our raw source, and bring it into new form.  Telling our stories, allows us to grow and move and transform and become.  And leave behind and let go.  Especially when they are stories of suffering from a voice who has been its messenger for a long long time.

That’s how I look at it.  Like new air.  Like opening up the windows after a good rain and smelling the fresh new ozone.  A clearing.  And in that clearing is spaciousness.  Freedom.  And even delight.  And even joy.

When we write our stories and share them, in whatever form they take, we are pilgrims.

I am about to meet eight new pilgrims.  A bit road-weary.  A bit scared.  A bit excited.  Just like me.  In that case, I say:  Welcome, kindred.  You are here and you are safe.  I have a room for you with a bed and a warm comforter.  I have healthy food to nourish you.  I have loving help to be at your back whenever you need it.  I have adventures for you to take on the page and with horses and yoga and walking in the woods, should you choose to wander that way.  I have new friends for you.  I have the quiet of the woods for you.  I have Montana for you.  Now…let’s play.

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