Some end-of-series thoughts on Retreat

As we move into the New Year

Photo by Dan Freeman on Unsplash

This photo is an anxiety attack. Too much of our external and even internal world is this.

Let’s move on:

Photo by Andrew Ridley on Unsplash

Maybe too isolated?

We have images of what is retreat and what isn’t. Sometimes our images make desires and goals and genuine needs seem unattainable. We might think:

My project isn’t ready for this… yet…

It’s too far, too expensive…

I don’t have time.

Retreat isn’t a want—it’s a need, necessary for survival, for creating.

In this series we’ve looked at definitions of the word. Retreat from. And to. I’m still pondering the inversion in this, how it can be either to degrees, and both at once.

A re-cap of the retreat-series posts:

Creating Your Own Approach(es) to 'Writing Retreat'

What is 'Retreat'?

Retreat - Reading & Research

Seasonal Retreat

What are we missing?

Ultimately, retreat is an inner process. Whether in a new and unexplored place, a favourite sustaining place, a new desk, a beloved old chair… it’s still your approach that creates the ‘retreat’ piece.

At times I feel stymied by how everything has been taken over with thoughts of business and how we define “success” or “accomplishment.”

Yesterday, I had a day in which I cut 300 or so words, and then wrote 2700. It was a successful day. But if I’d cut 3000 words that weren’t working, it still would have been successful. It would also have been a good day it I’d read all day, or researched, or gone for a long walk to see some birds.

That said, the act of creating is critical for artists, and a day in which I create feels worthwhile in a particular way. (Yes, reading and research and sometimes walks and explores are part of “creating.”)

To retreat is to include this in your day, or to pause to consider how this can be.

There’s a randomness to these posts!

Of necessity, as we are all so different.

We started with looking at “focus.” It may be the one quality that applies to all.

In early December, I suggested you look at one project closely. You might set aside a week to spend with this. My day yesterday tells me that if I have the strength of mind to endure a week of such days, I can move a project forward significantly. That’s good to know, to have in my back-pocket. But I find such days mentally and emotionlly exhausting. (Though I am grateful they show up no and then.)

Reading

Jolene Handy

’s post yesterday, about her New Year’s plans, she lets her readers know she’ll be actively working on a project—her book proposal—through January. A good way to do this—to set aside a block of time.

My mind goes to my years of having three young sons, and I recall the early morning hours of my creating then. Here’s the thing about retreat: you may consider yourself most fortuante to be able to scratch out one lone hour each day to focus.

One hour can be “retreat.” It’s amazing what can be created (let’s use that word instead of “accomplished”) in a regular and ritualistic hour. The key is to consider that time as sacred. It is.

Whether a week, a month, an hour, or a sabbatical day once a week, focus is key. Make it a joy-full thing. Anticpate the time, a quiet thing of wonder, as you settle in for your good work.

The tech piece

I suspect that part of the reason I got so deeply into writing yesterday was that the day began with several hours spent in a hospital waiting area in which there was no wifi access. No distractions, no pings and dings.

Controlling your technology can create retreat. Put your phone in another room with sound off. I’m not going to belabour this point; I know there are times we all need to be within reach for someone we love. But if you can…

Another piece of tech is our means of recording. At the outset of a longer project—anything that’s not a short story—I buy or find a clean notebook for scribbled thoughts. Periodically, I review my scribbles, especally when feeling blocked. This becomes my process journal for that particular project.

Or perhaps an audio recording works for you. What serves your ideas of focus and retreat?

Do you need to go away?

There’s a story about Patti Smith that always makes me smile. Apparently she has one chair in one coffee shop that is her place to create. The story goes that one day she walked into the shop to find her seat taken—and she hid out in the bathroom waiting for the person to leave.

That would be “ritual” indeed! But that’s how our spaces function for us.

Our homes can be too distracting to work. At one point, I asked a friend if I might use her cabin for several days. It was cold and the woodstove made me anxious, so it became a time of swaddling myself in blankets, drinking hot tea, and writing. I wrote more than ten pages a day in that time; ‘retreat’ of the more traditional sort. But you might find a space in your own home; I’ve done that too.

Think in terms of ritual—old or new. Create a new ritual. (Patti, find a new chair! New coffee shop! Can it happen?) And mind-set. Can you take a vacuum and duster and clean out old ideas and create new? If you can’t afford to go away? Maybe there’s a corner of your home that needs to be off-limits for a partner or children or dog.

We’re back to that room-of-one’s-own. But it’s the 21st century and rents are what they are and most live in an urban space, and an entire room is unlikely. Sorry, Virginia! But really, if I’d been waiting for money and a room of my own, I’d never have written a thing.

Why

We’ve reviewed how, when, where, what.

But there’s the why of this, as foundational as my opening post on defining retreat. The “why” can get lost as we hustle through our days, our projects, our to-do lists. We often do laundry and grocery shopping before writing.

But when you’re a writer, you write. Creators create. If not, we cease to be.

Perhaps the two opening photos to this post are too extreme.

This, for me, from my neighbourhood:

I took this photo at dusk on the Wednesday before Christmas. The object hanging from the tree, lit up, is a bell with a lovely vibrating tone. I can’t walk by without stopping to move the rope and listen.

It doesn’t disturb anyone in the neighbourhood, it’s so low, but it resonates with and for whoever rings it. When I stand under and listen and pause, it’s a momentary retreat. A snag of ritual, then a ponder. The day shifts.

We can’t live in chaos. Retreat—whatever it looks like—is an antidote to chaos. And regardless of where and what and how, retreat is about a kind of peace. Even with writerly frustration. Some call it flow, the deep peace in our work when we’re doing it in the right place, for the reasons that edify us.

If you can’t figure out what your retreat is, begin with determining what it isn’t. And work your way to what you’re left with. Let it evolve. Healthy things grow and change.