We move from one circumstance to another — from noise to quiet, from stillness to motion, from solitude to shared meals and back again — often stumbling around for grace. One moment we’re fully present under a pine-scented sky, the next we’re refreshing our inbox with shoulders tight and breath shallow. It’s messy, this dance of transition. The great challenge (and maybe the great opportunity) is to soften edges as we move between worlds, to carry something tender from one space into the next without needing it to be fully understood or even named.
I learn something new every year at The Mindful Unplug retreat. Sometimes it’s subtle, like the way my nervous system settles into a quieter rhythm by Day Three. Sometimes it’s loud and dramatic — like the sound of rain slamming into the canvas of my tipi mid-meditation.
This year, the theme that’s sticking with me is re-entry.
If you’ve ever been on a retreat like this — a week of moving your body, breathing mountain air, looking up from your phone long enough to notice the shape of the clouds, and eating meals cooked by loving hands — then you know that going home can feel like stepping off a warm rock into cold water. You were just here, in this rarefied space of presence and connection, and suddenly you’re there, scrolling the news, answering emails, and forgetting to breathe.
It's not just the logistics of life that come rushing in. It’s the question: How do I bring what I experienced here into my everyday world?
Closely followed by: And should I even try to explain it to anyone?
My friend and co-teacher Matthew offers sage counsel about this. He suggests being discerning about how much you share when you get back. You don’t owe anyone your whole story. In fact, holding parts of it close — sacred, unspoken, still ripening — might be the most powerful way to let it live inside you. The truth is, no one else was there when your heart cracked open during a song circle or when you lost yourself in rhythm, shared silence, or laughter so deep it echoed off the trees. That was yours.
What week it was.
One of the great joys this year was getting to witness new people experience the Feathered Pipe Ranch for the first time. There’s nothing like watching someone step into that mountain valley and seeing their jaw drop. There’s wonder in their faces — not only at the beauty of the place, but at the feeling of it. The quirkiness. The simplicity. The way the Ranch exudes both stillness and soul. As someone who's been coming there for a long time, I got to enjoy their awe vicariously. It’s like falling in love all over again — through their eyes.
Then there was the weather.
The moody, mercurial skies made us creative this year. Morning sun gave way to some afternoon squalls, and we had to stay nimble — shifting locations, rethinking plans, sometimes pivoting completely from what we’d intended. And here’s where I have to say: thank you to every single person who showed up with patience, humor, and trust. You embraced change, made the best of the unexpected, and reminded me that flexibility isn't just a physical skill.
A peak moment was an epic hailstorm that arrived out of nowhere, drenching everything and pummeling the Ranch while we scrambled to protect instruments, gear, and tea mugs. I admit to an undignified moment of my own: sandals slipping in the mud, brain churning as I made my way across the Ranch toward my (very wet) tipi to retrieve the raincoat I had optimistically left behind. I was not, shall we say, full of equanimity. But somehow, in the absurdity of it all, we laughed. We shivered — and laughed.
That’s what we do in community. We gather in circle. We adapt. We stay open. We remember that shared discomfort sometimes makes the best stories.
And what a community this year’s group turned out to be. Such good, kind souls — many of them arriving at the retreat weary from the chaos of the world. And yet, over the course of a couple of short days, I watched faces soften. I heard giggles erupt during drumming practice and deep sighs escape during restorative yoga. There were tears, too — the kind that signal a softening, a remembering.
My hope — and it’s a sincere one — is that each of us went home with a little more resilience. Not just to survive these hard times, but to meet them with compassion, with groundedness, and a dash more courage to take meaningful action in our corner of the world.
And if you didn’t quite know what to say when someone asked, “So how was your retreat?” — that’s fine. A quiet smile might be enough. Let the experience integrate. Let it keep working on you.
Because transformative experiences don’t always need to be broadcast. They only need to be lived.
Until next time, friends.
