I just got back from a writing retreat at Esalen that I attended with Vanessa Fiola. She and I spent 3 days in close proximity to 118 other writers and aspiring writers, most of whom were organic sheep farmers and medical marijuana advocates. The median age was about 67, which made me feel young, for once. The very first thing we had to do was stand up in front of everyone with a mic and read our 30-word bio. Panic! Then, we went to three workshops of our choice, with three excellent writers from Sun Magazine (who hosted the workshop).
Here’s a haiku I wrote during one of the workshops. It was based on a fill-in-the-blank icebreaker prompt:
Today my name is dead fly on the windowsill.
I know nothing at all. There never was a time this was not so.
I know; I won’t quit my day job yet.
If you’ve never been to Esalen, you should go sometime. It’s a magical place. I don’t mean that in the “fairies alight” way — although a lot of the people who frequent the place definitely, definitely do mean it that way. I mean that I have never been there without strolling through a flower garden at sunset while the sweet smell of sea air wafted up the craggy moors and Monarch butterflies flitted by in the dazzling Indian summer light.
Behold:
Esalen is known for its natural sulfur hot springs, and they are pretty spectacular. They’re tucked into a discreet bathhouse nestled into the side of a cliff, so that while soaking in the various tubs you can stare out over the Pacific and occasionally (this has actually happened to me) see a whale. And I’m not talking about the naked dude conspicuously sharing the hot tub. Note: before visiting Esalen, it’s a good idea to perfect your unfocused middle distance stare.
Honestly, if I could live on retreat I would. I love everything about it. (Everything except the other people, of course.) I prefer silent retreats, naturally, but I appreciate that you can bask in anonymity at virtually any retreat if you’ve mastered the art of being cold and aloof, like I have.
Also, a remnant of my bohemian childhood in the wilderness of Western Massachusetts is that I feel most at home in weird hippie enclaves like Esalen. I like to be in places that have dedicated “Art Barns” and serve stewed prunes for breakfast. When I round a corner and come upon a couple of dreadlocked 20-somethings spread out in an intense batiking project, my heart swells. (Which might lead you to believe that I’m into Burning Man. But nope.)
I’m so happy to have finally made the shift from yoga retreats to writing retreats. This is where I belonged all along.
For now, anyway.
