Recently, I embarked on a writers retreat. I struggle with taking time to do anything of a relaxing nature. Hence, the online retreat was the perfect answer. It fit into my tight schedule. If I missed a day, it was there for me to come back to later and the resulting discussions came into my inbox as a digest at the end of the day.
I must admit, that the meditations were a bit out of my comfort zone. My idea of meditation is a good book and a cup of expresso. Closing my eyes and imagining myself in a place where I would not be disturbed for five minutes, was somewhat laughable. Instead, I focused my attention on the warm cup of coffee in my hands, breathing in the delicious aroma and stared at the daily routine of my chickens in the early morning hours. It was undisturbed, save for their gentle cooing and the purring of the cat in my lap.
The purpose of the retreat was not what I had imagined, although in looking back it was well defined in the syllabus. During the three weeks of this daily retreat, I did come to understand that each of us retreats for different reasons. Perhaps the purpose of a retreat is to take that step back before stepping into something from which there is no retreat.
For me, it was about recognizing the writer in me as being lost and alone. My Dad, a writer himself, was my life long editor. He read over every essay when I was a child, edited every article and column as an adult. We would spend every Friday, discussing new writing markets, sharing frustrations (for him it was the computer, for me it was rejection slips) and in every conversation he would impart a writers wisdom. He never missed a deadline and impressed me with the same attitude.
When he died tragically in a car accident, it was a Friday. We had spoken the night before and agreed to meet up for our usual Friday morning conversation. That conversation began with "Your Dad is gone".
I have agonized over every article or column since then. It took me days to hit Send, the first time, knowing my Dad had not gone over it with me. With the loss of my Dad, came the loss of my confidence, both such overwhelming losses that I found it near impossible to write anything more than the occasional letter.
The online writers retreat was an escape back to a time when I felt like a writer. A time when all I wanted to do was write. I realized the battle to write was with myself. Cleverly, I had put all kinds of obstacles in my way - family, work, friends, even cancer. The retreat helped me to lay those obstacles aside and discover that what my Dad gave me every Friday, was the passion to follow my talents, a course of action that was clear and true, and the sense that failure was not an option.
The retreat is over. I am a writer and that is enough. Going forward is now possible, in fact, imperative. Not because it was what my Dad wanted, but because it is who I am, just as it was who he was. We write. So here is to the next chapter. See you on Friday, Dad!